Slivovitch

Festering fruit permeates the air. The sweet stench of rot wafts through streets and narrow unpaved alleys in my small mountain town. Juicy purple plums not chosen have dropped to the ground. They stick to the bottom of my shoes as I walk up the alley. They are slick too, like my neighbors grandson snot covered upper lip. I catch myself with a jolt as I skid on the skins and my lower back twinges like it was zapped with a minor volt of electricity as my shoe slides across the flesh. The juices ooze and hornets feast.

The local Croatians from the old mining families make Slivovitch. I watch from my porch as another car stops on fifth street. Just past the old Mayor's house. A woman holding a white plastic bag gets out of the car and starts picking plums from the copse of plum trees on the empty lot between the Mayors and Popavich's house. Popavich is outside in his yard behind her in his mustard running shorts, tanned, lean and healthy these days. He pulls weeds instead of smoking crack now.  

I have tasted the plum essence in the dark amber shadows of the Sodylicious. A slow sip out of a glass tumbler as my breasts rest against the wood trim of the counter. I think I liked it, but can't quite place the taste now. The basement bar and restaurant upstairs have been closed and for sale for years. Joseph Ojurovich owner of the bar is now deceased. I wonder if his son Stephen makes the Silvovitch from a secret family recipe.

Secret family recipe. Reminds me of the great scene in Black Mass. James Bulger begs the secret to the steaks from the FBI agent. I cannot do the scene justice by explaining it here. Go see the movie. Johnny Depp is mesmerizing as James "Whitey" Bulger.