horseboykarl (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
horseboykarl) wrote2005-02-07 09:13 pm
horseboykarl) wrote2005-02-07 09:13 pm
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Back to Moby Dickens
It’s been two days since I talked to Gareth and when I get out of bed, I decide to do something about a “possibility.” The first thing I did when I woke up yesterday afternoon was to send out a tentative call to horseboy, not really trying very hard, so I wasn’t surprised when nothing happened. I’ve never tried to call him when someone wasn’t holding something over me. But . . . it looks like things are clear and maybe I can have my life back. So I went to Pete’s and reclaimed Éomer’s sword and his helm, Pete doesn’t ask and I can’t tell him that my former craziness has disappeared for some reason.
I go for a run with Smokey Joe and Ire, uncomfortably aware that I’m stalling. Finally I shower and head for Cuba Street. I park the bike and walk to the bookstore, Moby Dickens. I pause by the display window . . . it’s changed. The kids aren’t lying on the floor, they’re sitting with the grandfather and he’s reading to them on the couch. There’s another couch with a young couple tangled up, the girl reading to the boy. Whoever does these is bloody creative.
I enter, the bell ringing, the floor creaking, the smell of fresh paper welcoming me. I make my way to the section on agriculture and I pull out of few on . . . viticulture and wine making.
The first book is Soils for Fine Wines by R. E. White, might as well see if Aunt June’s land is really as good as she says it is, before she sells her sheep and we sink all of our money into this scheme. I skim the book and it looks like her soil will be fine, it’s similar to other farms around Hawke’s Bay which make very good wine, but . . . this is going to take a lot of effort, maintaining the soil nutrients. Hope it’s more interesting than sheep, cause it looks like just as much work.
Next I pick up Modern Winemaking by Philip Jackisch. He’s evidently a chemist, because this book is fucking intense. After a few pages my head is spinning . . . microorganisms? Fermentation and vinegar? Wine composition? Aging? Machine wines? What the fuck? This is way more complicated than throwing the grapes in a vat and waiting for wine to come out.
Okaaay. I pick up another book, this one is From Vines to Wines : The Complete Guide to Growing Grapes and Making Your Own Wine by Jeff Cox. This one is a little more on the “how to” side of things, like picking a vineyard site, getting the vines laid out properly, how to harvest for a particular climate. I add it to my growing stack.
Hmm, this guy is supposed to be one of the greats of French wine making, according to the back of the jacket. Knowing and Making Wine by Emile Peynaud and he has a pretty in-depth look at wine making techniques. Definitely have to buy this one.
Here’s one about Zid wine regions, Wine Atlas of New Zealand by Michael Cooper and John McDermott, going to need that. I stare at the pile of books in dismay. I’m going to be busy for a while, figuring all of this out.
“Is it wine this time? You’re quite the renaissance man.”
I look up into a pair of twinkling green eyes and I try to decipher their color, not quite dark enough to be emerald . . . not as light as a peridot . . . and then I come back to myself, realizing that I have been staring at him like an idiot, comparing his eyes to jewels in my mind, I’m lucky I don’t have drool running down my chin.
“Uh . . . I’m going into the business it seems.”
He still looks amused, “I see.”
“My aunt, she’s thinking about turning her farm into a vineyard . . . it’s good to see you again Eric.”
His expression changes to one of surprise. “I’m flattered that you remembered my name.”
I shrug, trying not to blush, “I liked this place so much the first time . . . “ And you’re smokin’ hot, I don’t forget things like that.
He laughs easily, a warm sound that makes my chest feel funny. “I’m glad to see you again too, Karl.”
“This place is so laid-back, perfect for a bookstore . . . and that window display . . . would you tell the owner for me that whoever he has doing that is bloody clever.”
“They are one and the same. And thank you. It’s always good to get customer feedback.”
“You’re the owner?”
He nods proudly. “This is my baby. What? You look so surprised, didn’t think an aging hippy had it in him to be a capitalist?”
“You’re not old!” I burst out, then retreat. “I mean, you do look like a free spirit . . . so it’s hard to see you with accounts and inventory and such.”
“Believe it or not, ten years ago I was a buttoned down MBA working for a huge corporation in Silicon Valley. I thought I wanted the fast track, but then . . . one day I looked around and hated my life. So I chucked it all and came back to Zid to be what I wanted. I’d saved my bonuses all those years, playing the stock market, so I cashed out and sunk it all in this store. I’ve had it six years now.”
“Silicon Valley? That’s California, right?” He nods. “I tried the California thing, but I figured out pretty quickly that I didn’t belong there and came home.” I’ll leave out the part about the mystical dimension warping bowl having something to do with it, that part of my life is thankfully over.
He squats down beside my chair and we spend time recounting the adventures of Kiwis in La-La Land. I notice the forearm resting on his knee is lean and sinewy, the muscles flexing under his tanned skin. He’s wearing faded jeans again, the worn fabric clinging to his bunched thighs. His hair isn’t really red, more of a brown shot with red highlights, the silvery strands mixed in just making him more interesting. But it’s his eyes that hold me, they are warm but intense . . . passionate and I try to not quiver imagining them lit by lust.
Finally, after I can practically hear Gareth screaming in my ear to just do something, I get my nerve up.
“Listen, Eric, would you have dinner with me sometime? Or . . . I have a friend who has a band, Celtic rock stuff, we could go see one of their shows . . . or something. I’d like to see you.”
He looks serious. “I never thought Karl Urban would set off my gay-dar.”
I squirm, hoping I haven’t made a big mistake. “Well . . . “
“No, I didn’t mean it like that. I’d love to go out with you.”
I sigh with relief and we make arrangements to go to a late dinner tomorrow night after the store closes. Fortunately, the hippy thing doesn’t extend to being a vegetarian, although he says that he prefers organic. We chat easily as I make my purchases and by the time I leave, I’m feeling more hopeful than I have been in a long time.
I go for a run with Smokey Joe and Ire, uncomfortably aware that I’m stalling. Finally I shower and head for Cuba Street. I park the bike and walk to the bookstore, Moby Dickens. I pause by the display window . . . it’s changed. The kids aren’t lying on the floor, they’re sitting with the grandfather and he’s reading to them on the couch. There’s another couch with a young couple tangled up, the girl reading to the boy. Whoever does these is bloody creative.
I enter, the bell ringing, the floor creaking, the smell of fresh paper welcoming me. I make my way to the section on agriculture and I pull out of few on . . . viticulture and wine making.
The first book is Soils for Fine Wines by R. E. White, might as well see if Aunt June’s land is really as good as she says it is, before she sells her sheep and we sink all of our money into this scheme. I skim the book and it looks like her soil will be fine, it’s similar to other farms around Hawke’s Bay which make very good wine, but . . . this is going to take a lot of effort, maintaining the soil nutrients. Hope it’s more interesting than sheep, cause it looks like just as much work.
Next I pick up Modern Winemaking by Philip Jackisch. He’s evidently a chemist, because this book is fucking intense. After a few pages my head is spinning . . . microorganisms? Fermentation and vinegar? Wine composition? Aging? Machine wines? What the fuck? This is way more complicated than throwing the grapes in a vat and waiting for wine to come out.
Okaaay. I pick up another book, this one is From Vines to Wines : The Complete Guide to Growing Grapes and Making Your Own Wine by Jeff Cox. This one is a little more on the “how to” side of things, like picking a vineyard site, getting the vines laid out properly, how to harvest for a particular climate. I add it to my growing stack.
Hmm, this guy is supposed to be one of the greats of French wine making, according to the back of the jacket. Knowing and Making Wine by Emile Peynaud and he has a pretty in-depth look at wine making techniques. Definitely have to buy this one.
Here’s one about Zid wine regions, Wine Atlas of New Zealand by Michael Cooper and John McDermott, going to need that. I stare at the pile of books in dismay. I’m going to be busy for a while, figuring all of this out.
“Is it wine this time? You’re quite the renaissance man.”
I look up into a pair of twinkling green eyes and I try to decipher their color, not quite dark enough to be emerald . . . not as light as a peridot . . . and then I come back to myself, realizing that I have been staring at him like an idiot, comparing his eyes to jewels in my mind, I’m lucky I don’t have drool running down my chin.
“Uh . . . I’m going into the business it seems.”
He still looks amused, “I see.”
“My aunt, she’s thinking about turning her farm into a vineyard . . . it’s good to see you again Eric.”
His expression changes to one of surprise. “I’m flattered that you remembered my name.”
I shrug, trying not to blush, “I liked this place so much the first time . . . “ And you’re smokin’ hot, I don’t forget things like that.
He laughs easily, a warm sound that makes my chest feel funny. “I’m glad to see you again too, Karl.”
“This place is so laid-back, perfect for a bookstore . . . and that window display . . . would you tell the owner for me that whoever he has doing that is bloody clever.”
“They are one and the same. And thank you. It’s always good to get customer feedback.”
“You’re the owner?”
He nods proudly. “This is my baby. What? You look so surprised, didn’t think an aging hippy had it in him to be a capitalist?”
“You’re not old!” I burst out, then retreat. “I mean, you do look like a free spirit . . . so it’s hard to see you with accounts and inventory and such.”
“Believe it or not, ten years ago I was a buttoned down MBA working for a huge corporation in Silicon Valley. I thought I wanted the fast track, but then . . . one day I looked around and hated my life. So I chucked it all and came back to Zid to be what I wanted. I’d saved my bonuses all those years, playing the stock market, so I cashed out and sunk it all in this store. I’ve had it six years now.”
“Silicon Valley? That’s California, right?” He nods. “I tried the California thing, but I figured out pretty quickly that I didn’t belong there and came home.” I’ll leave out the part about the mystical dimension warping bowl having something to do with it, that part of my life is thankfully over.
He squats down beside my chair and we spend time recounting the adventures of Kiwis in La-La Land. I notice the forearm resting on his knee is lean and sinewy, the muscles flexing under his tanned skin. He’s wearing faded jeans again, the worn fabric clinging to his bunched thighs. His hair isn’t really red, more of a brown shot with red highlights, the silvery strands mixed in just making him more interesting. But it’s his eyes that hold me, they are warm but intense . . . passionate and I try to not quiver imagining them lit by lust.
Finally, after I can practically hear Gareth screaming in my ear to just do something, I get my nerve up.
“Listen, Eric, would you have dinner with me sometime? Or . . . I have a friend who has a band, Celtic rock stuff, we could go see one of their shows . . . or something. I’d like to see you.”
He looks serious. “I never thought Karl Urban would set off my gay-dar.”
I squirm, hoping I haven’t made a big mistake. “Well . . . “
“No, I didn’t mean it like that. I’d love to go out with you.”
I sigh with relief and we make arrangements to go to a late dinner tomorrow night after the store closes. Fortunately, the hippy thing doesn’t extend to being a vegetarian, although he says that he prefers organic. We chat easily as I make my purchases and by the time I leave, I’m feeling more hopeful than I have been in a long time.