Outside In (18 page)

Preparing to open the bar Sunday morning, Haley says, “You know, last week during the storm was like the fall and winter here. You always run the risk of being stranded, and you almost look forward to it because there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s as if Mother Nature raised her hand and forced you to realize you’re not in control of your world.”

I say, “Yeah, right. It’s just another excuse for people to tie one on.”

“Seriously, what are you planning to do for the winter?” she asks. “It gets pretty lonely here. All there is to do is drink and go ice fishing, and you don’t seem like the ice-fishing type.”

“I’ll probably end up staying here unless something else comes along.”

“If you’re interested, a few of us plan to go to Key West again for the winter. We’re leaving right after Labor Day to scout out living arrangements and line up jobs.”

At least her offer provides a default plan if nothing else arises. But will I really be ready to pack up and go to a new place?

The side door opens behind me. “Are we still on for tonight?”

I know it’s Astrid, but I turn around with a confused look on my face to make her think I need to check who is there.

She says, “Who else do you have plans with tonight? Are you planning another doubleheader?”

My legs weaken. “What? What do you mean ‘another’?”

“Relax. We weren’t together. You forget that you’re on an island. A story like that travels fast. I have reservations at the Crew’s Nest at eight. Let’s meet here and walk over together.”

I wonder who else knows that story. Does either girl know? I doubt Meadow does, but Dawn might.

I say, “Uh, yeah, that sounds good. I get off at five and some of us are going to the winery after work for an hour or so.”

“You ought to be in good shape, then,” she says. “Don’t be late.”

“Stein and Griffin have to work, so I don’t think we’ll get too fucked up.”

“I didn’t say anything about not getting loaded. What I said was, ‘Don’t be late.’ I just hate waiting.”

After work Cinch, Stein, Griffin, and I pile into a cab for the short ride to the winery. All I really know about Heineman’s Winery is that Mad Dog drinks their Pink Catawba wine, the Chicken Patio uses their Sweet Concord in its barbecue sauce, and people are totally pickled after visiting there.

Excluding the vineyards, Heineman’s consists of a long, wooden single-story building with three different points of entry, all with signs on the doors to guide tourists. Wine is made in the far left section of the building. The middle door leads to the gift shop, which is also where tours convene. To the far right is the tasting room, which has a long bar staffed by several tenders. Round wooden picnic tables provide seating.

Stein directs us to the rear of the building. “Go back in the wine garden and get a table. I’ll get the wine.”

The tasting room empties onto a covered patio, beyond which is a courtyard with stone tables arranged around a fountain. People occupy only three of the tables, but multiple empty bottles convey that they have been here a while. They are at the social stage of drunkenness when their separate groups have begun to intermingle. Several of them have discarded the small plastic cups served with the wine and are drinking directly from the green-tinted bottles. One girl has removed a label from a bottle and wears it stuck to her forehead.

I point to a nearby table. “Let’s stay here in the shallow end.”

Stein returns with two bottles of white and a bottle of sparkling wine. Bean accompanies him with a tray of meats and cheeses. Seeing Bean reminds me of the night when I tried to find his party. It seems like a bad dream now. Stein proceeds to fill our glasses with three-fourths Vidal Blanc, a semi-sweet white, then tops it with sparkling wine. The small 4-ounce wine cups encourage rapid consumption.

Griffin says, “How about some medicine to go with this wine?”

Cinch leans forward to the middle of the table, prompting us all to angle in. “On the back of the toilet, I’ll throw down two lines for everybody and lay a piece of toilet paper over them just in case someone else walks in.” He illustrates the plan using the scraps lying around the table. “I’m the wine cap, Stein’s the cigarette butt, Brad is the cracker, and Griffin, you’re the salami. I’ll go here.” He moves the wine cap in the direction of the restroom. “I’ll do the work, then after I emerge, Stein will come in.” He moves the cigarette. “Everyone know the order?”

Griffin says, “Why do I have to be the salami? Why can’t I be the cracker? I hate being the salami. Salami is all greasy and smelly.”

“Fine, you big baby, you be the cracker,” Cinch says. “Brad will be the salami. It’s just like when we were kids. Griffin could never just go along with the play.”

One by one we file into the restroom, each going in slightly loopy but coming out stone-faced. We really don’t need to be so discreet, because the people in the courtyard are oblivious. The alcohol has shrunk their universe to their immediate surroundings. The more they drink, the smaller their world becomes, which is fine with me because my tolerance for drunks when I’m off duty has eroded considerably.

Stein says, “It’s time for a winery tradition called the Name Game. Everyone fill your cup. One person starts the game by saying the name of a famous person. It has to be somebody most people know, such as an athlete, an actor, or a musician. It doesn’t have to be somebody nationally famous. The person can play at the Round House or somewhere else on the island. If I start it off with ‘Oedipus Birch,’ we go clockwise to Cinch, who would have to come up with a person whose name begins with the first letter of the last name I said. In this case it would be B. If you can’t think of anyone, you drink while you think. So Cinch drinks, drinks, and then says, ‘Bryan Adams.’ That means it’s A to Griffin. The only other thing you need to know is that if the first letter of the first and last name are the same, such as Donald Duck or Adam Ant, the game reverses, and single word names, such as Madonna or Prince, call for a ‘social’ where everybody drinks.”

My self-induced anxiety resulting from our trip to the restroom takes over. I blurt out, “I’ll start. How about John Lennon? L to you, Stein.”

“Lenny Kravitz.”

Cinch says, “K … uhmmm …”

“Drink while you think,” Griffin says.

The wine barely touches Cinch’s lips. “Kanye West.”

Griffin says, “W to me, huh?” He drinks before anybody spits the rule back at him. “Winston Churchill.”

“Charlie Brown,” I say. “B to you, Stein.”

Names flow freely when the game is on the other side of the
table. I drain the last of the Vidal and go to the bar to get more. Cinch and Stein are locked in a doubles-war on S when I return.

Griffin says, “They’d rather drink to think of a double than admit defeat by using an easy name to pass it on.”

“Sammy Sosa,” Cinch says.

Stein pauses. “Sam Shepherd.”

“Susan Sarandon.”

“Stephen Stills,” Stein replies.

Cinch, stumped, drinks an entire cup of wine. “Sinjin Smith.”

“Who?” Stein asks.

“Well done.” I high-five Cinch across the table. “Famous pro volleyball player.”

“Okay, okay,” Stein says. “Uhmm … Simple Simon.”

Cinch says, “Sergeant Slaughter.”

“I see your Sergeant Slaughter,” Stein says, “and counter with Sergeant Schultz.”

Cinch holds up his cup to the middle of the table. “I think it’s time to end this with a social: Sinbad.”

Everyone raises his cup. Whether Cinch was thinking of the pirate or the comedian is irrelevant; he has successfully ended the battle without anyone losing.

I say, “Let’s hit the head one more time, finish this wine, and take off.”

When the game resumes, Cinch begins with Neil Diamond to Griffin, who follows with Denzel Washington. I reverse with Walt Whitman, but Griffin is ready with Willy Wonka. I pass it to Stein with Wes Unseld, which stumps him for a moment until he comes up with Uma Thurman. The wine must be kicking in. The names used are more random and our volume increases. Tom Jones—Jimi Hendrix—Hank Aaron—Albert Einstein—Eli Whitney—Wilma Rudolph—Randy Travis.

“Tiny Tim,” Cinch says, reversing it to Griffin.

Griffin’s probably the drunkest, but he still manages to push it back to Cinch with Tanya Tucker.

“Tina Turner,” Cinch says.

Griffin drops his head forward, takes a deep breath, and returns the cup to his lips while he searches for a name. Drinking has become sipping. “Ted Danson. D to you.”

“Daffy Duck,” I say.

“Davy Crockett, C to you,” Griffin says to Cinch.

Cinch smiles. “Sorry, bro—Cindy Crawford.”

Griffin says, “Carl Reiner.”

I say, “How about Richie Rich?”

Griffin chokes down his last sip of wine. “Come on, can’t you let me go? I don’t even have any wine left.”

Stein adds some of his wine to Griffin’s empty cup.

Griffin slumps forward with both elbows on the table. “Gee, aren’t you a pal? What letter is it?”

The best thing for him to do would be to hit the stall again, but this time to discharge the wine.

I say, “It’s R to you, buddy, going toward Cinch.”

“R … R … R … Rodney Dangerfield. F to you.”

We all hesitate, contemplating his logic.

Cinch says, “Nice try, dumbass.”

“What? What’s wrong with Rodney? You guys know him, don’t you?”

Cinch puts his arm around his brother. “Think about it: Dangerfield, F to you? That’s a good one to end on.”

Griffin stands motionless. His face crimson, the glassiness in his eyes transforms into a blank stare. The buzz previously restricted to his head must’ve moved south. Getting drunk, the kind of drunk that Griffin is, on this sweet island wine means that the drinker either gets sick or goes to sleep. The former, although usually not desirable, is the best-case scenario right now. It’s better to dispel the liquid than to have it absorbed into the body.

“Don’t fight it,” I say. “Just go to the restroom.”

Cinch says, “Yeah, don’t fucking puke in the red barn. The stench will never go away.”

Griffin disappears into the restroom. “Hoo-awl!” I follow to ensure he is okay. The splash splatters like emptying a mop bucket. He blows out a deep breath and spits repeatedly. “Much better.”

I say, “Throw some water on your face and let’s go.”

In the cab, Cinch says, “Tonight might be a good night for those mushrooms. What do you say?”

“When should I propose that to Astrid? She’ll say, ‘What did you want to do?’ I’ll be like, ‘Well, I thought we could go back, eat some mushrooms, and hang out with Cinch. Nothing too special, just your average first date.’”

“She won’t care,” he says. “She loves ‘shrooms. Besides, it’ll take the pressure off you. We’ll trip, then when we come down, if something happens, great. If not, so be it. What do you think?”

I drain the rest of my wine. “No promises.”

STEIN AND CINCH TAG ALONG TO MEET ASTRID AT THE ROUND HOUSE
. I can’t remember the last time I wore clothes other than work attire, let alone a shirt that buttons up the front. I say, “When Astrid gets here, you two clowns have to take—” Her entrance clips my words. I’m not the only one who hasn’t been out of island clothes in a while. The gray and white wave pattern on her sheer drawstring dress undulates with each step. The translucent material flows around her like a fitted cloud. Underneath, a strapless slip hugs her trim body. To avoid leering I raise my eyes to the sun-streaked hair framing her golden face. “Wow, you clean up pretty well. Do you want a drink, or should we get going?”

She says, “Let’s go. You spend too much time in here. I want a piña colada at the Boardwalk.” She turns to Stein and Cinch. “You guys want to come?”

Stein says, “No, you two love birds go ahead.”

I no longer care if they stick around. Seeing Astrid has wiped away my nervousness. I say, “It’s just one drink. Come along.”

Trivial concerns fade when I’m engaged and content. The opposite is how I knew leaving St. Louis was the right move. Once the school district turned on me, every little thing made me petulant. Things that never bothered me before instantly became signs telling me to move on. Now I feel free, and hope is creeping back. Maybe because I’m paying attention to what I have rather than what’s missing. It could also be because I can’t remember the last time that I’ve been sober for more than a day.

One problem with living on an island is that it’s impossible to go anywhere without knowing people. Between the people having dinner and those working at the Crew’s Nest, Astrid and I don’t spend much time alone.

“Next time we should leave the island,” I say during a brief intermission between visitors.

“At least the company is good,” she says. “What do you feel like doing tonight? Not that we have all that many options.”

I stab one of the mushrooms that accompanied my New York strip and wave it at Astrid. “What do you think about breaking into those ‘shrooms Cinch has? We can go listen to the band at the Round House, or maybe just wander around the island. It’ll be nice and mellow. I don’t want to be up too late since I have to leave the island tomorrow.”