Entry No. 003: The Night the Riverboat Caught Fire
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(Or Nearly Did)
November 3rd, 1935
Location: Somewhere south of Memphis
River conditions: dishonest
Cash remaining: unclear
Whiskey remaining: thankfully more than cash
There are certain places a man should avoid if he intends to keep both his dignity and his wallet.
Riverboats rank high on that list.
Not because they are immoral places, exactly. Morality aboard a riverboat tends to drift depending on the hour, the card game, and how much bourbon has already been poured. No, the real danger of a riverboat is that it convinces a man he has become more interesting than he actually is.
You step aboard carrying twenty dollars and reasonable judgment.
Three hours later you are smoking cigarettes you do not own, discussing philosophy with a trumpet player named Louis, and wagering your boots against a man called Colonel despite growing evidence he has never commanded anything larger than a disappointed mule.
That is how the trouble started.
I had boarded the Magnolia Queen somewhere south of Memphis after hearing whispers about a poker game in the rear lounge and a bourbon selection worth risking liver damage for. The boat itself looked respectable enough from shore, though experience has taught me that anything floating on the Mississippi after midnight should be treated with the same caution normally reserved for explosives and former lovers.
Still, there was whiskey aboard.
A man can ignore many warning signs under those conditions.
The lounge sat low in the center of the boat beneath yellow lights and slow-moving ceiling fans that pushed cigar smoke around with all the urgency of exhausted government employees. A jazz band played somewhere nearby—not well enough to inspire dancing, but poorly enough to encourage drinking, which is often just as valuable.
The poker game had already started by the time I arrived.
There was a cotton broker from Baton Rouge sweating through a linen suit. A preacher pretending to drink coffee out of a coffee cup that smelled aggressively unlike coffee. A woman named Clara wearing dark silk gloves and the expression of someone who had never once lost an argument honestly. And then there was the Colonel, dealing cards with the relaxed confidence of a man entirely comfortable cheating strangers.
Naturally, I liked him immediately.
Clara looked me over as I sat down and asked if I knew how to play poker.
I told her I knew just enough to lose slowly.
She nodded once and said, “Good. Fast losers make everyone nervous.”
Now there are some women a man remembers because they are beautiful, and others he remembers because they are dangerous. Clara somehow managed to be both in a way that felt deeply unfair to the general public.
She smoked thin cigarettes through a long black holder and drank bourbon like she had personally settled arguments with it before. Every man at the table believed he was charming her. Every man at the table was wrong.
Including me.
Especially me.
The Colonel dealt the next hand while Louis the trumpet player wandered through the lounge blasting jazz into the room like he was personally trying to wake the dead. The preacher lost twenty dollars in alarming silence. The cotton broker accused everyone of bluffing with the desperation of a man slowly realizing he should have stayed home with his wife.
Meanwhile Clara quietly took everyone’s money one measured hand at a time.
Watching her work was like watching a panther open a pocket watch.
Beautiful. Efficient. Expensive.
Around midnight the Colonel leaned toward me and muttered that Clara had cleaned out a railroad attorney in New Orleans badly enough to make him “reconsider civilization.”
I told him civilization was overrated.
He agreed, which should have warned me we were both drunk.
At some point another bottle appeared at the table. I do not remember ordering it, and nobody present looked financially responsible enough to claim ownership, which is usually how the best bourbon arrives.
The boat rolled gently beneath us while the river disappeared into blackness outside the windows. Jazz drifted through the smoke. Cards snapped against the table. Somewhere above deck a woman laughed loud enough to suggest either tremendous joy or imminent violence.
It was, I remember thinking, about as perfect an evening as a man like me could reasonably expect.
Then the smoke started.
At first nobody noticed because, frankly, there was already enough smoke in the room to preserve meat. Cigars, cigarettes, cheap engine exhaust drifting through the vents—the whole boat smelled like bad decisions wrapped in tobacco.
But this smoke was different.
Thicker.
Sharper.
The kind of smoke that arrives with ambition.
The preacher noticed first. He stopped halfway through a drink and sniffed the air with the cautious expression of a man suddenly wondering whether his sins had caught up to him geographically.
Then somebody out in the hallway yelled something involving the word “boiler.”
Now, there are words capable of improving a riverboat atmosphere.
“Another round,” for example.
“Royal flush.”
Or “The sheriff’s leaving.”
“Boiler” is not among them.
The room changed immediately. Chairs scraped backward. Cards vanished into coat pockets. The cotton broker stood up so quickly he knocked over his drink and briefly caught part of the tablecloth on fire, which felt unnecessarily symbolic.
The Colonel opened the lounge door just as a crewman sprinted past covered in sweat and shouting for water buckets.
That was enough for everyone.
Suddenly the entire boat seemed to wake up angry.
Passengers crowded the hallways. Crewmen ran in every direction at once, which never inspires confidence. Somewhere metal clanged loudly beneath the floorboards while steam hissed through the lower deck with the sound of the devil losing patience.
Through all of this, Clara remained seated.
Calmly.
Finishing her bourbon.
I asked whether she intended to evacuate.
She took one final sip and said, “Depends entirely on whether the boat sinks before I finish this cigarette.”
I considered proposing marriage on the spot.
Instead I helped the preacher find his missing shoe.
Outside, fog rolled thick across the Mississippi while passengers crowded the deck pretending not to panic in the deeply unconvincing way only Americans can manage. The jazz band had stopped playing, though Louis continued holding his trumpet like he might still negotiate with the situation musically.
The captain eventually emerged from below deck blackened with soot and smelling strongly of burned machinery.
Apparently a boiler pipe had burst.
Smoke everywhere. Steam everywhere. Fire somewhere briefly important but no longer ambitious enough to finish the job.
The boat, against all odds and engineering standards, was going to survive.
A cheer went up across the deck.
The preacher crossed himself.
The Colonel immediately attempted to restart the poker game.
And Clara disappeared into the fog with approximately half the cash from the table and my favorite lighter.
I never saw her again.
Though to be fair, women like Clara are not built for seeing twice.
Today’s Whiskey: Old Forester 100 Proof Bourbon
Now, to the bottle at hand.
Old Forester 100 Proof.
This is bourbon for men who distrust unnecessary decoration.
No polished speeches. No dramatic presentation. No tasting notes involving saddle soap or the emotional memory of cedar furniture.
Just solid Kentucky bourbon with enough backbone to survive riverboats, card games, and conversations that should have ended earlier than they did.
It smells honest.
Strong enough to command respect, but not so aggressive it mistakes volume for character.
Nose:
Brown sugar, oak, dark cherry, orange peel, and warm baking spice rising out of the glass like trouble introducing itself politely.
Taste:
Rich caramel, toasted nuts, cinnamon, leather, and deep oak with just enough heat to remind you this bourbon arrived carrying its own weather.
Finish:
Long, warm, and confident. The kind of finish that lingers in the room after the story has already improved itself twice.
Best enjoyed with:
Jazz music, river fog, and enough cash left over for breakfast.
Do not enjoy with:
Card sharks.
Steam boilers.
Women smarter than you wearing silk gloves.
What I Learned
Most dangerous situations begin as excellent evenings.
That is true of poker games, riverboats, and nearly every relationship I have ever entered willingly.
As for bourbon, Old Forester reminds me that good whiskey does not need polishing until it forgets where it came from. It should have a little weight to it. A little fire. A little honesty around the edges.
Like the best stories.
And if a riverboat ever catches fire while you are holding decent bourbon, finish the bourbon first.
Panic rarely improves with practice.
Until the next entry,
— W.I.
Initials only. Names are for warrants, newspapers, and boats under investigation.