Black Samboca

BLACK SAMBUCA

As I sit here at the word processor staring at the near empty bottle of Black Sambuca, I can recall vividly the chain of events that day. Dirk and Harvey and I went up to Devils Lake on a cold November afternoon to do some rock climbing. Not big time stuff with petons and ropes. Just pick a spot and make it to the top.

The climb always starts out easy enough. We just scamper over the giant boulders on the lake shore picking the route which looks most accessible. As we get higher the climbing invariably gets harder, and we find ourselves searching for cracks and depressions for hand and foot holds.

As I moved upward the weather became overcast and a damp wind and mist swept the bluffs. I was at the point where I had run out of decent hand holds and was still about six feet from the top. My fingers were numb and I was leaving little bloody splotches on the rock face as I moved up.

Now the decision was to risk all and go those final six feet without adequate footing or to climb back down. A fall from here was not a simple 70 foot plunge onto the boulders to a quick death. No, the slope was about 80 degrees which meant scraping and bouncing off the cliff face, tearing flesh and breaking limbs before hitting those boulders for a slower, more painful death. Climbing back down would not be easy either. I could not see those secure depressions where I could place my feet.

How do I get into these situations? Numb fingers, numb brain.

Then the decision was made. I clawed upward. Finally my fingers reached over the top. I clung desperately as my feet slipped away and I was left dangling.

Could I do a fingertip pull up and get my chin on the ledge? Then I would push further until my chest would bend over the top. I discarded the idea. Even with a motivational glance downward there was no way I could heft my bulk over the rim.

Hands from above gripped my wrists. “Got ya,” Harvey grunted as he and Dirk pulled me inch by inch scraping over the top. I lay on the cold rock freezing and exhausted, happy to be alive and determined that this climb was over.

*****

Back in the car we drove out of Devils Lake State Park and headed for a nearby watering hole by the name of Hooties. It was dark inside, and country rock played quietly in the background. We selected a table away from the draft of the front door and called our drink orders to the bartender. It was time to relax and warm up inside and out. We took turns rubbing our hands over the burning candle on the table.

Next to us sat a couple of locals and with a rural friendliness they introduced themselves. Pulling their chairs around they included us in their conversation. Dan was the more intelligent of the two, the other was named Jesse Nevers. They had been deer hunting and had just finished a six hour stint in a tree stand without getting a shot. They were also cold and wet and cursing their luck.

It was Jesse who brought up the subject of Black Sambuca.

“Ever try it?” he asked.

“Hell no, never even heard of it.”

“Bartender, bring a bottle of Black Sambuca and five glasses.” Jesse hollered.

He poured a thimble full of the black viscous liquid into each glass and bid us, “Drink, but carefully.” It had a licorice smell, and I put the tip of my tongue carefully into it. Like lacquer thinner it seemed to creep up my tongue burning and paralyzing as it went. Harvey had taken a sip and was choking and coughing as his eyes watered.

No doubt about it, Black Sambuca was the thing to warm up the insides. All five of us kept sipping and Jessie kept pouring. Soon the bottle was down to its last quarter and we were feeling gooood.

Jesse did it first to show us how. He stuck his finger into the Sambuca and then passed it through the flame of the candle. His finger caught fire and he held it up to show, then calmly put it in his mouth to douse the flames.

“Wow!”

Soon five of us had a flaming finger, as we all laughed and joined in the fun. We were warm now and feeling no pain.

Then Jesse stuck his tongue in the Sambuca and holding the candle up to it, caught his tongue on fire.

“All right!”

Again there were five flaming tongues amid the cheering, with only one mishap. Dirk didn’t tip his head back far enough and burned the hair out of his nose.

So the evening went and, as the Sambuca worked its magic, the conversation turned to philosophy and speculations.

“This is the most powerful concoction that can be consumed by the human body.” Jesse pronounced. Then he posed the question, “I wonder if it’s as potent when it comes out?”

This sparked the image of a human flame thrower.

The four of them jumped up, and with Jesse in the lead carrying a candle, headed for the rest room urinal. I stayed behind feeling this was pretty perverse. Besides I didn’t know if I could stand up.

Seconds later a wooosh and a flash of light came under the rest room door, then an ungodly scream of mortal pain. Harvey was first out, wild eyed and throwing up as he ran. Dirk followed. “Call 911” he shrieked.

A few minutes after dialing the bartender suggested, “Might be better you folks get out of here.” The three of us bolted for the door, not wanting to explain the evening activities to the authorities.

Leaving Hooties as an emergency vehicle pulled into the parking lot, stone sober, we drove the 90 miles home in complete silence. I still don’t know exactly what happened in that rest room. I’m not sure I want to, but my imagination can conjure up some pretty gruesome scenes.

I’ve seen both Dirk and Harvey since, but they don’t talk about it and I’m not about to ask. I think Dirk wanted to say something one time but all that came out was a shudder and, “Jesse ---- Oh my God!”

Well that’s the story. The bottle of Black Sambuca is empty now, and I’m feeling damn gooood. My mind won’t focus and my coordination is gone. Still I can’t seem to keep my eyes off the Christmas candle on the mantle. The flickering seems somehow hypnotic and I have this urge to -------. In a panic I struggle to my feet and lurch the few steps to the candle blowing it out. I try to relax and gather my senses. God, I’ll never be drunk enough to try that.

END

(CAUTION: Do not attempt any of the above activities. They should be done only by professionals or those who have little to contribute to society.)

Story ID:	993
Written by:	Dick Dunlap (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Fiction
Location:	Devils Lake State Park Wisconsin USA
Year:	1988
Person:	Jesse Nevers