Vine, Wine & Dine

Editing and storyline suggestions are by Aaroneous. Thanks to him, I am able to complete a sentence or two without error. His help is greatly appreciated.

Vine, Wine & Dine.

Things haven't always been shitty in my life.

Until just recently, they had in fact been great! Yeah, I was one of the assholes who made far too much money for the schooling I had. I did nothing productive or even helpful, unless you count lining the pockets of the already wealthy as being worthwhile.

But in the end, it was the job I did best, and right up until about 13 months ago I had a life many men would be of envious of. I am in my prime at almost 42 -years-old. I'm in great physical health, single, divorced, no children, and plenty of expendable cash at my fingertips. I have travelled much of the world. Slept with my share of pretty girls. Own a large condo in the Financial District. I was even chauffeured around town, letting my Range Rover sit in a parking spot that I paid $1500 a month for.

But on September 13^th, it all came to a grinding halt.

September 13^th was the day when my working world stopped revolving.

*****

The expected hush fell over the core of the outer office when they stepped off the elevator. It wasn't the first time this crew, or a crew very similar to them, had shown up at our offices, and it surely wouldn't be the last. The only thing making it different this time was I knew they were headed toward my office.

My office. The best office on the floor. The one with the best view. The one given to the top producer in the company. The one always claimed by the best. The one all other brokers envied. The one so envied, people would do almost anything to get it, including lie about me and try to cheat me out of it. The one I would probably never see or step foot in again after today.

Their squad had numbers. There were seven of them in total. The Magnificent Seven. Six guys and one lady. They always brought a token lady to be the "bad cop".

No introductions were handed out because no one needed to be told who they were. We all knew. Hell, the cleaning staff knew who they were.

There were always giveaways to let you know. Not the "Hello my name is..." kind. Rather, the cheap suits, the bargain bin Walmart ties, accompanied by the worse Shoe Depot loafers. They were all business, right down to their matching, shitty, vinyl briefcases.

Their mission was to knock us down a peg. Teach us to not make profit off the poor practices of our country and its many corporations. And they always claimed to have been tipped off by an internal source.

The internal source part I could believe because, like I said, success sometimes breeds contempt in our business. Your peers and partners begin to question and challenge the way you do things. They'll question your ethics, especially if they follow the same guidelines and business plan you do. It's even worse if they don't have as profitable a year as you do or match your success. The problem is, those who are jealous usually spend less than half the time in the office you do, but they never take that fact into account. The only ones in the building who don't question or complain about how well you are doing are the expensive suits that are making large returns off your efforts. The Uber rich pricks who hide in offices so big they have their own zip codes.

Word had spread around about calls having been made. They complained about the razor's edge I was walking. Yes, there are loopholes, and I may at times use those 'loopholes' to mine and my client's advantage but, truth be told, I had done absolutely nothing wrong, so I wasn't worried.

The Banking Commission watchdogs spent over five hours in my office and in the boardroom. I was questioned, more like interrogated. They searched my files, my computer, my phone, my briefcase, my jacket, my wallet, and they found nothing. The bastards even ate sandwiches provided by the company where I worked. The company making huge earnings off of me. I questioned which side they were on.

In the end, they found exactly what I knew they would: squat, zip, zilch, nada. They kept quizzing and badgering me until they had had enough.

My answers never changed. It was hard to get caught if you provided the same answers over and over. And when the answers you give are the truth, you'll never get caught in a lie.

The accusation was "insider trading". They had not found any hard proof. But it didn't matter, they could and did seize "some" of my assets and my "trading accounts". My trading license was also under suspension until my name was cleared. Hah! To me, my license suspension was the biggest joke of the day, because once something like this happens, your name is never cleared. It stays stuck in the mud, and your time on Wall St. is up. The only promising thing was, I wasn't under house arrest.

Words and whispers spread around the office. I sat in the Senior V.P. of Strategy's office while I waited for a verdict. Everyone knew I would be off payroll by the end of the day, so it was in his office that I committed the only crime I had while working for the company. Yeah, maybe days, or maybe just hours, but sometime after I was gone, and when the waters calmed, poor Ward Seabrook would notice his precious 1977 signed New York Yankees World Series Championship ball was missing.

So, on the morning of the 13^th, under the ever-watchful eye of company security, I walked the walk of shame. With a box of personal effects in hand, I held my head high and was escorted out. My colleagues promised they would do everything in their power to right this wrong. But I knew as soon as I hit the street, they wouldn't waste their time or a single dime on clearing me.

So, standing curbside on Wall St. at 41 years -of -age, I realized I was unemployed, divorced, and a potential felon. I was every woman's dream guy.

*****

Non-working life proved to be a bit boring, so I changed my routine. A morning jog through the Battery did nothing to cheer me up. It had been over 60 days since my "suspension" of duties and trading abilities. Not being able to work did nothing for my mood. I was getting more and more agitated by the day.

I jogged the streets and sidewalks directly in front of my building and continued around the block until I was at the front door of my condo complex. There was no need to be shy, because not a single person acknowledged me. Those who knew me, acted like I had a horribly contagious disease. One able to infect all of NYC if they asked me how I was doing.

Juan stared at me from behind the concierge desk, but there wasn't a hint of a smile on his face as the hinges on my mailbox squeaked open. This guy, this Juan, is the same prick I gave Nets tickets to on multiple occasions, and always gave a hefty Christmas bonus. This year, he could suck my...

"Morning, Juan" I said as I passed his desk. Yep, nothing. Fuck him and the asshole Nets.

Sorting through the envelopes, I made three piles. Read now, read later, and junk. I made a latte and said the hell with it. I read everything, including the Little Caesars advertisement.

When I was done, I made a call and was surprised when someone on the other end answered. Turned out my lawyer was away on vacation for the holidays. Well, lucky him.

Out of instinct, I hit the play button on my answering machine and took a long pull on my latte.

"Christopher, stop avoiding me. I've called you three days in a row. Fly west for the holidays. You and Bill can watch some football, get all pissed up, and talk about the good old days when both of you actually worked. It'll help you to put all the bad things out of your head for a bit. Plus, I have an interesting proposal for you. Very lucrative if you ask me." My sister-in-law, Erin had called me three days in a row, but there was no way in hell I was going to California for Thanksgiving.

So, with California out of the question, I pondered calling Erin anyway. She always had some pretty good ideas, and her and my older brother William / Bill lived a pretty good life off the financial windfall of my said endeavors. Even so, it wasn't worth the trip to San Francisco, or was it?

*****

The older style Yellow Cab was waiting for me at the entrance of my building. With just a carry-on, there was no need for the driver to pop the trunk. I would never have wanted to put my Lotuff #12 in there anyway.

The beat-up taxi was a far cry from the Maybach used to drive me around in the glory days, but it got me to the airport on time.

When we pulled up at the departure gate, I handed the driver the cash and a tip. I thought about giving him the Yankee's ball but wanted to give it to Bill. Since he moved to California, he had been a Dodgers fan, and in '77 the Yankees beat the Dodgers to win the Series.

An uneventful flight. Two and a half whiskey sours, a bagel, a small smear of cream cheese, then out of the blue, the sound of tires hitting the asphalt runway.

With the drinks in me I felt uncomfortable enough to not rent a car for the drive to Vallejo. I found a Limo at the arrivals gate and, in just a few minutes, we were racing down highway 80.

Bill and Erin were and weren't surprised to see me. It was not uncommon for me to make frequent stops at their house and there was always a spare room for me, but since my little run in with the authorities, I'd stayed close to home.

"Christopher!" Erin flung her arms over my shoulders. I'd always been her favorite brother-in-law. Her words, not mine.

"Chris, call next time. That way I won't waste my time answering the door." My big brother smiled and shook my hand. When I didn't release the grip, he added, "I'm not kidding, I was hoping you were the hot little redhead from next door."

Erin slapped her husband's shoulder.

"Go ahead asshole. I'll have fun spending your insurance policy when she kills you."

"For you," I said, handing the glass cubed ball to my brother.

"You're still a dick little brother. Thanks, but screw the Yankees."

Nothing in their lives had changed. I spent the next three hours explaining what had happened in my world. It was nice to have family on my side. There were no accusations or declarations of guilt coming from them. They trusted me and believed in me. In fact, they had always trusted me enough to allow me to invest some of their money for them, and let's just say, they had a hefty nest egg. Anyway, hopefully, the courts would see it their way as well.

After dinner we had a few more drinks, played some cribbage, and called it a night. The kids would be home in the morning, and Thanksgiving was always a long day of eating and watching football.

In the morning, everyone gathered in the living room to prepare for the first game of the day. Erin called for help occasionally, but she really didn't have to, because her husband, kids and I were all very well trained. You want to eat? You better be ready to help.

The meal went off without a hitch. It was halftime of the second game and Bill and Jr. raced through the meal so that they didn't miss a play. On any other day Erin might have strangled them both, but today she had other plans.

I helped her with everything that wouldn't fit into the dishwasher and, when we finished, she guided me toward the dining room table.

"You ever go on a wine tour Christopher?"

I nodded that I had.

"Where?" she asked.

"The Finger Lakes in New York. A couple in France and one in Germany."

"Did you enjoy them?"

"Duhhh. Erin, there was food and booze, of course I enjoyed it."

She arched an eyebrow at me to put me back in line when I said that.

"In case you are unaware, wine tours have become the rage. Big money events. Everyone does it. Birthdays, bridal showers and bachelorette parties seem to be the biggest ones."

She took a sip of wine almost like it was a prop for the story she was telling.

"Fucking Catalina Wine Makers!" I said out loud.

"Yeah, Uncle Chris," my nephew yelled from in front of the T.V.

"Stop. I'm serious," Erin said.

"Okay, where are you going with this?" I knew it was something to do with the proposal she had mentioned on her message.

Anxiously Erin stared at me and started with her sales pitch.

"So, here's the deal. We buy three, maybe four of those Mercedes Sprinter Vans. The ones that hold like eight or ten people. We dress them up real nice. Make them the vans people want to be seen in, and we do wine tours. Lots of wine tours. Private. Corporate. Movie groups. We do them all. And if it's slow we can do weddings, bar mitzvah's or anything where we can make cash." She pointed at a black binder. It was everything she had on paper and then she pointed at her laptop. "Come on Christopher, you know this is a killer plan."

Erin was grinning ear to ear trying to sell me on the idea.

"I love the idea Erin, but what's the bottom line. I mean how much money can we really make? We'd need a compound with a garage and security. And who drives these beasts. You? Me? I'm not so sure with overhead and wages, we'd make any money doing it."

"Bob Whittaker and his son do it. They have shitty old Chevys, and they charge two grand a day. A grand for each van and they are booked solid," Bill chirped from the sofa. His gut full of beer and turkey.

"Just watch the game big brother and leave all the adult talk to the grown-ups." I was trying to give him a shot, but he just threw a finger in the air without even looking our way. "And?" I asked Erin.

"Yeah, you and me. I know the area and you can use GPS. I mean after a couple weekends you'll know the Valley like the back of your hand. If we get more than two, we'll hire the kids." Her kids. My niece and nephew.

"Have you crunched the numbers? Vehicle costs, insurance, gas, upkeep, rent for a home base, the cost of employing someone?" Before I finished, she pushed the black binder in front of me.

Opening it and closed it in the same motion. It appeared to be well prepared, so I poured myself a shot of bourbon, opened a beer and went out on their front porch. Bill yelled his Cowboys were about to score, but who gives a shit about the Cowboys?

I read and re-read Erin's business plan. It would need some adjustments. Crossing out a few expenditures I deemed unnecessary and adding a few comments and question marks. Somewhere along the line, time had flown by. Tiffany, my niece come outside and handed me another shot glass and cold beer.

"Your mother trying to butter me up?" I asked as I put half of the contents from the glass into my mouth.

"Not really. More like me trying to. Uncle Chris, do you know what kind of gig it would be to drive around the Valley for a job? It sounds pretty sweet if I do say so myself."

Well, at least Tiff wasn't hiding her interest in getting a job out of it.

Erin and Bill both looked at me when I came back inside. There was a long pause. Their entire family waited for me to speak.

"I'll tell you Erin, on paper, it looks pretty good, but what's between the lines that I'm not seeing. Are we planning to make this a viable business and when it peaks, sell it off to the highest bidder? Do we plan on growing it and expanding? There's lots of wine regions all over the nation. Do we franchise it. Make it a brand? What's your play Erin. It's your vision. Your baby. Run with it. Tell me everything and don't leave out a single detail."

Well, I wish I hadn't asked for details, because my sister-in-law left no stone unturned. When I crawled into bed at 2:00am, after going over the numbers for the tenth time, it felt like I was back at work.

It took some time, but it happened. I sublet my condo, taking a full year lease to try this new adventure out. I sold everything I didn't want or need and drove the Rover west. Rented a place in Vallejo and started over.

*****

With a 50 - 50 split on all expenses, Erin and I went into business together. My older brother had one of his friends do a web page for us, and we put tasteful, but custom graphics on our vehicles.

Vine, Wine & Dine.

We advertised that our company would provide a number of services, but Vineyard Tours and Dining in the Napa area would be our main source of income.

By February we started taking bookings for April, and by the end of the month, many days and evenings during the week, and every Saturday and Sunday in May and June were booked solid. Some were pre-paid and all those who hadn't paid in full, had provided a hefty security deposit.

Tiff got the job she was hoping for. She was our new receptionist / weekday driver. Her and I had BENZ #1. She did the weekdays run and left me with all the weekend treks. Bill Jr. and Erin would share the driving responsibilities in our second van, BENZ #2.

We were in business.

*****

Junior gave the first official tour. He provided a group of eight retirees a guided tour through the valley. They stopped at a few wineries and had lunch at one of them. The day went smooth, and they even gave him a $100 tip.

The first few trips for all of us were about learning. What did our groups want, and how could we provide it? Which wineries would be best suited for our cliental? Where would be the best places for them to eat?

After a few excursions, wineries started to contact us and offered incentives for bringing groups to them. Everything was coming together. We worked hard trying to provide them with the perfect experience.

At the time it felt like they were all the perfect experience, until you found yourself hosing down puke late in the evening, while trying to get ready for the next day's trip. Some trips turned out to not be nearly as fun and glamorous as it sounded.

For some reason, Bill Jr. and I tended to find more things left behind than Erin and Tiff. I mean we all found, purses and wallets, car keys and fobs. But Bill and I found some fairly odd trinkets. Phone numbers written on napkins and scrap paper. Panties. Lot of panties, some with phone numbers. Condoms. Yes. Used and unused. Bill even found an IUD. I found a retainer, which I joked was the matching protector, just used at different ends of the body. Yeah, we would find the strangest things.

Friday night I sat outside and went over the notes Tiff sent me about my Saturday May 7^th, excursion.

Her notes said, "A spoiled bride to be, plus five bridesmaids. Her sister is included in those numbers, but she is the "maid of honor", and she booked and paid for the trip."

Tiff listed all of the girl's names. Their drink and refreshment preference. The time of start and finish, venues they 'must' see, and the hotel where I would be picking them up. 11:00am sharp at The Westin Verasa.

The August bride and her entourage were spending a final weekend of freedom in Napa. It was to be a whole day of fun for the ladies.

*****

Pulling the Benz to a stop under the front entrance awning, I noticed three young ladies sitting on the semi-circle wall, having a smoke. When they noticed the shiny black, grey and chrome beast come to a stop, one of them ran over and stood by the driver's side window. I lowered it before she knocked.

"Are you Chris?" the young beauty asked.

"I am. Might you be Stacey?"

The girl shook her head and took the last drag off her cigarette and flicked the butt into the shrubs like a pro. It was like she'd never heard of California wildfires.

"No. It's Jillian, but Jill works. I booked this trip. Stacey is my little sister. She'll be down in five. Can we smoke in this thing? We'll be gone for the whole six hours, right?" She was talking rapidly.

"Sorry. No smoking in any public vehicles. And yes. Six or more."

I jumped out and opened the side doors, pulled out the additional steps, and waited.

"You can load up if you want. It's a bit cooler inside than out here."