by Rex Pickett
“Now you’re talking my language,” Jack said, rolling off the bed.
Jack–prospect of a late-morning wine tasting and a night of hot sex elating him–pulled himself together in record time and we took the elevator down to the windowless, bottom-floor, catacomb-like restaurant. We found my mother and Joy seated at a table for four. I would have elected to go elsewhere, but with my mother’s infirmity, this was easier.
A waitress appeared with two laminated menus and handed them to Jack and me. I glanced at my mother, who was massaging her lower right jaw.
“Is that where your tooth hurts, Mom?”
She dropped her hand immediately. “I’m fine,” she said. “It’s just a little sore.”
I looked at her skeptically. “Have you had trouble with it before?”
“Oh, it comes and goes,” she said in a blithe voice.
“Maybe we should take you to a dentist?”
“No,” my mother said sharply. “They’ll hospitalize me.”
“For an infected tooth?” I asked in disbelief.
“Yes. Everything has to be done in the hospital. And I’m sick of hospitals.”
“Okay. Okay. Relax. Jesus. If it blows up on you we’ll just tie a string around it and do it Afghani style.”
Everyone laughed, including my mother. An RN before her marriage, she had a bit of the macabre in her.
Her and Joy’s breakfasts came as Jack and I ordered. My mother must have been famished. She demolished a four-egg omelet in minutes, while diminutive Joy picked at a semi-circle of fruit festooning a bowl of cereal she left untouched. She was a wisp of a girl and I could see why.
Jack’s and my meals came–dreadful scrambled eggs and overcooked bacon. We scarfed the grub down. We were on the same page, eager to get on the road and to a few select wineries before we headed out of town.
When we had finished we packed up the van, watered, fed and peed Snapper, climbed in and sailed off on leg two of our voyage. It was a beautiful blue-sky morning. We drove six miles north on the 101 to the Highway 154 turnoff in the direction of Foxen Canyon Road. A meandering two-lane country road, the Foxen Canyon Wine Trail–as it’s known–evoked pleasant memories of sojourns I had made here years before, often alone, in search of respite and escape from the depredations of my then-life. Anxiety had me in its perpetual grip as I rode in search of wine and the emollience it brought about in me. It was different now. I appeared to have firm footing on the ground beneath me: career, money, women if I wanted them. And unlike my old Honda Accord with its worn shocks and rusted muffler, the Rampvan glided along the road like the automotive equivalent of a hydrofoil. Almost overnight, everything had changed.
I wrested myself from my reverie and found Jack with the Shameless wine map unfolded in front of him on the steering wheel. I’m sure he, too, was trying to do what I had done years before: escape. But from the frown on his face I could tell he was besieged by all his worries–dwindling job opportunities, absentee fatherhood, burgeoning waistline–and, in silent communion with his unspoken woes, I felt sorry for him. He’d brought it on himself, of course, with his wanton, unbridled ways, and I’m sure he wished he could rewind the last five years and plot things differently. But Jack was a guy who always lived his life forward, not retrospectively and in remorse like me.
Suddenly, he stared laughing. “This is wild, Miles. A map to all the places we used to go. Bizarre.”
I glanced into the back of the Rampvan. Joy’s head was resting on her shoulder and she was staring trancelike out the window at the bucolic countryside with its iridescently green undulating grassy hills, contented cattle, interspersed by the symmetrical grids of vineyards, all basking under the genial canopy of a limpid, baby-blue sky. Next to her, my mother cradled a panting Snapper in her lap. Now and then she rolled her tongue around her lower right jaw and winced.
I turned to Jack and said in a lowered tone, “We’re going to have to do something about my mother’s tooth.”
Jack threw a backward glance at my mother. “Yeah, it’s going to baseball on her one of these days. I tried to blow off an impacted molar once a long time ago when I was dead broke. I woke one morning and looked like Brando in The Godfather. Fucker hurt, too.”
“What’d you do?”
“Took a pair of pliers and yanked it out. Stuffed some cotton in and went hillbilly until I could borrow some money to get a bridge.”
I laughed uproariously.
“True story,” Jack said.
About fifteen miles up the Foxen Canyon Wine Trail I instructed Jack to pull off onto the dirt shoulder and brake to a halt in front of a dilapidated, barnlike structure: Foxen Winery’s utterly and deliberately unprepossessing tasting room. It had looked like an abandoned building when Jack and I first visited, years before. Until the film was released, we would have been the only patrons at this early hour. But times had radically changed and now there were already five other cars parked haphazardly and at oblique angles around the charmingly (now!) decrepit shed. With their lineup of exquisite wines, the ramshackle tasting room was an oenophile’s dream, rising up out of nowhere like a Saharan oasis.
Jack and I extended the ramp and Joy wheeled my mother out.
As Joy was getting her things together, my mother looked all around and said, “Where are we?”
“There’s a dentist here, Mom. Okay, his license has been revoked and his instruments are a little rusty, but his rates are reasonable. He’s going to get this tooth out. No hospitalization.”
For a brief moment, she looked thunderstruck, believing me. Then the delayed synapses of her compromised brain started firing and she snapped, “Stop joking me.”
“You’ll like this, Mom. You wouldn’t believe it, but they’ve got some great wines in here.”
“Oh, that’s such good news,” she cooed as our dysfunctional little contingent crossed the short distance over the dirt and into the tasting room.
There were about a dozen wine aficionados sampling Foxen’s product when we bulldozed a path up to the bar. The young tasting room manager smiled at me.
“Miles! How are you? Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Hi, Susan,” I said. “Beautiful day.”
“It is,” she said. “It always is. Wow. What a surprise!”
I opened my hand and gestured to my mother. “This is my mom. She’s going home to Wisconsin.”
“Hi, Mrs. Raymond,” Susan said.
My mother nodded, at a loss for words.
“She needs a taste of Chardonnay,” I said. Turning to my mother, I said, “Don’t you, Mom?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I’m on vacation!”
Susan laughed and poured a half glass of their ‘08 Tinaquaic Vineyard Chardonnay–an austere wine–and handed it to me. I nosed it, then passed it to my mother.
“Chardonnay, Mom. But very different from what you’re used to. Meaning, more than seven dollars.”
“Oh, stop it,” she said.
“What would you like, Miles?” Susan said. “Pinot?”
“No, Susan. We’re still in the brunch mode. How about a little of that Chenin Blanc?” I turned to Jack. “A little white Loire, big guy?”
Jack flashed a 1,000-watt smile at the very cute, brown-haired, green-eyed Susan and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, and embarrassing me in the process: “I’ll have whatever the Shameless guy is having.”
As Susan poured us generous dollops, mutterings arose from the others in the tasting room. A guy in his thirties, clutching a copy of my novel, was staring at me. He flipped it over to look at the thumbnail shot of the author. It was five years out of date, but I’m sure the bloodshot eyes and slightly bloated countenance didn’t completely efface the fact that I was the same guy. He weaved his way through the patrons.
“Are you Miles Raymond?” he asked.
“No, I’m his twin brother. I’m just trying to get some free wine and some star-struck pussy.”
He reared back and laughed. �
��You’re him! You’ve got to be him!”
“Guilty,” I said, silently praying he wouldn’t grope me.
He extended his hand and I shook it affably. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you,” he said, in the stentorian voice of someone who has been drinking too much. He turned to his cohorts. “Hey, everyone, this is Miles Raymond. The dude who wrote Shameless.” Everyone’s attention was suddenly riveted on me. The hoi polloi closed ranks and converged. The drunk who had recognized me thrust book and pen into my hands.
“Have you read it?” I asked, pen poised over the title page, trying to conjure a funny inscription.
“Three times,” he said. “I loved that scene where they go out with the boar hunter. Why wasn’t that in the movie?”
“I don’t know. I think the director’s afraid of guns or something.”
Two attractive women, whom I pegged to be not just lesbians, but lovers, were next. I scribbled my John Hancock across their Shameless winery tour maps. Others had me sign bottles of Foxen wines they purchased. I got machine-gunned with a lot of the familiar questions. In the midst of the blizzard of queries I noticed my mother holding up her glass and beseeching Susan for more, going unnoticed in the stampede over her to get to me, sunk as she was in the crowd in her wheelchair. I plucked her glass from her hand and reached it across to Susan, who poured her their ‘08 Bien Nacido Chard.
I handed that to my mother, then said to Joy, “How about you take her outside in the sun? I’ll be with you in a bit.” Joy nodded assent. “But watch how much she drinks. She can be really sneaky.” Joy nodded knowingly, already onto my mother’s guile whenever wine was present.
When I turned back to the crowd Jack was regaling by far the most beautiful woman in the room with stories about himself and his exploits as inspiration for Jake. Her eyes grew moony as she gazed adoringly up into Jack’s florid face.
I whispered into Jack’s ear: “We have to be in Paso tonight.”
Jack whispered back to me: “Just getting a phone number for a return visit, short horn. Relax.”
“I don’t want you doing her in the Rampvan.”
Jack looked at me and grimaced. “That’s high school, dude. I’m disappointed you would think that of me.”
I set my glass on the bar in front of Susan and spoke sub rosa: “Jack and I would love to try a couple of those single-vineyard Pinots you’ve secreted from the marauding masses.” Susan giggled. “How can we finesse this?” I said, flirting shamelessly. “A dozen books? A quiet, romantic picnic?”
She leaned over the bar and said in an undertone, “Just don’t say anything, okay?”
“Okay, Susan. Work your magic. Legerdemain is the operant word.”
Susan disappeared into the back. I squeezed Jack’s shoulder and he swiveled his head toward me. “We’re getting the good stuff. Pretend it’s the entry level, okay?”
“You’re the one who’s going to pontificate and blow our cover.”
“And it’s your job to stop me,” I said, already a little high from the Chenin Blanc, and mockingly brandishing a finger at him.
Jack winked at me. We were getting tipsy and having a good time. It was only a hundred miles to Paso Robles, our next stop on the itinerary, and we had plenty of time to squander. I had planned it that way.
Jack put his arm around the woman he was making eyes at and drew her into our vinous cabal. “Laura, this is the famous Miles Raymond.”
I made a face and shook my head. “Not really,” I said.
“Yes, but you wrote Shameless,” she said, unable to disguise her excitement. She was no more than 5’5”, a brunette with shoulder-length hair that shaggily framed an olive complexioned face. Her smoldering black eyes and Salma Hayak eyebrows matched her dark brown tresses and I caught myself glancing down at her cleavage, more than visible in her summery tank top.
“Laura,” I said. “You have such a lovely, exotic accent. What’s your nationality?”
“Spanish,” she replied.
Jack nudged my shoulder, as if I needed any coaxing.
“Spain,” I said. “How come the women there are the most beautiful in the world?” I was instantly enamored.
She blushed red. Jack smiled. If Laura was mine, he was certain, in his inimitable way, to flush out her friend. Women never go wine tasting alone. Uh-uh.
“Miles?” Susan hollered. I turned and stepped toward the bar. She slid two half-full glasses of red my direction. “Sea Smoke,” she said conspiratorially. “Sold out.”
“Thank you, Susan,” I said. “You’re a sweetheart. I’ll put you in my next novel.”
“Yeah, right.”
“No, I will, I promise.”
“Well, just make sure I keep my clothes on. I don’t want you describing something you haven’t seen.”
I must’ve already been a little looped on the Chenin Blanc because I raised my glass and said, “That could change between now and then.”
Susan laughed a throaty laugh and turned back to the buzzing crowd. She raised the volume on her voice. “Anyone need anything else here?”
Half of them raised their glasses and shouted, “Yeah!” It wasn’t even noon and the party was in full swing.
I edged past an elderly couple I guessed to be the owners of the grotesque RV parked out front. The man said, “Loved the movie.”
“Thank you,” I said.
His wife, a loose-limbed chubby already half in the crapper, piped up: “Where do you come up with these ideas?”
I tapped a forefinger to my temple and raised my glass of single-vineyard Foxen Pinot. “Between here and here lies the Rubicon of the imagination,” I replied grandiloquently, as I was wont to do when I got a little wine in me. They regarded me strangely and clearly didn’t know what to say.
I wormed my way back to where Jack was. More people had filtered into the tasting room. Those who were there when we arrived hadn’t left, my presence conferring on Foxen’s modest little facility the aura of something grander than the other tasting rooms in the vicinity.
I handed Jack his glass of Pinot. As he raised it to his mouth I put my lips close to his ear and said, “Sea Smoke. Single vineyard. Sold out. 148 cases.”
Jack worked it around in his mouth and weighed in. “Awesome.”
“An orgy of flavors,” I said. When I turned to look at the lovely Laura, the anticipated friend was standing next to her, a smile emblazoned on her face. She had long honey-hued hair that straddled a face freckled with light brownish spots. Big-boned and gangling, close to six foot; the divisions of the spoils, if Jack and I had elected to journey there, and if the women were willing, became patently obvious.
“Hi, I’m Carmen,” she said, thrusting out her long, elegantly fingered hand.
I took it in my mine and held it for a meaningful moment. “Hi Carmen. I’m Miles.”
“I know,” she said excitedly. She turned to her friend and they giggled.
I swiveled my head and whispered into Jack’s ear: “Laura.”
“I figured,” he said. “Now that you have the upper hand you get the dark meat, is that the deal?”
I laughed. “You need that Amazon to find your dick under that gut. Laura would have to be a contortionist to get that silly little thing of yours inside her.”
“You’re having fun with this, aren’t you, Homes?”
I slapped him on the back. “You can dish it out, but you can’t take it.”
Jack smirked. “So, what’s the plan, Stan?” he said. “A little shuttle dick-plomacy?”
“No,” I said. “Let me take care of it.”
Jack laughed because it was such a glaring anomaly that I would be taking care of anything that had to do with the arranging of who, where and when.
A finger tapped me on the shoulder and I turned. Joy held up an empty glass. “Your mom would like some more.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Fine.”
“She getting slurry?”
“She’s okay, I
think.”
I held up my mother’s wineglass so Susan could see it. I held my thumb and forefinger an inch apart to indicate how much, then jerked my thumb to the open door where my mother was parked outside. She smiled and nodded. I passed the wineglass back to Joy and she took it over to Susan for the refill.
“So, Miles, what’s your next book about?” Laura asked, batting her eyes.
I took a sip of the Pinot, which was really luxuriant, silky and herbaceous, and considered her question. “Well, I always write in the first person. So, I’m thinking about writing a book about a guy like Martin who meets this beautiful girl from Spain in a tasting room and throws it all away to go off with her.”
A wry smile creased her pretty face. “Yeah, right,” she said.
“Or maybe not,” I tacked, afraid suddenly of alienating her with my lame flirtatious banter. “I don’t know, Laura. Honestly? I’m kind of blocked.” I shrugged. “So, what brings you to the Santa Ynez Valley?”
Carmen held up the Shameless map. “We are doing the tour of your movie. Which we both loved.”
“Oh, yeah? All the way from Spain, huh?”
“Yes.”
“You know, my friend Jack here is the inspiration for the Jake character,” I said, clapping Jack on the shoulder. Quid pro quo, as it were, for hooking me up with Maya years ago.
“Yes, he was telling us all about it.” Carmen turned to Jack. “Did you really cheat on your fiancée just before you got married?”
“Pure fiction. Right, Miles?”
“Well… yeah, it’s fiction. The real Jake would never cheat, Carmen. He’s a one-woman guy.”
Carmen and Laura looked at each other, their glance acknowledging that I was surely being facetious.
Laura said, “Well, we have to fly back home tomorrow. Do you want to go wine tasting with us?”
Jack widened his bloodshot eyes at me. “Well,” I started, “unfortunately, we’re taking my mom, who’s in a wheelchair, up to Portland, then on to Wisconsin to be with her sister, so…” Jack’s shoulders visibly sagged. “But, hey, we’re heading up to Paso Robles this afternoon. I’ve got an event there tomorrow at Justin Winery,” I added casually.