FREE Vintage Faceted Glass Liquor Bottle

[Vintage Betty]

Writers, you asked for another contest so here you go!

I have available one vintage glass liquor bottle with cork stopper:

Your mission, should you choose to accept it:

Write a story circa 1920 - 1950. The story MUST include at least ONE of the following:

• Prohibition
• Martinis
• Beer

Optional items (may only be used with a reference to at least one of the above topics):

• Police Raid
• Secret passwords, doorways, or passages (Hint: Vintage Betty LOVES secret passages and those inset little sliding doors which only show the eyes of a person)

Story must be posted by December 2. Winner will receive the ultra-cool liquor bottle to hold your precious stash.

Judges:

• Yours truly
• Bartender Miss Neecerie (Who knows more about Prohibition and Alcohol better than a Bartender?)
• (To be Announced)

:cheers1:

 

[Maj.Nick Danger]

Cool,...

If I was much of a drinker I'd enter.

 

[Vintage Betty]

If I was much of a drinker I'd enter.

You could fill it with:

• Water
• Buttons
• Ribbon
• Colored Water
• Sand
• Colored Sand
• Cocoa powder
• Beads
• Feathers
• Olives
• Lemons
• Dried potpourri

Nice try to weasel out of the contest. Now git to that typewriter and bash those keys Major!

Vintage Betty

 

[MrNewportCustom]

Cheers! It's the Ugly Cocktail House Boys.

I am definitely in on this one! That bottle would also be a very interesting subject for a still life photo!


I drove the old Riviera over dirt roads and open fields to the Road House. I parked next to a rather rough-looking mobile home that had apparently, as indicated by what was stenciled onto what remained of its side, brought The Good Old Boys to their latest gig. It reeked of really, really strong glue and swamp water. I decided to put some distance between it and myself before the entire Chicago police force descended upon it. Although I was nowhere near Illinois, I was certain they eventually would.

The Road House is a rough joint that, for some reason, is a major attraction to truck drivers, rowdies, rednecks, and accomplished dancers. After picking a few cobs of corn out of the grille and a sign post out of a quarter window of the Riv., I entered the bar and found an empty table near the restroom. Moments later, some guy named Norm entered. He must have been quite popular around this place, as everyone greeted him by way of yelling out his name in unison.

Not much enjoying the ambiance and general air of the place, I began wondering when my beer would arrive and absentmindedly started picking at the corner of the veneer tabletop while reading passages of really, really bad poetry that was written on the wall beside me; poems that began with lines like, "Here I sit, brokenhearted", "There once was a man from Nantucket", and "Because I could not stop for death", when a ruckus started up over by the jukebox. In fact, it was the jukebox.

I looked up just as the bartender, a former baseball player that I didn't recognize, flipped two bottles into the air like a baton girl in front of a high school marching band. Perhaps it was some sort of ritualistic precursor to mixing cocktails or martinis or something, I don't know. But when four of the waitresses, the supposedly "ugly coyote" girls, began dancing atop the bar itself, leaving scuffmarks that I could see from way over here in the already worn finish, I knew I'd never get my beer. . . .


Wait! Wrong story! I’ll bash out a better, more vintage one and send it later.


Lee

 

[Mr. Lucky]

Okay, I'm interested. And I have JUST the piece, but it is in teleplay form - the title being BOOTLEGGERS and runs 60 pages. How might I submit?

 

[zaika]

yeah...how long can the stories be? i'm a wordy writer. :eusa_doh:

 

[Vintage Betty]

You guys know that I'm sweet on you don't you? Since you have shown the most interest in my contests to date (*cough* *cough* I'm sure it has nothing to do with your writing) I'll find more to post for y'all.

Regarding length: Any length story is fine.
Regarding posting: You can PM me, and I can host a large document for download. Size of document is not an issue.
Regarding Copyright: If you want to submit something that is yours for download, be sure to mark it with your copyright information. Please refer to the writer's thread and google "copyright" for more information. Remember that items that are posted become the property of the FL, so I will leave that to your discretion.

Cheers :cheers1:

Vintage Betty

 

[Vintage Betty]

Bump

Contest ends Sunday.

Vintage Betty

 

[MrNewportCustom]

Then you can expect a story from me on Saturday.


Lee

 

[Vintage Betty]

Third Judge is Announced

I am pleased to announce that mingoslim will be joining us to decide a winner!
Thank you mingoslim, for stepping forward. :eusa_clap

Vintage Betty

 

[MB5]

Thank you for opening this to the non-drinkers. I didn't use a typewriter to write the draft, but I did use a fountain pen. Hopefully the entry is still valid.
-----------------

I walked slowly down the dimly lit stairwell toward the sound of jazz and clanking glasses. As I reached the basement I was greeted by a familiar face. It was the proprietor of the establishment, if one could call a converted basement an establishment. “Your usual?” he asked, I nodded. He brought me a neat gin. It was just what I needed at the end of the day. I paid for the drink and moved to the East wall. It had been nearly two months since the last raid and the other patrons were growing complacent. They hung their coats and hats as they would be at a proper establishment. I, on the other hand, saw the hiatus as all the more reason to be vigilant. I found a place for myself next to the tunnel entrance.

Only halfway through my drink I heard the door crash against the wall. Before the first whistle blew I was through the archway that lead to the tunnel system. I dumped my drink and slid the glass into my coat pocket. I ran down the dark tunnel with my right hand against the wall, counting the passages. On the third entry I turned and began tracing the wall with my left hand. Left on two, right on two. Light trickled through the trap door at the top of the stairs. I quickly ascended and knocked *** * ***. The crates over the door were pulled aside and the door opened to the kitchen of a nearby restaurant. I thanked the gentleman and gave him a fiver for his troubles, and exited the service door to the alley. It had begun to drizzle on that moonlit night and I heard multiple footsteps hurriedly splashing down the street. I spun about to see a group running with coats over their dates – obviously unprepared for the evening storm. Thankful my instinct had been wrong, I turned back around and headed into the mist.

 

[MrNewportCustom]

Here's to you, Peter.

I looked longingly at the multi-faceted glass decanter on the pantry shelf. Depending on the time of year or the guests on their way, it would contain rye or bourbon or whiskey, or something a little more upscale. It used to sit next to a chromium ice bucket on a silver tray, matching tongs between them and four glasses lined up in front. I can still hear the tinkle of ice landing in a glass and the crackling sound it made when the liquor was poured over it.

But those days were no more. Dry Law changed all that. And then the depression made things tough on everyone. The tray, ice bucket and tongs were all pawned so that my wife and our boys could go back to her parent’s farm in Nebraska. I stayed on in the city to do what work I could find and send them some money. The bottle and glasses was a wedding gift from her parents. I kept them here as encouragement, and as a reminder of better times. Sometimes, when I was particularly lonely and broke, I’d fill the bottle with water and drink it from one of the glasses while thinking about my family, so far away.

One evening, I’d just finished a long day at the docks, my third one that week. Every muscle ached and I had buts and blisters on my hands. It wasn’t the kind of work I was used to. The foreman paid me for the three days. Not a lot of money, but enough to buy a sandwich and send a few dollars to Nebraska. Every few weeks, I’d managed to save a little extra; a nickel here, a dime there, but enough for a couple of drinks. So I’d put on the old gray felt hat and my overcoat, and head out for the evening. In the hopes of forgetting my troubles for a few hours.

One night, I went down the dusty steps of my usual haunt and knocked on the door. The peep hole slid open and Hap’s big blue eyes looked out at me. I could hear people talking and some music playing quietly behind him. Liquor poured and glasses clinked. A little laughter from way in the back.

“What’s the password,” Hap asked me in his low grumble.
“I don’t know, you tell me,” I said, grinning.
“Whatdya think this is, Tim, a Marx Brothers play?”

I gave him the proper password and he opened the door. I stepped in and Hap closed it quickly behind me. Tim is surprisingly small for a man with his voice, but he was a real scrapper. He’d been in many scuffles with drunks at this door, and he never lost a one. He gave me a friendly slap on the shoulder and said, “Rules is rules, Tim. You know that.”

“I know, Hap. I just wanted to start the evening with a little more fun than usual.”
“Go get a drink, friend,” were his final words. He turned back when someone else rapped on the door.

It was warm inside. Almost too warm, considering I’d just come in from the cold. I went down the hall and through the low brick archway that entered into the main room. The bar itself was small, and only one man could fit behind it. But that didn’t matter, because there was only one bartender, Geoff. He was a handsome fellow, and the ladies made every attempt to prove it to him. Geoff was always happy to let them, too. He waved and smiled at me without interrupting a pour. I waved back and he pointed me to an available table.

As I walked toward the table, a couple familiar voices called out my name. I looked over and saw Pete Bynes and Peter Osborn, old pals from the old office. I hadn’t seen them in a couple years. I didn’t even know they were still in town. They waved me over to join them. I did.

Pete had a little platinum blonde by his side, and they were holding each other tightly. She was a cute little doll. Even seated, she was half a head shorter than Pete who, himself, was a couple inches shorter than me. She was quite curvaceous and rather well dressed, considering the times. Pete stood up and we shook hands.

“Have a seat,” enthused Pete. I sat down. “This is Cheryl,” he added. I tipped my hat to the lady and said hello. “And you remember Peter, right?”
“I sure do. How you doin’, Peter! Or, as we knew you at the office, Re-Pete!” Peter laughed as we shook hands.
“I still get that all the time,” Peter said, “what with hanging around with Pete all the time. What have you been up to, Tim?”

I started telling them everything that’d gone wrong with my life since that fateful day in October a few years ago. They asked about Linda and the boys, and I started telling them my story. But before I could bring the mood down too far, I caught myself and changed the subject. I hadn't come here to wallow in my misery; quite the opposite. So I turned the conversation around and asked Pete and Cheryl if they were serious. He told me they were and that they were planning to get married after he got a permanent job. In fact, they were here to celebrate their engagement and were happy that I’d happened in. Naturally, Linda and I were invited to the wedding.

We kept the festive mood going for the rest of the evening. Pete told me about the job he and Peter were hoping to get as soon as the economy turned around, and told me who I should talk to about working there, too. He said I’d be a cinch to get a job, because I was better qualified than they were. I bought him a drink for the compliment, and he tried to get a couple more out of me by complimenting me again. A lot of laughs and good cheer flew over that table.

A few days later I took Pete’s advice. I went to the address he'd given me and spoke to the person who owned the name that went with it. It was a respectable stock brokerage, and they were expecting an upturn soon. They also liked my credentials. The upturn took a lot longer than expected - a couple of years longer - but things eventually took a turn for the better and all three of us were hired.

Things went well and just kept getting better. Pete and Cheryl tied the knot and started a family. Peter remained single, even though everyone kept thrusting gals his way. None of them seemed to work out, though; he was having too much fun as a single man.

Then we were drafted. The firm said they’d secure our jobs for us when we got out, and they kept their word on that. Pete’s tour ended a few months before mine when he lost a leg. I came out relatively unscathed. Peter didn’t make it home.

After a few more years at the firm, Pete and I started out on our own. We called our company, P & T Brokerage. When my firstborn, Ron, graduated college, he joined us, became a partner, and we renamed it, P, T & R, Brokers, Inc. I now have two grandsons and a grand daughter ready to join in. Pete’s son went into law. His daughter married a doctor.

One never knows what he’ll do when times are tough. The avenues may be closed, but there’s always an opening around a corner, somewhere. Maybe that opening is just down a few dusty steps and behind a door where eyes peek out through a small opening and ask for a password.

But one thing I can tell you is to never give up. One night in a speakeasy, sneaking a drink when drinking was illegal, led to great success for two out-of-work stockbrokers. Because of that night, Pete and I opened a bar of our own as a side business, and hired well-qualified people to run it. It worked out quite well, until we'd retired and sold it. We called it “Peters Place” in honor of our fallen friend.

We still have the wedding gift from my wife's parents, and it's never empty, anymore. It stands on a new silver tray, ready for any celebration, any dinner party, any conversation, any cold night by the fire, any holiday drink, any opportunity to pour a toast to life’s twists and turns . . . or a toast to someone who is dearly missed.

Here’s to you, Peter.


Lee

 

[Elaina]

My sister just broke my mom's decanter and this would match her glasses perfectly, assuming I have until late tonight to post something.

 

[Vintage Betty]

Last Day to Enter

Enter quickly for a chance at this lovely and sprited (pun intended) glass liquor bottle!

And to those that have already entered: :eusa_clap

Vintage Betty

 

[KObalto]

A True Story

During the late 20s and early 30s, my Irish-American grandfather used to slake his thirst (and pay a few bills) by brewing large quantitiies of beer in open tubs in his basement. He was young and frequently unemployed. His older brother-in-law was a white-collar civil servant and considered quite well-off by the rest of the family. He was a fastidious German-American (both men were the sons of immigrants) who came over frequently to imbibe of the beer freely as a guest, but declined all entreaties to purchase a bottle or two for consumption at home. On one occasion, the family dog got into the basement and licked the yeast off the top of the tubs. Later that evening, my Uncle Ed stopped by for some of the fresh stuff. As he was enjoying his beer, my grandfather told him the amusing story involving the pooch. My Uncle Ed jumped up and barely made it to the bathroom before relinquishing the freshly consumed beer into the plumbing. After that, he always asked my grandfather if the dog had been in the basement lately before helping himself to some brew.
Years later, my grandfather panelled his basement in knotty pine. Behind the bar was a bottle marked with a paper label stating "Manhattans". It was identical to the decanter in the contest.

 

[Elaina]

Well, this is where I hate being a perfectionist. About 10, I gave up because I couldn't get it edited in time, so good luck you guys!

 

[mingoslim]

I greatly enjoyed the contest . . .

I have cast my vote as judge . . .
Thanks to VB for letting me take part in the fun.
Loved the idea, and loved the entries. Too bad there wern't more of them . . .

For VB . . . You, my dear, seem to be a gem. I am glad to have met you here at the Lounge, and look forward our continued aquaintence

Mingo Slim

PS: VB, your message box is full and not accepting more messages . . . may want to clear some space.

 

[mingoslim]

So . . . . who's the winner?

Inquiring minds want to know!

 

[dhermann1]

Lead Crystal Decanter

Cool contest, fun stories.
I just wanted to add my 2 cents worth. I believe the advice given these days on the topic of leaded crystal glass decanters is that potables of any sort should not be left in them long term, because they can absorb trace amounts of lead from the crystal. You can put your fluids in them for a day or two, but drink it up. Lead poisoning is not a healthy thing to have.
Anyone have more info on this subject?
If it's a regular glass vessel then disregard the above.

 

[Vintage Betty]

The Winner is Announced!

Congratulations to MrNewportCustom who wins the Glass Bottle!

And for the record, I believe it IS leaded glass, so please take the advice of our friend above and do not leave drinking liquids in this bottle. Maybe colored water for display?

Another contest is still ongoing in Vintage Betty's Holiday Contest, upload your winter or holiday pictures now for another chance at a great prize!

Congratulations to ALL our great writers for your wonderful words. Each one was a treasure to read.

Vintage Betty