Wineland
Ray Timmins
I was up drinking one night. Not doing much else. Had the day off and spent it going to the movies with a friend. After the movie he said he to study. I had graduated college a year earlier, we had met in a humanities class. He was a good guy, but I never drank with him. I mainly drank alone; or, when I was alone.
So my life since college had consisted of working, drinking and writing. I was a food courier. I delivered meals from local restaurants, mostly to stoners who didn’t mind paying a few extra bucks so they didn’t have to leave the house. The job took very little mental energy, which was good That, I saved for after work, when I wrote.
That day, the drinking started just before sunset. Malt Liquor. The Bull never did me no wrong. I picked up a bottle of Scotch and a bottle of wine on my way home. A double dropkick of precious poisons.
I sat on my mattress and looked around my room cluttered with all sorts of bottles, papers, books and clothes. “Yes,” I screamed, “this is surely the room of a genius!”
The roommate knocked on the wall, letting me know that I was being too loud. I flipped him off through the wall.
The late shifts, the drinking, the laziness had been taking its toll. I had unconsciously decided to wallow in a physical manifestation of my cluttered mind. Sometimes, it was actually a source of comfort. The mess in the room was piled higher than the mattress. The mattress had no sheet—it had slid off and lay somewhere in the mess. There were three pillows, one with a case, and a blanket carelessly thrown across it all.
I looked at my CDs. There were nearly 150 of them. They were the only things organized out of all my stuff. Trying to decide what I was in the mood for, I chose Stravinsky. Good ol’ Stravinsky. I put the disc in my player and hit PLAY. The Rite of Spring began. The eerie beginning had always hooked me with titanium claws and this time was no exception.
I finished off my beer and cracked open the wine. I took a huge swig, gritting my teeth as it went down. I poured some Scotch. I went to the bathroom and mixed in some water from the tap. I made it back and sat on my mattress and turned my computer on.
I wasn’t in the mood to write, so I played Tetris. I took a swallow after each stage.
My beautiful room temperature cheap wine—my lovely Scotch and bathroom tap water. My Tetris. I was playing worse and worse the more I drank but I didn’t care.
No woman—we’d broken up some months back. Maybe I wouldn’t drink so much if I had a girl, I thought. But, at that moment, drinking seemed an equitable trade-off. Women were too much hassle anyway. No arguments with my wine.
I pulled the wine bottle close to my face and peered inside. I’m so fucking bored, was all I could think. I looked at the sweet purple liquid, the sacred blood of my life. And, I swear, I saw a face in there. It winked, as if to say, “C’mon in, man.”
Then I saw the face again, and it said, “C’mon, let’s go, man.”
“Alright,” I said and stuck my finger in the bottle, but it didn’t get very far. I then tried sticking my tongue in the bottle, with similar results. I looked down in the bottle again.
The face was smiling: “Whatcha waiting for?”
“I can’t fit. I’m too big. I can’t!”
The face in the wine only said, “C’mon in, man,” real cool-like, real smooth.
I sat for a moment and finished my Scotch—my 5th or 6th one, maybe my 7th, I lost track—when I got an idea.
I took a huge swallow of the sweet sweet wine—Dionysus cringed in envy. Suddenly, I was spinning in a mad vortex. Blue and orange, red and green, purple and yellow and colors I had never seen before, all at once. The full spectrum of emotion swept over me, overwhelming me. The feeling bordered on orgasm, then hit it, sustaining it for several moments as I continued to spin into the vortex. Endorphins exploded in a multi-colored fireworks display.
I splashed down in a purple sea. I surfaced surrounded by a sickly sweet, foul smell. I tasted the water—it was merlot. A small wooden dinghy floated toward me. There was a guy in a blue polyester suit with white slacks holding the oars. He slowly stood and offered me a hand. As he pulled me into the boat I noticed that it was the face I had seen in the wine bottle. He had been the one calling to me. I didn’t feel I could totally trust him yet, but he was offering to pull me into his boat. So I didn’t have much choice if I wanted to avoid drowning.
“Welcome aboard, man” he said, winking an eye, wearing a toothy grin as white as his sparkling pants (which, surprisingly, had no wine splashes from the mist of the grapy sea spray).
He sat back down and grabbed the oars, whistling and rowing while I caught my breath.
“Where are we going?” I said.
“Wineland, my friend!”
I was still confused, but put my apathy turned into trust and I just decided to go with the flow. I gazed upon the sea of wine and suddenly craved a drink. I cupped my hands and scooped up some wine.
“Careful,” he said.
“Huh?”
I looked at him, then heard a gurgling noise as the wine splashed all over my face and chest. I saw a humongous, scaly creature rise from the purple depths and lunge toward me. It had seven eyes and had sharp, jagged teeth that reflected light. Each eye spun like a mad pinwheel and threatened to hypnotize me, but I looked away. I jerked back and slammed back against the other side of the boat.
The strange man laughed.
I sat up and tucked my head between my legs, trying to block out all light—hiding myself from everything. Just wait till we hit land, I thought, and I’ll figure this all out.
I picked my head up and saw a bottle floating by. Quickly, I snagged it and opened it. There was Scotch inside. I took a good pull, chasing it with a gulp of stale air. It was damn good stuff. Made me feel all warm inside.
As I drank, I saw another small boat passing. A fat, jolly man waved and yelled, “Hey, Hannibal!”
“Hey, man,” the man in my boat yelled back, with a plastic grin.
“Who’s that?” I asked him.
“That’s my good ol’ buddy, Scotch.”
The boat came closer to us. Scotch smiled and said to me, “I see you got my gift. Good, ain’t she?”
He had wooden eyes and wooden skin. He had on no shirt, but wore a kilt around his huge, hairy belly. He spoke in a thick Scottish accent, which I’d always thought sounded humorous no matter what the person was saying.
“Mighty tasty,” I said to him.
“Take care of ‘im,” Scotch said to Hannibal, “ya hear me, boy?”
“Yes, sir,” Hannibal said.
Scotch rowed away.
“What a good guy,” the captain of our pathetic craft said, smiling that awful smile to himself.
I was feeling better. I still didn’t know what the hell was going on, but I was more comfortable and decided to talk to Hannibal.
“Hey Hannibal, when are we gonna hit land? I’m kinda hungry.”
“Well there’s plenty of fish out there. Big ones!”
We both laughed.
“Ah, we don’t need to eat, anyway. But we’ll hit land soon enough. I’ll get you a sandwich or something. For now, drink up, man.”
We drifted in silence for a few moments and I looked at the sky with its spinning clouds and glittering lights of green, purple, orange and blue. Then, out of nowhere Hannibal said, “So, are you the sentimental type?”
“Huh?”
“Ya know, do you cling much to the past? Do you miss old friends or long for the good ol’ times or anything?”
“Not much. I mean, sometimes, but not much. Anymore.”
“That’s good,” he smiled.
“Why?”
“Just asking. No matter.”
“Listen, what the hell are you talking about? You’ve been mostly silent up till now and then you ask me something and won’t explain what you mean.”
“You’ll be fine. Don’t worry yourself,” he said, still grinning. “Why don’t you grab a beer outta the cooler and toss me one, man.”
I spotted a big red cooler that I hadn’t seen up till now. I opened it, grabbed two beers and gave him one. He opened his bottle then tossed me the opener. I decided to forget about trying to get any answers out of him for the time being. The beer was cold and good. I drank it quickly.
“Another?” I asked.
“Help yourself, man. There’s plenty more where that came from.”
“Where exactly are we?”
“We’re in the Sea of Wine, on course for Wineland,” he said, pointing and laughing loudly.
I wished I had a friend there with me. We would be able to figure this shit out. But all I had was Hannibal. I looked at him. He had purple stains on his white pants now. His jacket was too small. His hair was a mess. The wind was strong and getting stronger.
The sky grew darker. I was now feeling sick to my stomach. I leaned over the side of the boat, hoping one of those horrible fish creatures weren’t around. I puked. It was a greenish yellow color. I watched it as the boat rowed on—drifting like a genie—till I couldn’t see it anymore.
I felt like shit. I grabbed another beer. “Want another one?”
“No thanks, man, I got one while you were yacking.”
“Are we almost there?”
“I dunno? What do you think?”
“The hell if I know—you’re the one rowing!”
“Oh, yeah. I guess I am rowing.”
It was useless. I drank my beer.
“Hey, man, you wanna row?”
“Me? I don’t know where we’re going?”
“Sure you do.”
“Hannibal ol’ bud, you keep rowing, why don’tcha?”
“Alright, man.”
I drank three handfuls of the wine and lay back. Night had fallen. I watched the stars blur, leaving trails. They’d used to seem so magnificent. I used to get lost in them, and would stare for hours. Now, they seemed so far away and small: tiny pinholes in black construction paper. No dimension, no brilliance, no majesty.
I grabbed two more beers and tossed one to Hannibal. By the light of the moon I could see him wink as he caught the beer and cracked it open—a smooth professional.
I drained mine. I shook the bottle above my mouth to get every last drop. Then I remembered Hannibal saying that there was “plenty more where that came from” and smiled. Wineland. I couldn’t even imagine. Suddenly I felt sad. Hopeless and helpless. Damn, I was drunk! And I felt lonely. Hannibal wasn’t much company and seemed generally apathetic. I looked up at him and he still had that terrible smile. I wanted some of that sweet, seductive wine. I cupped my hands and helped myself.
As I was leaned over I lost my balance and fell in. We must have hit a wave or something. I flapped my arms, splashing around and I saw him offering me an oar. I contemplated not grabbing it, I was so depressed, but I eventually did and he pulled me in. He was still smiling.
I leaned up against the side of the boat, put my head between my knees and began to cry. I felt the tears hit the bottom of the boat, they were so heavy. They pinged like shot pellets. I couldn’t pick my head up. I managed to speak, though: “Where we going again, Hannibal?”
“Wineland, my man. Wineland.”
“There’s no turning back, is there?”
“Not that I know of.”
I couldn’t stop crying. “We almost there, Hannibal?”
“Soon. Real soon, man.”
I passed out in the boat, one arm hanging over the edge. The last I remember thinking was, I hope that creature doesn’t get my hand.
When I awoke, I was in my room. The screensaver made me feel ill—it was the one with all the fish swimming across it.
I looked around my room at the cluttered mess. The dizziness of the hangover hit harder. This is Wineland, I realized.
I began picking up the empty bottles.
