Sideways (3 page)

His goofy, mirthful face instantly imploded into a bilious scowl. The dark-haired woman, whose head he’d been filling with more than porcelain, broke into an aghast hand-to-the-mouth-oh-my-God! expression. She mouthed something to the dentist while simultaneously starting to back away. Out of earshot one could reasonably assume it was a follow-up to my derogatory comment. Gesticulating a little wildly and visibly flustered, Jerry was clearly trying to explain away my remark. He held up his left hand to show her he didn’t wear a wedding ring, but that was hardly convincing to a smart woman at a wine tasting where lies flowed freer than Chardonnay.

A few moments later, the three newcomers regrouped and fled The Bullpen, vowing no doubt never to return. Carl held up two empty arms to me as if he had fumbled a pass in the end zone, an innocent victim of collateral damage.

Jerry the dentist, ditched and publicly humiliated, stormed out of The Bullpen into the main part of the store where he paced the Italian section and glowered at the Brunellos. Our eyes locked for a quick, spiteful moment. He straightened his middle finger and shook it in and out in front of his scowling face. That ignited me.

“Hey, Jerry,” I called out, cupping my free hand around the corner of my mouth. “Get a bottle of the Muscadet, it’ll pair perfectly with your wife’s pussy!”

The Bullpen exploded into laughter. The mood was once again giddy and arms crisscrossed the ledge to check for dregs in the few remaining bottles. The Farrell rep quailed in her corner and sipped her wine, resigned to the carnage. The two tittering office assistants, totally liquored up, bumped hips to a tune only they heard.

I turned away to refresh myself with more wine when the dentist charged into The Bullpen and shoved me backward. I lost my balance and a half glass (damn!) of the Chard went flying.

“Hey, hey,” I heard Dani soothe as though she were calling from another room. I was semiafraid for the dentist that Dani was going to physically come to my assistance. She owned a brown belt in martial arts and would have kicked his ass, only adding to Jerry’s humiliation.

“That wasn’t funny,” Jerry screamed, his face malignantly red with bile and tannin.

“It’s because of lecherous jerks like you that more single women don’t come to these tastings,” I shot back.

Jerry was the type in whom alcohol raises the level of violence. He rushed at me and wrapped his arms around my

As I grappled with the hysterical dentist, Dani, in an inspired move I don’t think Gary Farrell had in mind when he vinified his ’99 bottling, hoisted the silver spit bucket aloft—full from a long afternoon of tasting—and upended it on Jerry’s head.

A fetid mixture of wine and cheese-infused saliva splattered everywhere. Jerking erect, Jerry flailed at his face, his arms scissoring back and forth like windshield wipers gone berserk.

“Try the Meritage, Jerry,” I said, getting to my feet. “Fruit forward and drinkable now!”

Graham elbowed his way into The Bullpen. “All right, everybody, the tasting’s over.”

A scowling Jerry, his polo shirt stained with wine, started to advance on me again, but the heftier Graham stepped in between us. “Come on, Jerry,” Graham warned. “I don’t want to have to ban you from coming here.”

Jerry brandished his middle finger at me again as Graham coaxed him out of the tasting area.

The buzz in The Bullpen gradually quieted. Dani, Carl, and I made small talk as the Farrell rep started to gather up her brochures and tote bags. A moment later, as if on

“Miles,” he declared.

“Jack! You made it!”

Jack was outsized in every way. When he broke into laughter, it rattled the shackles of your unconscious and demanded that you join in. When he walked into a movie theater he swallowed the entire aisle. He was the guy who got hired on the spot because of his infectious charisma, the guy who didn’t have to work to get the girl. Unlike me, any weaknesses he had were secreted and any negativity painted over with broad strokes of optimism. Truth for Jack was what he could touch and smell and taste at any given moment. Self-reflection was generally too deep for him. He was a meat eater, a problem solver, a spirit lifter after a tough day, the guy everyone would want to rub shoulders with in a foxhole while mortars rained down. He seemed an unlikely candidate for marriage. Given his personality and looks, opportunities for long nights with the opposite sex were limitless, and another man not so endowed would wonder why Jack wouldn’t want to live the Casanova life until his privates gave out. But Jack had a sentimental side, too, and I could—if I tried hard enough—envision him with a brood of children, sprawled in a La-Z-Boy with a six-pack on ice, spinning anecdotes about his colorful past.

Jack came down the stairs and wheeled into The Bullpen with his familiar swagger, which always lightened the

A few minutes later everyone was laughing again. Graham returned, having successfully shooed Jerry out of his store.

Jack was getting up to speed on the melee. “The guy’s married,” I was explaining, “and he knew I was hitting on her.”

Jack looked at me dismissively. “You overreacted, Miles.”

“I made a little joke and the fucker got physical,” I said.

“So what’s the problem between you and Jerry?” Graham asked.

“I’ll tell you my problem. A couple of weeks ago I brought a date here. He chats her up. That’s cool—I know she’s not going to go for him. Middle of the week he tracks her down on the set of a film she’s working on, flatters her with a load of poppycock, then asks her out.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Graham said.

“What’s
wrong
with
that?
” I echoed. “The guy tried to do an end run around. The woman thinks I hang out with creeps. You ought to ban him from these tastings.”

Graham just screwed up his face in response.

Jack, bored with the argument, picked up one of the remaining bottles, but only managed a few dribbles of wine when he upended it. “Hey, Graham. How about opening another bottle? I need a glass for the road. Miles and I are officially on vacation.”

“Where’re you going?”

“Santa Ynez Valley,” I answered. “Do the winery tour, then stuff Jack in the monkey suit and get him hitched a week from Sunday.”

“It’s a little bachelor week blowout,” Jack elaborated. “Miles is going to educate me on wines and I’m going to educate him on life.”

“Someone should call the cops,” Graham said. Everyone laughed. “All right,” he said. “What’re you guys in the mood for?”

“Let’s sample some champagne,” I said. “Get in the matrimonial mode.”

Graham beetled his brow and thought for a moment. Then he slapped his thigh. “I’ve got an idea.” He strode upstairs, where he kept his private stash, and reappeared a minute later with a cold bottle of ’92 Byron sparkling wine.

I set four clean glasses on the terrazzo ledge. Graham expertly uncorked the bottle and poured them foaming half full. We all toasted and sampled. It had the beautiful gold color of an aged champagne, appropriately yeasty and rich on the palate.

“What do you think?” Graham asked.

“Luscious,” I remarked, taking another sip. “I didn’t know Byron made a sparkling wine.”

“Hundred percent Pinot Noir,” Graham said. “I figured since you guys are doing Santa Ynez and Miles is a Pinot freak, this would be right up your alley.”

“Why do you call it a sparkling wine and not champagne?” Jack asked.

“The term ‘champagne’ is trademarked by the French, and if it’s not from the Champagne region of France, then it can’t be called champagne—at least not on the label,” I explained. “But because I’m sick of the French and their proprietary ways, Spumanti, Cava, California sparkling, they’re all champagne to me. Right, Graham?”

“Whatever you say, Miles.”

Jack nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll remember that.”

“I’ve only got one case left,” Graham said. “They don’t make it anymore. Two forty a case.”

I looked at Jack with widened eyes and nodded vigorous approval.

“All right, we’ll take it,” Jack said.

Dani drained her glass. “I’ve got to be going. Roger’s supposed to call.”

“No, come with us,” I said. “Roger won’t mind. Take a week off.”

Dani wagged a finger at us. “You two guys in the wine country for a week. Sounds like a hen’s night out. Bye.” She waved as she made her way out of The Bullpen. “Thanks for the champers.” And then she was gone, leaving a rectangle of harsh orange sunlight in her wake.

Jack shook his head in an exaggerated manner. “Man, that chick’s got it going on. Would I ever love to strap her on.”

“Hey, don’t talk about Dani like that. She’s a good girl,” I said.

“Yeah, right,” Jack said, laughing. “Good to the
bone
.”

“Hey, I saw your ex in here the other day,” Graham said, referring to Victoria, the woman I had been married to for eight years. I hadn’t seen or talked to her in some months.

“Oh, yeah?” I said, my mood changing abruptly. “What was she doing on the West Side?”

“Came over to fuck me,” Graham replied, deadpan.

“Yeah, right. She’d remarry
me
before she’d mount you. Fucking goat.”

Graham and Jack both laughed.

“Was she with anyone?” I probed.

“Yeah, some guy I’ve never seen before. Tall, good-looking, well dressed. Pretty much your opposite.”

“Hah, hah. What was she buying?”

“Case of Krug.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said, eyes widening. “What was the occasion?”

Graham started to respond, but abruptly halted midsentence, his eyes darting furtively over my shoulder in the vicinity of Jack.

I turned quickly and snatched a brief glimpse of Jack raking his hand through his mop of hair as if he had just short-circuited a gesture to Graham behind my back.

Getting the message, I said, “Okay, okay, I’m over it, all right? I’m a very happily single man. A glass of wine, a crusty piece of baguette, a good book, and I’m fine.”

Jack and Graham exchanged smirks, and refrained from digging the needle in any deeper. It had been over a year since the divorce, and I had to admit I missed the little things that marriage provided, the routines that kept my life in check and prevented me from going off the deep end.

“All right,” Jack said, sensing the seismic pitch in my mood. “This place is dead. Let’s get on the road.”

We dispatched Graham upstairs to fetch the case of Byron. For good measure, we augmented the purchase with a case of Veuve Clicquot. We said our good-byes to Graham and Carl and then headed out to the parking lot, each with a case weighing down our arms. We piled them into the back of my 4Runner, the vehicle we had designated for the trip. I started automatically for the driver’s side, but Jack grabbed hold of my shirt collar and yanked me around.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, where’re you going? I’m driving, Homes.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to spend the first night bailing you out of the tank.”

“Give me a break. I’ve hardly wet my whistle.”

Jack exploded into laughter. “You’re sideways, brother. Scuffling with Jerry, asking Dani to come with us. Goodness gracious.”

“What’s wrong with asking Dani to come with us?”

“Give me the keys, Miles.” Jack extended his hand and cocked his head to the side. Chastened, I surrendered the keys, then circled around to the passenger side and climbed in.

Jack fired up my 4Runner, turned onto Seventh Street and headed north. I rolled down my window, poked out my head, and let it loll on my arm. It was an unseasonably warm evening. The sky was an uncursed expanse of deepening blue and the air was pungent with the smell of the ocean. We cruised through ritzy Brentwood, whose sprawling, tree-shaded homes depressingly reminded me of my station in life, then turned on to San Vicente Boulevard. My gaze followed the wide grass median, where entertainment people jogged back and forth to maintain their ageless physiques and vent their frustrations with the movie business. It fled past me in a blissful wine-hazy blur.

On Sunset Boulevard, we forded the overpass and looped onto the 405 North. The freeway was thick with weekenders heading off to B&B’s in Santa Barbara and other exclusive sybaritic hideaways north. We stayed in the slow-moving river of vehicles until we splintered off onto the 101 cloverleaf and made our way west. The sun was lowering in the sky, obscured by mist and smog. Its waning rays cast a harsh reflection on the mirrored and tinted fenestration of the city without end and beat mercilessly

“You’ve got to wash this windshield,” Jack said.

“I haven’t had time. I’ve got other things on my mind.”

Jack turned on the wipers and squirted cleaner fluid on the windshield. For a moment we were blinded by the water-smeared dirt and the blazing low-horizon sun. In those few blinding seconds, the traffic in front of us had slowed and Jack, recovering his field of vision, slammed on the brakes and angled sharply into the emergency lane to avoid a pileup.

“Jesus, Jack,” I said, rattled. “Jesus.”

“Relax,” he said, starting up again. “I got it under control. Think if
you’d
been driving.”

I shot him a reproving look, still upset about the scuffle with the dentist, the dark-headed woman’s apparent lack of interest in me, the mention of Victoria being sighted at Epicurus by foul-mouthed Graham, my landlord’s threatening words, and the beautiful buzz that was now diminishing.

“So, did you talk to your agent?” Jack asked, trying to kindle a conversation.

“Yeah. Evidently, there’s a flicker of interest from a publisher I’ve never heard of. Well, maybe more than a flicker. In fact, you’d be shocked to learn that I’m vaguely hopeful for once.”

Jack’s face relaxed and he broke into a smile. “Good. When will you know?”

“End of next week. You get married, I get a publishing deal. Life is sweet,” I said sarcastically.

“Well, you deserve something good to happen.”

I smiled and squinted through the sun at the road ahead. Jack and I had collaborated on an independent film more

The traffic thinned as we continued up the 101 bound for Santa Barbara, the highway ribboning out in front of us with the promise of fun and adventure. The sun had dipped below the edge of the horizon and the sky was growing violet. Headlights started to snap on and the surrounding landscape broke out in a burning neon-lit iridescence, bringing to life a traveling city of light.