Saving Grapes

by J. T. Lundy

  “Shit. Look who’s coming.”

  Stumpy looked up and waved to Laura.

  I pointed at him. “Not a word.”

  He nodded. “Not a word.”

  Laura slid into the booth next to me. “Buy me drinks?”

  Laura became obnoxious after a few drinks. “I don’t want the responsibility.”

  “Typical.” She laughed and touched my arm. “What are you doing here?”

  Looking for what you frittered away, I wanted to say. “Me? I’m always here. And I’m still divorced in case you forgot.” Our hearts had gotten along fine, but the world’s demands and pressures and expectations, like the need for a job, for example, or the ability to not embarrass yourself at a cocktail party, got to her. I liked to think that if we could’ve stayed in a safe place like college, we’d still be together. “What are you doing here?”

  “Girls’ night out.” She nodded to the bar. “Sheila and I are trying to usher Erin back into the game.” Laura rubbed her chin. “What do you think, Jason? You and Erin might hit it off.”

  Typical of Laura to look out for me, as if seeing me happy with someone would erase her guilt. But Erin was a disaster, an emotional wreck and over the top on the high-maintenance meter. And I was still a mess from the divorce. I’d only gone on two dates in the five years since. “No thanks.”

  “Jason needs to meet some sophisticated ladies,” Stumpy said.

  Laura picked an ice cube out of her rum and coke and threw it at Stumpy. “Sophisticated? Like those girls you hang out with, Stumpy?”

  “I was talking about Jason.”

  “Ha!” Laura slapped her hand on the table. “That’s too funny.”

  “Wait, what? You don’t think I’d have a chance with a more refined, say, international woman?”

  Laura sat up straight, pursed her lips, and gave me a good looking over. “You’re still reasonably fit, but your job sucks. I mean, really. You pick up golf balls for a living.”

  “Used to pick up golf balls, and not everyone can be a Master of the Universe.”

  Laura looked at her Rocky-Mountain-sized diamond ring. “That’s true, though Tom’s job is stressful.”

  Stumpy coughed into his hands and mumbled, “Masturbator of the universe.”

  “Fine.” Laura stood up. “You two clods discuss how you’re going to meet sophisticated,” she made air quotation marks, “international women. Ha!” Laura walked back to her friends.

  Lucky Mike walked by and dropped off two more beers.

  “Stumpy, we’ve been best friends for a long time, right?”

  “Since always.”

  Stumpy had forever stood behind me. That’s something I’ve come to appreciate now that I’m older, especially after Laura gave me the heave-ho. I waved my hand. “Come on. Help me sell this France property and our days of begging the man for scrap jobs are over.”

  “It hasn’t been so bad.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I looked at Stumpy, shocked. “You could use some serious cash. Come on. Just pay for the airfare and food and stuff and I’ll give you ten percent.”

  “Ten percent of what?”

  “Of the vineyard! Of millions!”

  “And we get to meet French women?”

  “Of course, you can meet all the chic French women you want.”

  “I meant you, too,” he said. “I’ll do it if you at least promise to try and have some fun for a change.”

  Typical. I don’t think “millions” even registered with the guy. He was going to pay our way to France just to help me forget about Laura.

  “I promise. I’ll try.”

  “No. Really try. Like Six Flags try.” One summer in high school Stumpy got a job being Tweety Bird at Six Flags. One day he snagged me a Bugs Bunny costume and we followed these girls we were hot on, the Menendez twins, around the park, flirting and entertaining them with improvised pantomime routines.

  I pointed at him. “We held their hands on the Demonic Dragon.”

  “And the Gold Gusher Falls.”

  “And the Tornado Tower!”

  Our faces became solemn as we finished our remembrance, and we both said, “The Cyclone Crunch.”

  After the Cyclone Crunch, Stumpy threw up his lunch and had to take off his Tweety Bird helmet. One of the Menendez twins ripped off my helmet and, not too pleased to recognize us, punched me in the stomach.

  “It was fun, though,” I said.

  “That’s the kind of fun I want to have in France,” Stumpy said, a hopeful glint in his eye.

  I lifted my beer up. “Okay. Six Flags try.” We clinked bottles and then shook hands.

  “We’re going to France!” I said.

  Stumpy smiled.

  CHAPTER 5

  Stumpy and I sat together on a wide-body directed toward Paris. It was a quick exit from Kankakee, but that’s how we rolled once our heads were put together. We hadn’t told a soul and probably wouldn’t be missed, as dropping out of a job and skulking off the radar wasn’t that unusual for either of us. ’Course, this time we wouldn’t be man cavin’ with the Xbox and Doritos, but jet-setting into “le gai Paris” for an extra culture kick.

  I had given the old chops a break from the razor and I had enough scruff to impress a lumberjack, or at least to confuse the airport folks that I was a somewhat cleaned up version of Lucky Mike McCreedy. Besides the beard and mustache, Mike’s passport photo pretty much had the same dog-eared features as yours truly. It had already worked on the airline desk agent and the TSA security guards, and I hoped it would fool a blasé French customs officer.

  We bumped through channels and turbulence and enjoyed the private screen and video choices. And wouldn’t you know it, the beverage cart rolled by, pushed by a lovely lady flight attendant. She was so short that from our angle we could barely see her over the diet soda cans, but Stumpy saw all that he needed.

  Stumpy loved a woman shorter than him. “Jason.” Stumpy pulled on my shirtsleeve and whispered. “Jason, Jason, did you see?”

  “I saw. I saw.”

  I could feel Stumpy scheming up a love plan to full court press. He squirmed and fidgeted in his seat until a brainy idea must have clicked in his noggin and he calmed. He reached up to push the call button, but I had already anticipated this angle. I slapped his arm down before the ball could be checked.

  “Hey.”

  “Forget about her. We can’t risk your bumbling overtures.”

  Stumpy looked offended. “I never overtured anyone.”

  “I should hope not.” I pointed at him. “But you’ve got a knack for chaos as far as women are concerned and we don’t need the attention.”

  Stumpy sighed.

  “Calm down, man. Once we’re in France and take care of this vineyard business, your game will be unstoppable. You’ll be ripe on the vine and flush with the juice.”

  “And you, too.” Stumpy smiled and gave a contemplative laugh, which was good because it meant that I had diverted his attention. “Women sure do light up when you mention France and vineyard in the same sentence.”

  I felt my right eye twitching. “What women? You didn’t tell anyone about our mission, did you?”

  Stumpy looked down to his round belly and I could tell he had spilled the beans. “Who’d you tell?”

  “Well, not really tell. I saw Laura at the gas station. She knew Aunt Clara had a will.”

  “But I’m not supposed to leave the country. Laura will tell everyone.”

  Stumpy rubbed at the mustard splotch that stained his white shirt. “She talked it out of me before I knew.”

  I had to forgive him. Laura’s multi-directional chatter could crack you even if you were prepared and focused.

  “Don’t worry. Laura promised to keep mum. But she was sure interested to hear you had inherited a vineyard.”

  I shook my head and rolled my eyes. “I bet. All those old loving feelings she claimed to have had for me probably bubbled right up again.” No matter what Laura had said
about us having different interests, or friends, or outlooks on life, it was difficult for me not to think that she had left me for money.

  “Laura’s always had feelings for you, Jason. I can see it in her eyes.” Stumpy was good at picking up those little cues.

  “Really? You really think so?”

  “Really. I don’t mean feelings like you think I mean. But she does care for you.”

  The beverage cart rolled back down the aisle and Stumpy shut up and became transfixed. The flight attendant had blond hair cut short into a bob. She had a natural smile and appeared at ease when she served the passengers. She had dark mascara and triple-pierced ears that rebelled against the simple appearances of her stiff coworkers. And yet, there was something sweet about her. She seemed to like the passengers. She was trying to do a good job.

  “Not a word,” I said.

  “Please, Jason? Can I at least give her my card?”

  “You have a card?”

  He shrugged his shoulders like it was no big deal. “Yeah, I had some made up for our trip.”

  I hated being a spoiler. “Okay. But let me take care of it.” I backhanded his shoulder. “Let me see this card.”

  The flight attendant leaned into our row and smiled with what I thought was a slight smirk as she took us in. “Something to drink, gentlemen?”

  “None for me, thank you,” I said. “But if I may speak for my friend?” I nodded at Stumpy and then spoke to her conspiratorially. “He’s a little awestruck and having a speech situation at the moment.” Stumpy smiled dumbly. “He was wondering if you wouldn’t mind meeting up with him for a drink at a café in Paris during your layover?”

  Stumpy handed me his card. I read it as I passed it over. “Neil Hammond,” it said. “Winer in France.”

  Before I could pull the card back, her quick fingers snatched it out of my hand. She grinned as she read it. “You’re a winer?”

  I slapped my thigh and looked unbelievable-like at Stumpy. A winer?

  He shrugged, and his face turned spelling-bee red. “You know, someone who makes wine.”

  She looked at the card again and then burst out laughing. “This is the best.” She rolled her cart away, shaking her head with a grin.

  Stumpy was beside himself. “She said it was the best.”

  “I hate to say it, dude. But I think she was just brushing you off.”

  He touched his finger to his chin. He had a determined, far-away look that had me worried. “There’s always a chance.”

  The plane landed early-morning in Paris. We stood in the long immigration line. A family with three kids and a crying baby stood behind us. Stumpy and I approached the glass-encased customs station. The man on duty held up his hand and motioned Stumpy back. “One at a time.” Stumpy took a step behind me. The customs official swiped my passport. The baby screamed louder. The official glanced at me and down at the passport. I gave my best Mike McCreedy deadpan look. I heard Stumpy gasp. I looked over and saw the cute flight attendant passing by unmolested in the employee express line. Stumpy waved to her with exuberance. She smiled and waved politely at us. I smiled and waved. The customs officer watched her saunter by. He looked at me, winked, stamped my passport and motioned me into France.

  I waited for Stumpy to come through and we walked to the baggage claim. My shoulder muscles relaxed. I had been more worried about the fake passport than I liked to admit, but no worries now.

  Our bags came and we headed for the taxi line. There was no wait and we slid into a taxi and were off.

  “Jason, look!”

  The flight attendant was getting into a small hotel van with the rest of the flight crew.

  Stumpy’s eyes narrowed and locked onto that van like he was Inspector Clouseau. “Follow that bus.”

  The taxi driver looked at us with confusion. “Où allez-vous?”

  “We have to nab a train,” I said.

  “Not till this afternoon, you said.”

  “We can’t stalk a girl we don’t know through Paris,” I said.

  “I’m following my heart, not stalking. And you promised.”

  I gave Stumpy an I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about look.

  The hotel van started pulling away.

  “You promised to try like Six-Flags-try.”

  I had promised, and I now slightly regretted it. How many times on this trip would Stumpy call me on the Six Flags promise?

  “Où allez-vous?” the driver said.

  I pointed at the bus. “Le bus, s’il-vous-plaît.” I had picked up a few phrases from Aunt Clara, mostly when I was younger and we conversed more.

  Stumpy pointed frantically. “The bus. The bus.”

  The taxi driver touched the top of his head. “Le bus. Oui, pourquoi pas?”

  We followed the hotel van into Paris. Stumpy and I smacked our mugs against the glass as we took in our first glimpse of Paris through the early morning light. “The Eiffel Tower.” Stumpy tapped on the window as la tour Eiffel fleeted in and out of view. “Jason, Jason, the Eiffel Tower.”

  I must admit, I too felt that spring of hope from seeing something grand for the first time. “It’s like, like … majestic.”

  We craned our heads to keep an eye on the tower as our taxi followed the van into the heart of Paris. Chic people sat sipping their morning coffees at swank cafés in front of old buildings like I had only seen in movies. The lampposts were even fancy.

  “This is better than Six Flags,” Stumpy said.

  The taxi double-parked on a small side street as we watched the flight crew exit the van and enter a small boutique hotel. When we felt it safe, Stumpy and I paid the driver and tumbled out onto the sidewalk.

  We were in the St. Germain neighborhood, and it smelled like a warm baguette. I looked down winding café-lined lanes.

  Stumpy breathed in deep and looked content. “Isn’t it romantic?”

  Hmm. The scene was cool, but given my history I was still suspicious. “I suppose.”

  “This is a place to fall in love.” Stumpy looked at a young couple walking arm in arm. “Really in love.”

  I don’t think Stumpy realized that we were looking for different kinds of love. “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe for a day or two.”

  “Aw, Jason. You’re so bitter.”

  Laura and I had first held hands walking through a carnival as seniors in high school. I looked at the stylish people of Paris and at the enchanted buildings. I wish back then I could have brought Laura to Paris and held her hand while walking down these streets. Money again. She left me for money. Big muscles worked for cavemen. Big money works for modern men. Money was what I needed, and with this vineyard, money was what I was going to get.

  I looked at Stumpy. He didn’t care about money. He was an endless romantic, believing in love, always looking for love.

  “Yeah, well.” I was about to ramble on to the dream pumpkin about how the world really works, but in a rare moment of restraint I clenched the jawbone shut. We were in Paris—I would let Stumpy hold on to that optimism as long as he could. “If it could happen, I suppose it would be here.”

  Stumpy grabbed my shoulder affectionately. “That’s the spirit.”

  I smiled and felt numb. Jet lag cried for my body to sleep. “Now what do we do?”

  “Be like Persians,” Stumpy said.

  “Parisians you mean.”

  “That’s it. We need to blend in like the locals.”

  “We have suitcases.” I noticed three very attractive women crossing the street. “Ooh, la, la.”

  “Ooh, ya, ya,” Stumpy said as we watched the women walk into a shop with a window bursting with chocolate confectionaries. He read the store’s sign. “Jacque’s chocolate tire. I like that. It’s fun. Can you imagine eating a whole chocolate tire?”

  “That’s chocolatier.” I slapped him on the back. “It means chocolate shop, Sherlock.”

  “We should buy the vineyard farmers a present,” Stumpy said. “What were their name
s again?”

  I looked at a scrap piece of paper in my pocket. “Claudette and Lucia Morceau. They’re sisters.”

  “We can sit by the window and watch for the flight attendant.”

  It was a hopeless quest. The flight attendant was probably sound asleep by now, but I’d let Stumpy figure that out on his own.

  We jostled into the chocolatier and were engulfed in a rich cocoa aroma dense enough to eat. People and bright chocolate and French words swirled around us, and after shouts and mime signals and a paycheck’s worth of euros, we were seated at a small table with a rectangular copper-foil-wrapped box and a couple of thick-as-pudding hot chocolates.

  I took a sip of the hot cocoa and felt an instant endorphin rush and a warm affection for Paris. “That’s the stuff.”

  Stumpy locked the cup to his lips. “Mmm hmm.”

  I touched the box of chocolates. “Do you think the vineyard farmers will like it?”

  “Who knows?” Stumpy said.

  “Who knows?” I said.

  “Who knows?” Stumpy said.

  And then I couldn’t believe it. The flight attendant walked through the door. She went to the counter and bought a cup of something hot and pieces of chocolate. She paid and sat at a table next to us, oblivious to our presence.

  I pulled the cup off Stumpy’s face and gave him a kick and a nod and an eye roll to the left until he comprehended my wireless signals and took a stop-breath stare. He closed his eyes, psyching himself up. After a moment, he was ready. He leaned over and said with perfect debonair, “Bonjour, Mademoiselle.”

  The flight attendant had changed into jeans and a blouse and did not look as intimidating, but I was still surprised at Stumpy’s cool.

  She laughed. “Following me?” Her face hinted at a touch of seriousness.

  “I should ask you the same,” Stumpy said, “being we’ve been here a half hour now.”

  Good one, Stumpy. I nodded in agreement. “Sippin’ the molten cocoa.”

  “I thought you’d be wining by now.” She raised an eyebrow and smiled slightly.

  Stumpy shifted, embarrassed. “We won’t reach the vineyard until tonight. And I’ve since learned it’s a vintner. My card should have said vintner.”