Sideways

by Rex Pickett

  Maya stifled a laugh with her hand. Tears of hilarity sprang to Terra’s eyes and she bent to one side, losing it for a moment.

  “Hey, I’m learning,” Jack said. “I didn’t know.” And then he, too, laughed.

  Maya turned serious as the maître d’ poured her a small amount in a proper Burgundy glass. She swirled the wine, brought it to her nose, and breathed it in for a full three seconds. She set the glass back down and raised her eyes to the maître d’. “It’s fine, Greg. You can pour the rest of us.”

  Greg poured us glasses all around.

  I must have been staring at Maya for the longest time because she finally turned to me and said, “What?”

  “Nothing,” I said, awestruck. I wanted to say: You’re beautiful, and goddamn if you’re not the first woman I’ve met who didn’t need to taste the wine to know that it wasn’t corked, which makes you even that much more extraordinary. Instead, I looked away and took hold of my glass and swirled the ruby-colored liquid around until little bubbles formed on the surface. I trickled some into my mouth and thrashed it around.

  “Well?” Maya asked. “What’s the verdict?”

  “Very concentrated, like you said,” I commented. I took another sip. “Jammy.”

  “Mm, I like this,” Jack said. “Very fruity.”

  “What do you think, Terra?” Maya asked.

  “Maybe starting to fade a tad, stewed plums on the nose,” Terra replied after relishing a mouthful.

  A second taste only affirmed the first and seemed to build on it. I turned to Maya. “This area’s just ripe for Pinot to explode, isn’t it?”

  “Ten years and we’re going to be right there with DRC.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I countered, “but these wines coming out of here are pretty fucking delicious.”

  “All right, all right,” Jack interjected, arms folded across his chest, “what’s DRC?”

  “Don’t Rain on our Company,” I shot back, for a little more laughter at his expense.

  “Domaine de la Romanée-Conti,” Terra decoded the famous initials. Judging by Jack’s puzzled expression, that hadn’t helped a whole lot.

  “Famous Burgundian producer,” I elucidated, remembering that he was paying for the wine and not wanting to bite the hand that intoxicated me.

  “Ah,” Jack replied. Then, in an effort to reenter the conversation, he let slip, “We’ve got a bottle of ’82 Latour back at the motel.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Maya said, her eyes widening. “Why didn’t you bring that?”

  I closed my eyes and bowed my head for a protracted moment. One bottle of ’82 Latour should be drunk alone or between two, tops, but among four its depth and richness would be reduced to little more than abbreviated foreplay.

  “Miles claims it’s one of the great years of the last half century,” Jack added, sticking his foot deeper into his mouth.

  “Miles is right,” Terra said.

  “I would love to taste that,” Maya said, warming to me.

  “We’ve decided to cellar it another few years.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” Maya said. “Because I’m of the impression that the ’82 is on the decline, despite the ravings of Robert Parker.”

  Terra was the first to burst out laughing. Then, everybody else chimed in. It took me a moment to realize they were all laughing at me, and that my proprietary tone toward the coveted ’82 was so blatant I might as well have screamed: It’s all mine, leave me alone, go away!

  “Homes, you crack me up,” Jack said, having successfully rejoined the conversation. That broke Terra up again. Maya, sensitive to my chagrin, tried hard not to laugh. I hid behind my glass of Whitcraft, adrift in its mysteriousness. When I reached for the bottle for a refill, Jack clamped his hand on my wrist and said, “Slow down there, F. Scott. We’ve got a long evening ahead of us.”

  “Bungo,” I said.

  “So, who’s publishing your book?” Maya asked, shifting the conversation to an ostensibly less touchy topic.

  I quickly scrambled back to that false-hearted corner of my mind. “The truth is,” I started haltingly—I noticed Jack’s face start to blanch—“it’s gone to auction with a floor bid of sixty-thousand from a very good house. I’m not sure who the ultimate publisher is going to be, just that it’s a fait accompli. I’ll know more middle of next week.”

  Jack closed his eyes for an almost imperceptible moment, as if an angel had alighted on his shoulder to whisper to him that it was all going to be okay. In that moment I snared the Whitcraft and replenished my glass. And Maya’s. And, then, eventually, Jack’s and Terra’s. I had righted the ship, and we were back on course.

  After we had put in our orders, Jack told the maître d’, “Better bring us another bottle of the Whitcraft.”

  “Let’s try something else,” Maya said. “If that’s all right with everybody.”

  “Excellent idea,” I said. “Let’s have an unofficial Pinot tasting.”

  The maître d’ handed Maya the wine list. She cracked it open. I swayed toward her and read it with her over her shoulder. “Remember,” I whispered, “Jack’s got serious bank.”

  Maya’s finger slipped lower under the Pinot category until she came to the three-figure section. She closed the list, turned to the maître d’, and ordered with quiet confidence. “Bring us a bottle of the ’99 Kistler Rochioli.”

  “With pleasure,” the Maître d’ said, beaming. He reached for the wine list, which Maya was holding out to him, but I intercepted it.

  “Better leave it here,” I said. “We’re just getting started.”

  Maya turned to me. “You’re the devil, aren’t you?”

  “Harmlessly so,” I replied.

  “So, how do you two guys know each other?” Terra asked.

  “We met in prison,” I cracked.

  “Miles flashed me a crooked grin in the shower,” Jack added, poker-faced. “I straightened him out and we’ve been friends ever since.” Maya and Terra laughed politely. “No,” Jack said, “we met on a film that I was acting in. Miles wrote the screenplay. Then, a couple of years later, we made a film that Miles wrote and I directed and starred in.”

  “Anything we might have seen?” Terra asked.

  “Not unless you were at the Tierra del Fuego Film Festival in ninety-seven,” I said.

  The women exchanged puzzled looks.

  “It didn’t get a theatrical release,” Jack clarified.

  “He fucked up my script!” I said.

  “Yeah, well, you depleted my trust fund with your dark vision.”

  I bent toward Maya and whispered, “Don’t believe him. He’s loaded.” I turned to Jack and Terra. “You know the real problem? The film called for frontal nudity and Jack was the lead. We tried using wide-angle lenses, but to no avail.”

  Laughter exploded from everyone. Jack pointed his finger at me as if to say touché.

  The maître d’ returned with the ’99 Kistler Pinot, a highly allocated wine made by Steve Kistler, one of the great Sonoma winemakers.

  Maya approved the wine. Greg served the four of us in clean stemware brought to the table by a serious-looking young man. I looked into my glass. I was starting to get drunk now, and I was clinging with my fingertips to the last vestige of decorum. Soon, however, I knew there would come that moment when, without anyone’s bidding, I would slip through a crack in the floorboards and find myself rowing across the River Styx with my demon entourage, and not until morning would I fully be able to assess the consequences.

  “So, you’re both in the movie business?” I heard Terra say.

  “I am,” Jack said. “Miles’s on hiatus.”

  “Permanently,” I added. Maya chuckled knowingly. I wondered for a moment if she had had a flirtation with Hollywood, but I decided not to probe.

  “What did you think of the movies this year?” Terra asked.

  “Fabulous year,” I said, raising my glass of Kistler. “Outstanding product.”

  “I
thought everything stank,” Maya said.

  “I haven’t seen anything I liked,” Terra concurred.

  “Was not a great year,” Jack, that pussy-on-the-brain Benedict Arnold, chorused.

  “Jack instructed me specifically not to say anything negative tonight. Was afraid I would alienate you,” I quickly explained so that they didn’t think I was lacking in taste. “Cynicism is the hair of the dog!”

  “What?” Jack said, screwing his face into a coil of wrinkles.

  “Hair of the dog,” I repeated, toasting the group with my glass and spilling a little on the white tablecloth in the process. “Whoops.”

  Jack turned to Terra and said something that made her nod and smile. It felt as if they had moved across the room and were huddled in a cabal, conspiring against me. I couldn’t tell exactly what Jack was saying, but I assumed it was something to gain sympathy for my drunken antics—“He’s recently divorced,” “It’s been a tough year.” Good, I thought, at least my banter was helping them to bond.

  I finally sampled the Kistler. My palate was battle-fatigued, but the wine had a powerful nose of black cherries and burnt spices.

  Maya leaned closer. “What do you think of the Kistler?”

  “Exciting. Dancing on my tongue. A little closed.” I sensed I was already slurring and my face had flushed beet red, as it usually did when I teetered on the abyss.

  “I think it needs a few years,” she said. “But it’s built for potential greatness.”

  “I agree.” I turned to Maya. In the soft, amber light she looked stunning. Her eyes were onyx black; as I stared into them I thought I was free-falling into a night ocean. There was nothing real about her, the wine, or the evening

  “A little rough around the edges and falling apart, I agree,” Maya said, nodding.

  “Positively primitive on the palate. But this Kis is delish.”

  Maya laughed, but when I glanced at her she wore a kind of bemused expression as if I had said something odd. I turned to Jack and his eyes were bulged out at me, unblinking and admonitory. Clearly, I had either missed something or had uttered something remiss.

  “So, what do you girls do around here for fun, other than drink wine?” I asked. “I’m thinking of relocating.”

  “Do you think the chamber of commerce would let you move up here?” Terra joked.

  “What do you mean ‘not let me move up here’?” I volleyballed. “I am to the vineyard what the bee is to the flower.” Everyone laughed. I glanced at Jack and he was nodding. In his mind, I’m sure, he was saying, That’s more like it, more of those, Miles, keep ’em coming, keep ’em laughing, that’s how we move from point A to point F.

  Our entrées finally arrived, steaming fucking masterpieces, artisanal creations. (I can’t recall if I actually said that or rehearsed it in my head and scrapped it at the last minute.) I admired mine with an exaggerated awe that was nine-tenths wine and one-tenth reality. “Beautiful,” I said. “Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.” I looked up at everyone. “Should we get another bottle? Let’s get out of this California rut and cross the Atlantic. Let’s board the bullet train to the Côte d’Or!”

  Amidst the laughter, I turned and caught Maya toggling her index finger at the maître d’. He hurried over,

  “Bring us a bottle of the ’96 Comte Armand Pommard,” Maya told him.

  “That’s the spirit!” I said.

  Greg strode back to the cellar.

  We dug into our entrées. The Comte Armand was rushed to the table and uncorked. We were finally in Burgundy now. It was a whole new realm of sensations, different terroir, different climat, all of it focused in that microcosmic world known as wine.

  Owing to the price of the Comte Armand, Maya elected to taste the wine this time as the maître d’ hovered over us with the bottle. She moved it around in her mouth thoughtfully, caressing it. Then, as if heroin had hit her bloodstream, her eyes closed for an extended moment and her mouth widened slightly. “Mm,” she moaned. She opened her eyes and said to the maître d’, “Very nice, Greg.”

  The serious-looking waiter set more new glistening stemware in front of us. We were refreshed all around with the Comte Armand. As the wine rose to our lips, we were vertiginously winched up to a more rarefied plateau. It was as if we had just left the harbor and entered the sea, as if the clouds had parted and the sky had colored lavender and wraithlike little sprites were dancing on the surface of the water.

  “Now this is Pinot Noir,” I said. “Thank you, Maya.” I raised my glass and toasted her. We clinked crystal and exchanged smiles. I noticed that Jack had his arm slung around Terra’s shoulder and he was nuzzling her ear, whispering unintelligible sweet nothings and making her giggle. Then, in a flash, she rushed her mouth to his and their

  The next thing I remember was threading through the tables toward the bathroom as though I were straddling a small dinghy pitching about on stormy seas. When I got to the bathroom, the door was locked. I knocked vehemently to alert the occupant that someone was waiting. Spotting a pay phone, I turned to it and reached for the receiver. I dialed first my calling card number, then my PIN, then the only other number I knew by heart. It was astonishing that I could remember all those numbers after all the wine I’d consumed, and even more astonishing when I heard Victoria’s familiar voice.

  “Miles?” I heard her say as if she were speaking from a bathysphere.

  “Victoria! How the hell are you? Heard you got remarried? Congratulations. Didn’t think you had the stomach for another go-round after the disaster of our blessed union.”

  “Oh, Miles. You sound drunk.”

  “A little Whitcraft, north to the Russian River, then the SST all the way to Bourgogne,” I said, finishing on a sound like a rocket whistling over an enemy target.

  “Where are you?” she pried, concerned.

  “En route to the wedding,” I confessed. “I’m Jack’s best man. That’s supposed to be top secret. Shh shh shh. Don’t tell anyone.”

  There was a dismaying silence. I knew if I hung up, the phone lines between L.A. and Paso Robles were going to heat up, so I leapt back in to allay her apprehensions. “Don’t worry, Vicki,” I started. “I’m not coming. But don’t tell Babs, because then she’ll tell Jack and the shit

  “Sounds like it,” she said sardonically.

  “No, seriously. I’m watching him like a hawk.”

  “Miles, I don’t care if you come to the wedding or not.”

  “You don’t? Because I just learned that you and your new husband will be there and I didn’t want to be an unwelcome presence.”

  “I mean, if you’re going to be uncomfortable, I don’t want you to come.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not about to ruin anyone’s special moment.”

  “Well, that’s charitable of you.”

  “It’s just that I found out about all this today and I was kind of taken aback. I guess I thought there was still hope for us somewhere down the road, dark and painful as its course has been.”

  She didn’t say anything for an ominous few seconds. “Listen, Miles, it might be best if you didn’t come.”

  “Whatever you say, Vicki, whatever you say. You’re the boss.” I replaced the receiver and turned to the bathroom and banged irately on the door. “What’re you doing in there?” I yelled. “There are patrons soiling themselves out here!”

  A few seconds later, the door opened and a middle-aged woman emerged, scowling as she pushed her way past me. I glanced up and noticed that the sign on the door read, FEMMES. Christ almighty! The adjoining door for HOMMES was locked, so I slipped into FEMMES.

  Navigating on broken wings, I braved the gangplank back into the dining room, groping for handholds along the way. I reached our table and eased into my chair—or at

  “Are you all right, Miles?” she was saying.

  “Fine. Just slipped. Oops!”

  I clambered back into my chair. When I looked up from my half-eaten filet of salmon, everyone
was wearing a concerned expression. Terra made a little head gesture to Maya and they excused themselves and retreated to the bathroom.

  As soon as they were out of view, Jack bent forward across the table, an anxious look disorganizing his face. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing,” I said, reaching for my Comte Armand.

  “Pull yourself together, man,” Jack scolded. “You’re drinking too fast. You’re getting The Voice.”

  I thrust my hands across the table pleadingly. “I’m fine.” But a glass of water seemed to have spilled in the process. Jack quickly righted it and threw a napkin on the tablecloth.

  “Fine, right. Where were you all this fucking time? What were you doing?”

  “Making a phone call.”

  “Did you D-and-D Victoria?” he accused.

  He was referring to drink-and-dial, and I didn’t say anything, feeling ashamed, even in my benumbed state.

  His tone turned conciliatory. “Why do you always do this, Miles? She’s gone, man. Vapor. Poof. I’m helping you out here. Maya’s smart, she’s cool, she’s funny as shit. What’s this morose fucking come-down bullshit? We’re up here to blow out. And these girls want to have fun.”

  “I’m feeling uncomfortable with the whole scenario,” I admitted, shaking my head.

  “What whole scenario? That I’m going to sleep with someone? Fuck, Miles, every guy I know hires a hooker before he gets married and gets his nut. So, I lucked out. But I am getting my nut. With or without you.” He stabbed a finger toward me. “Don’t go fucking Jerry Falwell on me. Not when it’s all about to come to papa.”

  I brought the Comte Armand to my lips and took a sip. It was really taking off. Wheee! I was soaring now and I wanted the world to fade away and leave me alone.

  Jack’s voice was going in and out of my consciousness like a bad cell connection. “What’s the matter? That girl digs you. You should see the way she looks at you, man. I mean, I don’t get it.” He leaned closer, clutched my wrist, and prevented me from moving. “Why do you always do this?”

  “What?” I bristled.