Chapter 14 Pac-Man and White Zin #2
Under the drawing of his face—the fellow was as ugly as a groundhog—his words read:
I’ve been watching the youngster known as Otis Till, a new face in the Sonoma wine scene.
I’ve written about him before. He’s a part of Lloyd Bramhall’s growing portfolio and a disciple of Carmine Coraggio.
Let me say: I don’t get it, and I might be the only one.
I don’t remember a newcomer splashing onto the scene in such grand fashion, and yet . ..
The harder they come, the harder they fall. I don’t know if it was Otis’s poor choice of plantings or his negligence in the field, perhaps even his bad luck, but the word is that he lost nearly everything. Once again, a climb to the top knocked down by this wine world that eats its young.
Bedwetter went on like that for a while, and Otis read with fury rising. He folded the paper and slapped it down onto the breakfast table, jostling his mug of coffee and the glass of grapefruit juice.
“Bec, I have to go to New York and get this man off my back. As if I don’t already have enough to worry about. He’s confirmed that we’re the laughingstocks of this state. Of the whole flipping industry.”
Rebecca stood barefooted in cutoff jeans at the counter, making breakfast. Otis had hoped to smell bacon, but he had a sneaking suspicion she was making avocado toast again. She’d been threatening vegetarianism, which was worse than becoming a communist.
“Honey, half the state is dealing with phylloxera. Quit acting like you did something wrong. Also, I don’t think people spend as much time judging you as you might think.”
“Oh, deary, you have such an optimistic outlook on mankind.”
“If you think they’re out to get you,” she called over her shoulder, “then they will be. I choose to see the good in people.”
Otis rested his elbows on the table. “I choose, I choose, I choose . You and your careful wording.” She was still convinced that whatever one said or thought became reality.
“Well,” he started, “I choose to take the next flight out of SFO, track down Bedwetter, and throw him off the top of the Empire State Building. That’s after I ram a phylloxera-ridden vine trunk up his arse. ”
Bec turned from the counter, butcher knife in hand.
“It’s extraordinary how you let some guy you’ve never met affect you so.
” She pointed at him with the knife. “Put your focus on our young vines. Do what Carmine says, give everything you can to the wine, and then move on. Don’t worry about the reception. ”
“That’s so easy for you to say.”
Bec stepped forward, gripping the knife like she was going to use it on him, his beautiful sandy-blond butcher wife. “We have enjoyed the great opportunity of replanting exactly how we want. A fresh start.”
“Are you going to kill me with that thing?”
She looked down at the knife. Her exhaustion with him dissipated, and a smile flashed on her face. “If you’re not careful.”
It was nice to share a laugh.
“I can’t wait to hear what my dad has to say.”
Rebecca sighed, realizing he hadn’t heard a word she’d said.
“Will you stop worrying what everyone thinks? My tolerance for your self-absorption is high, but you’re pushing it.
You’re walking a pity path that’s starting to become a paved road.
So what if we have to tighten up for a few years.
You can buy grapes and still make wine. And you have your consulting. ”
“Tighten up for a few years?” Otis asked with exasperation. “Have you stopped running the numbers? Do you know how many payments we have due? For glass, the new John Deere, the new press.”
Rebecca returned to the counter with her blade. “Then you might have to stop drinking first growths for a while.”
“I rarely drink first growths.”
“Bullshit.” To her credit, she’d never once blamed him for not selling to Gallo or taking any of the offers that had come their way before their vineyards were infected. Still, cutting off his access to first growths was playing dirty.
“I’m going to have to sell my soul,” he said to her back. “No, wait, I already sold that to Bramhall. Do you mind if I sell your soul? No, yours is too pure. Maybe the kids’?”
She turned back around. “I’m just going to say it. Maybe this phylloxera mess is the best thing that ever happened to you. The way you’ve been with the boys lately, the way you’ve been with me. You’ve been so free. Don’t let Ledbetter—”
“Bedwetter.”
“I’m not calling him names.”
“I have to go see him.”
“You’re not going to see him. You’re not going to do anything but put your head down and keep making good wine.”
This was one of those times where he probably should have listened.
Addison couldn’t even wait a day to call and rub Bedwetter’s words in his son’s face. “Finally made the Times , did you. You didn’t mention the phylloxera.”
“Because I knew what you’d say.” He hated that he’d had too much scotch and his words were slurring. “Bedwetter’s a clown.”
“He was writing about California long before Spurrier came in with his ‘Judgment of Paris,’” Addison said snidely.
Otis poured himself another.
His father loved to talk about the “Judgment of Paris” and how Otis should have chosen to throw anchor in Napa. “Dad, the whole ‘Judgment of Paris’ thing ... Sonoma made the chard. Not Napa, and yet they claim it.” How many times had he told his father this fact?
“It was Chateau Montelena, son. One of my favorite properties. Trust me, they’re in Napa.”
Deep breaths, Otis told himself. “Yes, Mike Grgich made the wine at Montelena, but the chardonnay was grown in Sonoma by Charles Bacigalupi. I’m exactly where I want to be.”
“For God’s sake, Otis. Quit being sensitive. Get him out there to taste the wines. Perhaps he could give you some tips.”
Otis paused and swallowed back a geyser of f-words that wanted to leap from his tongue.
There was not enough whiskey in his house, nor in Sonoma, nor in all of California to drown his troubles.
He had damn well tried to prove it this evening.
Rebecca wasn’t speaking to him, likely because he was belligerently drunk.
She’d tucked the boys in and retired herself, probably up there meditating or reading Way of the Peaceful Warrior or talking to herself, going on about “I choose, I choose, I choose.”
After the call Otis marched out to the terrace with the rest of the bottle and collapsed into a chair. He took another gulp. Goddamn that burn was nice, but it still wasn’t enough.
Could he survive two years of no income?
He hadn’t saved like he should. Once the money had started coming in, he assumed it wouldn’t stop.
So despite Bec’s warnings that they remain thrifty, he’d loaded the cellar with wines and upgraded the tractor and the irrigation system.
He’d opted for the most expensive label designers and glass.
He’d also insisted on traveling in style, always renting the nicest cars, staying in the nicest hotels, indulging in often-excessive meals.
Scotch in hand, he pressed his eyes closed and sought solutions. He’d replanted the vines. Nothing he could do now but hope they would take. Had he lost his momentum? That would be Bedwetter’s next article. Otis Till has lost his mojo!
No matter what Bec said—or Carmine, for that matter—Otis needed to resolve this Bedwetter issue.
What if Otis invited him out there? Perhaps it was all a misunderstanding.
The writer of abysmal wine prose came out once or twice a year to taste, and not once had he reached out to Otis.
Perhaps there was a reason of which Otis wasn’t aware.
In the morning, while Bec and the boys were feeding the sheep, collecting eggs, and cleaning out the chicken coop, he called The New York Times and asked for “Sam Bed—I mean—Ledbetter. It’s Otis Till, a winemaker out of Sonoma.”
“He’s in France right now,” a jolly young lady said, “but I’m happy to leave a message. He returns tomorrow.”
In a friendly tone that wasn’t exactly genuine, Otis said, “Please tell him to give me a call. I’d love to visit with him when he next comes out to Sonoma.”
“I’ll do that.”
Tomorrow came and went. And the next week. No callback. Each time Bec left the house, he’d reach for the phone and dial the number with the New York area code, but then he’d hang up before the call connected. He couldn’t beg.
Until he did a week later. “Yes, it’s Otis Till, from Sonoma again. I’ve been trying to get in touch with Sam Ledbetter.”
“One moment, please.”
A distinguished American voice came on the line moments later. “Ledbetter here.”
“Hi there, Sam. It’s Otis Till, Sonoma winemaker of Lost Souls.”
Agonizing silence.
Otis cleared his throat. “I wanted to see if you might be interested in including me on your next visit to Sonoma. I feel like ... I don’t know ... that providing some context might help you understand my wines a little more.”
“Uh-huh. It does work that way sometimes, doesn’t it?” He spoke the way Otis imagined people who summered in the Hamptons spoke, with a fancy lilt, likely inherited from generations of martini drinkers holding their noses high at anyone less well to do.
The door swung shut, and the boys came running in. He held a finger to his lips.
“Let me consider, Otis. I’ll have my secretary reach out in the coming months.”
“That would be—”
Bec came into the kitchen with curious eyes. “Everything okay?”
Otis pressed the phone to his chest. “I’ll be right off.”
She began to put away groceries behind him.
“Yes, that would be great,” Otis said into the phone.
“No promises, though.”
Otis wanted to reach through the phone and strangle the man with his own ascot, tell him that he wasn’t worthy of stepping onto the great land of the Lost Souls Ranch, but he couldn’t say a damn thing now, as Rebecca wouldn’t speak to him for a week if she discovered who was on the other end.
All Otis said was, “I understand. Look forward to hearing from you.”
After he’d hung up, Bec kissed his cheek. “Who was that?”