The Truth is in the Wine Page 11

  “Oh, Lord,” Ginger screamed.

  “So, I turn the heat on blast and hold my drawers up to the vent.”

  “Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,” the ladies howled.

  “After about five minutes, they get mostly dry, but I’m sweating like a pig because it’s burning up in there. Finally, we clear the congestion point and traffic starts to really flow. My drawers aren’t quite dry, so I somehow get them to suspend on the vent so I didn’t have to hold them up there. I roll down the window when I get past downtown and now I’m driving at about sixty-five miles an hour.

  “So, I grab my pants and hang them out the window so they can dry as my drawers are drying.”

  Again, an eruption of laughter from everyone.

  “I can’t even imagine what that looked like: a half-naked man driving on the highway with his underwear stuck in a vent and his pants hanging out the window. The heat in the car worked good because my underwear got dry pretty quickly. They weren’t fresh, but they were dry.

  “I pull my pants from outside the window and position them so the wet area could take on the heat much of the way up 85 and all the way up Highway 400 to Lenox Road. By the time I get off at Lenox, the pants are not totally dry, but close to it. I put them up to my nose and was like, ‘That’s not good.’ So, I park in the mall—you had called me twice but I couldn’t pick up the phone with all that was going on.

  “While sitting in the car I somehow got my stinky drawers on and pulled my stinky pants over top of them. And the only way I could think of to try to muffle the odor was to take off my sweater and wrap it around my waist.”

  “Oh, no,” Ginger said. “I remember that night. You came in there looking crazy. And I asked you why you had your sweater around your waist. I remember.”

  “Well, I couldn’t say, ‘Because I pissed on myself and I don’t want you or Helena to smell it.’ I don’t know what excuse I gave you and I knew I looked crazy, but I had no alternative. It was a Harry Potter movie, maybe the first one, and Helena was so excited about it. I had to be there.

  “You had already purchased the tickets and I went straight to the bathroom to wash my hands. I remember Helena wondering why I didn’t hug and kiss her when I first saw you all, as usual. I made sure she sat between us because she would be so into the movie she wouldn’t think about any odors. When the movie was over, you suggested we go somewhere for dessert. I was like, ‘You and Helena go. I’ll meet you at home.’

  “And that’s my embarrassing story that I had never told anyone.”

  The women shook their heads. “I don’t think anything can top that,” Madeline said. “I give you credit: I might not have ever told anyone that story. But it was hilarious. Oh, my God.”

  “And the way you told it,” Ginger said. “I didn’t realize you had that kind of comedic timing. Just hilarious.”

  “It’s like you’ve been waiting to tell that story,” Brenda said. “And it didn’t take a buzz from wine to get it out of you.”

  “You know what else I remember about that night,” Ginger said. “I found it curious then, but didn’t say anything.”

  “What was that?” Paul asked.

  “When Helena and I got home, you were taking a bath,” she said, and they all burst into laughter again.

  “Yes, I was,” Paul said. “I needed a bath that night.”

  They all laughed some more before catching their breath.

  “I will never look at you the same, son-in-law,” Madeline said. “And I mean that as a compliment. You have way more of a sense of humor than I ever thought.”

  “I’m a funny guy,” he said. “Well, maybe not funny, but I appreciate a good laugh as much as the next guy.”

  “That has to be one of the funniest stories I ever heard,” Brenda said.

  “I’ll drink to that, literally,” Paul said. “Ma, look in that bag between you two.”

  There she found two bottles of The Prisoner wine, a delicious California Zinfandel that traveled in his luggage, and four glasses. “I thought maybe we could have a little something to sip on while we drive,” Paul said. “How are you all feeling?”

  “Maybe that’s what I needed—a good laugh—to feel better because I sure do,” Madeline said.

  “I can at least sip on a little,” Brenda said.

  “Here, let me open it,” Ginger said.

  “Paul, you’re driving, so…” Ginger said.

  “I know. I’ll get some when we get to the park,” he said. “But don’t think I forgot: Somebody has to tell an embarrassing story.”

  “If we finish these two bottles of wine, I’ll be glad to tell a couple of stories,” Madeline said.

  “OK, I’ll tell one now,” Ginger said. “It won’t be as long as Paul’s but I never told this to anyone.”

  “Oh, really,” Paul said. “OK, I’m ready for this.”

  “All right, so I get a promotion on my job to senior marketing analyst,” Ginger began, “and the men in the office are livid. You know how men are—well, you might not, Paul, but I’m sure our parents do. They think women are inferior and should advance only so much.

  “Well, I earned the promotion and my boss was courageous enough to give it to me knowing how the men in the office would react. So, anyway, I have a week to make this big presentation in front of my boss, his boss and the men who were angry I got the job.

  “I prepared my butt off to make this presentation awesome. I needed to impress everyone. So, I go to the salon and get my hair done. I bought a beautiful new suit. I’m ready.

  “I start my day as I usually do: with a light breakfast of juice and yogurt and a cup of coffee. I’m totally prepared. We get into a boardroom and I’m looking great and feeling great. I’m about to nail it, and make those guys look silly.

  “So I get introduced and I get up to the head of the table where I have my stuff set up on an easel. I start great, talking about our competitor’s approach to this particular project, and I can see in my boss’ face how proud he is that he promoted me. But then it happened: I turned to point out something on the easel and as soon as I turned my back totally to them, I let out the loudest fart you could imagine.”

  Paul, Madeline and Brenda screamed in laughter. “Are you serious?” Brenda asked.

  “Totally,” she said.

  “Wow,” Madeline said. “You never told me that.”

  “What did you do?” Paul said.

  “Well, first of all, it wasn’t merely loud, but it was stinky,” Ginger said, and the laughing began again.

  “So I’m standing up there, afraid to even turn around to see their faces. But when I do turn around, it’s like the funk rushed up my nose. And it was so strong that it jolted me; I couldn’t hide on my face that it stunk to high hell.”

  More laughter.

  “So I’m standing there, gagging on my own fart, and they are looking at me and trying to pretend they didn’t hear it or smell it.”

  More laughter.

  “So what did you do?” Paul said, finally.

  “I looked at them with a straight face and said, ‘That’s what I think of the competition.’ ”

  Paul, Brenda and Madeline laughed loudly, just as the men in the boardroom had.

  “I can’t even tell you how embarrassed I was,” Ginger said. “The funny thing is that after that, I was even more loose and the guys even loosened up and somehow, my fart at the wrong time helped me and those guys have a better relationship. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t trust them. But from that moment on they stopped being so rude and distant with me. So it’s made for a better working environment.”

  “Wow,” Brenda said. “It takes passing gas to get men to respect you. How crazy is that?”

  They settled down and the attention turned to wine.

  “This is some good wine, Vino,” Brenda added. “I’m feeling much better.”

  “Look at that,” Paul said, pointing to the Golden Gate Bridge.

  “Beautiful,” Madeline said.

>   Paul drove across the bridge, slowly, and the magnificence of the view quieted the car. No one said a word. They snapped photos and admired the prodigious bridge and skyline of San Francisco off in the distance.

  “Just beautiful,” Ginger said.

  Paul took the first exit over the bridge and worked his way back and crossed the bridge again, headed toward Napa. Dozens and dozens of people walked across the bridge.

  “Look, Brenda,” Madeline said. “That’s gonna be us.”

  “But, Paul,” Brenda said, “we’re not walking back across, so you’re going to have to come pick us up on the other side.”

  The traffic was heavy going back across the bridge, which was fine to the ladies; they got to take more photos and enjoy the cloudless day even more. Once they parked at Golden Gate Park, they stood outside the car and enjoyed the wine.

  “I’m gonna need to walk off this wine,” Brenda said. “I’m feeling it.”

  “Let’s do it,” Madeline said. “You walking with us, Ginger?”

  “I think I’m going to pass,” she answered. “I want to admire this view, enjoy this wine and relax. That’s what a vacation is to me.”

  So off the seniors went, leaving Paul and Ginger in the park. She did not wait long to address her concerns. All that laughing in the car made her feel good, but it did not eliminate the angst she had about how Paul lost his job and that he did not tell her.

  “I don’t understand; how am I supposed to feel?” Ginger said. “You told me you got laid off, but you got fired. And you got fired because of sexual harassment. How can I believe anything you say?”

  “Oh, so it’s the ‘Boy Who Cried Wolf’ thing, huh?” Paul said. “Nothing I say is the truth? I’ve lied so much that you can’t believe anything that comes out of my mouth? Well, if you truly believe that, then what I have to say about it won’t matter. If you don’t believe that—which I hope you don’t—then maybe we can get past this.

  “Gin, it is very simple: I sent the woman an inappropriate text message with the video. That was it. I told her repeatedly that I’m a married man. I have tried to figure out why she would turn on me like she did and I’m guessing it was because I never bit on her advances. They were subtle, but they were also obvious. And I stuck to: ‘I’m going home to the wife.’ ”

  “Do you understand that even if what you said is true,” Ginger said, “the violation and the dishonoring of our marriage is in you having these private jokes and text messages; you were building a relationship with her. And if she didn’t get offended by the video, you’d still have this secret relationship with her. That’s the violation and the disrespect.

  “If you felt compelled to never mention her to me—not even say her name—then it shows there was something to hide, or something you thought you’d want to hide in the future. And that’s hard to swallow.

  “I can think you asked me for a divorce because you were going to run away with whatever her name is. I could believe that you decided to try to stay in the marriage because she broke up with you. I could believe that you could still have something going with her. I could start thinking about those times you said you worked late—were you really working or working with Sophia?

  “You see what I’m saying? This kind of thing triggers a whole lot of distrust and a whole lot of questions—and none of it is good.”

  Ginger’s points were so valid that Paul pondered them for a minute or so. He looked off in the direction of the bay, with Alcatraz in the far-off distance. He did not want to react to what she said right away. To do that could mean he was more interested in reacting than actually listening, and he did not want her to think that. So he didn’t say anything. And he didn’t know what to say.

  Finally, Ginger leaned on the car hood beside him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I get it. The things I thought were harmless clearly they aren’t harmless, even if I had no intention of doing anything with her. I’m really sorry, Gin.”

  “I’m not going to play holier-than-thou with you,” she said. “You know, laughing in the car about your peeing on yourself was such a good thing for me. It helped me purge some of the really bad feelings I had about you. They didn’t all go away. I’m not saying that.

  “But what I’m saying is that even when I was laughing, I was thinking: ‘He’s a good man and we’ve had a good life together.’ The last year or so has been hell. But here we are, in California. It could be worse.”

  Paul put his arm around his wife and looked at her. She did not look at him; she looked straight ahead.

  “Gin,” he said softly, “I’m sorry. Nothing like that will ever happen again. I promise. I love you.”

  She slowly nodded her head. With his arm still around her shoulder, he lowered it and rubbed her back. It was another of the delicate affections he used to show her early in their marriage.

  And Ginger began to cry—at first tears sliding down her face and then downright weeping. Paul hugged her tightly, with both arms. He was alarmed. He knew his wife, and the way she cried was a sorrowful cry, not tears she might shed in a time of personal turmoil.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “You’re crying; something must be wrong,” Paul said.

  “We’ve been through a lot,” Ginger said. “As soon as we take one step forward, there’s one step back. I’m worn out.”

  “Stay here,” Paul said. “We need to finish this bottle—and open the other one, too.”

  He went into the car and poured the last of the wine in their glasses. Ginger wiped her eyes and took a deep breath as Paul stood in front of her with the wine.

  “I will do anything to get us past this,” Paul said. “Let’s take in the moment. Look at where we are. It’s a beautiful day. Look at that bridge above us and the mountains and the city over there and the boats…and you cannot get much more picturesque than this. We have to enjoy it. We have great wine and a perfect day. No more crying, no more negative anything. Let’s live.”

  “You said you’d do anything for us to get past this,” Ginger reminded him.

  “I don’t like the way you said that,” Paul noted. “But I did say it. Why?”

  “I want to walk across the Golden Gate Bridge,” she said.

  “Gin,” Paul said, “not that. We’re sitting here enjoying the amazing view, sipping on wine. It’s lovely.”

  “How we gonna let our mothers do it, but not us?” Ginger said. “That’s crazy. Imagine what the view is from up there. And we can put our wine in a cup and—”

  “A cup?” Paul said. “Wine is not to be consumed in a foam cup,” Paul said.

  “You know what you sound like? An English snob without the accent,” Ginger cracked. “You can do it. You flew all the way across the country to get here… You said you’d do anything.”

  “Wine relaxes me,” he said. “Let’s finish this up and then I’ll do it—only because I want to make things right with us.”

  CHAPTER 11

  BRIDGING THE GAP

  Paul finished his wine, and another glass, before they embarked on the journey across the Golden Gate Bridge. Oh, and he carried some in a foam coffee cup, too.

  He decided he’d talk as much as possible to keep his mind off of what he was doing.

  “Do you know the bridge is seventy-five years old?” he said as they made their first steps across it. “I read up on it. It was built in 1937. It took almost four years to build.”

  Ginger sensed what Paul was doing, so she engaged him. “Tell me more,” she said as she looked out at the stunning view. Paul kept talking, but she was mesmerized by the beauty and hardly heard him.

  “Ok,” Paul said, “the bridge is one-point seven miles long. So, it should take us about an hour and a half to walk it. We’ll probably catch up with our mothers at some point.

  “During construction, eleven men died falling off this bridge. They had this safety net hanging below the bridge and when men fell, it wou
ld catch them. Those who fell in it were entered into the ‘Halfway-To-Hell Club.’ It caught nineteen men.

  “But eleven men died when a part of the scaffolding collapsed and ripped through the net. That’s crazy, right?”

  Ginger didn’t answer.

  “Here’s what’s even more crazy,” Paul added. “More people have committed suicide jumping off this bridge than anyplace else in the country. There was a documentary I saw called ‘The Bridge’ that actually showed some of the twenty-four suicides off this bridge in 2004 alone. Now that’s crazy.”

  “Yeah, it is,” Ginger said. “I hope no one does that today, while we’re up here… Paul, look. Look out there.”

  There were a plethora of sailboats elegantly drifting in the water, decorating the bay with brilliant colors. A few clouds seemingly strategically placed gave the image the feel of a painting.

  Paul looked, and the view was so breathtaking that he stopped talking.

  “My God,” he said. He sipped his wine. “Unbelievable. I imagined it would be beautiful, from what I saw while driving across the bridge. But this? This is crazy beautiful.”

  Ginger looked up at him. “I know,” she said. “You cannot tell me there is not a God. Man built this bridge. But all that out there…the water, the island, the mountains, the sky…that’s God’s work.”

  They walked the next five minutes without saying a word. Ginger could hardly take her eyes off the view. Paul watched the people. He could tell the locals; they walked briskly and hardly glanced to admire the stunning scenery. The first-timers or visitors took it in slowly, walking at a deliberate pace while stopping often to take and pose for photos.

  “Since I’m up here,” Paul said, “we might as well get a picture.”

  “You’re gonna need to get up against the rail,” Ginger said.

  “OK,” Paul said with confidence that he did not have. But he decided to do it instead of thinking about it.

  So, he stopped at an angle where Ginger could capture the magnificent San Francisco skyline behind him. But people walked by, between them, so she had to wait a few minutes before it was clear to take the photo.