TWO PLASTIC COKE BOTTLES

(Original Image by Koukichi Takahashi)

Marty brought over a bottle of wine, a Predator Sauv with a ladybug on the label. I poured out two plastic coke bottles then filled them back up with red. 5 glasses in total, 5 ounces per glass. That was 25 ounces altogether, and 12.5 ounces for each of us. There was a little extra left over, and I gave it all to Marty since it was his bottle.

I said goodbye to my wife and son, who were preoccupied watching television, then Marty and I left. The elevator wasn’t working, so we took the stairs down three stories to the street. Soon, we were in his car, flying down the road.

“Where we going?" he said.

“How about Old Sac? Haven’t been there in a while.”

“Sure.”

We drove to Old Sac, about five minutes away, and parked in front of the Ferris wheel. We brought our coke bottles with us as we walked to the boardwalk and followed it along the Sacramento River, heading towards Tower Bridge.

There was a police officer standing in the doorway of Joe’s Crab Shack, eyeing us. Marty cracked his bottle open and took a sip as we walked by.

“What do you think?” he said loudly. “Not as good as the Zinfandel, but decent.”

I kept the police officer in the corner of my eye. A middle-aged, overweight man staring after us. Guarding what? Joe’s Crab Shack? I had no idea seafood was such a hot commodity in criminal circles. I moved my mouth slowly and deliberately, timing my response so that when I got to the alcoholic content of our bottles, I’d be well out of earshot.

“Well,” I said, “You have your wineries that specialize in certain varietals. You have your Scott Harveys that keep plugging away at a decent Barbera – and they are very good, very fragrant – but Zinfandel is their wheelhouse. Their Mountain Select Zin is the best I’ve ever had, but you can’t fault them for expanding their horizons, trying new things, getting out of their comfort zone.”

Pure hogwash… Though my statement was more or less true, it was designed to obfuscate the fact that we were drinking in public, brazenly in front of the local PD, and to give Marty the impression that I had answered his question.

We reached the end of the boardwalk and continued on past Tower Bridge. The benches along the river were empty, so we sat down at one with a decent view of the water. The sun had just begun to set, and the water was a placid mix of orange and red. The endless ocean sounds of the freeway hummed in my ear. I leaned forward, cracked my soda bottle, and took my first good swig. It tasted decent, but young and under-developed. Maybe the plastic had something to do with it, didn’t give it enough chance to breathe.

“So, what’s been going on with you lately?” Marty said. “That whole speech in front of that cop was such a croc.”

“You caught that?”

“Of course.”

“I’m impressed. I didn’t think you’d notice.”

“Well, I did.”

“You’ll have to forgive me. I didn’t want to get busted for public drinking, not at my age anyway.”

“What are you talking about? We’re white, man. He doesn’t care. Now, if we had been Black or Hispanic, it might have been a different story.”

“What the hell is he guarding anyway? Have the gangs been craving seafood lately?”

“He’s probably just a deterrent or something.”

“Yeah… who knows.”

I looked at the ground, at my bottle wedged between my feet. To the side, I saw four police officers walking towards us. My heart sank. It was now a question of downing the whole thing or dumping it out before they closed the distance. But wait… they weren’t police officers at all… they were a team of photographers lugging, not rifles and pistols and handcuffs, but tripods and lights and cameras. They set up two benches over and began talking amongst themselves while pointing towards the Tower Bridge.

“You’re quiet today.” Marty said.

“Sorry. Just tired. My son doesn’t have a consistent sleep schedule anymore. He used to go to bed at 8pm, then we’d have to drag him out of bed at 7:20am for daycare. Now, he’s waking up at 1, 3, 5am. And once he’s conscious, he demands your undivided attention and gets royally pissed if he doesn’t get it. Personal goals don’t matter. Marriages don’t matter…”

I took another swig of my bottle. Tasted like running my tongue up a wooden plank. Must have been my sinuses imploding from the late-winter foliage that had blossomed overnight.

“…It’s like he eggs me on, pushes me into a corner where I have to scream to get him to listen… I’ve become my father basically. He draws it out of me as if that side was always there lurking inside. But I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want that kind of relationship with him… I don’t want him to be afraid of me.”

Marty took a swig of his bottle. Somehow, he was nearly finished.

“No, I don’t buy it. I don’t think you’re anything like your father.” he said. “I’m sure there are other ways to get through to him. You just have to try something different… and don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I am, aren’t I?”

“God, yes.” He said, smiling.

“Thanks…” I said.

Without thinking, I lifted my bottle to Marty. Over his shoulder, past the photographers, the Tower Bridge traffic, and the people strolling along the boardwalk, I saw the cop at Joe’s Crab Shack staring back at me. I gave him a little wink as Marty touched his bottle to mine.

“Cheers.” I said. “To something different.”

“To the cabernet.” he said.

And we drank.