The Feet of God

23 - THIS MUST BE THE PLACE

As the hot morning wore into a hotter afternoon, I casually leaned against the porch railing and watched kids come and go saying goodbye to the venerated Karmi Sri Boomrambis.  The old woman perched herself majestically on a glider chair and bestowed loving kisses on her plucking devotees as they departed two-by-two to hitchhike along The Path.  Not much else was happening, so it got me thinking.  Well, to be more precise, it got me to thinking about what was behind the bookcase in the parlor.  I’ve had my fair share of imposed sobriety in communal settings, such as a number of short incarcerations, but to go this long and do without amounted to torture.  And my stomach needed a little boost digesting the Seeker fare of hard donuts, dandelion salad and deep-fried chicken skins I had for brunch.

My thoughts was unexpectedly overtaken by the vision of a pink car being pushed into the compound by three sweaty people.  Rufus was cursin’ up a blue streak as he and the other two exerted themselves to roll the vehicle toward its parking shed.  Ma interrupted her farewell kisses and book signings to rush on down and oversee the return of her prized automobile.  While everyone’s attention was diverted by the return of the Caddie, I took the opportunity to seek out a deserving reward for myself.  I stole into the house and moved back the bookcase leading to the not-so-secret passageway.

I was hit with a blast of cool stale air from the dank darkness below.  I spotted an ancient light switch which I flipped, and on came a string of tiny bare bulbs lighting the way along wooden stairs leading way down.  The creaky staircase had several twists and turns that squeaked and moaned as I descended.

The stairs finally reached bottom in a huge room.  It wasn’t what you’d call a cellar and it wasn’t a cave exactly; the walls was too smooth and it had beams and a finished floor.  I figured it to be an old mineshaft of some kind.  Unmarked boxes stood stacked against the walls and off to one side sat some kind of big ol’ press machine like I’d never seen before, and just beyond that, ripe for the plucking, I discovered a booze locker with over a dozen cases of premium single malt whisky.

I grabbed a bottle and gnawed off the seal with my teeth like a goddamned Hong Kong wharf rat.  I tilted my head back and drank it straight, savoring the full-bodied flavor with its subtle hints of peat moss, soil and iodine.

“For your demonstrated initiative you are hereby promoted to newbie Finder.”

Ma’s voice surprised me.  I ejected a mouthful of liquor in a jet.

“If you appreciate premium whisky,” she sounded so sage, “you gotta treat it with respect.”  I was a little embarrassed at being caught red-handed uninvited into her inner sanctum for the special reserve, but the old woman didn’t appear to have her dander up, in fact, I think she sorta admired my enterprising spirit in the art of the pluck.  I stared wide-eyed as she produced two glasses full of ice.  She handed me one and held out her own to be filled.  “I need a slug, hit me.”

“Ahhh,” her trembling lips yielded to the liquor in an act of passionate arousal I’d rarely seen before, and I’ve seen a ton of porn.  Ma belted back her drink and held out her empty for a refresher.

I poured another four-fingers, times two.