Page 12 of Wild Abandon

The old man is looking at me with a grimace.

“Jesus Christ, how do you expect to work at a winery if that’s how you drink your wine?” He takes the glass from the bar and throws it into the sink behind him.

He walks back over to the dishwasher and takes out two wine glasses, one smaller than the other. Holding them up, he says, “This is for red,” motioning to the larger one in his right hand. “And this is for white. Never let anyone serve you wine in anything other than one of these.”

I nod and watch as he pours red wine into the larger glass. I don’t have the heart to tell him that, while in college, I used to drink box wine out of a mug. I don’t think he’d appreciate that anecdote.

Taking another sip, I am mildly uncomfortable since his beady eyes are condescendingly looking at me. I am definitely doing something wrong again.

“What is it this time?” My hand places the glass on the bar a little too dramatically.

He pours more wine into my glass and then pours some into another red wine glass for himself. With his fingers pinching the bottom of the stem, he holds the glass up, tilting it away from himself on an angle, and he starts swirling the wine in the glass. “Before you take a sip, you have to look at it first.”

I tip my head to the side. “I would, if you turned on a light.” My voice is a little snarkier than it should be.

He narrows his eyes at me before walking over to an adjacent wall and flipping a switch. The lights above the bar area illuminate, and I see just how unkempt the space is. The bar is full of scratches, and the vinyl liner is peeling back. The linoleum floor is mismatched, and quite a few of the tiles are missing. The entire area behind the bar is a mess of empty bottles, knocked over knickknacks, and a clock that’s blinking from never being reset.

Also, in this light, I can see Ed’s face properly. He is about sixty years old, and the lines of his face are hidden behind coarse facial hair. His skin is dark, like someone who works outdoors all day would be, and his hands are callous. While he might have been letting this building go to waste, he certainly has been keeping himself busy outside.

Ed rests his glass on the bar, and with his palm flat on the base, he places his middle and ring finger on each side of the stem and swirls the bottom in circles. The wine swoops and twirls inside the glass. I try to mimic the movement. At first, I do it too fast, and the wine looks like it’s trying to escape, so I slow down.

He holds his glass up again toward the light and then gives it another tilt, allowing the wine to roll around. I pick up my glass and do the same.

“See how the wine is dark in the center and light on the outside? If the color is watery at the edge, then it’s insipid. If it’s dark and red, then it’s been oxidized and past its prime.”

I look at my wine glass and the pink that lines my wine. It looks pale to me. “Well, if that’s the case, this wine will lack flavor,” I state.

Ed lifts his chin in a way to suggest I try the wine.

I do and shrug my shoulder. It’s not terrible wine. It’s just as okay as my box wine.

I place the glass on the bar and ask, “How much is a bottle of this?”

He lowers his chin and looks at me with a furrowed brow. “Sixty-five dollars.”

Sixty-five? “I wouldn’t pay more than eight bucks for that at the liquor store.” My hand immediately flies to my mouth.

Ed stares at me for what feels like ten years. My outburst clearly cost me the job, and now, he’s deciding how to kick my ass out on the dirt road it came in on. I suck on my bottom lip and wait for him to say something.

Like the crack of a whip, Ed leans his head back and laughs. It’s a heavy, deep laugh that’s so loud that I startle when I first hear it.

He takes the bottle he poured from and throws it in the trash. The act makes me flinch.

Taking his cane, he starts to walk back around the bar. As he passes me, he points a finger. “You’re hired. Follow me.”

I stand with my feet firmly planted on the ground and watch as he walks out a back door.

Before it closes, he says, “I haven’t got all day.”

Okay then.

I follow him out, and just as I’m about to ask him one of a hundred questions I have going through my brain, I stop and let out a small gasp at the view.

Napa is known for it’s striking landscapes, but here, in the backyard of a decrepit barn in the middle of the valley, is a sight so incredible that I can’t believe some developer hasn’t come here to snatch this little piece of heaven away.

Through the back door, I am now standing on a stone veranda as wide as the barn and big enough to host fifty people. Above me is a weathered pergola with wood splintering at the ends. Stone benches line the end, also acting as a fence of sorts. Just behind it is a cascading hill of vineyards that make a straight shot through two mountains where it looks like the ends of the earth are just beyond it.

As serene as that is, perhaps the most enchanting part of the view is the foreground. A sea of gorgeous burgundy roses lying across a field, like a blanket of love. There has to be hundreds of rose bushes back here, all on ample property where grapes could grow. Instead of making a cash crop, someone chose to nurture petals of beauty instead.