My sophomore year in
high school I discovered my grandparent's cottage as a wonderful place to hold an intimate
date. This only worked in the winter since the summer fills the place up with a multitude of
aunts, uncles,
cousins, brothers, parents, and one
step-sister. However, winter deserts the place and leaves it a nice cozy
love shack. The
pullout couch pulls out directly along side the
fireplace. The heat works slow and thus encourages closeness and the consumption of alcohol. All in all a wonderful ploy in my attempt at
having relations.
Plenty often I would try and class up the evening with a bottle of red wine from the local vineyard, about 3 miles from the cottage. A shitty wine, indeed, but one with that local charm which keeps so many
micro-breweries financially fruitful. I would have an older friend pick up a bottle for me. I'd grab some candles, a few
blankets, and in anticipation drive to pick up my date. She'd usually be pleased by, if not a bit wary of, our destination.
Teenagers love to be beneath roofs without adults. We'd arrive at the cottage and I would turn on the furnace, give the girl some blankets, and start a fire. Being no boy scout this typically took some time, and my date would sit
shivering smoking a cigarette. (In retrospect I don't believe I have ever dated a non-smoker). The fire would start crackling a bit, struggling to begin, and I would go to retrieve the
Holy Grail, the
Crowning Jewel,
The Bottle of Shitty Red Wine. She would smile big, I would smile big, I would look at the bottle of wine, still smiling, and I'd say "
fuck." She'd say "what?" I'd say "I don't have a corkscrew." She'd look at me like the dumb ass I am, and then with eager eyes, she'd look at me with every girls' "
you're a guy, figure something out" look.
Angry with myself for screwing up such a flawless presentation I would search and search the cottage for a corkscrew, knowing damn well that the only alcohol drank in this cottage required only fingers and an
opposable thumb to open. The search for the corkscrew in vain, I would invariably end up with a
screwdriver. It is a long, flat headed, wood handled, piece of history. It knows, in some
Tom Robbins’
Skinny Legs and All kind of way, soon it will be diving head long into a wet red room temperature vinegary substance, and it will like it. The girl sees me
wild eyed with the screwdriver in one hand, the bottle in the other, and she must be thinking what a man I am. So hard core and tough, my eyes screaming “I’ll bite the top of this damn
bottle off if I have to.” I push and I push and I shove and finally the cork shoots into the bottle.
I am no physics genius. I wasn’t one then, and I never will be. And so I was astounded when the cork finally broke into the bottle, spraying the cheap red wine directly into my face.
Still I had made it past the bottle's barrier, and with a cocky
elegance I would pour some for her, into a white plastic
Dixie cup.