“HAVE A SAFE JOURNEY
TO NOWHERE.”
“When were you going to tell me you’re a drug dealer?” Madeleine asked.
“What’s that?” I shouted over the roar of my drunken urine stream. I exited the bathroom to find her holding up a gallon Ziploc full of grayish powder.
“You’re already going through my drawers?” I said, fake mad. “I haven’t even had a chance to stalk you on the Internet yet.”
“I was looking for a condom, but uh . . . I’ve never seen a bag of heroin this big. This is heroin, right? It’s not white enough to be coke.” She dumped a quarter gram or so on the nightstand and wetted a fingertip to take a taste.
“I don’t think you want to do that,” I said.
“I’m a big girl,” she replied.
“Yeah, but that’s my brother,” I said.
“Oh, I get it,” she drawled, sarcastically. “Your brother’s the drug dealer. Sure. I’m down. But your brother won’t mind if we just do a little, right?”
“Oh, he definitely won’t give a sh—”
“Good. Then let’s do some and fuck,” she said, putting a finger to one exquisite nostril and horking up the powder she’d just scooped with a long fingernail. This clearly wasn’t her first rodeo.
Part of me wanted to stop her, but Brian was there. And Brian tends to be amused by this kind of thing.
She froze, confused.
“What do you think?” I asked. “He’s good shit, no?”
“What the fuck was that?” she panted, livid.
“Like I said, it’s my brother. Brian.”
“Brian?”
“Well, his ashes, anyway.”
It was done now. No way was I getting laid. So I slow-played it, for Brian, who was doubled up on the floor by this point, unable to breathe. An opportunity to make him laugh like this could not be passed up. Some things are sacred.
“You fucking psycho!” Screaming. That was fast. She was up. Scanning for her purse. Lurching for the bathroom.
“In my defense—” I began, knowing it was too late. In a wet whirl of Chanel and too many cocktails she passed me and was out my bedroom door.
“Ho. Lee. Fuck. That was unreal,” Brian said, recovering from his fit.
“You just cost me the only girl to come on to me since Elizabeth left. I hope you’re happy.”
“Tell me again about your ‘live people’ problems,” he replied. “They’re just so important.”
“You know, if you weren’t dead, I’d punch your dick off.”
“If I weren’t dead, you never would have met her. Or Elizabeth,” he said.
People who are right are the worst. Dead people who are right deserve to be shot.
MY BROTHER BRIAN IS AN artist. Not the kind that creates silkscreens of soup cans or paints with his own piss. Brian is a thrill artist. This makes him a lot of fun. It also makes him dangerous to be around. And terrifying to love. His crowning work thus far is his explorations into pier jumping. Specifically the Venice Pier, which juts out of L.A.’s bulk into the ocean like an obese cancer patient fucking a carny girl. Two polluted bodies pressed close, each the other’s bulwark against the coming apocalypse.
It’s about a twenty-five-foot drop from the Venice Pier to the Pacific Ocean, depending on the tides. To hear Brian tell it, you’re only in the air for a second, but it feels like you hang there forever, with the lights on the shore, the adrenaline in your veins, the relentless hungry roar of the ocean below. You are a perfect being, suspended on an invisible string, burning with possibilities. Then you hit the cold, black water and everything goes hard normal. You’re wet, it’s dark, the ocean is heaving you up and down, and it’s a quarter-mile swim back to shore. Unless you get slammed into a pylon and knocked unconscious.
Brian made his first jump in 2008 after a stupid boast followed by an even dumber dare. He was instantly in love. Something about the combination of physical activity (that quarter-mile swim) with a jaunty middle finger shoved in the face of authority (the pier is covered with signs that detail all the ways you will certainly die and all the fines you will pay if you don’t). Plus, once you’re back onshore it’s a two-minute walk to Hinano Cafe and All of the Beer. It was the perfect sport for someone who was never going to start for the 76ers, but who could tell you without blinking that 70 sixers was seventeen and a half cases of beer and that if everyone throws in $5 we can afford Natty Light.
The only time to jump off the Venice Pier is at night, after it’s locked down. The city locks the pier for good reason: so people like you and me don’t go out there in the dark and jump off it and die like goddamn stupid idiots because no one can see you because it is night. During the day there are cops who will yell at you, and lifeguards who will swim out to you if you get sucked into a riptide, and paddy wagons to take you to the police station afterward where you will stand, soaking wet and shivering in the air conditioning as they attempt to book you without the ID you left on the pier with your shoes and wallet. So yeah, only idiots jump off the pier during the day when everyone can see them. The real dummies do it when they’re invisible out there.
When the pier is locked, the only way to get out to where the water’s deep enough to jump into is to climb out and around the guardrail they hung over the water to stop assholes who want to jump off the pier. But they never met an asshole like Brian. He figured out that if you clamber up on the railing, then lean your body out over the water and swing around the metal grate that’s meant to stop you from jumping off the Venice Pier and dying like a stupid moron, you can duck your head down, get some footing on the other side, and swing under. It’s a good thing that grate is there. If it weren’t, any garden-variety half-wit could get out there and perish. But Brian was no garden-variety half-wit. He was an heirloom half-wit. An adventure half-wit. “The ocean may be a cruel mistress,” he told me once, “but sometimes that’s just what you need.”
Maybe so, Brian. Maybe so. But I hated it. The jumping, that is. Every time he got drunk enough or riled up enough or dared by dicks enough to want to go jump off the pier, I tried to talk him out of it.
Despite being a transcendent master of the art, Brian only gave four pier-jump performances. One time he even figured out how to do it in broad daylight without getting caught. But I was only present for one of Brian’s jumps, so what the fuck do I know?
“OKAY, A WEEK FROM FRIDAY, Mister Dan!” Patricia called as she headed for the door. Patricia’s from El Salvador, fifty-four, two kids, seven grandkids. She’d been cleaning my apartment every other week for the past three years.
“Oh, wait, Patricia,” I replied. “I’ve been meaning to tell you this. I don’t need you a week from Friday. I’m moving.”
“Okay, I come Thursday,” she said, turning to leave.
“No, no, Patricia. I’m moving. Out of the apartment.”
“Where you move?” Patricia asked.
“Nowhere,” I said.
“You move to nowhere?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
“You can no move to nowhere, Mister Dan,” she said.
“You’re probably right, but I’m doing it anyway,” I said, handing her enough cash to cover the next month of not cleaning my place. “I’m sorry, I know this is out of the blue. You’re a wonderful housekeeper. If I ever get another place in L.A., you’ll be the first person I call.”
“Who live in the apartment?” she asked.
“No one! I’m lea—”
“After you.”
“I have no idea.”
“They need clean?”
“I don’t know that, either,” I said. “But if you need a reference, I’d be happy to . . .”
I trailed off as she sized me up with a mixture of pity and disgust. This woman had grown kids. A green card. A husband. A paid-off house in the valley. Her shit was more together than mine had ever been. She needed a reference from me like she needed syphilis.
“Why you going to nowhere?”
“It’s my best option right now, Patricia.”
She studied my face for a moment. And fuck me, all I wanted in that moment was for Patricia to wrap her droopy Salvadorian arms around me, squeeze me tight, and say, “Oh mijo, everything going to be okay.”
Instead I think she realized the idea of never seeing me again, apart from the missing work, was a relatively pleasant one. “Okay, God bless you, Mr. Dan. You are very special person. Have a safe journey to nowhere.” And with that, she picked up her bucket of cleaning supplies and walked out the door.
I flopped on the couch, bracing myself for tears. I’d been getting these racking waves out of nowhere, my face transforming into a snotty wet mess with no warning. I could feel one coming the whole time Patricia and I were talking. “Very special person.” That was what had hit me. I pulled out my phone and looked up the last text Elizabeth sent me.
> We may not be able to be together
anymore, but you’ll always be a very
special person in my life.
Oh yeah. Definitely. I’m real fucking special. How else do you explain me being out a girlfriend, an apartment, and a cleaning lady in the same month?
I braced for the familiar mixture of self-pity and mucus, slowly exhaled, then . . . nothing. What the hell? My brain was full of Sad. I tried thinking about Elizabeth. About the last time we were on this couch together, fooling around. That was a mistake. Now Horny was chasing Sad around my brain like a puppy toying with a frog. I imagined what would happen when Horny caught Sad and fucked it to death.
Now I was smiling.
“You’re creeping me out,” Brian said. “What’s next, laughing?”
“Maybe.”
“I’d like to see laughing,” he continued. “It’s always a good sign when you’re laughing out loud, alone, like a crazy person. Bonus points if you crack jokes to your dead brother while you’re at it.”
“Oh, real nice.”
“Look, I appreciate you talking to me and all, but why just talk when you could shout? You should go shout at all the people down at the beach to let them know how not crazy you are. Just shout it over and over in your shit-caked jeans at the corner of Santa Monica and Ocean. That’ll show ’em.”
“Remind me again why I love you?” I asked.
“Because I’m your brother, dickbag.”
Oh yeah.
“Well, bro, I’m having a little moment here if you didn’t notice,” I said.
“Do you always celebrate your ‘moments’ with an erection?”
“Listen, I spent the last four years of my life in that relationship and now—”
“Now you want to whack off to the memories. Been there! I’ll give you a minute.” And he split.
Asshole. Whack off to the memories. As if I’d ever even think of . . .
“I knew it!” Brian shouted, just before I finished. Screw him, let him watch if he wants. We’d have plenty of time to talk about it on the road.
I HAD GOTTEN THIS IDEA in my head. I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. Over a series of visits to a local wine bar in Venice, I had convinced myself (and anyone in earshot) that the problem wasn’t that my dead brother and living ex-girlfriend had both abandoned me, the problem was the place they abandoned me in. When you think about it, it’s the simplest explanation, which, as Occam’s razor tells us, means it must be true. If everything I touch hurts, the tip of my finger must be broken.
The obvious solution: chop off the finger.
Over a period of weeks I managed to convince myself that the best way to free myself of my past was to free myself of the gorgeously fucked-up bubble that is Los Angeles.
In recovery, this is what’s known as “pulling a geographic.” It bears mentioning that, for people in recovery, pulling a geographic rarely works. And here is the key to understanding my brain. After hearing that people in recovery don’t usually benefit from this approach, I actually had the following thought: Thank God I’m not in recovery.
Reasoning skills aside, at least one part of that formulation was true. I was about as far from recovery as a human being can get while not coughing up blood. I had decided that the best course of action, for both me and the world, was to drink my way across America.
For science, of course. And to defend America. Or make fun of it. I wasn’t too sure. All I knew was, whatever happened, it would involve an awful lot of wine. And I do mean awful.
I’ve spent most of what some people charitably call “a career” writing about booze. It’s not one of those jobs they tell you about on career day. In fact, it’s not so much a job that you get as a job that you get away with. In fairness to myself, I know more than the average tippler about liquor. I can tell you the manufacturing subtleties between tequila and mezcal and can separate an Islay from a Speyside with a sniff. I’m pretty deep on beer too. And turns out I’m good at writing at bars—which helps. It’s all added up to me somehow making a living for two decades, cranking out articles about what, where, when, how, and why to drink. It’s been a flaming butt ton of subtle, nuanced fun.
But somehow, twenty years into the game, I came to a terrible realization: I knew fuck-all about wine. And it had started to bother me. I mean, sure, I liked the stuff. And I knew how to fake like I knew about it—the names of the major grapes, the growing regions, some well-tuned adjectives. But when you really get into the woods with fermented grape syrup, it’s devilishly complex. (Hack booze writer alert: “devilishly” is one of the go-to modifiers. So is “complex.”) And over the years, instead of taking small bites and learning bit by bit, I bullshitted my way through tastings while trying to steer the conversation back to the Phillies. Speaking of which, did you see the season they had last year? Horrendous!
So I figured out a way to combine my ignorance and my sadness. I would get the hell out of L.A. and drive across this great land drinking its precious purple bounty as I went. Because if my e-mail in-box was to be believed—and it has never steered me wrong before, just ask my good friend the crown prince of Nigeria—wine was being made in every state of the Union, including Vermont and Georgia and Nebraska and Missouri. I even got a come-on from a winery in Arkansas that featured an actual RV park on-site. It doesn’t get more American than that. The RV park was the final straw. I had to go drink wine with people in RV parks.
I wanted to drink wine in places you would never think produced wine. I needed to know if Yankee obstinacy, midwestern stick-to-itiveness, or Deep South Zen would allow you to produce juice that could compete with the big mean mothers out in the Napa, Sonoma, and Willamette Valleys. Stop laughing. This is the serious part.
I would conquer wine. Just like the United States conquered Grenada, and Donald Trump conquered good taste, and cavemen conquered the dinosaurs. I was like America—loud, without pedigree, misinformed, and often drunk, but I had grit. Gumption. A willful ignorance of my limitations. Hell, I was America. I would be triumphant with a capital UMPHANT.
I might come back to L.A., I might not. But to find out if I should, I needed to live in Nowhere for a while. If only to prove Patricia wrong. Wherever I ended up, it would be on my terms. It was time to stop living in the shadow of dead brothers and exes and crawl, squinting into the sunlight. It was time to drink my way across America.
You’ll be forgiven if that sounds depressing. Or like I have a death wish. Most of the drinking writers do—or, rather, did. And don’t get me wrong, I consider Charles Bukowski, Dylan Thomas, Hunter S. Thompson, and John O’Brien to all be wise, if besotted (also dead) sages lighting the road ahead. But make no mistake. This is not a tale of a man drinking himself to death. This is a tale of a man drinking himself to life. I hope.
So I set a goal. I would drive an indirect path across and around the country, passing through as many wine regions as possible. Along the way I would drink as much local happy juice as I could stand, hopefully learning a few things to boot. To give myself a sort of finite end point (you don’t want this sort of thing to get away from you) I added a finish line: the Pebble Beach Food & Wine festival. This annual high-net-worth Northern California bacchanal is where the 1 percent of the 1 percent gather every year to sip ridiculously rarified wine and swap stories about how you can’t get a good yacht crew these days. To raise the stakes a little, I called in a favor and got myself booked as a keynote speaker. If I didn’t have my shit together by then, it would be glaringly, career-endingly obvious. The way I see it, what’s the point of walking a tightrope if the fall won’t kill you?