County Line LIquor by Justin Carter
Linn County’s dry. There’s beer and all the bars are technically private clubs so after you pay the five-dollar membership fee you can get booze, but if you want to buy a bottle, you’re driving out to County Line Liquor. Place is a Linn County institution, though I guess technically it’s over in Catchings County.
First time I ever went to County Line, I was kicked out. My ID was real but the man behind the counter thought I didn’t look old enough to be 21 so instead of selling me the Beam I’d sat on the counter, he said to get lost. But I was on the way to my own birthday party and none of my other friends were of age, so I couldn’t just leave empty-handed. So there I was…sitting outside the liquor store, hoping someone I recognized would come by so I could get them to buy me booze. That was how I ran into Casey Holmes, who’d been a year ahead of me in high school. Hadn’t seen him in years.
“Gnat,” he said. That’s what people called me in school. “Whatcha doing down here?”
“Yo,” I said. “How’s it been?”
“Out here beggin’ for a drink, bro?”
“Kinda.” I pulled my ID out. “Fucker inside don’t believe I’m 21.”
“You do look young.”
“Can you help me out? I’m just trying to get some whiskey. You can keep the change.”
“You know what? It’s on me. It’s your birthday, ain’t it?”
“Damn, you’d do that for me? I’m honored.”
“You bet.” He went into the store and a few minutes later came back out with an even bigger bottle than I’d planned on. Handed it to me, plus a 40 of OE. “Got a gift for you too.” He motioned to his car. “Want to smoke a bowl real quick?”
“Just, like, in the parking lot?”
“We can catch up.”
I knew Casey from football. He’d been real good. All-district running back sophomore and junior years, recruited by big schools: UT, A&M, Baylor. But he blew his ACL first game of his senior year then came back too fast for the playoffs. It was clear right away he shouldn’t have been out there, even though he ran for a buck fifty in bi-district. He wound up playing at Southeast Texas, the only D 1 offer left, but barely saw the field for two seasons. He dropped out, moved back to Linnville. Me, I hadn’t been good at football, so I don’t have stories about my career. I was a backup DB and rarely played since most teams were still running the triple option. Despite that, Casey was good to me. He was good to everyone. Kind of guy you hope will get out of the L-County cycle. But there we were—two guys in their 20s getting ready to smoke weed in a liquor store parking lot. You don’t escape your destiny.
“Just weed, right?,” I asked.
“You know you can trust me, dude.”
“Can’t be too careful. Remember Big Steve?”
“That asshole? What about him?”
“He cuts his shit with K2. Didn’t know until I smoked with him.”
“Fuck that shit.” He lit the bowl and took a hit, passed it to me. Right as I was pulling the pipe away from my lips, we heard the sound of a gunshot. A guy sprinted out of County Line Liquor, pistol in one hand, stack of bills in the other. He jumped into a Camaro with Louisiana plates. Casey and I looked at each other and laughed, but then we heard the sirens and stopped laughing.
“I’m going to get going,” Casey said. “Before the cops get here. You good?”
“Yeah.” I stepped out of the car and he sped off. I walked to mine, reached in my pocket to grab my keys, but they weren’t there. I panicked. I knew how this was going to look—a robbery right after I’d been kicked out of the place. By the time I spotted them across the parking lot, in the dirt where Casey’s car had been, the first cop was pulling in.
Justin Carter is the author of Brazos (Belle Point Press, 2024). Originally from the Texas Gulf Coast, he currently lives in Iowa and works as a sportswriter and editor.
