Chapter 17 Built on the Back of White Zin #4
He’d decided to hit her with the news while she was fresh. “It’ll be the only trip I do this year.” It was a hard promise to make, considering it was January 4.
Bec had been wearing a robe lately. The woman who had always slept and got ready in the morning naked now shielded herself from her husband.
Yeah, he knew what she was doing, that she was repulsed by him, that she didn’t want him looking at her body.
Forgive him for still being attracted to his wife, for wanting to look her up and down like the old days.
“I don’t like who you’re becoming,” she said, “and you’re fooling yourself.
You were barely here for the holidays. The boys don’t know who you are.
Zinman . That’s the person you’ve become.
Who has a license plate like that? And the robe and those slippers.
We all know what you’re doing in the fields and in the cellar, picking later, manipulating the juice, over-oaking it, doing everything you never would have done a few years ago.
I hate to crush you, but the wines aren’t even that interesting this year. ”
Now that hurt. “You’re just mad at me, so you’re not tasting them with an open mind.” He stuck his toothbrush in his mouth before he reminded her for the one zillionth time that he—and her stupid fucking boyfriend—had forced him to make white zin.
“No,” she said, “that’s not it.”
Once he’d finished brushing, he spat the paste into the basin. “Well, I tried to get the boys tickets. Joe only had one.”
“Then stay home and watch it with them. Why do you have to go to Miami?” Bec reached for her brush.
“For one, I was invited by the quarterback of the 49ers to attend the Super Bowl. This isn’t just a game. This is the event of the year.”
“You hate football.”
“It’s growing on me. Besides, it’s about being seen. Joe said he might even be able to get me an introduction to the marketing guys at TAG Heuer. Can you imagine? Your husband, that punk you met on a purple bus, becoming the face of a watch brand.”
“You know what? I far prefer that punk on the bus to who you are now.”
Otis stuck his toothbrush under the running water and ran his thumb over the bristles with ferocious intensity. “Do we have a problem here? You seem to be dropping some serious threats.”
“What do you think, Otis?”
Otis began to lather his face with shaving cream. “I think you’re worn out and need some help. Let’s hire an assistant, someone to run the kids around. Cook some meals. You’re exhausted and taking it out on me.”
Rebecca squared up to him. “Fuck you, Otis.”
Then, per the usual lately, she stalked away.
Otis didn’t feel regret as he boarded the direct flight from SFO to MIA.
He flew first class, and he sipped on Woodford Reserve the entire flight.
He didn’t feel regret when he stepped out of the airport and slid on his shades, nor when he checked into the Four Seasons, the exact hotel where the 49ers were staying.
He thought nothing of it when he pulled open the minibar in his suite.
This was what he deserved. You make sacrifices so that you can one day reap the rewards.
No way would he turn down this opportunity.
The tropical air was ripe with the Super Bowl madness, and what came with it was this wonderful sense of arrival.
Everyone with a ticket to that game had arrived in their own way, taking their place on the podium of life.
What an absolute tragedy that his father had died before actually knowing who Otis had become.
Sure, Addison might have worked too hard and put a lot of pressure on Otis to achieve what he hadn’t, but it had worked.
Whatever he’d done, it had worked, and now Otis had finally done it. Achieved his wildest dreams.
By the time he claimed his reserved table at Joe’s Stone Crab in South Beach, he was properly sozzled. A quick Negroni warmed him up even more. His words stumbled out of his mouth as he ordered a loaded baked potato, creamed spinach, and a twenty-ounce New York strip done Oscar style.
“Live like you’re gonna die, ol’ boy,” Otis told the young server, who then tried to push a ridiculously priced cult Napa cab on him. “No, no, a bottle of that Chateau Lynch-Bages would be a far better pairing.”
One in the morning, Otis woke in a sweat and kicked off the covers with a curse.
After a stumble to the toilet, he turned down the air-conditioning to sixty.
Back in the bed, his mind started racing, so he flipped on the television for a while.
Tomorrow would be murder if he didn’t fall back asleep.
Thirty minutes later, he popped a benzo and chased it with a mini bottle of Crown. Finally , he faded away.
Over an indulgent room-service breakfast and a pot of coffee, Otis read the new Sam Ledbetter article in The New York Times .
In the article, Bedwetter highlighted several of his favorite producers, then got to Lost Souls. Otis’s hangover quickly took second place to rage.
I tasted through Lost Souls’ lineup recently and was not surprised to find the wines syrupy and overdone.
I suspect this trend has been happening for a long time.
Till’s Heartbreak White Zin was proof that he’s in it for the money, and now I believe he’s pandering to the critics.
Perhaps I shall ask: Who could blame him?
Otis Till could urinate into a bottle, and his loyal followers would happily lap it up.
When Otis called Rebecca, he was drunk off three Bloody Marys. “Bedwetter strikes again.”
“What, Otis? It’s early here.”
“I know. Sorry. But I had to tell you. Listen to what he said.” Otis read the entire mention. “Can you believe that?”
She sighed. “I don’t care, Otis. I’m so tired of you going to war with this man. Are you drunk? You’re slurring.”
“No, I’m not drunk. It’s eight in the morning.”
“Okay, well, I’m going back to bed. Forget about the article and be safe, okay?”
“I love you,” he said.
The phone clicked.
The thing was ... there were times when being in the doghouse was an acceptable trade-off. Any male in his right mind would agree that attending the Super Bowl made up for the punishment. Give me a Super Bowl in Miami, and, honey, you can put me in the doghouse for a month!
Over seventy-five thousand people were crammed into Joe Robbie Stadium.
Otis had club seats with access to the full bar in a fine lobby with a crowd of celebrities.
He took a double Crown and Coke and a hot dog and sat down on the fifty-yard line.
People wore costumes. They’d painted their faces and bodies. The air was electric.
Otis was properly drunk and had a hard time seeing the jersey numbers, but he made out number sixteen taking the field. “Joe!” he yelled. “Let’s go get ’em!” The whole crowd roared with him.
“He’s my friend!” Otis yelled. “Let’s go, Joe Cool!”
He looked beside him to see his boys’ reactions, and then remembered they weren’t there. They would have loved this. He wondered who was at the house for the Super Bowl back home. He hadn’t even asked. Maybe they’d see him on television.
He took a long sip of his drink, then another.
Sitting back down, he bit into the hot dog. Relish. Mustard. Ketchup.
And regret.
That’s what he tasted. It was a meager hot dog, but it was so much more, taking him back through the years to all the hot dogs they’d eaten and the hard work they’d put in to get to where they were. Never could he have done any of it without Bec.
He looked at the bozos on either side of him, wishing that she and the boys were there.
Regret.
He shouldn’t have come.
It was as if he’d been ice-skating on a frozen lake, happy and carefree; then at once a crack had formed. Then another.
He looked down at the hot dog, the red and yellow and green. The countless hot dogs they’d eaten when they’d first started chasing this wild dream appeared before him. Here they were, they’d finally—
No. Here he was.
They’d made it, but he was here by himself.
Another sip of Crown, then another. The thoughts wouldn’t go away.
A big play happened on the field, and everyone jumped to their feet.
Otis stayed in his seat, staring at the hot dog. What his mother had said back in Bozeman rang in his ears, about how his father had died at his typewriter, having skipped out on a lunch with her, so that he could finish a piece about road construction.
Was this any different? He could not have cared less about being here, about who might win. But he felt like he should attend this game as a successful entrepreneur. How could he say no to Joe?
His chest felt heavy, and his body began to tingle, like when he’d had his heart attack years ago.
Otis set down the drink and hot dog and stood. He pushed through the aisle, people’s knees angling sideways, and when he got to the steps, he started running.
“I’m coming,” he said. Quiet, at first. “I’m coming, my loves.” Tears pricked his eyes, and he ran harder, up and down the steps and out of Joe Robbie Stadium and into a waiting taxi.
“I just want to go home,” he said, his face now a mess of tears.
“Where’s home?” the cab driver asked.
“Where Bec and my boys are ...”