I’m doing what I like, what I prefer over pretty much anything else, except being a daddy. Writing. In a loud bar, happy hour, some beer I think I tried—no, I didn’t have it the other night. That one was lighter, like a pale ale, something. I’m doing parts of my story I enjoy. Not working this weekend at the bloody winery, as they need me on Saturday and I can’t work that day, then me offering to do Sunday as I always do and them—the globby little “man” of a tasting room manager”—telling me I’m not needed Sunday ‘cause it’s going to be raining, and slow, and whatever other excuse suits. What the fuck—DAMNIT, can’t I just go there, help a couple people, sip and scribble all day as I usually do putting in my consistent 30 minutes of actual work? How fucking selfish of them.
With this event, the winery, tasting room thing, as it is only a thing, dies. I, make it a subject worth writing, a story, give it real life. Speaking of, what wine am I opening tonight? What do I want? Better question, what do I have, what I’ve not yet murdered? Have the Aperture blend… the Williamson Merlot… the Halleck Pinot and SB…. Don’t have to decide now, but looking forward to a night of vino and prose, some wild essay. I’m in the simplification stride, knowing next year I turn 41. Oh fuck, I think to myself, mumbling to myself like a writer who just came out of the woods and for weeks only had himself for conversation.
Light just got more dim, or I think they did. Writing only wine, but I’m drinking beer. It’s cheaper. The writer’s on a budget. Wine tonight. Wait. Treat yourself when home. Just again sipped the brown ale. Odd, but I might have another. People sitting behind me at a tallboy table, they could very well see this screen. Don’t care, not allowing the inner care button to be pushed. When would that waitress person come back around? Should I have another? Hate when I ask so many goddamn questions, when I go back and forth, and I know I do that but keep doing it. Interesting or annoying. OR a lesson, a point of study….. Not determining here.
Need another beer.
That Pinot already me calls. And I’m not the Pinot person that brags they drink Pinot, in fact I don’t even pursue Pinot. I enjoy it, but don’t chase or hunt. I want wine tonight to talk to me and convince me—ORDER ME—to write only wine, or writing. Writing about writing, why not. Winemakers making winemakers’ wines is the same thing, at least as I see it.
Trying to talk myself out of going to class, but I know I have to go. And I’m going to pass on the second pint, I think.
Or not. Where is that girl.