Vertical

by Rex Pickett

  “Thank you, Miles,” she said. She took a sip.

  “This is a really special bottle,” I said, sampling it myself. “Impossible to find.”

  “Mm, it’s good,” she said. “Muy intenso.”

  “Muy intenso, indeed.” An explosion of Pinot fruit, even to my half-shot palate.

  Bewitched by the wine and the moment, I traced a hand down one of her bare arms, gawking at her near-naked body. She was small breasted, and she had this hair that overran her panties that most American men would have found disgusting, but which I found sexy. “God, you’re a beautiful woman, Laura.”

  She smiled. Then she inhaled from her cigarette and chased it with another sip of the elegant Hilliard Bruce. She locked her onyx-black eyes on mine and asked, “Do you have a lot of women in your life, Miles?”

  “What do you mean?” I answered evasively.

  “In your speech, you talked about the women since the movie came out.”

  “I don’t have anyone special right now, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Are you looking?”

  I sipped my wine–shaking my head every time at how tremendous a Pinot it was–and shrugged. “I know that I’m not happy with this parade of women.” I looked up at her for a response. She was staring down at me with blinking eyes. Those dark, thick Salma Hayek lashes. God!

  “Did you mean what you said, that it was fate that we met? That you might come to Barcelona?”

  My hand glided slowly down to the furry part of her inner thigh. I was a little embarrassed suddenly that she had thrown my words up in my face. It’s one thing to utter them, it’s another thing to have to affirm them. Not wanting to lose the mood, I found myself saying, “Yes, Laura. I feel like there’s a connection between us. An inchoate one, but one nonetheless.”

  Her eyes watered a little. “Because I thought it was really sweet what you said.”

  “I meant it, Laura.” I continued to stroke her inner thighs. “But you’re only here one night.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “Let’s make the most of it.”

  Our mouths found each other’s in the fitful firelight. The Viag was kicking in and my cock stiffened with alacrity. I slowly slipped my hand inside her panties and it found a Pyrenees forest dark with mystery. I maneuvered them off, and in doing so found myself between her glorious legs. Unhesitatingly and unapologetically, I licked the inside of her thighs. She lowered herself to the faux animal hide. We were back in the Foxen vineyard now picking up where we had left off when my mother’s daredevil feat to retrieve her dog had rudely interrupted us.

  I brought her to orgasm four times in the course of the night and the next morning, twice by licking her, twice by the fire and twice in the comfy bed. In between we shared cigarettes and sipped wine. We confabulated about our shared passions for food, wine, film, literature, travel (okay, I lied). Now and then I complimented her on her body, the taste of her mouth and the odor of her pussy. Drunk, I held nothing back. I was an open wound. Every romantic fantasy, everything I ever wanted to say to a woman sober, every dream I had ever had about being in love, it all came out in an unbridled torrent from my deepest recesses. And every time we started up again, despite our weariness, it was more intense, and I found myself wanting her more and more, wanting to express it like I hadn’t done in a long time. Was it because she was leaving the next morning and I wouldn’t have to deal with the psychological mess my words and actions would have engendered? Did I really mean the things I was saying? Or was I just so lonely for a real love relationship that I was impersonating someone I wanted to be but was incapable of becoming? Whatever, she let me ravish her. God, it felt good to be making love to someone I really wanted to be making love to.

  chapter 8

  Sunlight poured implacably through the blinds we had forgotten to shutter. I disentangled myself from the sodden limbs of Laura and thrashed out from under the tangle of the down comforter and stepped into the kitchen, nursing an 8.8 on my own personal hangover scale: Can you walk? Check. Remember last night? Fucking A’. Some ellipses? Well, yeah. Some overly amatory things uttered maybe regretted in the dawn-light? That, too. In the refrigerator I found a bottle of a local Zinfandel rosé. Still in a semi-fugue state, I uncorked it and poured two glasses and then tasted one for cork taint (negative), for Brett (negative), and sweetness (negative). Vinified in a very dry style–unlike all those millions of gallons of white Zinfandel quaffed by lonely, horny housewives in the 1980s–it could have passed for a fine, dry Provençal rendition.

  As I turned to go back to the bedroom I espied a small picnic basket with a blue-and-white checked napkin draped over it, just inside the door. I went over and lifted it up by its bamboo-woven handle. A warmth and piquant redolence emanated from its hidden contents.

  Back in the bedroom I found Laura propped up on a pair of gigantic down pillows, puffing languorously on a cigarette. I handed her one of the glasses of wine. Employing my smattering of Spanish, I said, “Pelo del perro.”

  It hit me that “hair of the dog” probably meant nothing beyond the literal in Spanish. Whatever. She thought it was funny and laughed until tears came to her eyes.

  I set the small picnic basket next to her and climbed back into bed.

  “What have we got here?” she said, directing her attention to the basket. She lifted the napkin, revealing two just-baked cranberry scones. Rooting around, she found a couple of hard-boiled eggs, a slab of butter, cheeses, and an assortment of charcuterie. “Oh, this is nice,” she said.

  “Very European,” I remarked.

  She picked up one of the warm scones and bit into it. “Mmm,” she said. “Have a bite,” she said, extending her arm and offering me the scone.

  “In a minute. My stomach’s not quite there yet,” I said.

  After a couple glasses of wine my appetite miraculously returned and we enjoyed a delicious private brunch. I reached for the bottle on the nightstand and was a little dismayed to find it already empty. And Laura had only had one glass. Got to put the brakes on, I admonished myself, glancing at a digital clock that showed that it wasn’t even 9:00 a.m.

  “You know, Laura,” I started. “Why don’t you and Carmen come with us up to the Willamette Valley?” She furrowed her brow at me. “I’m serious. I was thinking about it in the middle of the night. You can fly out of Portland–it’s a major airport–I’ll cover the penalties, you’re still on holidays for another couple of weeks.”

  “Carmen has to be back to work.”

  My shoulders sagged. Then, I brightened. “So, why don’t you come up with us? There’s plenty of room in the van. I’ll buy a digital camera and you can document our trip. I’ll pay you to do it. What do you say?”

  “Miles.”

  “No. Seriously. Last night was just so intense. I really don’t want you to go. Come with us.”

  She laughed at the suggestion. “Miles?”

  “What?”

  “I can’t abandon my friend.”

  “Why not? She’s a big girl.”

  Laura looked at me with sad, flashing eyes, as if she were considering it. But in my hungover state I may have misread her. Flush with money now, had I alienated her by offering–boorishly–to pay her? Where was my sense of propriety? No one had trained me for success. And sometimes my munificence came off as crass. No, it was crass.

  I set my wineglass on the nightstand, slipped on top of her and kissed her. Only a few inches from her face, I whispered, “I meant everything I said, Laura.”

  “Miles, it’s only morning and you’re already drunk.”

  “No, I’m not,” I weakly protested. “I’m just thirsty.”

  She laughed a sarcastic laugh, then grew serious. “Even if I do want to go, I don’t want to be with you up at some big wine festival with all these women.”

  “They don’t mean anything to me,” I found myself pleading.

  “Look, we had a nice time. How do you say, un petit romance.”

 
“A fling?”

  “A fling. Yes.” She traced a finger across my cheek. “I think you’re just lonely.”

  I rolled off her and reached for the comfort of my wine. Staring at the wood-beamed ceiling, I said, “You’re right, I am lonely.”

  She propped herself up on an elbow. “I had a nice time. You come to Barcelona and visit me. Then I’ll know you mean everything you said.”

  Her words struck me like a curare dart. She was right, of course. I was lonely. And fragile. The sudden realization of the weight of everything involving taking my mother to Wisconsin and trying to get through every day with increasing quantities of wine. She might as well have said: You need a mother, not a girlfriend. Of course I had a mother, but…

  I turned and looked at her. “Well, I tried.”

  “You come to Barcelona and we’ll have un gran aventura. Okay?”

  I smiled at her. She pointed at the bottle of rosé. “And you slow down. You’re going to kill yourself.”

  Then she kissed me and I kissed her back, the way you do when your partner is on the verge of leaving and you have that sinking feeling in your solar plexus that you probably will never see each other again. We were gearing up to make love once more when we heard the front door open. Footfalls sounded in the main room. Too light to be Jack. Knowing him, and how much wine he probably had consumed, I surmised he would still be asleep at this hour.

  The steps approached the bedroom door and halted. A soft knock followed. “¿Laura? ¿Estás se despierta?”

  “Sí,” Laura said, quickly pulling the comforter up over our naked bodies.

  “¿Puedo entrar?”

  “Sí, está bien.”

  Carmen pushed the door open tentatively, checked to make sure she wasn’t disturbing us, then gingerly entered. Her long blond hair was in a tangled mess on her head. She looked like she had walked ten miles in gale-force winds and slanting rain from a broken-down car. As she approached she wasn’t walking very straight either.

  She raked the snarled strands of her mane off her forehead and pulled a hand over her face, as if hoping for some magical transfiguration of her rag doll countenance (which never materialized). Her eyes were bloodshot, and gray pouches underscored them. She looked exhausted, like she hadn’t slept but a few hours.

  Laura switched to English. “Are you okay?”

  Carmen glanced over at me. “Your friend, Jack, he has–how do you say in English?–a lot of energy.” She shook her head to herself as if she had quite a long night. “Muy fuerte.”

  Laura turned to me and translated. “A lot of passion.”

  A joke about giving him some Viag crested on my tongue, but I held back, not wanting to blow Jack’s cover in the event he and Carmen had become instant soul mates.

  I clambered out of bed and quickly knotted a towel around my waist, went into the kitchen and, still feeling a little depressed about Laura’s impending departure, deftly uncorked a second bottle and poured another glass of the rosé–a full glass!–and brought it back into the bedroom and handed it to Carmen who accepted it with alacrity. She brought the wineglass to her lips and it wasn’t a sip she took, but rather a guzzle, as if she had crossed an arid region and stumbled upon an oasis in desperate need of slaking her thirst. She paused a moment, then she drained the entire glass.

  “Faltado, gracias, Miles.”

  Laura and I looked at each other and laughed.

  Carmen calmed and a glow suffused her still haggard countenance. She said to Laura: “Pienso que debemos fequir el camino.”

  Laura turned to me and said: “We should get going. We have to check out of the Windmill Inn by noon and then get back to LA.”

  “I understand. I’ve got to get my mother and gang up to Fresno today, so…”

  As I waited in the bedroom, Laura and Carmen shared a shower together. They returned, looking revivified and we exchanged goodbyes. Carmen left the bedroom for a moment while Laura and I kissed passionately and hugged in that way new lovers hug to reassure each other that this won’t be the last time.

  “I’m going to miss you,” she said.

  “You won’t reconsider?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t. It’s been fun. You fly to Barcelona. I will show you good paella.”

  “Okay,” I said, staring into her dark, blazing eyes whose meaning I couldn’t read. Was she really going to miss me? Or was this just another fling? Soon to be exiled to the dustbin of memories like too many before her.

  She placed her index fingers over my lips to shut me up. “Goodbye, Miles.”

  Then she and Carmen were gone. I showered and dressed and poured myself yet another glass of wine. Then I called over to my mother’s room. She, not Joy, answered.

  “Miles. Where are you? Are you in the pokey?”

  “No, Mom, I’m right next door to you. Did you get breakfast?”

  “Oh, yes. It was fabulous.”

  “How’s your tooth?”

  Her voice lowered and she grudgingly said, “It’s okay.” My mother was not one to complain of physical maladies.

  “Put Joy on, would you?”

  My mother, barking instructions, handed the phone off to Joy. Her high-pitched voice said, “Hi.”

  “Hi, Joy. How’s it going over there?”

  “Okay.”

  “How’s my mom’s tooth?”

  “Not so good. Her mouth has swelled a little.”

  I swept a hand across my face. “Okay, it’s only like three hours to Fresno. We’ll try to get her into a dentist today and get that tooth extracted. Did you get her bathed and everything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Well, take her and Snapper out for a little walk in the garden. I’ll wake Jack and we’ll get on the road in half an hour. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said. I hung up, feeling anxious and relieved. Relieved, because Joy was a godsend.

  I called over to Jack’s suite, but no one answered. A few minutes later he came lumbering in through the front door. If Carmen looked like she had been in a hailstorm, Jack looked like he had been on a month-long bender. He was wearing green medical scrubs for pants and a vanilla-white Hawaiian shirt, dappled with large pineapples. His bushy hair was a veritable tumbleweed perched atop his head. The whites of his eyes were so red he looked demonic, a denizen-escapee of some pernicious netherworld. And–I couldn’t help but notice–there was a bulge evident in his crotch that looked positively frightening.

  “Give me a glass of that wine,” he said, frazzled.

  I poured him a glass, handed it to him, and he emptied it down his throat with all the intemperance of a sot in the throes of the D.T.s. “Fucking cock won’t go down,” he said, a worried look furrowing his face.

  “What?”

  “Won’t go down. I did that chick like five times last night, came every time, and it wouldn’t go down.”

  “I mean, not even like right after?”

  “No. And I had like three bottles of wine beginning at Foxen.”

  “How much of that Viag did you take?”

  Jack’s expression disorganized into one of deep concern. “I don’t know, I was a little looped.”

  “I gave you three. How many are left?”

  “None,” he said.

  “What?” I practically screamed.

  “I took a half like you said, then I thought I should take the other half, and then, I don’t know, I worried because of all the wine that I was going to disappoint this chick which, as you know, can wreck a man’s ego for life and”–he pointed a finger at his temple like the barrel of a handgun–“get inside his head and never get it up again. You know what I’m talking about?”

  “Jack, those were 100 milligrams each. That’s the strongest they manufacture. It’s for 70-year-olds who haven’t had a boner in ages and you go and take, for your age, a sextuple dose. Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  “I was sideways, Homes.”

  “I don’t give a shit. You know what you’ve got?–an
d, yes, I did bother to read the fine print when I picked them up from the pharmacy.”

  He looked up at me, his face dark with anxiety and fear.

  “Priapism.”

  “What?” he barked.

  “Priapism. It’s a rare disorder where the penis will not detumesce.”

  “What’s detumesce?”

  “Go flaccid, return to normal. The condition’s named after the Greek god of male procreative power, Priapus. The son of Dionysus–the god of fertility, wine, and drama, which pretty much sums you up. And he’s the son of Aphrodite, the god of –”

  “Okay, okay, enough with the classical mythology lecture. It hurts. You’d think an all-night hard-on with a hot chick would be my ultimate dream, but it’s not.” He reached for his groin, grabbed his leviathan of a shaft and tried–it was almost heartbreaking to witness–to squeeze it into submission. “Man, after she left, I did the knuckle shuffle and it still wouldn’t go away. Maybe this’ll help.” He finished his wine and poured another glass, starting in on it without a pause.

  I picked up my laptop, already booted so I could scope Fresno hotels and typed “WebMD.com” in the URL bar. In their search engine, I typed “Priapism.” I scanned the symptoms and remedies.

  “Okay, it says here to give it 4-6 hours, then if it still Eiffel Towers on you, go see a doctor. They’ll give you some kind of analgesic. If that doesn’t work…” I stopped and I could feel my eyes widening like Peter Lorre in M. “Holy crap.”

  “What?” he said. “What?”

  I read verbatim from the online medical literature: “If the medications don’t reduce the swelling a scalpel is used to make an incision in the head of the penis to release the blood that’s causing the irremediable engorgement.”

  “They cut my dick?” he cried.

  “Jack. You’re 42. You don’t, to my blissfully limited knowledge, have an ED problem. You Hoover down 300 mikes of a powerful drug that semaphores to the brain to send all your blood to your dick. 300 mikes. That’s like declaring all-out thermonuclear war on your wholly hypothetical inability to get aroused.”

  “Okay, I fucked up, okay. Just shut the fuck up, would you?”