Sideways (6 page)

“It’s coming, Roman,” I chopped him off. “It’s coming. All right? Don’t evict me. I’m about to be famous.”

“All right. I try to believe you this time.” And the phone rudely went dead in my ear.

I punched the cell off, flung both arms in the air in mock exasperation, and commanded, “Get thee to a winery.”

Jack laughed. “Amen, brother.”

I leaned back and stared at the highway unfurling in front of us. Jack slipped the new Flaming Lips CD into the dash and raised the volume.

We settled into the rhythm of the road. North of Santa Barbara the terrain grew increasingly rural. The hillside homes gradually disappeared, giving way to gentle slopes covered with swaying grasses. The confluence of broad colors resembled a constantly changing impressionist painting.

Midway to the Santa Ynez Valley Jack picked up his cell and punched a single autodial number. There was obviously no answer on the other end because Jack adopted the affected tone one uses when leaving a message: “Hey, Michelle, it’s Jack. How are you? I’m heading up to the wine country with my friend, Miles. I don’t know if you and Stacy were still thinking about rendezvousing with us, but give me a call, we’d love to see you.” He recited his cell number and then signed off.

I was staring at him when he turned to look at me.

“What?” he said.

“Who’s Michelle?”

“Set P.A. I met.”

“Does she know you’re getting married?”

“Vaguely.”

“Vaguely? Is there a looser version of
married
that I’m unfamiliar with?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.

We listened to the engine hum in the silence for a few moments.

“Nervous about the wedding?” I probed.

“Nope,” he said, shaking his head confidently.

“Nervous about the bonds of holy matrimony?”

Jack cocked his head a quarter turn and shot me a suspicious look. “No.”

“Get along with the in-laws?”

“In-laws are cool. No complaints there. Why?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“You think I’m making a mistake?”

“No.”

“You’re jealous?”

I snorted a laugh.

“You wish you were still married to Victoria.”

A sudden feeling of nostalgia welled up in me. His words unintentionally stung me and I didn’t answer. The ocean colored into view on our left, a cold expanse of cobalt blue. From the immediate north, the Santa Ynez Mountains approached, looming like leviathans. We flew by slow-moving RVs, piling up the miles between us and L.A.

An hour into the drive, we labored up a curving pass through the mountains, battling an early afternoon wind that had started to kick up and was buffeting the car. As we crested the pass, a breathtaking view of the Santa Ynez Valley yawned before us and a pure feeling of elation washed over me. Once I was over this hill and down into the valley, where I had vacationed so many times before, I would feel as though I had completely shed the alienating concrete sprawl of L.A. I was entering a new pastoral realm of wine and tranquility, where insomnia and Xanax were a thing of the past.

“As far as the eye can see,” I said, fanning my arm across the length of the windshield, “there are wineries. Some good ones, too.”

“Excellent,” Jack said. “Excellent. Let’s wet our whistles.”

“You don’t want to get a motel first? Shower and clean up?”

“I need a bevie. Take the edge off.”

I fished out my Santa Barbara County winery map from the glove compartment and studied it briefly. “Hmm … let’s take the Santa Rosa turnoff and hit Sanford.”

“What’s their specialty?”

“Burgundian. Pinot and Chardonnay. One of the best producers in Santa Barbara County. And, more importantly, they’re the closest one.”

“I thought you didn’t like Chardonnay?” Jack asked.

“I like Chardonnay. I like all varietals. I just don’t like the way they manipulate it, especially in California. Too much time in oak, too much secondary malolactic fermentation.”

“What’s that?”

“After the first fermentation, many vintners will introduce lactic bacteria into the wine to stimulate the growth of lactic acid. It converts the tarter malic acid—think green apple—and produces lactic acid: caramel, banana, dairy, not sweet, but a cloying appearance of sucrosity.”

Jack turned very slowly and raised his eyebrows. “Sucrosity?”

“Sweetness,” I said. “The French don’t use ML—as it’s known in the trade—as much in Burgundy, which is why I like Sanford’s Chards. They’re trying to emulate that Burgundian style and not trying to create some treacly concoction to sell to undemanding palates.”

Jack was staring straight ahead, shaking his head. “You should get a job in a wine store. Solve your money crisis.”

“Yeah, like that would be smart.”

Jack laughed as we floated down into the Santa Ynez Valley. “I want you to teach me all about wines on this trip, okay?” he shouted over the wind rushing in through the open windows.

“You’re ineducable,” I needled.

“Don’t start on me.”

Just south of Buellton, we angled off at the Santa Rosa exit and turned west onto a narrow, one-lane shoulderless road. Vineyards bloomed into view, leafed out and dappled in autumn hues of yellow, ochre, and rust. On closer inspection, we could make out grape bunches drooping from the trellised, gnarled vines, the harvest imminent.

I gestured to a tiny sign that indicated the turnoff to Sanford and Jack hung a hard left. We rode slowly on an even narrower gravel road through an arbor of overhanging oaks. More vineyards bounded the road, row after perfect row of Santa Ynez’s finest. We forded a mere trickle of a stream and then dead-ended at a small, ramshackle, wood-framed structure with a corrugated aluminum roof set in a clearing.

The sun felt warm as we climbed out of the car and stretched our limbs and drank in the unspoiled view. We were at the foot of the Santa Ynez Mountains, imposing hills carpeted in native grasses and dotted with gnarled oaks. After L.A., with its incessant automotive noise, putrid air, and constant congestion, the vista was positively invigorating.

“God, it’s so gorgeous here,” Jack said.

“Always love coming back,” I said, feeling a smile break out on my face. I turned to Jack, clenched two fists, shook them in the air, and said, “Let’s get into some wines, shall we?”

“Yeah!”

We marched over to the quaint tasting room. The inside smelled of wood and wine. A gentle breeze wafted through the open windows and acted as a natural air conditioner. A tall, middle-aged hippie with long hair tied in a ponytail was conducting the pouring duties. He wore a white Stetson adorned with a beaded Indian band. His weathered face evidenced equal exposure to sun and wine and was barely disguised by a wispy beard. We were clearly on the early side because the only other people in the room were an elderly couple who had already advanced to the reds.

Jack and I bellied up to the bar where a chorus line of uncorked bottles gleamed at the ready. After we each paid a five-dollar fee, the pourer set down tasting glasses in front of us and reached automatically for the first bottle. “Would you like to begin with the Sauvignon Blanc?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Jack said.

The pourer poured tiny amounts into our tasting glasses and recorked the bottle.

“Look at the wine in your glass up against the light,” I instructed Jack as I held up mine and examined it. He did the same. “Now, set it back down on the counter and introduce some air into it.” We both swirled the wine around. “Now, stick your nose in it and take a whiff.” Jack imitated me bending over and putting my nose in the glass. Then, I upended the entire tasting amount into my mouth and sloshed it around as if it were mouthwash, then swallowed. Jack followed suit. “That’s what I want to see you do with every one.”

Jack smiled, happy to have such a rigorous tasting regimen imposed on him. “Okay.”

We went down the line. The Sauvignon was steely: mineral and gunmetal on the palate, but bright and citrusy.

“Do you have any of the ’99 La Rinconada?” I asked, referring to Sanford’s maiden bottling of a new single-vineyard Pinot that had been getting glowing reviews.

“Yeah, but we’re not tasting it,” the pourer said.

“How much is it a bottle?”

“Fifty-five,” he replied.

I turned to Jack and said, “It’s supposed to be monster.”

“Get it,” Jack said cavalierly. He turned to the pourer. “Can we drink it here?”

“Sure can,” he said.

While I paid for the La Rinconada, Jack went out to the car to retrieve some chicken sandwiches he had picked up at the gas station in Montecito. The pourer uncorked the wine, stuck the cork halfway back in the bottle, and set it on the bar in front of me. I gathered it up with the two tasting glasses and walked outside, where I found Jack sitting at a weathered picnic bench under a spreading oak that dappled him with oblong splotches of shade. He was munching on a sandwich and looked pretty content sitting there all alone. I wanted to take a picture of him, but I didn’t have a camera. Then he saw me and shot his arm into the air. I hurried over with the wine.

I poured two ample glasses of the La Rinconada and handed one to Jack. The wine was a deep, almost opaque purple in the glass. Against the sunlight it turned carmine, but you still couldn’t see through it. On the nose it was full-throttle blackberry and leather and spice with hints of raspberry candy. The mouthfeel was explosive of highly extracted, but still young, Pinot Noir grapes draped in tannins.

“What do you think of it?” Jack asked, chewing the wine in his mouth.

“Lovely,” I said, pouring us a little more. “Big and gamy, almost irreverent for a Pinot. I like it. A perfect beginning to this weeklong adventure.”

We clinked glasses. Jack was relieved to see my spirits lifting. He handed me the other chicken sandwich and we ate them ravenously while continuing to revel in the La Rinconada. Over the vineyard, a turkey vulture wheeled in slow circles. Then, suddenly, as if it had been shot, it dive-bombed out of the sky and disappeared into the vines where it produced a violent struggle. Moments later, it ascended with a great clattering of furiously flapping wings, clutching a partially eviscerated rodent in its talons.

“I hope your marriage works, because that’s what divorce is like,” I observed, as the huge, black raptor winged away.

Jack laughed. Then, holding the glass to his mouth, asked: “What really happened to you at the tasting yesterday? It was way out of character for you.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I just kind of flipped. I get a little wine in me, spot an attractive woman, and it’s all over. It’s probably a product of being alone this last year.”

“Dani’s got it going on, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah, Dani’s great. But I don’t know if we’d have a whole lot in common other than wine and sex.”

Jack pointed his glass of Pinot at me and peered over the bridge of his sunglasses. “What else is there?”

“True. Though every now and then it’s kind of nice to engage in an aesthetic discussion, debate whether the films of Bresson still hold up or not, I don’t know.”

“You’re too picky, Miles.”

“No, I’m not,” I objected.

“Okay, tell me. What are you looking for?”

I thought for a moment. “Someone who can accept the reality of my life, who doesn’t barrage me with recriminations for the path I’ve chosen. However potholed at times it might seem.”

“Who’s that? A Bedouin?” Jack chomped into his sandwich.

“You get enjoyment out of my suffering, don’t you?”

“Actually, no. I want to see you succeed, meet someone, and get out of this rut—if that’s possible.”

I refilled our glasses. The wine smoothed the barbed edges of Jack’s words. The warm sun felt good on my bare arms. The soothing quiet of our surroundings was broken only by the intermittent melodies of unseen birds, the faroff rise and fall of a dog’s barking, and the wind rustling the leaves of the giant oaks. It all seemed to transport me to another realm, if only for a fleeting moment.

I held up my wineglass to Jack. “This is a good quaff.”

He smiled amiably. “Think I should spring for a few bottles?”

“It’s worth it. We may not drink a better wine all week.”

Jack nodded. “Where do you think we should stay?”

“Three choices.”

“Hit me with ’em.”

I held up my index finger. “Windmill Inn. Actually, it’s the Day’s Inn Windmill now, but I refuse to acknowledge the corporate takeover. We call it the Windmill.”

“What’s it like?”

“Your basic no-frills square crib, pool, and Jacuzzi, but that’s about it.” I straightened my middle finger. “Marriott. Higher end. Nicer rooms, better pool.” Then, my ring finger. “Ballard B&B. Quaint Victorian. Probably not the place to be stumbling into from an all-day wine-tasting spree.”

Jack nodded in agreement. “Fuck the B&B. I’m not into rules and curfews and shit. What’s the Marriott a night?”

“Probably two, unless you can sweet-talk your way into a corporate rate.”

“Screw it. Let’s do the Windmill. We’re not going to be in the room much anyway.”

“Fine with me.” I refilled our glasses until the bottle was empty. The sun had started to arc down in the sky, creating elongated shadows through the trees. Jack and I kibitzed about some recent movies, agreeing that it had been a mostly uninspired year. We polished off the Pinot, hauled ourselves off the picnic bench, and bought two more bottles of the La Rinconada. Then we climbed back into the 4Runner, a little slaphappy, and motored off toward Buellton.

The sky had turned a deeper shade of blue, streaked with wispy, scarf-shaped clouds of pale orange as we rolled into the Windmill Inn. It was a two-story, 100-odd-unit generic motel in Buellton, a highway pit-stop town of a few thousand inhabitants that was deafeningly bisected by the 101. The drive-up entrance to the motel was ruled over by a large, nonfunctioning windmill, a weather-eroded anomaly indicating the presence of nearby Solvang, an ersatz town founded in the early 1900s by Danish educators who sadly

We were a little high when we reeled into the lobby, laughing about something silly.

“Cheryl!” I called out to the desk clerk, a pretty dishwater blonde in her late twenties who knew me from past trips and always greeted me warmly.