A BOTTLE OF SINGANI 63

I had a knife that night in October, and I was looking for an excuse to use it. Then my bottle of Singani 63 finally arrived in the mail, and I got a different idea.

Singani 63 is a type of brandy from Bolivia, even though it doesn't taste like traditional brandy. If I had to describe it, I'd say it's kind of a mix between tequila and vodka, but with very little burn. In 2007, film director Steven Soderbergh first tried it while making a biopic of Che Guevara and started importing it thereafter, creating a nice little side hustle for himself. A few years later, Singani 63 was just beginning to arrive in the United States, and I had managed through some shady connections to get myself a bottle.

My former friend Asher was a huge Soderbergh fan, to the point of obsession. He would watch his movies over and over, quote them verbatim: SEX, LIES, AND VIDEOTAPE, TRAFFIC, ERIN BROKOVICH, even SCHIZOPOLIS. And he played up the similarities between them: he was from Baton Rouge, his dad taught at LSU, he was white and bald with thick black glasses, a well-known and well-liked local filmmaker. He treated Soderbergh as a template and a kindred spirit, and I saw his nascent success with filmmaking from afar, while struggling to get my own projects off the ground.

Because he was such a fan, I thought he might like to try the drink. I had a plan to get him a sip, but first I needed to do some prep: I put old chicken bones on his doorstep, spread salt and grave dust on top. You know how quick I am to forgive, but I can hold a grudge. This latest was one slight I wouldn't so easily forget, so I decided to act on it.

He suspected nothing. I gave him a hit of my blunt when I saw him near Bayou St. John, and he never knew that when I laughed while he coughed, it was not the laughter of a friend, but of one who imagined him choking.

It was around sundown on Halloween, and we were watching a street parade pass by: a marching band clad in all white, grease-paint on their faces, with one man dancing around the poto mitan. I waved at Asher, he walked over. He was happy to see me, or maybe just happy about my having weed. He finished his Abita and threw the bottle in the canal, gave me a bro-hug, and I could smell the beer on him. He was wearing a black tuxedo, dressed, as Danny Ocean from OCEAN'S 11. I was costumed as a rattlesnake.

“Good to see you, Asher.” I said. “I know you're a huge Soderbergh fan. I just got a bottle of his new booze, Singani 63.”

“How?” he asked. “I heard there were cases just sitting in a warehouse somewhere in New Jersey.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“I have my ways,” he said. “Where did you get the bottle?”

“I have my ways, too,” I said. “But it wasn't cheap.”

“Singani 63!”

“Soderbergh first had it when they were shooting CHE in Bolivia.”

“Singani 63!”

“It's technically brandy, but doesn't really taste like it.”

“Singani 63!”

“It's distilled from muscat of Alexandria grapes. But you knew that already, of course.”

“Of course,” he replied.

“Anyway, I don't want to bug you anymore, I know you're busy with the parade...”

“Fuck the parade,” he said. “I want another drink. I want some Singani 63!”

“It's kinda far,” I said. “Up on the lake.”

“We'll call a car,” he said.

“I'm pretty tired, I was thinking about heading home for some Netflix and chill,” I said.

“You can do that any night,” he said. “Tonight is special.”

“Tonight is special, isn't it?” I said.

“And there's nothing I'd rather do on a special night than share a drink with a good friend and celebrate Steven,” he said. “Let's go.”

He did that. He called Soderbergh “Steven” like they were friends. They'd never even met. The closest Asher got was the Governor's Ball the previous year, but he couldn't track Soderbergh down in the room and left empty-handed: no meeting, no picture, no conversation.

“Where to?” I asked.

“Well, where's the bottle?”

“That's the problem,” I said. “It's on my boat.”

“That's all right,” he said. “You can grab it and we'll drink it on the dock.”

“Oh, that's right,” I said. “I forgot, you're afraid of the water.”

“You really have a boat,” he said, skeptically. “You?”

“Don't look so surprised,” I said.

“I have to see this boat,” he said.

He grabbed me by the shoulder and we walked side by side, him gripping me the whole walk, talking my ear off about a new film he was prepping, about Soderbergh's new blog, Extension 765, and about his new movie that had been released last month, CONTAGION: “I'm telling you, man, that movie is a prophecy!”

There was no one around at Bucktown. The dock manager was there, but he was drunk and wouldn't remember anything. Everyone else was at a parade, a cemetery, or a bar. I got on my boat, grabbed a flashlight and handed one to Asher, who remained standing on the shore.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said. He shined the flashlight up to his face like he was a ghost. “Boo!”

I laughed. “Hop on,” I said.

“Thought we were gonna drink it on the dock?”

“Oh right,” I said. “Let me get it real quick.”

I walked down to the fo'c'sle and pretended to root around for a few minutes, cursing here and there for show. Finally, I looked at the package I picked up earlier that day and made sure everything was ready for the inevitable.

I walked back to Asher, still on the dock, unsteady on his feet.

“Can't find it,” I said.

“What?” he said. “Come on! Singani 63!”

“It's just as well,” I said. “I'm kinda drunk already. We'll come back and find it tomorrow.”

“No!” he said. “Tonight!”

“It will be easier to find in the light.”

“Tonight is the night!” he repeated, and belched.

“Yes,” I said. “Tonight is the night. But you'll have to come on board and help me find it.”

I offered my arm, which he took. As he got on the boat, the fireworks started on the banks of the Mississippi.

“You know what 'boat' stands for, don't you?” I said.

“What's that?”

“Break Out Another Thousand.”

He laughed and shook his head.

“Only if you're nouveau riche,” he said.

“You look downstairs,” I said. “I'll check up here.”

He burped again, nodded, and walked down in the hatch.

I went to the wheel and started the boat, the sound of the propellers rumbling awake.

“What are you doing?!” he yelled from below.

“I want to get a better look at those fireworks!” I yelled back.

“Let's stay in the harbor,” he said.

“I feel like going for a ride,” I said. “Just a quick one.”

He came back up the steps, still unsteady.

“I'll give you a thousand dollars to turn off that engine,” he said.

“I don't need your money,” I said.

“Then I'm leaving.”

“Well, I may just finish the Singani by the end of the night. On a cool night like tonight, who knows?”

“You wouldn't!” he said.

“Who knows?” I repeated, and began untying the boat from the cleat.

“Ah, fuck it. Why not?” He sat down on the back of the boat and opened an Abita.

I pulled away from the dock, motoring through the lake water as the fireworks burst behind us.

“What's the name of the boat anyway?” he asked, peering at the aft.

“Papa Lebat,” I said.

He nodded, unaware of the significance, and took another sip of beer. I turned toward the middle of the lake; the boat listed. He tensed up, grabbed the sides, dropped his drink, spilled beer all along the deck.

“You're really scared of the water, huh?”

“Maybe we should head back.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I shouldn't have brought you out here.”

“It's not that I'm scared.” he said. “I just...I don't know how to swim.”

“I didn’t know that,” I lied. I reached into the cooler and handed him another beer, then grabbed one for myself.

“Something to tide you over,” I said.

As I handed it to him, my necklace popped out of my costume: a gold chain, wrapped in red flannel, with a small leather pouch.

“What's that?” he asked. I had to smile.

“Do you know what a gris-gris is?” I asked.

“Gris-gris?” he said. “No, what does it mean?”

“Oh, it's nothing,” I said. “Just a voodoo thing.”

“Voodoo? You're full of shit,” he said, laughing. “Now where is that Singani?”

“Go down and look for it, I'll get us in position for the the best view of these fireworks,” I said. He grumbled and went down, rummaging around.

“Where's your flashlight?” he asked, and I threw one down for him and continued driving to the deepest part of the water.

He searched the below deck in vain, under pillows and blankets and inside cabinets and crevices. What he didn't find were flotation devices or flare guns or homing beacons, as I had taken all of these potential life-saving or search-and-rescue aids from the boat earlier that day.

He peeked his head up.

“Did you find it yet?” I asked. “I know it's here. Maybe we should head back, check again tomorrow when we're not so drunk.”

“I'm not drunk,” he said, sweating through his shirt. “Once we find the Singani, then we'll get drunk!”

I turned the motor off then, following him down the wooden steps into the cabin. In an instant he reached the end of the bedroom area, gesturing around to its barrenness. One thing that was there was a large, heavy, iron anchor attached to a thick rope, pre-knotted.

The fireworks continued in the distance, popping and coloring the night sky.

“Here,” he said, “Get a picture of me with the fireworks.”

He fumbled in his pocket for his cell, handed it over to me. I smiled. I turned on the flash and took a picture of him, blinding him for a moment.

“Not with the flash,” he said, annoyed. “Do it again.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose, and that's when I threw the rope loop around his foot, which took but a few moments.

He opened his eyes and couldn't believe it, looked down in bewilderment. I stepped back and took another picture, flash off this time.

“The fireworks look great from this viewpoint,” I said. “But I know you're afraid of the water. Maybe we should head back? No? Well, maybe I will then.”

“Singani 63!” he yelled.

“Yes,” I said. “Singani 63.” I pulled the bottle from a hidden pocket in my costume where it had been all along, took a long drink.

Without waiting to see his reaction, I walked upstairs, closed the door to the cabin, and threw a chain across it, padlocking it shut. I took a long final look at the picture of him, then threw his phone overboard.

Then I got to work, blowing up a life raft I had stored in a topside cabinet.

I had barely started blowing when I discovered that he had quickly sobered up. He started crying, a low wail from below. It was not the cry of a drunken man; it was certainly no stoner's chuckle. He was silent for a while, and all I could hear was the sound of my breath breathing life into the raft, filling it full. I took a break, lightheaded, when I heard the anchor dragging across wooden floor. I sat down, listening to him struggle. The raft was nearly complete. I paused again, put my ear to the door.

Loud and shrill screams burst from within, and I fell back on my butt. For a moment I doubted my plan. I checked the padlock to make sure it was secure, and put my head again against the wood. I heard him moving about, mumbling, cursing, pleading. Then he started yelling, and I yelled back in turn, louder than him, overbearing his despair.

It was now midnight, officially All Saints Day. I finished blowing up the raft, put paddles and the bottle of Singani 63 in it for my trip back to shore and placed it in the water, still tied to the side of my own boat. Asher must have heard the splash in the water, because I heard a low laugh from below that made the hair on the back of my neck. Then he spoke, in a low, almost unrecognizable voice:

“Good joke, man. Good stuff, we'll have a good laugh about it over drinks of the Soderbergh booze.”

“The Singani 63!” I said.

“But it's getting late. I have some friends I was supposed to meet after the parade, so let's head back, OK?”

“Yeah, that sounds good, I'm going to head back,” I said.

“For fuck's sake, Mo!”

“Yes,” I said. “For fuck's sake!”

“This water isn't that deep, is it?” he asked.

“Oh, it's plenty deep.”

“How deep?”

“Gator deep,” I said.

He said nothing.

“Asher?”

Again –

“Asher?”

Nothing. I took my flashlight, jumped in the raft, smashed a small window to let the water rush in and scuttle it, and began to paddle away. By the time I reached shore, slick with sweat, Papa Lebat had receded into the deep, no longer visible. All the evidence has surely washed away in the hurricanes since. Laissez le bon temps rouler!