The Poetry of Wine

“Let’s give a warm welcome to Matthew Bridges.”

As the moderator handed off the microphone, Sarah scrambled behind a display of Bordeaux bottles. “Unbelievable. What is he doing here?” Her mouth agape, she clutched the lip of an oak barrel, hiding.

Sarah wasn’t a wine aficionado, but she figured it would be fun to hang out in Northern California, have a few drinks, maybe tour a lighthouse, and interview some local merchant about regional wine. The Matthew Bridges she knew was the manager of a bookstore, not the proprietor of the very wine shop she was obligated to profile. This changed everything.

Seven years ago, she was on the precipice of completing her master’s degree. A stellar thesis would cinch a book deal about obscure Beatnik writers. A tricky endeavor, because truly committed Beats buried themselves so far underground they became myth. To complicate matters, they had nicknames. The poet known only as Blackbird was the most profound, and the most elusive. After Sarah stumbled on a worn copy of his slim anthology, she became obsessed.

As a student, Sarah chased Blackbird from Vermont to San Francisco. She combed university archives and hiked to the Kerouac cabin, searching for clues. At last, literature icon Ferlinghetti pointed her up the coast to speak with the manager of Albion Books, none other than Matthew Bridges. Convinced Bridges was Blackbird, Sarah sent a zillion letters and left twenty messages. Her letters were returned unopened, but in a random text, Bridges agreed to meet. At great peril, Sarah drove a washed-out road through a violent storm to keep their appointment. When she arrived at the dusty bookstore by the sea, it was locked.

Confused, Sarah watched Matthew Bridges adroitly field questions about connecting boutique winemakers with merchants. She’d been positive he was the octogenarian Blackbird, but this man in jeans and workboots was forty years too young, more surfer than sommelier. Unless Bridges owned a time machine, he wasn’t Blackbird, and never was.

Sarah stepped from behind the barrels and edged closer. Maybe he wasn’t Blackbird, but he could have sent a text saying so. He’d ruined her thesis, and now he’d ruined her trip. He wasn’t going to get her fired too.

“Mr. Bridges.”

“Yeah?”

“We have a 3:00.”

“Right.” He barely glanced at her. “Mind if we postpone?”

“Actually, yes, I do mind.” Sarah pictured the sign he’d tacked to his door. Gone Fishing with stop pestering me scratched across the bottom. “I mind very much.”

“Suit yourself.” Through a sea of navy blazers, he turned and loped across the festival lawn.

Sarah struggled to keep pace in heels. “You do remember our appointment?” Her voice was broken glass and rusty nails. She couldn’t help it.

“Yep.” Bridges gave her the side eye and smiled in a twinkly way Sarah found repulsive.“Lady, I’m starving.” He ripped open a bag of flavored chips. “And I’ve got a reception at 4:00.”

“Fine.” It was possible he was a different Matthew Bridges. She had to make sure. “Where’s your shop?”

“An hour north.”

“Describe it.”

He crunched, “Roadside shack, hanging off a cliff.”

No mistake. He must have given up books and turned to alcohol. Probably a drunk. “How long have you been selling wine?”

“Six years.”

“Why?”

“Family interest.”

“Winemakers?”

“Growers.”

“Describe your merchandise.”

“Wineries with a ‘back to the land’ esthetic.”

Sarah shot back, “That’s a hippie slogan.”

“Well, when they rediscovered nature, some grew grapes along with the rest of their food.”

“Hippies, and the Beats before them, were lazy.”

“Not lazy. Self-sufficient academics. Some made wine. Farming is hard work.”

“Those people were artists, musicians… writers.”

He raised an eyebrow and looked up from his chips. “Don’t you want to ask about sales and wine trends?“

“No. I want to discuss the language of wine.”

“I don’t name it.”

“You are the local expert?”

“Lady- what’s your name anyway?”

Her maiden name had been Simpson. For the first time she was grateful for her divorce name. Sarah pointed to her press credential.

He squinted, “Ok, Taylor, you like wine?

“Sure.”

“You probably drink big impressive labels at restaurants and parties. Customers who visit my shop want to bring a piece of California home, like a jar of sand.”

Sarah sniffed, “You’re wrong. I usually drink wine alone, reading a good book.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So what’s your question?”

What about Blackbird? Why wouldn’t you help me when I called, when I wrote, when I showed up on your doorstep? Here was her chance, but she couldn’t form the words. Instead she stuttered, “Wine language tends to be ridiculous.”

“Well, when vineyards are rooted in counterculture, you will encounter a fair amount of Cosmic Cabernet and Rainbow Rose’.”

“Why isn’t that history advertised?”

“That LSD lickers and draft dodgers make fancy hooch?”

“Does story matter? Like a book, is the sale about the title and the cover? What’s the story of your family, the growers?

Bridges stood. “Gotta go. Maybe –“

“No way. You aren’t going to ditch me –.” Sarah almost said again.

Bridges leaned in. “I’m in-vit-ing you, to my shop. Freakin’ weird interview.” He grinned before strolling away. “But I kinda dig the angry vibe.”

Was he flirting? She tried not to gag. This wasn’t over.

The next day, Sarah parked outside Albion Wine. She assumed bottles had displaced the books, but the windswept bookstore remained intact, with the wineshop inhabiting the space next door. She expected another Gone Fishing sign, but the handle turned and a bell jangled.

“Taylor? Hang on.”

The wine side was dark and low-ceilinged, with a rough wood counter. There was no horrible art, or fake fountains, just racks of wine.

“So, a bookshop.”

“Books first, then wine.” He appeared in a flannel with wet hair. “Yesterday, I heard good wine pairs well with good books.”

She toured his merchandise. Manderley Estate, Bindery Reserve, Algonquin Table Red. “I see what you’re doing here.”

“I carry locals, but yeah, words and wine. Check this out.” He handed her a bottle and she read the label out loud, “If You See Kay.” They burst out laughing and said “James Joyce” in unison.

“Where’s Angry Taylor?”

Sarah straightened her spine and cracked her neck. “Yeah. Enough of that.”

She took a breath and entered the adjoining bookstore. Trancelike, she trailed her fingers along tidy shelves toward the front door. She stared at the ocean through the same square panes of glass she had once considered smashing. The memory of banging on that same door as she sobbed in the pelting rain was still vivid, knowing at that moment her thesis was wrecked, knowing without Blackbird there would be no book. She touched the counter, the table of new writers, the rack of clever bookmarks. It was just a bookstore, and Bridges wasn’t Blackbird. Her eyes closed, she inhaled the intoxicating smell of leather and ink. Maybe it was time to let this go.

“I opened a Viognier.”

“It’s 11:30.” She half-smiled and turned toward Matthew, and froze. Nailed above the archway was a framed silhouette of a bird. Most would see a crow, but to Sarah it was proof of Blackbird.

Blood pounded in her ears as Mathew chatted about notes of green peaches and honeysuckle. He extended a glass for her to try. “You ok?”

Stunned, she crossed back into the wineshop.

Matthew said, “So the ridiculous descriptors? To me it’s liquid poetry.”

She snapped, “Crushed seashells, pencil shavings, and bread crust? Carpet glue? Forest floor is popular. How about wet dog?”

“Wet dog is bad. Seriously corked.” Glossy amber wine swirled in his glass. “Look, I won’t pretend wine won’t get you drunk. It will. People need to feel transported, but it’s damn hard to be swept away at a loud party or a business dinner. But you said you enjoy wine with a book. That’s not one, but two ways to transcend the ordinary world.”

Matthew barreled on, “What if I poured a beautiful red that conjured tobacco, barn wood, and a field of heather? What book are you reading?”

Sarah whispered, “Wuthering Heights.”

“Bingo. Old money, varnish, and a lake in the sun?”

“American Tragedy.” She was going to scream.

“Good one. So what if I told you it was possible to open that wine on another day, and escape back into the story, with just a few sips?”

Sarah gulped the Viognier, which did taste like peaches and flowers.

“If tourists enjoy a beach picnic, I can send them home with a bottle named Sea Spray, that yeah, is reminiscent of crushed shells and crusty bread. They’ll open it later, during a Nebraska blizzard, and be transported back to their picnic. Wine is magic.”

Matthew refilled her glass.“If somebody’s best memory is drinking cherry coke and smoking dad’s cigarettes, I’ve got a wine for that. If someone’s best first date was in a sunny apple orchard, I’ve got that too.” He leaned on his elbows. “So tell me Taylor, what’s your best first date?”

Sarah stammered, “College, grad school. Then…”

“You’ve never had an amazing date?” Matthew looked startled.

“I was married. I’ve had dates. Just nothing I want to bottle and save.”

“We’re done here.” He scribbled on the back of an envelope and pressed it into her hand as he ushered her out. Matthew locked the door and asked, “Taylor, will you go on a date with me tomorrow?”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

He hopped in a Jeep. “Wear different shoes.”

“Wait!” Sarah yelled as he sped away. “Who is Blackbird?”

Once again Sarah was outside his shop with no answers.

“Hwy 128, stone fence, dirt road, park, walk.” She heard the creek before she saw the crooked cabin with colored glass windows and a red door.

“You showed.” Matthew wiped dirt from an unmarked bottle, and poured into jelly jars. He buried his nose, inhaled deeply, and grunted as he tilted his head to move the liquid around his mouth. “And they say merlot doesn’t cellar.” Sarah pulled her pony tail tighter and looked away, waiting for his eyes to open.

Her plan was to present her speech, finally get answers, and leave. Instead, she found herself sitting beside a crackling fire pit in dappled sunlight. “So what am I drinking?”

Matthew stood and led her through the trees to a meadow. On a slope was a tiny vineyard, perfectly tended. Over the entrance was a hand-hewn sign. “Blackbird Vines.”

Sarah gasped.

“Is this what you’ve been looking for, Sarah Simpson?”

“You knew?”

“Not until you saw the bird picture.”

The words exploded from her mouth. “Why did you blow me off? Obviously Blackbird is real.”

“Was real. He died the week you called. I tried to meet you, I did, but I couldn’t cope.”

He shrugged. “I was a runaway, living on the beach. One day I nicked a book from Blackbird’s store. The paperback was his own volume of poems. Instead of calling the cops, we adopted each other. Gave me a place to live, and I helped out. He left me everything.”

Years of Sarah’s anger melted away.

“Very few recognized his talent. Two talents, actually. Merle in French means blackbird. Merle is merlot, named for the fruit’s black color.

“Oh! His nickname!” Sarah quoted Blackbird. “Purple tears in a crystal glass, this radical loneliness, too, shall pass.”

He nodded as she touched his hand. “You were right to close the shop and grieve, but thanks for inviting me in now.” She added, “And this is the best first date I’ve ever had.”

Back home, Sarah finished her article “The Poetry of Wine,” and opened another bottle of Blackbird’s merlot. She breathed in it’s scent. Campfire, cedar, wet rocks, raspberries, and yes, forest floor. She closed her eyes and instantly returned to Blackbird’s cabin. The very first sip brought back the taste of Matthews lips against hers, as she remembered every detail of her best first date.