The Beginning of An Industry
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Thursday 1st, November 2001 was the beginning of something me and a few of my friends had been planning for a while. They would all pool their money together, give it to me, and I would shamelessly risk my ass to smuggle four huge twelve-packs of Smirnoff Ice's back to our town from the seedy neighborhood by brother lives in. This required much improvisation.
First, I couldn't keep them in the boxes or I would only be able to carry half of what I actually got out. I would have to put the bottles in the roller-case one by one. Bottles clack together like thunderbolts in that quantity, and so my only option was to cut up some window curtains and individually wrap them. A friend suggested I use socks, which I stupidly forgot. The case weighed around 40-50 pounds when fully packed, so although I could roll it using the wheels, I would have to carry it up stairs and buses by hand. Everyone on the T looked at me in a very unhealthy way, so I just looked at my feet and tried to act "ghetto". The case, packaged in such a way that it would fall over if left free standing, was putting me in a very nervous attitude. If my hand left the handle at any time, gallons of sticky alcoholic liquid would spray everywhere, coating me and the Beluga-fat Mexican women across from me in stuff that tasted like Fresca, but with something...else.
The T wasn't the part I feared. My brother always told me stories of how he used to sneak down the driveway to hide the spoils in the garage, scouting to see if my Mom and Dad were eating dinner, at which point they would have to go down the driveway, past my NEIGHBORS eating dinner, over gravel, to open the huge squeaky rusty garage door. The lady in the back of my house had a window overlooking the garage, so one would have to distract her while the other opened the door, lugging behind a huge bag of whatever. Elaborate maps to go up my shitty wooden stairs without making a sound, phone calls, spying, all to deceive our poor parents.
I got off the bus at the end of my street, rolled it down to my house and scouted to see where all 3 parties were. Oddly, in this point in the night, the street was pitch black and SILENT. I could hear a pin drop as I slowly dragged the 50 pounds of booze down the street. I knew this much, it was Thursday at 10:30, so they were both watching ER in the living room, which overlooks the street. I would have to circle around far enough not to be seen, get past my neighbors motion detector, and stay low and fast so that the neighbors eating dinner wouldn't see me. Afterwards, I would then put the suitcase in the back of our broken Winnebago. I had to schlep the case on my back as not to roll over the gravel, and then wait until "The Lady Who Lives In The Back Of Our House" got up to re-tune her radio. I was just lucky that the motion detector's light was already on.
I came into the house, said "Hi, I'm home" and all that jazz, and then watched late night TV while going to sleep. The only way things could go wrong would be if the beer froze during the cold New England night. (It didn't) The next day I informed people of 'da booty', and we all gathered like fly's on Friday afternoon. We would get out early at 12, all go to my house, and crack open some cool and wonderful Smices. Oh yes.
I now mark my ring every time I make a 'run', and it has pretty much become my job. While other kids work at the local ice cream store or bakery, I smuggle hard liqour to sell to all of the juniors and seniors.
It's good to be alive.