So it was finally over. I went back to my successful business and found a hot young blonde with big boobs who loved me for my tender heart and convinced me there was still sweetness and light in the world.
Actually, I lost my friends, my business, and my wife.
It was a while before I even looked at another woman. My business tanked because everyone knew the situation we were in and didn’t give us any more contracts. Luckily Aida got the offer she deserved, and took her trainee with her. Ben quit soon after.
The next month I walked into the office. There was a note on the door.
“You win, you bastard. Allan found another job, the paperwork is on you desk. Sign it and the company is official dissolved.”
She didn’t sign it, but I recognized Cindy’s writing.
There was actually a little money left, and after I got my half of the house sale, I was in pretty good shape. I could even take the next year off if I wanted. I took two months, got on the Road Star, and went rambling
I ended up three states down, well below the Mason Dixon line. It was one of the prettiest cities I’d ever seen, surrounded by mountains, with friendly people and a relaxed atmosphere. It kind of felt like I’d landed in the sixties because the people all seemed so laid back. I stayed three days, hitting tourist traps, doing research.
I checked out a few more towns but none had the same vibe, so I came back, got a room for a week, and went house hunting. I looked at some condos and apartments, but I’d become partial to houses with decent yards. I found what I wanted, the third I looked at. A small cottage, twelve hundred square feet, two bedroom, with a huge yard and a stream running across the back. It was set apart a good distance from the nearest neighbor. I leased for a year with an option to buy.
Next I went job hunting, finding one at a small firm that catered to up and coming and midsized companies. They gave me a few small accounts to see how good I was. In six months the boss wanted to talk.
“Jace,” I had to tell him, was not short for Jason. My name was actually John Charles, and I had been called J. C. up until my sister was about four. She pronounced it Jaysee, and then shortened it to Jace. It stuck, and I quit fighting it years ago.
In that peculiar Southern way, when the conversation was important, he used both my given names.
“John Charles, you’ve been doing very good work. So good I wondered why you were here. I checked up on what you put on your resume, and it was all true. I have a feeling you won’t stay with us long, so I’m going to use you hard. I’m giving you a new account. He’s a friend of mine who owns a very successful regional winery and wants to take his product national. Go talk to him, set up some meetings, and start thinking. This could be very good for all of us. And if I grow, I want you along.”
I was flattered that he thought so highly of me.
The vintner was a local, who had trained and studied in Italy for six years, before coming home to take care of his aging parents. He took over their farm, and used the north facing slopes to grow vines he had imported from the region he trained in. He started out small, adding acreage and expanding the winery as he could. Now he leased three more farms and had doubled his own acreage. He’d won several local and regional medals for his sweet wines, and wanted to crack the national market. He had already secured a distributor, now he needed an ad campaign to bring his product into the limelight.
I stopped by, did an anonymous wine tasting. Most were quite good. Some I didn’t care for. I finally introduced myself and asked for Mr. Edwards.
He came hustling in, in farm clothes. We shook and he asked me why I hadn’t made an appointment.
“I wanted to taste your product, observe your operation, maybe work on some ideas. I don’t expect you to drop everything to talk to me, just wanted you to know I stopped by, and make that appointment in person.”
“What do you think of my wines?” He seemed anxious.
“I liked most of them, but then I’m no expert. But I liked then so much I bought a mixed case to take home.”
While I was talking an idea was germinating. I couldn’t wait to get back and start developing it.
It was not to be. Jack[he insisted on first names]had me follow him around for awhile, explaining the winery, the origin of the vines, everything he could think to tell me. I ended up spending three hours with him.
…
Personally, I spent my off time exploring the area, turning the Road Star loose on those winding mountain roads. I’d had a little work done that boosted power, and she could scoot if I opened her up.
I took some money and bought a well used but reliable four wheel drive truck, the winters could be quite snowy here. I kept my car, a little Dodge Dart. It was more than enough for a single person, and I’d bought the top of the line turbo package. It was supposed to do over one eighty, but I never got it over 110, and that was just twice. The car and the bike were garaged, and the truck stayed outside.
I was wandering around one Saturday afternoon when I ran across a little bar in the middle of nowhere. There were a few bikes out front. Mostly Harleys, but there was a Gold Wing, and a few crotch rockets, so I decided to stop for a beer.
The place kind of went quiet for a minute. They could tell I wasn’t a local. I ordered my beer and looked the place over.
It was old, but clean and neat. The patrons seemed to all know each other, and the insults and the banter flowed easily. The bartender talked a little after he served the second round.
“It’s been in my family for seventy years,” he said, talking about the place, “we got a good reputation. No fights, nobody bothers anybody, especially a woman. That’ll get you booted faster than anything.”
I complimented him, knowing the value of a place you could relax, be it with a crowd of suits and dresses or jeans and short skirts. People were people, basically the same despite income levels.
He liked the praise, said the next round was on him, and left me. A huge, bearded guy took the stool next to me.
“Yours?” he said, looking through the window at my bike.
“Yeah.”
He snorted. “Another fucking rice grinder, what happened, they don’t sell real bikes made in America where you come from?”
He was grinning when he said it to take the sting out.
“Which one is yours?” I asked. He pointed at an older, chopped out Harley.
“Nice ride.” I grinned. “The forks are from Italy, the carbs, if they’re stock, came from Japan. The tires, again if they’re stock, were made by a British firm, manufactured in France. Still think it’s all American?”
He stared at me. “No shit?”
I nodded. “No shit. Still nice bikes, though.”
After that half the bar was in on the discussion. One guy said his Vulcan was made right here in the U. S. We ended up going out to look at all of them. By the time we came back in I had a new set of friends.
…
I ended up hanging at the bar most weekends, going on poker runs, just riding in a group when the urge took us. They showed me a lot of places I would never had known existed.
I got my nickname three months later. I had been to see Jack Edwards about the campaign we were planning. I was hoping to get him to let him shoot a commercial in his tasting room.