wiskey nacional

An August Montevideo night. I only remember the month because it was days after the Filtro shooting. Which happened on a night when I was drunk along with everyone else in Lobizon. Danny with a smile as big as the Plata, saying this is the life.

Which wasn't the night I'm talking about. The night before they flew. I can't remember who flew with who, all I know was that chancho was still there. I barely knew him. He'd been in the country a week or two, sandwiched either side of a trip to Peru and back. He'd had a row with my boss and nearly got into a fight at a gay party and his spanish was better than mine even though I'd been in the country nearly six months. None of which matters.

He had a journalist's nose, even then. Digging out a story. We had a bottle of whisky nacional. Home brewed in Salto or somewhere. The cheap shit. I liked it. Two glasses stocked up with ice kept you going all night. It was fuel as much as alcohol. Maybe he'd bought it to take it home or maybe I'd bought it but when the party finished we stayed up. Kept drinking. There was a story at the bottom of the bottle and the journalist was going to get it before he caught the plane home.

Drink a bottle of wiskey nacional with someone and you might regret it for the rest of your life. You'll probably never want to do it again. You could say things you'd never say under any other circumstances.

If you're lucky it could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.