And Francis had promised no drinking (solemn oath, not a drop to cross these lips). To which Keegan Young had replied, alright mate....I am trusting you. And so Francis had been left in charge of the winery over that hot, muggy bank holiday while Keegan went off to attend to a family emergency in Melbourne. Francis set up in the sagging tutor style gatehouse, which was nested in the middle of all that beautiful vineyard land. An area comprised of low hills sectioned up in row upon row of uniform grape vines. Francis had the full range of wines on display, all five, including the Chardonnay, the Sav Blanc, the Merlot, the Pino, the Cab Sav and the Merlot....all displayed on a wooden table, plastic glasses at the ready, napkins and a spittoon for the connoisseurs. And he was telling himself with 100 percent conviction that, as of today, he would set about quietly rectifying his reputation in the community after many, many years of self-inflicted damage. He would meet the tourists and flog the wine and that would be it. No shenanigans. He would showcase the range, of which he had extensive knowledge, and his own newfound sobriety at the same time.
The first family to show up was an Indian family in a minivan. They were polite and tech-ed up with Bluetooth earpieces and tablets. They were from Mumbai. Francis had a good chat with this likeable bunch, joked around with the kids, talking knowledgeably about the range, explaining the various notes at play in the profile of each wine. Francis had grown up wine country. His parents had owned a small vineyard back in the 80's so he could talk the talk. The Indian family, while congenial enough, opted not to purchase anything. This was their prerogative after all they had paid the tasting fee. After they had departed, it occurred to Francis that being stone cold sober was, in fact, inhibiting his sales abilities by not allowing him to relax and really let fly. His mojo had been muzzled. The truth was, with one or two drinks under his belt, he would be able to strut his stuff. This is what he told himself.
More visitors began to show up, their vehicles creaking up the gravel driveway, the occupants getting out, flexing road-weary muscles and stiff joints. There was one guy who was freakishly tall and barely fit into the tasting room, stooping through the doorway like an adult entering a child's playhouse. Francis went through the whole pitch again, talking up the wines. By then he had lubricated himself up with a few cheeky glasses of Pino. Big deal. You had to, didn’t you? The customers want to see you indulge a little bit. It was part of the show. Francis convinced the freakishly giant and his wife to buy two cases. And right there was the difference. The inhibited version of Francis compared to the lubricated one.
As the morning stretched on into midday and then early afternoon, more vehicles arrived, the slamming of their doors loud against the surrounding silence. Families, young couples, friends of indeterminable connection all came crowding into the little tasting room with its warped wooden door frames and floors. Francis held court, pouring out increasingly generous samples of the wine, for himself and the tourists alike. He was really hitting his stride now, oh yes, talking about the vineyard's microclimate and the move towards biodynamics but.....wait....how did he get that stain on his white polo shirt? Fuck. It just takes one little.....He tried to scrub it clean at the sink, smashing his hip into the metal countertop in the process, a sharp angular pain that resulted in an unexpected and iridescent anger. But no matter. Cut to more scenes of frivolity with the tourists, Francis really lighting up the room now, his cheeks flushed as he sang the praises of the wine, the words coming out deftly at first, his brain a factory of poetic language. At that moment E.E Cummings had nothing on Francis. No sir.
But later on, things became more difficult, muddy, and it seemed like he was tripping over his own fat tongue in his efforts to express himself. His mind was still firing off provocative messages but the delivery was falling short. And the tourists, especially some of the wives who it seemed had little patience for public drunkenness, were beginning to look a bit aggravated by this display. The men seemed alright. A little bemused perhaps but basically sympathetic. But then later, even the men's smiles began to falter. Somehow Francis had crossed the line. The demons had begun to rise up from the dirt, from the grapes, drifting in through the cracks in the floors. Demons that filled the room, promising liberation, whispering sweet nothings into Francis's ear, coercing and spurring him into action. This is your moment, they whispered. Tell it like it is Brother. Let's dispense with all these formalities and games. Let's do it to it. Let's get some fucking music going and then let's wake these walking corpses and their zombie wives up. And so Francis dived in head first, like a daredevil jack-knifing off a high tower into a very shallow barrel. As always he had overlooked something crucial. Ultimately his delivery would come at a price. After he'd had his fun, once the dust had settled, Francis would find himself back in hell. The demons would wipe their little round asses on his dignity. Change? they would whisper, later on, when there was no more fun to be had. You fat little git. You'll never 'change'. You are still the same person you always were. The same hideous collection of human malfunctions. You are just marinating in the failure of your existence. Don’t you see that buddy? Change! Don't make us laugh.
And wow, speaking of change. Somewhere along the line, the vibe with the tourists had defiantly changed. Oh man, something had gone wrong. Mass psychosis perhaps? People were leaving almost as soon as they arrived. No thanks, we're fine.....yeah...um... we...we....um....better shoot off. Is that the time? Didn't realise it was so late. Thank you! Goodbye. Francis wasn't an idiot. He could tell when people were lying to him. And then, unless he was remembering incorrectly, he nearly dragged somebody out of their car such was his determination to make them tasted the fucking wine. After all, they had driven all that way. Why else were they there? What the hell was wrong with these people? The women and children were practically cowering behind the menfolk. You would think Francis was walking around naked, covered in his own filth. And oh man, the demons, they were really out for blood today, propelling him forward, into new moments of raw confusion, scenes that started to make no sense what-so-ever. It was as if someone has suddenly and without warning changed the rules of acceptable behaviour so that every pissy little gesture and word that he uttered was wrong or offensive to all these lofty fuckers that turning up. And the frustrating thing was, all Francis good intentions kept blowing up in his face like a novelty gun in a cartoon. Why? How? And the little demons, like the uncorked fumes from the multiple bottles he had on the go, filled his head and somehow it was dark outside. And now Francis was moving through the darkness. He had entered into a sort animal state, wallowing and lost in the rows of trellises that supported the vines and the grapes, his shirt having been ripped off. The lights from the gatehouse were burning in the distance and music played loudly through an open window. His ex-wife was laughing at him. She wasn't physically there of course. No. She was miles away yet he could still hear her condemning laughter. It was the song of his failure as a husband and as a man. And her laughter was joined by all the other people he’d tried to expunge from his life but couldn't. Then he was shouting at them, making his point of view known. Except he wasn't using words anymore...just sounds. Poor Francis! Saint Francis of animals was now himself a beast. Down on all fours, his hands plunged into the rich soil, he was a dog, a pig searching for a truffle, he was sobbing and screaming, running his tongue over a newly chipped tooth, drawing a faint taste of iron blood. Everything seemed to be transpiring against him, driving him further down into the muck, blocking him at every turn. What did they want from him? To transform into an earthworm? To go down into the roots and soil. Would that satisfy them?
The real and very personal shame of all this was that Keegan, perfect Keegan, his school friend (they had gone K to year 9 together before Francis had been sent away to a posh boarding school) had suffered real setbacks in his life and yet he had managed to become a productive and happy individual, turning his family's ailing winery into a successful business. The prick. Saint Keegan. Saint of what? The grape? Tragedy only making him stronger, Keegan was forever climbing Mount Adversity, never complaining, always exuding goodwill towards his fellow man. How could two human beings, who had basically come from the same background and had the same opportunities be so different? How was this possible? This mystery above all else, in the three days that followed, pushed Francis again and again into becoming a willing slave to his primary and secondary vices. The wine flowed, washing away the connective reasoning that explained how one event related to another. Things just happened with an obstinate will of their own. Much like stepping on a rake in the dark. Bang! Like hitting yourself in the face with a stick. A sharp pain and stars. Rage. But not just one rake. Oh no. Francis was lost is a field full of rakes. Bang! Bang! Bang! They went. Over the course of those three days, Francis made twenty-seven calls to his x-wife, each attempt at contact getting progressively worse. He called other people as well. He often forgot who he was talking mid-conversation. Then a drug dealer paid him a visit. A scrawny local guy in a tracksuit. Little crystals appeared on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. A baggie was procured. Crystals that when burnt and inhaled through a little glass pipe, snapped Francis back into the cold here and now, while simultaneously shooting him forward in time at an accelerated rate. This was followed by a woman who materialised out of the internet and was eager for sexual degradation, both her own and Frances's. And man, this was no ordinary farmer's wife with a taste for online sexual escapades. No sir. This woman was a proper deviant with proper deviant requirements. What a find, thought Francis as he chomped down on the leather bit and received his fair share of erotic brutality. Sometimes you just get lucky, right? Maybe. Then again maybe not. It was only later when she explained that money was required for her services that things got ugly. What? What are you talking about? muttered Francis, genuinely confused, a sheet wrapped around his belly and lower body. Somehow an entire day had passed him by and it was night again. The windows were black. Again. Francis was tapping out some more tiny crystals, getting ready to smoke some more of that gak. The woman, clipped and professional in her demeanour now, insisted that the terms of the arrangement had been clearly established and agreed upon prior to commencement. Francis shrugged. He had no memory of agreeing to anything like this. The poor woman must be delusional, he thought. She was already on the phone, talking to someone named Rick, saying, yeah....we have a problem here. He's refusing to pay. And then her husband, this Rick guy, had turned up. Rick had a laid-back but dangerous aspect to his character. He was coiled tight. Mr. snake eyes. Mr quiet-but-suddenly-right-up-in-your-face. There was a short discussion. And then a very amicable solution was arrived at after Francis had been slapped hard, a smart pain that brought the reality of his situation back into clear focus. Ah yes. Of course. He had made a mistake. Suddenly, it was entirely clear to him. But nothing is easy, is it? Because of course, Francis had no cash. The whereabouts of his wallet was a complete mystery.
In the end, the husband and wife team took off with five hundred dollars worth of wine, well above her agreed on rate, packing the jangling boxes into the boot of the husband's Subaru, leaving Francis standing on the gravel driveway. He was still in his stained bedsheet toga. He had a fresh bottle of wine on the go and a cigarette. He watched the husband and wife team drive off into the dark, their taillights fading. It had been good while it lasted, he thought. Music was blaring out of the top floor window. Who the fuck had put on a Sting album? He wondered. Incensed, he went back in the house, killed the music, threw the Sting CD out the window and resumed his debauchery.
And at the end of the three day weekend, after more derailment of his senses, after draining the bottles and licking the baggies clean, Francis's gathering memories of the events now began pushing him headlong into the guilt and self-recrimination. Which meant the cycle became more vicious.
On Tuesday morning Keegan returned from Melbourne. He found Francis asleep in the shed around back, in a kind of nest of bedding and other items that had been dragged out of the gatehouse for reasons only a drunken lunatic could fathom. Unfortunately, Francis was now naked and caked in his own filth. Keegan left him there to sleep and went off to assess the overall damage. Half drunk bottles, broken trellises, drug paraphernalia, strewn miscellaneous objects, clothing on the grass and the gravel, smeared food, vomit, blood, a tractor parked in the middle of the entrance to the estate, music still playing from the gatehouse...evidence of Francis's rampage was abundant.
Keegan spent the rest of that day cleaning up and moving Francis back from the animal to the human state. Keegan cleaned him up with a cold hose, a scrubbing brush, then helped him expel the remaining poisonous bile from his stomach, replacing it with fluids and vitamin B. Solid food followed. And slowly Francis developed the capacity for coherent speech and then he was back on his feet again. And by the time evening came around, he had stopped hearing tiny devil voices in his head. And Keegan managed to resurrect his friend. The damage was done and it was completely unforgivable.
But that was nothing new.
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