Don’t Take the Baby in the Liquor Store

When it comes to drinking alcohol, there are three types of people in this world: those who oppose it, those who are in favor of it, and those who live in the South.

Perhaps no other region has quite as complicated a relationship with alcohol as we do in Dixie.

“Up north” and out west, where folks are busy legalizing marijuana (“Lucifer’s Lettuce,” as I’ve heard it called in church) one can cruise up to a drive-through liquor store and never put their car in park, or even nonchalantly walk into a gas station, grocery store or Wal-Mart 24 hours a day, and quench that unholy thirst for the devil’s brew with no guilt. Can you imagine buying your underwear, baby formula, gasoline and Jack Daniels in the same store? Not Down South, no sir!

Here in the Bible Belt, where we have more than a hundred churches per county and Blue Laws and the big Red Dot on the brick storefront like a neon, scarlet letter symbol of 90-proof sin, buying hard liquor is restricted to the hours of 9 a.m. to 7 p.m., no Sunday sales, thank you very much, and certainly no sales on Election Day. (God forbid folks go out and vote under the influence.)

Here, where many folks enjoy a stiff drink at home but also never miss a Sunday in church, the rules are different. Whether you are the town drunk, simply a gentlemen who enjoys relaxing at the end of the week with a short glass of bourbon or scotch, or just a doting grandmother out looking to score some 80-proof Bacardi to make rum balls or fruitcake for the holidays, there is a certain stigma involved in a visit to the local liquor store. This is especially true in a small Southern town where everyone knows everyone else and doesn’t mind poking a nose into your business and whispering about you in Sunday School.

So as a public service to all those poor souls who have ever felt the stinging embarrassment associated with a Southern liquor store transaction, this handy guide to safely and discreetly visiting the Red Dot is for you. You are welcome.

Red Dot Rules of Etiquette

1. Always use cash.

Cash is quicker. The last thing you want to do is stand there too long writing out a check, trying to remember today’s date, and have seven Baptists and six Methodists come in and catch you there. Cash is also dandy because you don’t want a paper trail for your wife to discover details of exactly how much you spend on Southern Comfort, especially if you were too cheap to buy her that diamond necklace for your last anniversary.

2. Time your visit to the liquor store carefully.

Timing is everything. Southern folks tend to give you really judgmental looks and comments when they catch you coming out of the booze shop at 9 a.m. and the dew is still on the grass. “Getting an early start, are we Charlie?” And who hasn’t heard this stinging comment from the wife: “My mother and her entire garden club saw you coming out of the liquor store on a Tuesday. A Tuesday morning, honey! You couldn’t wait until the weekend?”

If you must visit the Red Dot during the work week, Wednesday night between 6 and 7 p.m. is a great time because that’s when all of the really devout and judgmental church folks are attending mid-week services.

3. Have a good lie ready

I try to avoid socializing while I’m trying to dash into The Dot, but if I am confronted I tell people that I am merely shopping for my wife, who is “bad to drink” as a way to cope with the pressures of raising a husband and two kids. We still love her, though, and I try not to judge. 

4. Choose your location wisely.

My best advice is to find a store that is located in the most remote section of town, park in the rear and leave the motor running—especially if you have a weak or questionable battery or alternator. One of my worst nightmares involves my truck, which everybody in town can easily recognize, breaking down directly in front of the liquor store on the busiest stretch of road in town—and then several people from my church and the gossips from the  hardware store stop to play Good Samaritan and offer me a jump or a ride.

If this ever really happened to me, such would be my shame that I would have no choice but to remove the license plate from my Ford, scratch out the serial numbers from the engine, wipe off all fingerprints and walk away with my brown-bagged bottle well hidden under my shirt, then return after dark and set fire to the vehicle to make sure all traces of my DNA are destroyed. Just to be on the safe side, I’d probably transfer my membership to a different church the following Sunday.

5. Never take the baby in the liquor store.

Imagine that you have a baby or small toddler in a rear car seat, and you have to make a stop at the package shop. Now you are on the horns of a true Southern dilemma.

Basically, here are your options and the possible consequences:

Option A: You can take the infant or toddler into the liquor store and even the town drunks will be throwing you looks of judgment and condemnation. You also run the risk of bumping into a child protective services caseworker, and I’m pretty sure having a child crawling around the Red Dot touching all the bottles while you peruse the inventory is a Class A felony in every Southern state and can result in the state taking your children for a little while, which is not as much fun as it first sounds, believe me.

Option B: You can leave the baby strapped in the car seat with the windows just slightly cracked on a hot July day while you run in and run out, but you may exit the store moments later to find your car surrounded by fire engines, ambulances, police and that same caseworker using an ax to break your car window and rescue your abandoned child. Then your next stop may be a place where the only strong drink available is made in a toilet when the guards aren’t looking by a businessman named Inmate # 5564881.

I would rather not have to explain either of those situations to my wife or Momma. That’s why I prefer Option C, which is a secret known only to myself and the nice homeless lady that lives behind the liquor store, who just happens to love cute, adorable babies and will babysit at surprisingly cheap rates. 

I am now 51 years old now, but one day I hope to be like an old friend of mine. I met him one Tuesday morning in the store and I joked, “Mr. Fred, I won’t tell anyone about seeing you in here, if you don’t tell anyone you saw me in here.”

Old Fred cracked a smile as he laid the dusty bottle of Old Crow on the counter.

“Son, I’m 90 years old. I don’t give a damn who you tell.” Then he winked at me. “See you in church on Sunday.”