Entry No. 002: The Trouble With Shortcuts
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September 19th, 1931, unless the judge asks
Location: Somewhere between a county road and a bad idea
Road condition: personal
Vehicle ownership: disputed
Whiskey remaining: better than expected
There are two kinds of men in this world.
Men who take the long road because it is safe, scenic, and sensible.
And men who listen when a stranger named Earl says, “I know a shortcut.”
I have spent most of my life becoming the second kind.
Not by choice, exactly. More by a steady accumulation of poor decisions dressed up as opportunity. A man says there is a faster way to Kentucky. A bartender says the bridge is probably still there. A woman in a red dress says her brother is “mostly harmless.” Next thing you know, you are pushing a borrowed automobile through a creek while a goat watches you with the disappointed eyes of your dead grandfather.
That is the trouble with shortcuts.
They are never short.
They are merely roads that have not yet finished ruining your afternoon.
The Man Named Earl
I met Earl in a town so small the post office looked embarrassed to be there.
He was standing outside a gas station leaning against a roadster that had clearly lost several arguments with both weather and physics. Earl wore a white hat, a brown suit, and the permanent expression of a man who had once sold insurance to a widow and slept just fine afterward.
He asked where I was headed.
I told him Kentucky.
He said he knew a shortcut.
I should have walked away.
There are warning signs in life, and most of them are named Earl.
But Earl had a car, I had a bottle, and between the two of us we possessed the exact amount of judgment required to create a future police report.
So I climbed in.
The roadster coughed once, backfired twice, and began moving in the general direction of regret.
On the Nature of Roads
A proper road is a gentleman’s agreement between civilization and dirt.
It says, “You may pass here without losing a wheel, a tooth, or your faith in municipal planning.”
The road Earl selected had signed no such agreement.
It began as gravel, became mud, then surrendered entirely to a series of tire marks and theological questions. There were no signs. No fences. No reassuring landmarks. Just mesquite, dust, and Earl pointing confidently at things no one else could see.
After an hour, I asked if he was sure this was the way.
Earl said, “Absolutely.”
That is when I knew we were doomed.
A man who says “maybe” still has a relationship with truth. A man who says “absolutely” on an unmarked road is either a prophet, a fool, or selling something.
Earl, as it turned out, was all three.
The Creek Incident
The bridge was out.
This did not surprise Earl.
In fact, nothing seemed to surprise Earl, which is often the mark of a man who has caused most of the problems around him.
He looked at the creek. He looked at the car. He looked at me.
Then he said, “We can make it.”
This is another sentence a man should never trust.
“We can make it” has preceded more human suffering than war drums, wedding vows, and the phrase “just one more round.”
I suggested we reconsider.
Earl suggested I lacked vision.
Then the car entered the creek and immediately developed a personal interest in staying there.
The water came halfway up the wheels. The engine died with the long, wet sigh of a machine that had seen enough. Earl slapped the steering wheel and called it ungrateful.
I stepped out into the creek, boots filling with water, flask tucked safely in my jacket, and began pushing.
There are moments in a man’s life when he sees himself clearly.
Mine came knee-deep in Texas creek water, pushing a stranger’s automobile while he shouted encouragement and ate a peach.
The Goat
I have not yet mentioned the goat.
This is because I do not fully understand his role in the affair.
He appeared on the bank sometime during the pushing. White coat. Black eyes. Beard of a magistrate. He stood there watching us with the calm authority of someone who had seen better men fail.
Earl claimed the goat belonged to a cousin.
I asked which cousin.
Earl said, “Depends who’s asking.”
That was the first honest thing he said all day.
The goat followed us for nearly two miles after we got the car moving again. Not quickly. Not desperately. Just steadily, as if he had been assigned to us by a higher power with a sense of humor.
Eventually, Earl stopped the car, looked at the goat, and said, “Well, hell.”
I asked what that meant.
He said, “That’s not our goat.”
I did not ask further questions.
Questions are how men end up married, indicted, or helping Earl return stolen livestock.
Today’s Whiskey: Woodford Reserve Kentucky Straight Bourbon
Now, to the bottle at hand.
Woodford Reserve.
This is a bourbon with manners.
Not soft manners. Not weak manners. More like a well-dressed man who can quote scripture, win a fistfight, and still remember to thank the hostess.
It does not come roaring into the room looking for applause. It arrives steady, polished, and entirely aware that it belongs there.
There is something comforting about that.
After a day spent trusting Earl, drowning my boots, and being judged by livestock, a man appreciates a whiskey that knows where it is going.
Nose:
Vanilla, toasted oak, dried fruit, orange peel, and a little baking spice. It smells like someone opened a pantry in Kentucky and found civilization inside.
Taste:
Caramel, brown sugar, cinnamon, dark cherry, and warm oak. Smooth without being boring, sweet without acting childish, and balanced enough to make a man briefly believe order exists in the universe.
Finish:
Warm, clean, and lingering just long enough to remind you that good things do not need to shout.
Best enjoyed with:
A reliable chair, dry socks, and a road map drawn by someone sober.
Do not enjoy with:
A man named Earl.
An unmarked shortcut.
Any goat with legal ownership questions.
What I Learned
A shortcut is just a long road wearing a fake mustache.
Avoid them when possible.
If a man named Earl tells you he knows a faster way, ask him three questions.
First, is there a bridge?
Second, is the bridge still there?
Third, does this involve livestock?
If he hesitates on any of them, stay where you are and order another drink.
As for bourbon, do not rush it either.
Woodford Reserve is a reminder that some things are better when they take their time. A proper bourbon does not need to impress you in the first sip. It can unfold a little. Say hello. Hang its hat. Tell you something useful once the room gets quiet.
That is the difference between whiskey and trouble.
Trouble always introduces itself too quickly.
Until the next entry,
— W.I.
Initials only. Names are for passports, warrants, and any man foolish enough to trust Earl twice.