Spine 41
Washington, Indiana is where I discovered strawberry tequila. Actually, I was introduced to it in a tiny town square bar called Neighbors where you could dance to both Snoop Dog and AC/DC.
It was nearly impossible to move in the bar. Still, my friend, Todd, managed to work his way through the smoking Wal-Mart associates and college students to order shots of creamy pink burn and bring them back to our table.
Afterwards, we walked from Neighbors to a friend's house a few streets over. I remember noticing, as we left the town square, how the rest of the buildings were dark and empty. It was as if a power grid had crashed and the bar was the only building with a backup generator. When we got to the house, we found a couple of people skinny-dipping in the pool.
Washington is much like my hometown, Paris, Tennessee. One distinct difference is Mason's, a drive-up soda and burger place that still has carhops. They put numbers on your windshield to keep track of orders. The root beer is served in frosted mugs, unless you buy a gallon to take home to your refrigerator. I bought a gallon once and took it with me back down Highway 41. My fridge is tainted with heartland disillusionment. After a day the root beer tasted like an empty fairground.
Since then, the route between Nashville and Washington has become a sort of spinal cord snaking through my past. Memories branch off in spindly paths to other places: Cave City, Anderson, Vincennes, Memphis, Paris. Sometimes I jumpstart the synapses along this neural highway with strawberry tequila. I've found two brands: Tequila Rose and Baja Rosa. They both come in a tall, rectangular bottle that tapers into a round mouth at the top. One is brown, the other blue. I was told that I drank Baja Rosa in Washington. But neither tastes quite the same as those shots in Neighbors.
Neighbors burned down a few years ago. I like to think the song playing when the first beam gave way was "Jailbreak."
Washington, Indiana is where I discovered strawberry tequila. Actually, I was introduced to it in a tiny town square bar called Neighbors where you could dance to both Snoop Dog and AC/DC.
It was nearly impossible to move in the bar. Still, my friend, Todd, managed to work his way through the smoking Wal-Mart associates and college students to order shots of creamy pink burn and bring them back to our table.
Afterwards, we walked from Neighbors to a friend's house a few streets over. I remember noticing, as we left the town square, how the rest of the buildings were dark and empty. It was as if a power grid had crashed and the bar was the only building with a backup generator. When we got to the house, we found a couple of people skinny-dipping in the pool.
Washington is much like my hometown, Paris, Tennessee. One distinct difference is Mason's, a drive-up soda and burger place that still has carhops. They put numbers on your windshield to keep track of orders. The root beer is served in frosted mugs, unless you buy a gallon to take home to your refrigerator. I bought a gallon once and took it with me back down Highway 41. My fridge is tainted with heartland disillusionment. After a day the root beer tasted like an empty fairground.
Since then, the route between Nashville and Washington has become a sort of spinal cord snaking through my past. Memories branch off in spindly paths to other places: Cave City, Anderson, Vincennes, Memphis, Paris. Sometimes I jumpstart the synapses along this neural highway with strawberry tequila. I've found two brands: Tequila Rose and Baja Rosa. They both come in a tall, rectangular bottle that tapers into a round mouth at the top. One is brown, the other blue. I was told that I drank Baja Rosa in Washington. But neither tastes quite the same as those shots in Neighbors.
Neighbors burned down a few years ago. I like to think the song playing when the first beam gave way was "Jailbreak."
<< Home