Bottle Services

So how did this happen? Oh right—we were driving, then the trucks. Two trucks. On the mountain road. I had jumped off the A8 and was racing down the A500 towards the sea. We were in a rental car, heading to Monte Carlo to hit the casino, and if my luck held, have a nice dinner at Louis XV. Well obviously my luck didn’t hold. 

She doesn’t even crack a smile. 

I came around the bend and saw the truck. Possibly full
of office furniture. I made the split second decision to pass instead of hitting the brakes. I was halfway past the Semi when the other truck came around the bend. Italian, cheese, I think. I remember his horn screaming while my own little Peugeot horn let out a little bleep. That’s it. Explosion maybe? Not sure. The driver could have done the gentlemanly thing and swerved into the other truck, sending them both down towards the Mediterranean in a ball of flame, but it seems a little late for what-ifs. 

Have you seen my flask? No? Pity. Calvados, Christian Drouin, V.S.O.P. Almost full. 

You know, there wasn’t that moment, the one you see at the movies. Drifting above the scene while the rescue men work
on you, feeling tranquil, beatific smile, that sort of thing. In all honesty I feel neither light nor tranquil, I’m actually kind of itchy, which I have to say comes as a bit of a shock. I feel worst about Mollie. Any chance I’m going to bump into her? It’s going to be a hell of an apology. 

She’s not here. 

Of course not, much better person than I. Me? Well you get it. Raw deal for her, one poor decision and poof, it’s all over. The thing is, it hadn’t been going well. The bickering started
in Lisbon and then there was the blowup in Biarritz. Honestly I don’t know why I thought this trip was going to fix anything. You know what they say. 

Silencio. 

Everywhere you go, there you are. 

Silencio más. 

We were a disaster in LA. It was falling apart at the seams and I was desperate to patch things up. The smart thing to do would have been to pack it in, we were clearly past our sell-by date, but, I don’t know, maybe I was scared of change, of being alone. So it was me that suggested a jaunt through Europe. Change of scenery, seven weeks without any of her idiot friends. New perspective and all that. But neither of us could stop the nitpicking, the passive aggression and, truth be told, that night, I guess it’s tonight, we were in an all out screaming match in the car. 

I could probably blame the whole thing on her, but I assume there is someone around who knows the truth. 

There’s you. 

I mean, besides me. Someone who would look at the whole thing with an unjaundiced eye and make the final call. Am I going to meet people or deities or whatnot. I would quite like to spend some time with Jack Kennedy—always been a
big fan. I take his dance card must be pretty full. I mean, you drive through France and every town has a Kennedy boulevard, uncanny really. Oh, and my family of course, you know, in due time. 

What will you miss most? 

Jesus that’s a loaded question. Sorry, I guess I need to tone down the swearing. Miss most? Am I supposed to go with sunrises on the beach? The laughter of children? A well-sung aria? 

I’ll tell you what I’m really going to miss for real. The warm embrace of a well made Blanton’s Single Barrel Old Fashioned all alone in a dark bar in the afternoon. The sound of a poorly opened Champagne cork popping out and hitting the chandelier while the incipient foam from the Krug ’89 seeps into the carpet. Walking through the snow in Iwate to taste Hiroko Yokosawa’s epic Moon Ring Sake. It’s made from Mochi rice. You know, until 1976, women weren’t even allowed inside Sake breweries, and now she’s one of the best Toji in the business. The first time I loved a martini, I remember it 

as Bombay, but it could have been Beefeater, a damn fine Gin that got me both into, and out of, plenty of scrapes back when I was...what? Alive? 

So that is what you miss most? Drinking? 

A fucking lame answer I’m sure, but totally from the heart. 

OK then, that is what you will be provided. 

Are you serious, an eternity of drinking? A glass appears in my hand. Is this Ardbeg? The first real Scotch I ever appreciated brings back a lot of memories. London, long nights at Annabel’s. My God this is wonderful. 

I go to embrace her, but my arms pass right through. 

So, about Mollie. Is there a chance I can see her soon? We had our share of troubles, but the thing is, after all the bullshit, I really did love her. 

Not soon. 

Ahh, so she really has ascended to some higher plane. That’s what she always said would happen to her. Too clever by half, if you’ve heard the expression. Always smiling that I know something you don’t know smile that drove me mad. 

When I asked her what she missed most, she said ‘being alive,’ so I sent her back. 

The glass slips from my hand and smashes. Are you fucking kidding me? Again, apologies—I’m here baring my soul and she just figures out some loophole? 

In the hospital, Mollie opens her eyes. She is surrounded by doctors, nurses and a priest. Where’s Bill, she asks. The priest drops to one knee and takes her hand. No, she says, and rolls away from him. We can see her smiling. 

Well it won’t be forever, right? I mean, this is forever. Or is 

it?
She shrugs. 

I wonder then. Who got the better deal?