Uncle Jim and the Bottled Rat.
One of dad’s older brothers, James Lee Torkildson, grew up to be a butcher who worked at the Red Owl Supermarket in New Brighton, Minnesota, for over thirty years. And he was a happy butcher. In fact, I’d say he was, without doubt, the happiest butcher in Minnesota. And here’s why:
One mellow spring day Uncle Jim and my dad, whom he called Barney for reasons now lost in the mists of time and beer, drove over to the Grain Belt Brewery near the Hennepin Avenue Bridge leading into downtown Minneapolis. Their purpose was simple -- their wives each wanted a gallon of the sweet spring water the Brewery had on tap for the public, free of charge, running out of a spigot on the south wall of the building. My mother said it made for the best coffee in the world. And, of course, dad and Uncle Jim would also each pick up a wooden carton with a dozen brown Grain Belt Beer bottles in it. No sane man would drive several miles just for WATER, for gosh sakes!
They filled their water jugs and bought their beer. And then they decided to take advantage of the park-like grounds that surrounded the brewery, complete with large shade trees and picnic tables, to relax and hoist a few lukewarm bottles. It was when Uncle Jim was ready to uncap the second bottle from his carton that he noticed something unusual through the amber glass.
“Hey Barney” he asked my dad, “what the hell does that look like to you?”
Dad, who felt obligated to drink three beers for every one beer that his older brother drank, sent a juicy belch into the spring air before gazing somewhat unsteadily into the depths of Uncle Jim’s bottle.
“Damned if I know” he grunted. “Could be a rat.”
“Holy Hannah, you’re right!” shouted Uncle Jim. “There’s a rotte or mus or something in there!”
The two men looked at each other a moment, completely nonplussed. Then with a shrug Uncle Jim started to uncap the bottle -- rotte or not, he was still thirsty. But my dad stopped him.
“Wait a minute, drittsekk. Don’t open that thing! Let’s take it up to the president of the company and see what he’ll give us to shut up about it.”
A few moments later they were ushered into a wood paneled office that smelled of beeswax and hops. An elderly gentleman, dressed in a salt and pepper suit with a tall batwing collar, bade them sit down and asked to examine the bottle in question. Dad said they never heard what the man’s name was, but since he had not one but two brass spittoons in his office he must have been awful important. ?
The spiffy dresser did not take long to make up his mind. After finding out that the bottle was bought by Uncle Jim, not my dad, he offered Uncle Jim a lifetime’s supply of Grain Belt Beer -- as much as he wanted and delivered as often as he wanted right to his doorstep. If Uncle Jim would remain silent. He offered my dad nothing. This upset dad, but nobly thrusting aside any sibling resentment, he demanded the bottled rat back just as the awful important gentleman was easing it into a drawer in his mahogany desk. Reluctantly, he returned it to Uncle Jim.
As my dad never tired of repeating to me and my sisters (my mother never stood around long enough to hear this part -- once he started on this saga she shot her eyes to the heavens with a weary sigh and headed for the nearest exit) he figured that if Uncle Jim kept that thing in the bottle safe and sound the Brewery would never renege on their promise of free suds.
And so it came to pass that Uncle Jim never drank a glass of milk or cup of coffee or a sip of tap water. Ever again. He had beer for breakfast. He had beer for lunch. He had beer for dinner. And when he wanted a nightcap before bed, he had a cold Grain Belt waiting for him on his night stand.
By rights he should have been plastered every day by ten in the morning, but outside of a yeasty miasma that hung over him like swamp gas, he never showed any ill effects from all that beer. He never lost a finger at his job as a butcher. Was never in an auto accident. Never grew argumentative or maudlin with friends and family. I went ice fishing with him on White Bear Lake once and asked him straight out how he kept from becoming a sloppy drunk like my dad did when he hoisted a few too many. With a wink and a grin, he pulled out a package of Ry Krisp crackers and offered me one.
“I snack on this stuff all day long, Timmy. They soak up the alcohol like nobody’s bizness. Your Aunt Annette keeps these all over the house and in the garage and in the car and I got a big box of ‘em at work. I’ll get Barney a big box of his own -- maybe that’ll straighten him out.”
Before he died in 1994 Uncle Jim took me into his basement to show me the famous rat in the bottle. It had sat undisturbed amidst half opened wood putty cans and cankered hand tools for nearly three decades, and when I looked at it there was nothing to see but some indistinct shreds of matter that settled to the bottom after I gave the bottle a gentle shake. Whatever had originally been in that bottle had long ago dissolved. But -- and this is the fairy tale part -- the free beer just kept coming for Uncle Jim. When he finally kicked the bucket I doubt they had to put any formaldehyde in him -- he had been embalming himself for a good thirty years already!