The Still

THE DAY THE STILL BLEW UP

by Chucky  around 1978

In Saudi Arabia before the days of Khomenis religious

revolution in the Middle East the indigent Western Hemisphere

part of the work force occupied a lot of their free time by

either looking for  spirits or engaged in distilling them.

I arrived there in the spring of l976 and inside of a

month was approached by my supervisor and asked if I would

like to make $50 a week extra. He took me over to where he

was living temporarily and explained that he was house

sitting for two people who were on vacation in the U.S. He

gave me a tour of the place and then escorted me out back to

a tin shed. Inside the tin shed was a full blown alcohol

stil just a cooking away. There were two 375 gallon vats

for fermenting beer and two 30 gallon pots sitting on eight

electric burners. The pots were connected at their lower end

through a series of hoses switches and pumps to the vats, and

at the upper end to two condensers mounted in window boxes

and fans.

The pots were a large aluminum type that could be purchased

at the Suk but were modified and shaped so that a pressure

cooker with its bottom cut out could be welded to the top of

the pot after it was modified with an aluminum sheet metal

cone, the bottom of which was welded to the mouth of the pot

while the smaller end of the cone accomodated the reduced

size of the pressure cooker. Protruding from the pots were

two thermometers, indicating the temperatures of the interior

brew.

Besides the pungent smell this was the scene that

greeted me as I walked into the tin shed. My supervisor,

Butch, never gave me a clue as to how I was to earn the $50.

To me, it was a total surprise, and I was overwhelmed to

learn that alcohol was being made in a country whose laws

strictly forbid its use. Thus began my career as a

bootlegger in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

My duties for my weekly fifty involved fetching and

carrying and mixing for Butch. Each week the fermenting vats

had to be refilled with 375 gallons of water, 250 lbs of

sugar and five quart tins of bakers yeast and a tin of Calgon

water softener. The mixing was done with a nondescript 2 x 4.

Over the subsequent 18 months I would come to know that long

board well; I earned that weekly fifty. During the course of

my working for Butch I inquired as to what exactly he was

getting out of keeping the stil going for the absentee

residents. Surprisingly he did not hesitate in telling me.

"Around $10,000" he replied

I lost my breath for a second. "Ten thousand dollars U.S"?

That's the monthly take off this stil after expenses Butch

told me.

"And you are only paying me $50 a week for doing all of the

heavy work? I asked.

"It is you", Butch said, "who should be paying me for

introducing you to the opportunity" I was getting smart

fast. Six months later the owners of that stil left for the

States permanently, with their profits from making and

selling alcohol from that stil for the past ten years.

Millionaires. I purchased half of their stil at that time

for $5000 cash. I received one fiberglass fermenting vat, a

pump and hoses and valves, a fan and windowbox and the

condenser which was explained to me was a radiator from a 57

chevy because that particular year Chevy had used silver-

solder and not lead solder. I also got one of the 30 gallon

pots and my old friend the well-used and blackened, sugar-

encrusted 2x4. It was worth it. I had purchased a proven stil

which I had already a month of experience on. I was in

business.

During my initial tenure with the 2x4 I was situated in

temporary quarters and was on the waiting list for quarters.

Each week the new-hires looking for permanent quarters would

board a bus and be ushered around to the available housing. I

knew what I wanted and fortunately had the patience to wait

for it. There was a section of Jeddah that was primarily

built for the original TWA employees that arrived in 1945 to

help Old King Saud set up an airline with the DC3 that FDR

had given him on a State Visit. The housing was in various

states of dilapidation by my arrival in l976, but ideal for

making booze. Each villa had two bedrooms and twoa bathrooms and

a garden and patio that was surrounded by an 8 foot wall with

a double gate entry large enough to drive my suzuki jeep

through. The garden had banana palms and numerous oleander

bushes which seemed to be in a constant state of full bloom.

It was paradise. I bought an African Gray Parrot to live in

the banana tree to celebrate moving in. Thank god those ahead

of me on the list didn't want it when it came available.

Obviously no bootleggers in that group.

I set the big vat and the pot up in the spare bedroom

which had a large double window opening to the garden just

inside the gate. Perfect for off loading the sugar right out

of the jeep. I got the original rig set up and had canned the

first and second run before even purchasing any furniture for

the place.

The making of alcohol in Saudi Arabia was a rather hit

and miss affair for a number of years and there were many

incidences of westeners setting their houses on fire or

blowing up their stils or poisining themselves before the

Aramco Chemical Engineers finally outlined the four stages

and procedures necessary for making drinking alcohol from,

what was essentially, by Kentucky standards, a portable stil.

The procedure was published and passed around clandensingly

within the western community and it was known as the "Blue

Flame" It was the Saudi bootleggers recipe book for making

Sidiki. It is time to introduce the reader to some of the

specific terminology that was used (and probably still is) in

the alcohol business in Saudi Arabia. Sidiki is an arabic

word for friend and was applied to the specific alcohol that

was being distilled by westerners from sugar and brewers

yeast in the Kingdom. To be "cooking" was interpreted as

brewing sidiki. There was "brown" and "white" sidiki. Brown

sidiki was made by the early brewers from chipped up whiskey

barrels brought from the States. The alcohol was soaked in

the barrel chips in an attempt to flavor it and it eventually

took on a brown tinge. White Sidiki was exactly that,

straight from the fourth run cooking pot and barrelled in a 5

gallon plastic jury can at the wholesale stage.

Normally alcohol is distilled by boiling the fermented

mixture (beer) and tapping it off from the top of a very high

stack. Only the alcohol rises to the very top of the stack.

At lower levels can be tapped lower qualties of the brew. A

large stack for a bootlegger is impractible because of its

visibility so another means had to be devised that

brewed a quality end product without the stack. That method

was a procedure where the brew is cooked four different times

at subsequently lower tempratures, thus simulating the stack.

The first run as it is called is cooked until the thermometer

reaches a certain temprature, the drippings from that cook,

which usually jtook about 6 hours was then recycled into the

vat after it was emptied of waste and cleaned of course, for

the second run. The second run was then cooked untill the

thermometer hit a somewhat lower temprature. I had

accomplished this within the first week land a half of living

in my new villa, but it then became apparent that for an

additional investment in some additional hardware I could use

my initial hardware purchase for the first and second runs

and the smaller pot for the third and fourth runs. I

purchased part of another proven stil the following week and

put the word out that I was in the wholesale sidike business.

In other words I was "cooking", with 220 volt electricity in

this case which was free for the taking if you were willing

to connect up to it while it was hot, which I very carefully

did. The alternative was to call the authorities and explain

to them that the reason you wanted your electricity turned

off. Having never come up with a good reason and then follow

through in person with a straight face I drilled a hole

through the wall to the box on the outside by the meter and,

with rubber gloves pliers and rubber soled shoes hooked it up

after dark by flashlight as a further guard against

detection. I don't mind saying that it was uneventful and the

end product was virtually invisible to passersbye on the

outside of the wall.

 

Hot dawg! I was cooking. Each week I was filling 6 5 gallon plastic jury cans with 95% alcohol.

Cash customers were lined up at the door. Ordinarially they would cut it with bottled water

and sell it by the gallon. It depended on the customer. If they were selling to Arabs they would cut it with

tap water. The tap water wasn't potable over there but maybe the natives had the necessary bugs to fight

dysentery, or maybe the alcohol killed any germs. The stil ran 24/7 and  I was pocketing $6000 a month for $400 in expenses. I was getting rich. So rich I started buying $100 a bottle Jonnie Walker Black smuggled in by the Embassy boys. One night while drunk out of my mind and entertaining some potential buyers everything in the room went into slow motion. There were only two rules in making Sadiki and staying in the chips and out of trouble. Don't drink while you're cookin and don't sell to Arabs. I had an Arab friend that I gave an occasional gallon to so I didn't think I was breaking the second rule technically. It was the first rule that sunk my ship. While showing them around the stil I opened the bathroom door and showed them my 3rd run, which was steaming out of the radiator so fast and filling the room so that it burned our eyes. I closed the door without wondering why there was steam coming out of the radiator instead of drips. Ten minutes later my question was answered as the expansion of the gas from the exploding stil sucked out my windows, separated the wall of the add-on in which we were sitting, split door jams as closed doors were blown open and the wall of the bathroom came crashing down. What was really neat was how the dust in the add-on just seemed to go airborne simultaneously. I found my guitar laying out in the yard--with out a scratch on it??

 

The cops came knocking on my fence gate. I told them my oven blew up while I was baking bread. My neighbor and I spent the next few weeks jacking the house back together. I tried to rebuild the wall but it was a cinderblock mess. My girlfriend suggested I put up some 1/8" plywood and plaster over it. Which I did. I removed the shards of remaining glass from the windows and closed the drapes. I cooked for another few weeks but it was never the same. I sold the still for what I paid for it and gave my notice at work.

 

Before leaving my house had to be inspected by the Housing Authority. That was a hoot. In anticipation of the building inspector I patched the doors back on their frames, moved a large wardrobe infront of the plywood wall, waxed the floors and shook out the rugs, polished the mirrors and wet dusted the entire house. I put on my happiest, glad to see ya, face on for the Inspector.

 

As he meandered through the house with his clipboard I kept chattering about how I loved the place and spent a lot of time fixing it up despite its dilapidated state when I had moved in. I told him that I had spent a lot of my own money on the house and garden because I fell in love with the villa's old world flavor. He opened the drapes and stared out into the garden. "Those are the cleanest windows I've ever seen" he exclaimed. I use ammonia and newspaper just like my mother taught me, I replied. If there is one thing I am insistant on its sparkling windows, I said. He closed the drapes and headed for the bathroom. The trick here was to get him to turn to his right as he was leaving the bathroom because if he turned to his left he would see that the wall was missing. As I positioned myself slightly aft and to his right I pulled some of the kitchen flat ware out of my pocket. As he was preparing to leave I said. "Look here. My girlfriend even polished the flatware as well as the pots and pans. Naturally he turned to his right to see my polished flatware as he left the bathroom and we walked toward the kitchen. As he moved out of the bathroom I positioned myself in front of the  glass from the bathroom door buried in the opposing wall across the hall. I had removed some of it, but I didn't want to make a repair obvious with patches.  I wonder to this day what ever happened to the poor man after the next people that moved in complained that the place was an absolute shambles.

The promotion

The Promotion

by Chuck

I had a dream last night, a nightmare really. The dream has roots in fears in long-ago work experiences. I used to get fired a lot. Either because I got too close to the bosses wife or I was hired in the first place to be fired because of a company’s project being behind schedule and they were looking for a turkey to blame it on. On numerous occasions I ended up walking down the road mumbling to myself.  Rarely did I ever get fired for cause. Ok once. After showing up late for work one day on a job I hated anyway, the boss yelled across the room at me, within hearing distance of everyone on the crew: ‘What time is it Michael?’ I yelled back ‘ You are wearing a wristwatch, If you have to ask me for the time maybe telling time wasn’t covered on the GED’. Mercifully, he fired me for insubordination. Hooray. On my next job interview that company showed up as ‘ fired for cause’. Ok. I eliminated that job on my resume and filled in the blank with some other lame job that couldn’t be verified. Never having been career oriented, leaving over 50 jobs for one reason or another never hampered either my conscience or pocketbook. One day I even quit to go surfing for the afternoon. Eventually I did run in to a career that I did care about, but the employers in that business are noted for bending, stretching and breaking rules for profit sake. The trouble is that they aren’t the ones that will be in trouble. It’s the pilot’s license at stake, not their backsides for lack of a paper trail of verbal directions. ‘Hey, go out there, fly this way and do this and that.’ If you kill yourself or lose your license, they hire up another pilot. If you wreck their airplane and kill yourself they buy another plane with the insurance money and their new pilot flies that plane straight over your smoking carcass. So I got fired from a few and quit a few more but walked away with a clear conscience, flying license intact, but more importantly: vertical.

Conscience clear, vertical and smugly so, but it has to wear on a person, a history such as mine. The thought materializes occasionally: Who's trying to get rid of me? Who has a brother-in-law that wants my job? Is the boss going to turn out to be a jerk?  Always on any new job I like to start off playing the game: Where is HE? Or Where’s the jerk? (read 'surrounded by Jerks' )Terminology changed slightly to protect the family readers here.  Where is the jerk? Because he is always there,  boss or not, who is mired in jerk-ability.  Some tortured soul, unhappy at home or with life and eager to share his misery with anyone within range. It never mattered that much till I got my current gig,  going on almost 8 years; longer than any previous job. Still, there is always that murky thought: Who and how are they going to get rid of you? In the back of my mind the thought that some boss or super is trying to get rid of me; lots of people out of work. The sinecure I’ve fallen into here presents a ready target for some managers’ unemployed son, brother-in-law, friend, wife, whoever. Indeed, always alert for any devious maneuvers, there have been initial gambits, exploratory management missions so to speak. I am however, unlike any of my prior employments, protected by a number of company policy circuit breakers. My ‘where’s the jerk’ game has revealed a number of them in this job, but any attempt on their part, short of my giving them what I would give them if we were logging together in the woods instead of this sterilized milquetoast corporate environment, is simply referred to a higher level. Now they can be a jerk to my supervisor, who, by the way, is a jerk. That tactic is sanctioned by company policy. It’s in the employee handbook! Whoaa!! The thought is still there though, meandering around in the recesses of my subconscious. “Who wants my job?” Last night it manifested itself in a night mare.

The Pointy Haired Boss, my department head, who, I have always suspected has a number of unemployed friends,  in his typical , minimalist manner sent me an email. “my office, now” “What’s up Boss?” Optimistically leaving the door open as I walked in.  His secretary shows up with coffee as he is opening his mouth. She hands me a cup and congratulates me on my promotion. ‘What? Promotion?

‘That’s right’ Pointy Haired Boss chirps with a rare smile on his face. “Congratulations, You’ve been promoted.” I’m flabbergasted.  “ I’m not sure I want to be promoted”, I reply. “Well, he says, The next step up from your helpdesk job is bus mechanic.  Hey! Its half the pay but twice the prestige. You should be happy. You are to report to the School bus depot tomorrow morning. “No. I don’t accept the promotion. I like it where I’m at sitting on my butt, clicking a mouse. No promotion.” “Sorry, but it is against policy not to accept a promotion.”, Pointy Haired Boss smiles back. “See. Here it is in the employee handbook.” “That’s written in cursive.” I say. “Someone just wrote that in.” “That’s my signature so it makes it official”, PHB  retorts.  “No”, I respond. “I don’t know the first thing about working on school busses.” “Hey”, PHB says. “You will be in a true learning situation starting at ground zero.” PHB reaches for the phone. “ Our busses are high tech. The head grease monkey down there is expecting you at 7. I’m gonna tell him how glad you are to be working on school busses. With your technical background, you will be a tremendous asset.” PHB can hardly contain his happiness for me. He is beside himself with glee.

At that point, I woke up in a sweat, terrified, looking into the semi-darkness, dawning that it was a dream. Still, I’m wary of any ominous emails offering unique opportunities from management.

The Great unwashed

Sept 27, 2015

The speaker of the house is retiring. After years of trying to advance a republican agenda through compromise with an uncompromising President, he is giving up his speakership to another, yet to be named. Another who, with possibly more vision and foresight enough to make progress under the current presidential burden. He gives up his leadership, making the ultimate sacrifice, in hopes that another can carry the flag of our country toward victory against the ugly dragon of socialism.

He is disappointed that the backlash to an oppressive White House is the Tea Party . He has grown tired and no longer wants to fight the good fight but to relinquish power to those who eagerly will.  What he fails to see is a right wing answer to a left wing agenda. Khrushchev said while pounding his shoe on the podium long ago that capitalism will fall from within.  Khrushchev understood the mentality of those great unwashed , palms up, willing to lie on their backs, legs spread, looking for the nirvana of a belly rub. The Tea Party sallies forth in the face of that prediction. It recognizes the fate of us in our forbearers: Europe. America does not stand for handouts, the welfare of  lazy masses at the expense of the few, struggling with everyday challenges toward the American Dream.  I’m trying to be academic, to convince you I’m a member of the intelligencia. In truth I’ve never understood the mentality of liberalism. There are those who are long past coming of age, working for a living and paying taxes, obeying the law whose hearts bleed for the lazy, good-for-nothing, the-world-owes me a living Worthless. Like country boy Guber who feels life is less than  complete unless surrounded by the  stench and baying of hounds and barking mutts through the night.  What if we could round all the good-for-nothings up and put them in cradle to grave concentration camps. Instead of tax draining welfare payments, just round them up into one section of the country. Like a reservation with an un-ending supply of McDonalds hamburgers, pizza, alcohol and drugs. What would the liberals argument be then? “imprisoning the poor, jack heel on the weak”, they would cry. While the hue from the reservation might be: “No no! Go away. We are happy. Enough . Please stop saving us from the oppression of Capitalism.“ Whoa! Welcome to Valhalla. The meaningful can go on happily about their getting while paying a fraction of what it is costing them under the present circumstance. Of course the liberal left would never stand for this. It would be the end of them with the reservation solidly in the Tea Party’s camp. The workers and unwashed together would be voting Republican.

The Twilight Zone

The Twilight Zone

 

So what about visionaries

What are they all about? Richard Branson, Steve Jobs, Elon Musk etc etc.

They certainly are a different cut from the rest of us slogging along, swimming against the current.

While we are paddling upstream they seem to be floating across or even down stream. Branson houses 500 companies under the Virgin umbrella. It’s a private company. He owns it all!  He must be seeing something the rest of us don’t. He certainly saw more of the destiny of the music business than the turkey he sold Virgin Music to. He saw opportunities in the Airline business so he called up Boeing and asked if they had a used 747 for sale. Now he has 31 flying all over the world. Meanwhile I’m still working paycheck to paycheck while he is languishing on his private island with Mariah Carey. There is certainly something there oozing through his being that is absent in mine. He’s a visionary. I’m not. My only brush with something that convinced me that there are people who can see into the future happened while I was selling real estate in Carlsbad, California. California has a reputation for fruitcakes but this really happened to me and demonstrated that there is another dimension which all but a few are totally unaware of. The twilight zone.

 

I was living in an apartment with another salesman. Our lives were pretty mundane for a couple of under 30s trying to make it in the realestate game. We spent most of our days knocking on doors, speaking to people, going nowhere.

One night I had a strange dream which I promptly wasted little time thinking about the following morning. It was a short dream. Two guys, One with a plaid sport shirt swinging his lunch box with one hand while stepping through and holding the door for the other wearing a solid colored shirt. It was an aluminum frame door. That is all I saw in the dream.

That night I went to do some laundry. I was driving my ’72 Mazda.

By then it was dark. Driving down the street toward the apartment at a moderate speed I happened to look to my right, just scanning my environment and there it was. Two guys enacting the exact scenario that was in my dream. I was so shocked that I slammed on my brakes and came to an abrupt halt. I don’t suppose there was anyone behind me. Good for that.

After I got over the initial shock I proceeded to my apartment and that was the only occurence of something like that in the past 40 years.

Did I see into the future? I think I actually did. It has got me to wondering if anyone else, in varying degrees can actually see what’s coming. The handwriting on the wall, so to speak. If they do indeed exist then something tells me that they exist on a different spiritual, emotional and existential plane than the rest of us struggling masses, otherwise rather than invent the iphone, methinks  you would have seen Steve sitting at the gaming tables in Vegas or at Pimlico in lieu of changing the world. Is it possible these gifts are withheld from those of us who are less than enthusiastic about changing the world? I would be headed for the racetrack, but knowing this, whoever has the power to grant seeing into the future decided that I needed proof that another dimension does exist. That night helped me re-kindle my faith in the Almighty. I may be one of the great unwashed wage slaves but, due to that experience, I’m headed for the green pastures of that dimension and try to lead a life which will be deserving of it.

 

 

Clean Streets

Good morning losers! Wake up. I know it’s early but I have great news for all of you. Your bottles are empty. You are looking around wondering where the next one is coming from.

You are all wondering why I’m here! I am here to change your lives. All of you;
Near-do-wells, used up prostitutes, failed pimps, drunken sots and violent louts who have taken the easy way out somewhere along your path in life and wound up living in this alley.

I’m from Kleening up Killeen committee. That’s right: Clean Killeen Streets and Alleys is our motto. I am here to entice you into a better life.

Whoa! You there , sneaking out the back. Come back I’m not through yet. An extra cup of wine for any two of you that drags him back. Good. Hey! I don’t have a cup so I will just pour it into this rag here and toss it over to you. Here you go!!

Now. As I was saying. Before I am through I am sure that you will agree with me that there is a better life awaiting you outside of this trash strewn alley. I’m talking about three hots and a cot. I’m talking about liquor and drugs and lots of it. I’m talking about spending more time drunk and less time working than you are doing now. Sound interesting? Hear me out! This is for your benefit as well as mine. After you leave I’ll clean out the rest of the garbage from these alleys and we will all be happier and better off.

Now I’m not gonna paint pie in the sky for you. You will have to work, but you work now. I’m talking about 15 cents an hour. How many dumpsters do you have to scour before you can make enough for a half gallon of Ripple. No longer will you have to wander the streets pushing a heavy shopping cart. No more begging for handouts.

Ladies and gents; how far do you wander from your resident alleys? I bet not far at all. As a matter of fact your territory from the time you venture out in the morning till you stumble back after earning enough for a quart of Thunderbird at night is probably not more than a couple of blocks. You have created a prison for yourselves. The prison you have created hardly benefits you at all.

You can’t get out of the prison you live in. That is a fact of life. Many of you don’t want to. So how about changing the prison you are in for a better one. Somewhere where you are fed and kept warm in the winter. In my prison there is tv, lounge chairs, ping pong tables, and lots and lots of Eldeberry wine. Face it. The bottom line is more wine and drugs. Prison is where you want to be…just not this one, and if you maintain your current lifestyle you won’t have to worry about having to be anyone’s girlfriend.

Yes! I’m saying go to prison. You say why and I say why not! In prison you will get yourself a raise. Did you know that there are more drugs and alcholol than there is out here on the streets. Think of it. 15 cents anf hour 8 hours a day. That’s $1.20 per day. How many cans you have to gather to earn that. I know most of you would rather drink than eat. In prison you can sell your meals. That’s right. Instead of the mushed up half a dumpster hamburger that sustains you now you can keep your free food or sell it—for cash that will buy more Gallo.

Now the working part. You are all afraid of it I know. No worries! No matter where you go in prison there are free drinks. If you are assigned to the janitorial staff there is Lysol. The Maintenance shop: Paint thinner.. and they supply the bread that you can squeeze it through for free!! What a deal. Does it get any better than this?? Just think of what you have been missing all these years. You are wasting your lives outside of prison!

Ok. How to get there. This takes some strategy. What you need to realize is that there are different terms for different offenses. The best way without a doubt is armed robbery. You go on out there and stick someone up. Make sure that you do it right in front of a police officer..Hey! Stick the police officer up. Or better yet. Walk right into a bank and yell. THIS IS A STICKUP! You don’t have a gun you say. YOU DON’T NEED ONE! All you have to do is make someone think you have one. Putting someone in fear of their lives is a felony. Shazzam! Its Miller time!!

Ok. In anticipation of the high demand for this idea I have made up a bunch of papermache’ pistols and painted them black. Believe me You point it at someone they will think it’s the real thing. It worked for Billy the Kid and it will work for you. It works especially well on police officers so no pointing it at Police Officers. They have real guns. If the need to rob a police officer overcomes you then just walk up and say: "Officer. I have a gun in my pocket and if you don't give me all your money I will shoot you. Its best to attempt this with both hands already raised.

Ok. Come on up here and get your pistols. Hey! One at at time. Hey. Stop shoving. Ok. You want two. Now that shows initiative! That’s the spirit. Stick up two at a time. You will go far my man!

In conclusion one bit of advice. Use your remaining brain cells to best advantage. Consider the alternatives. Look down the road a piece. What if after a few years in the slammer you change your mind. Armed robbery with a paper gun may get you 8 years, at the end of which, you may decide to clean up and start paying taxes. You can do that. Leave that option open. Now stupid is as stupid does. That idiot that shot the lady in San Francisco doesn't have any options other than to top himself because he will never see the light of day again, or worse yet, get deported to Mexico again.

Ok. Action time. Hey why not show some of your new found business sense and cut out the middle man. Go directly to the steps of the court house and start sticking up people. I don’t expect to see any of you back here so I’ve taken the liberty of scheduling a frontend loader and dump truck for your belongings. Whats that? No. Don’t waste time thanking me. You guys are great. I love you.