{"id":144,"date":"2022-08-04T13:48:58","date_gmt":"2022-08-04T17:48:58","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.upei.ca\/artsreview-xi\/?post_type=chapter&p=144"},"modified":"2022-08-05T13:37:15","modified_gmt":"2022-08-05T17:37:15","slug":"bettys-rum","status":"publish","type":"chapter","link":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.upei.ca\/artsreview-xi\/chapter\/bettys-rum\/","title":{"raw":"Betty's Rum: December 1921","rendered":"Betty’s Rum: December 1921"},"content":{"raw":"After I place my ballot at the voting station, I notice that there is an old man in a booth giving away free bottles of rum to voters. I walk up to ask for a bottle. I\u2019ll just have a drink or two from the bottle with Florence and then I\u2019ll give the rest to George. The old man seems tired. He must\u2019ve been at this booth all day.\r\n\r\n\u201cCan I help you, Miss?\u201d The old man\u2019s eyes linger a little too long on my blouse as he looks up at me from his chair.\r\n\r\n\u201cI just voted and I saw that you were giving away free bottles of rum. I sometimes fancy a shot of rum so I figured I\u2019d walk up and ask for a bottle.\u201d I pull my overcoat tighter around my blouse. \u201cIt\u2019s a cold one out there today! I could use the rum to help me warm up a bit!\u201d I give a half-hearted smile.\r\n\r\nThe old man laughs. \u201cThe rum isn\u2019t for you, deary.\u201d\r\n\r\nI hate it when old jossers call me names like \u201cdeary\u201d.\r\n\r\nThe sign on his booth taunts my periphery: \u2018Free Rum for Voters: Your Next Drink is on Me!\u2019\r\n\r\nI point at it. The paint on the sign is chipped. \u201cYour sign says you\u2019re giving away free rum to voters.\u201d\r\n\r\nThe man laughs. \u201cI\u2019ve been using that old sign for four elections now. I guess I should change it now that women are allowed to vote.\u201d The absurdity of this remark leaves me speechless for a moment.\r\n\r\nThe old man glances at a voter standing behind me who is also looking to get a free bottle of rum. The voter cuts in front of me and the old man reaches out to shake his hand.\r\n\r\nThe voter grabs the old man\u2019s hand confidently. \u201cG\u2019day John! Your rum is always my favourite part of election day.\u201d\r\n\r\nThe old man, John, passes the voter a bottle of rum. \u201cOf course, Gene. Have a good one!\u201d Gene walks away with a smirk on his face and a bottle in his hands.\r\n\r\nJohn looks back at me and his friendly demeanor subsides. \u201cWhy are you still standing there? I can\u2019t help you.\u201d\r\n\r\nI stare at him in disbelief. \u201cI voted, so I deserve a bottle of rum just like the men. Give it over and I\u2019ll be on my way.\u201d\r\n\r\nJohn rises out of his chair, teetering in annoyance. \u201cGo home now, deary! I don\u2019t want to have to ask you again.\u201d A vein protrudes from his forehead. \u201cYou shouldn\u2019t be able to vote anyway.\u201d\r\n\r\nI can feel my face warming up with anger.\r\n\r\nA man with a blue shirt stops talking to a group of poll-workers and walks over to John, eyeing me warily. \u201cWhat\u2019s the problem here, Johnny?\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cThis woman here wants a bottle of rum!\u201d John points his old gray finger at my forehead.\r\n\r\n\u201cLook at the band on her finger Johnny,\u201d The man gestures at my wedding ring. \u201cShe\u2019s probably just taking a bottle home to her husband.\u201d The blue-shirted man hastily hands me one of John\u2019s bottles and quickly walks away to talk with more poll-workers.\r\n\r\nAgain, John points his knobby finger at my forehead. \u201cI know damn well that you aren\u2019t going to give that bottle to your husband. You said so yourself that you were fancying a drink of it!\u201d He slumps back down in a huff. \u201cBut hurry away now before another woman sees you and gets the wrong idea.\u201d He smiles as if he\u2019s done me a favour.\r\n\r\n\u201cYes, it would be a pity if another woman had to deal with your nonsense.\u201d I crack open the rum and splash a shot of it onto John\u2019s feet. He sits there in shock as I storm out of the building with the rest of the bottle before he has a chance to say anything.\r\n\r\nI feel a void in my stomach as I walk back home to George with the bottle of rum in the pocket of my overcoat. I worry that he won\u2019t take my side when I relay the events that happened at the poll station. It\u2019s about a thirty-minute walk home. The sky gets dark so early now in these winter evenings. I should have gone in to vote with George when he went early this morning. I continue to trudge through the snowy streets, the wind biting at my exposed face. I cannot wait to get home and pour myself a drink of rum.\r\n\r\nThe air is getting colder and colder outside, nipping at my skin. I suppose I could have a drink to warm me up a little bit. I take the bottle out of my overcoat pocket, open it up, tilt my head back, and pour a shot of the rum into the void in my stomach. I feel its warmth surge through my chest. It makes the wind a tad more bearable, but its harshness still bites. I have another shot. And another. As I continue to walk, I drink about three or four more shots and then the bottle is empty. The wind doesn\u2019t bother me anymore. I drunkenly walk through the snowy streets until I finally reach our house and step inside after fumbling with my keys.\r\n\r\nGeorge is sitting at the kitchen table with his newspaper and looks up at me with a smile as I walk into the kitchen. \u201cHey Betty! How did it feel to vote for the first time?\u201d His smile never wavers. \u201cIt must feel good, now that men and women are on the same playing field!\u201d I can\u2019t tell if he is serious or not.\r\n\r\n\u201cYes, I guess it feels good to finally have at least a sliver of a voice in this country.\u201d I let out an exasperated sigh. I stumble a little as I bend down to untie my boots.\r\n\r\nGeorge laughs a little then gives me a concerned look that almost seems condescending. I think he is noticing. \u201cAre you\u2014are you drunk?\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cYes, I am rather inebriated.\u201d I echo his assumption and laugh an honest laugh. \u201cIs there a problem with that?\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cI guess not.\u201d He looks at the empty bottle sticking out of my pocket. \u201cYou must have gotten a bottle from my buddy John at the poll station. I got one too, but I put it up in the liquor cabinet rather than drinking the whole bottle on my way home.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cHow do you know John?\u201d I nearly trip over myself as I take off my coat and boots.\r\n\r\n\u201cJohnny is one of the other fishermen that I see down at the docks every summer. He\u2019s a kind old man, always cracking jokes.\u201d George smiles and looks up at the ceiling. He must be recalling some stupid thing that John said that made all the other fishermen laugh.\r\n\r\n\u201cOh.\u201d I answer dimly. Even in my drunken state, I realize that I shouldn\u2019t tell him about what happened at the poll station.\r\n\r\n\u201cWhy do you ask?\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cOh, I don\u2019t know. I guess he just didn\u2019t seem kind or funny to me.\u201d I feel like I\u2019m watching two other people have this conversation.\r\n\r\n\u201cWhat\u2019s that supposed to mean?\u201d George scrunches his eyebrows.\r\n\r\n\u201cI don\u2019t\u2014I don\u2019t know. Never mind.\u201d I suddenly feel the void in my stomach again,\u00a0 empty as my bottle of rum. I glance up at the liquor cabinet and consider taking George\u2019s bottle, but I ultimately decide against it.\r\n\r\nAs I fall asleep later that night, my dreams are so vivid yet unusually mundane. I dream that I take George\u2019s bottle\u00a0 from the liquor cabinet and pour myself a shot. I dream that I go outside for a short walk under the night sky. I dream that I walk over to Florence\u2019s house and we talk about the cold weather we\u2019ve been having. It all feels so real, but none of it is.\r\n\r\n\u201cIt\u2019s been so cold lately,\u201d Florence says. \u201cI wish I had as nice of an overcoat as yours to get me through these awful winter months.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cI know it looks new, but it actually used to be my mother\u2019s.\u201d I say.\r\n\r\n\u201cOh really? She must have refurbished it for you, did she?\u201d Florence asks.\r\n\r\n\u201cYes. She\u2019s always been good at refurbishing old clothes.\u201d I laugh, the word \u2018refurbishing\u2019 distorts in my dream. \u201cShe gave it to me just before last winter and said something along the lines of \u2018make sure you always wear it when the weather gets dreary.\u2019 She\u2019s always been very caring like that.\u201d\r\n\r\nI wake up with a smile on my face but it fades as I remember what happened at the poll station yesterday.\r\n\r\nI spend the day cleaning the house and cooking supper for George. It isn\u2019t until after supper when my work is finished\u00a0 that I sit down on the living room sofa.\r\n\r\nI recall my dreams from last night, and despite the late hour, I decide to walk over to Florence\u2019s house to give her a visit. I get off the sofa and grab my overcoat by the door. I realize that the coat still has the empty bottle in the pocket. I set the bottle on the kitchen table and decide that I\u2019ll rinse it out later.\r\n\r\nI shrug on my coat and stuff my feet into my boots before heading out the door. I take a few steps away from the house before I turn around, go back inside, and grab George\u2019s bottle of rum from the liquor cabinet. I walk to Florence\u2019s house with the bottle sticking out of my pocket.\r\n\r\nFlorence smiles when she opens her door and sees me. \u201cHey Betty. How\u2019s it going?\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cPretty good, Flo! I brought over some rum for the two of us. I figured we could have a drink and play cards while we catch up.\u201d I lift George\u2019s bottle out of my pocket and gesture toward her as if giving a toast.\r\n\r\n\u201cThat sounds lovely!\u201d Florence grabs a deck of cards out of one of the kitchen cupboards. We play cards, drink, and share old stories.\r\n\r\nI tell her about the old man and how I splashed a shot of rum onto his feet. Florence laughs and I feel vindicated. \u201cServes him right. He should\u2019ve just given you the damn bottle in the first place!\u201d She raises her drink. \u201cGood on you!\u201d I return her knowing smile and we clink our glasses together.\r\n\r\nWe continue to have a pleasant evening of banter. I love the time that Florence and I spend together.","rendered":"

After I place my ballot at the voting station, I notice that there is an old man in a booth giving away free bottles of rum to voters. I walk up to ask for a bottle. I\u2019ll just have a drink or two from the bottle with Florence and then I\u2019ll give the rest to George. The old man seems tired. He must\u2019ve been at this booth all day.<\/p>\n

\u201cCan I help you, Miss?\u201d The old man\u2019s eyes linger a little too long on my blouse as he looks up at me from his chair.<\/p>\n

\u201cI just voted and I saw that you were giving away free bottles of rum. I sometimes fancy a shot of rum so I figured I\u2019d walk up and ask for a bottle.\u201d I pull my overcoat tighter around my blouse. \u201cIt\u2019s a cold one out there today! I could use the rum to help me warm up a bit!\u201d I give a half-hearted smile.<\/p>\n

The old man laughs. \u201cThe rum isn\u2019t for you, deary.\u201d<\/p>\n

I hate it when old jossers call me names like \u201cdeary\u201d.<\/p>\n

The sign on his booth taunts my periphery: \u2018Free Rum for Voters: Your Next Drink is on Me!\u2019<\/p>\n

I point at it. The paint on the sign is chipped. \u201cYour sign says you\u2019re giving away free rum to voters.\u201d<\/p>\n

The man laughs. \u201cI\u2019ve been using that old sign for four elections now. I guess I should change it now that women are allowed to vote.\u201d The absurdity of this remark leaves me speechless for a moment.<\/p>\n

The old man glances at a voter standing behind me who is also looking to get a free bottle of rum. The voter cuts in front of me and the old man reaches out to shake his hand.<\/p>\n

The voter grabs the old man\u2019s hand confidently. \u201cG\u2019day John! Your rum is always my favourite part of election day.\u201d<\/p>\n

The old man, John, passes the voter a bottle of rum. \u201cOf course, Gene. Have a good one!\u201d Gene walks away with a smirk on his face and a bottle in his hands.<\/p>\n

John looks back at me and his friendly demeanor subsides. \u201cWhy are you still standing there? I can\u2019t help you.\u201d<\/p>\n

I stare at him in disbelief. \u201cI voted, so I deserve a bottle of rum just like the men. Give it over and I\u2019ll be on my way.\u201d<\/p>\n

John rises out of his chair, teetering in annoyance. \u201cGo home now, deary! I don\u2019t want to have to ask you again.\u201d A vein protrudes from his forehead. \u201cYou shouldn\u2019t be able to vote anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n

I can feel my face warming up with anger.<\/p>\n

A man with a blue shirt stops talking to a group of poll-workers and walks over to John, eyeing me warily. \u201cWhat\u2019s the problem here, Johnny?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThis woman here wants a bottle of rum!\u201d John points his old gray finger at my forehead.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook at the band on her finger Johnny,\u201d The man gestures at my wedding ring. \u201cShe\u2019s probably just taking a bottle home to her husband.\u201d The blue-shirted man hastily hands me one of John\u2019s bottles and quickly walks away to talk with more poll-workers.<\/p>\n

Again, John points his knobby finger at my forehead. \u201cI know damn well that you aren\u2019t going to give that bottle to your husband. You said so yourself that you were fancying a drink of it!\u201d He slumps back down in a huff. \u201cBut hurry away now before another woman sees you and gets the wrong idea.\u201d He smiles as if he\u2019s done me a favour.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, it would be a pity if another woman had to deal with your nonsense.\u201d I crack open the rum and splash a shot of it onto John\u2019s feet. He sits there in shock as I storm out of the building with the rest of the bottle before he has a chance to say anything.<\/p>\n

I feel a void in my stomach as I walk back home to George with the bottle of rum in the pocket of my overcoat. I worry that he won\u2019t take my side when I relay the events that happened at the poll station. It\u2019s about a thirty-minute walk home. The sky gets dark so early now in these winter evenings. I should have gone in to vote with George when he went early this morning. I continue to trudge through the snowy streets, the wind biting at my exposed face. I cannot wait to get home and pour myself a drink of rum.<\/p>\n

The air is getting colder and colder outside, nipping at my skin. I suppose I could have a drink to warm me up a little bit. I take the bottle out of my overcoat pocket, open it up, tilt my head back, and pour a shot of the rum into the void in my stomach. I feel its warmth surge through my chest. It makes the wind a tad more bearable, but its harshness still bites. I have another shot. And another. As I continue to walk, I drink about three or four more shots and then the bottle is empty. The wind doesn\u2019t bother me anymore. I drunkenly walk through the snowy streets until I finally reach our house and step inside after fumbling with my keys.<\/p>\n

George is sitting at the kitchen table with his newspaper and looks up at me with a smile as I walk into the kitchen. \u201cHey Betty! How did it feel to vote for the first time?\u201d His smile never wavers. \u201cIt must feel good, now that men and women are on the same playing field!\u201d I can\u2019t tell if he is serious or not.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, I guess it feels good to finally have at least a sliver of a voice in this country.\u201d I let out an exasperated sigh. I stumble a little as I bend down to untie my boots.<\/p>\n

George laughs a little then gives me a concerned look that almost seems condescending. I think he is noticing. \u201cAre you\u2014are you drunk?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, I am rather inebriated.\u201d I echo his assumption and laugh an honest laugh. \u201cIs there a problem with that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI guess not.\u201d He looks at the empty bottle sticking out of my pocket. \u201cYou must have gotten a bottle from my buddy John at the poll station. I got one too, but I put it up in the liquor cabinet rather than drinking the whole bottle on my way home.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow do you know John?\u201d I nearly trip over myself as I take off my coat and boots.<\/p>\n

\u201cJohnny is one of the other fishermen that I see down at the docks every summer. He\u2019s a kind old man, always cracking jokes.\u201d George smiles and looks up at the ceiling. He must be recalling some stupid thing that John said that made all the other fishermen laugh.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh.\u201d I answer dimly. Even in my drunken state, I realize that I shouldn\u2019t tell him about what happened at the poll station.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy do you ask?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, I don\u2019t know. I guess he just didn\u2019t seem kind or funny to me.\u201d I feel like I\u2019m watching two other people have this conversation.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s that supposed to mean?\u201d George scrunches his eyebrows.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t\u2014I don\u2019t know. Never mind.\u201d I suddenly feel the void in my stomach again,\u00a0 empty as my bottle of rum. I glance up at the liquor cabinet and consider taking George\u2019s bottle, but I ultimately decide against it.<\/p>\n

As I fall asleep later that night, my dreams are so vivid yet unusually mundane. I dream that I take George\u2019s bottle\u00a0 from the liquor cabinet and pour myself a shot. I dream that I go outside for a short walk under the night sky. I dream that I walk over to Florence\u2019s house and we talk about the cold weather we\u2019ve been having. It all feels so real, but none of it is.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s been so cold lately,\u201d Florence says. \u201cI wish I had as nice of an overcoat as yours to get me through these awful winter months.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know it looks new, but it actually used to be my mother\u2019s.\u201d I say.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh really? She must have refurbished it for you, did she?\u201d Florence asks.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. She\u2019s always been good at refurbishing old clothes.\u201d I laugh, the word \u2018refurbishing\u2019 distorts in my dream. \u201cShe gave it to me just before last winter and said something along the lines of \u2018make sure you always wear it when the weather gets dreary.\u2019 She\u2019s always been very caring like that.\u201d<\/p>\n

I wake up with a smile on my face but it fades as I remember what happened at the poll station yesterday.<\/p>\n

I spend the day cleaning the house and cooking supper for George. It isn\u2019t until after supper when my work is finished\u00a0 that I sit down on the living room sofa.<\/p>\n

I recall my dreams from last night, and despite the late hour, I decide to walk over to Florence\u2019s house to give her a visit. I get off the sofa and grab my overcoat by the door. I realize that the coat still has the empty bottle in the pocket. I set the bottle on the kitchen table and decide that I\u2019ll rinse it out later.<\/p>\n

I shrug on my coat and stuff my feet into my boots before heading out the door. I take a few steps away from the house before I turn around, go back inside, and grab George\u2019s bottle of rum from the liquor cabinet. I walk to Florence\u2019s house with the bottle sticking out of my pocket.<\/p>\n

Florence smiles when she opens her door and sees me. \u201cHey Betty. How\u2019s it going?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPretty good, Flo! I brought over some rum for the two of us. I figured we could have a drink and play cards while we catch up.\u201d I lift George\u2019s bottle out of my pocket and gesture toward her as if giving a toast.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat sounds lovely!\u201d Florence grabs a deck of cards out of one of the kitchen cupboards. We play cards, drink, and share old stories.<\/p>\n

I tell her about the old man and how I splashed a shot of rum onto his feet. Florence laughs and I feel vindicated. \u201cServes him right. He should\u2019ve just given you the damn bottle in the first place!\u201d She raises her drink. \u201cGood on you!\u201d I return her knowing smile and we clink our glasses together.<\/p>\n

We continue to have a pleasant evening of banter. I love the time that Florence and I spend together.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":78,"menu_order":4,"template":"","meta":{"pb_show_title":"on","pb_short_title":"","pb_subtitle":"","pb_authors":["brodie-murnaghan"],"pb_section_license":""},"chapter-type":[],"contributor":[72],"license":[],"class_list":["post-144","chapter","type-chapter","status-publish","hentry","contributor-brodie-murnaghan"],"part":21,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.upei.ca\/artsreview-xi\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/144","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.upei.ca\/artsreview-xi\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.upei.ca\/artsreview-xi\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/chapter"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.upei.ca\/artsreview-xi\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/78"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.upei.ca\/artsreview-xi\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/144\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":202,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.upei.ca\/artsreview-xi\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/144\/revisions\/202"}],"part":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.upei.ca\/artsreview-xi\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/parts\/21"}],"metadata":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.upei.ca\/artsreview-xi\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/144\/metadata\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.upei.ca\/artsreview-xi\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=144"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"chapter-type","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.upei.ca\/artsreview-xi\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapter-type?post=144"},{"taxonomy":"contributor","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.upei.ca\/artsreview-xi\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/contributor?post=144"},{"taxonomy":"license","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.upei.ca\/artsreview-xi\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/license?post=144"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}