Rex Pickett - Vertical

A NOVEL by

REX PICKETT

Vertical. Copyright Loose Gravel Press 2010. All Rights Reserved. Printed in the United States of America by U.S. printers drinking Pinot Noir. For more information on Vertical, please go to www.verticalthenovel.com .

Loose Gravel Press, Ltd. is a wholly independent publishing house owned by Rex Pickett and Timothy T. Moore.

www.loosegravelpress.com .

Title page art by Kraftwerk Design, Inc., San Luis Obispo

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Pickett, Rex.

Vertical by Rex Pickett

p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-615-39218-9

1.Automobile travel-Fiction. 2. Man-woman relationships-Fiction.

3.Male friendship-Fiction. 4. Divorced men-Fiction 5. CaliforniaFiction.

1. Title

Also by Rex Pickett:

Sideways

20 19 18 17 16 15 14

First and foremost, Id like to extend my appreciation and respect to the energetic and risk-taking Tim Moore for making this self-imprint a reality. There wouldnt be a book without his hard work, business acumen, and bottomless belief in the project.

Id also like to heartily thank attorney Krista Carlson and veterinarian Dr. Shiri Hoshen for their indefatigable, and scrupulous, work on the manuscript. I want to doubly thank Krista for her legal counsel and Shiri for her detailed input on all matters relating to veterinary medicine. Not to mention their unwavering support and close, valued friendship.

Also, on the manuscript, I want to commend Jess Taylor for his sparkling line edit. And Todd Doty for his final proofing.

The entire team at Kraftwerk Design, who created the book cover, the Web site, and were involved in all the advertising artwork.

For advice on wine and the Willamette Valley I want to single out writer Katherine Cole and Fred Gunton. For her medical expertise on stroke and heart failure, Dr. Jen Vakharia. And on all legal matters regarding the LLC, our tireless attorney Scott Creasman.

My support group of friends and representatives: David Saunders and Steve Fisher at Agency for the Performing Arts; my generous brother Hack; Barbara Schock, as ever; Wade Lawson; and my caring, always-there-for-me, manager Peter Meyer.

And, I cant forget, Pamela Smith, for her sage advice in too many matters to enumerate. Without her friendship, creative input everything from reading of the manuscript to overseeing all the art work I would be rudderless.

Anything that involves Miles and Jack, I would be utterly remiss if I didnt thank Alexander Payne and everyone responsible for the making of Sideways who made them come to life on the big screen.

For my Mother

(1921 - 2000)

I got up on my feet and it took character.
It took will power. It took a lot out of me.
And there wasnt as much to spare as there
once had been.

Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye

T he surf crashed thunderously against the cliffs outside my spacious seaside hotel room in Shell Beach. Golden sunlight filtered in through the white curtains. Stretched out on a bed big enough for three, I absently watched a golf tournament. I was at a wine festival, incongruously, to promote a book. Though it had been published, not that anyone could have noticed, a year earlier, the movie adapted from it had recently come out. So I was back on the promotional trail. Criticsand real peoplehad gone wild for the film. The story was a week in the life of me and my friend Jack, on a carousing two-man bachelor party rampage through some world-class yet little-known wine and golf country. My mom had appeared in a cameo role in both versions, and garnered a serious fan base of her own.

Thanks to the movie, my fortunes had changed. Jack, sadly, was, as I had long ago predicted, divorced and having trouble finding work. My poor mother had suffered a massive stroke that left her wheelchair-bound and sequestered in an assisted-living facility.

But I had my own problems to focus on: What was I going to say as the keynote speaker at the kickoff dinner? I had nothing prepared. Should I regale them with stories of the destitute existence that led me to Shameless? That would have them all in stitches. Should I deliver a rote speech about how my book had felicitously impacted the wine world, and how delighted I was to see them all beneficiaries of its success and hey, where are my royalties? Nah, too self-serving.

Maybe just go extemporaneous. Wing it.

The surf went on pounding the cliffs, sending spray high enough that I could actually see it beyond my balcony every time a wave crashed. I poured a half glass of a David Family wine 09 Pinot that the owner had been so generous as to send me to sample. Shameless had celebrated my love for that unique grape variety and made Pinot producers and distributors want to celebrate me. Maybe a little too much. I glanced over at the dresser where stood dozens of bottles, wines I couldnt afford until just a few months before. Id thought about re-gifting them, chortled I should peddle them on eBay for a little reserve cash in case this gust of fame ended and I was back to my former penniless life. But the gust didnt seem inclined to abate any time soon. I had a new publishing agent who was arm-twisting me into a deal if I could come up with as little as a concept. Just a couple pages! Thats all! I couldnt, but that didnt stop her pestering. I had new movie/TV agents sending me out on meetings to pitch projects and hawk myself for assignments.

Life was good. Too good? No. But I still felt, acutely, the absence of a woman to share my life. Good fortunes not as much fun as a solo act. I needed that special someone I could vent my frustrations to, negotiate lifes vicissitudes with and all the rest. Oh, there were women aplenty, but I had not found my soulmate, and I wonderedstill licking the wounds of my divorcewhether I ever would.

Maybe that was what I should talk about, it occurred to me, as I sipped the David Pinot and exulted in its glories. No, too personal, too self-indulgent, and though I was accustomed to wearing my heart on my sleevehell, my books story couldnt have been more personal!the subject of my solitude would be a buzzkill. The crowd, estimate nearly five hundred, would want humor. I could do humor. The protagonist of my book, whom I was here to play, got a lot of laughs out of the life of a failed writer, a broken middle-aged man who couldnt figure out where the front door was.

Done. Now I just had to come up with an opening line.

There was a determined knock at my door.

Come in, I called from my sprawl.

Marcie, my somewhat zaftig publicistyep, I had one of those, too!blustered in. All hips and limbs and curves and loose body parts, especially her disorganized mouth. A walking stereotype. She pulled up a chair. Howre you doing, Miles?

I muted the TV. Trying to think of what to say.

Just be yourself.

If Im myself, theres no telling what might come out of my mouth. Im not used to giving speeches. Except to the walls.

They just want