Aged give or take half a century

One of the complete surprises from the Thanksgiving Las Vegas swing was a liquor treasure chest.  Folks from the North Country were on their way, and pounding the bottle is a common way to mask the pain.  Preparing for the visitors meant taking stock of Big Ed's inventory...and even he had to admit he knew little of what he owned.

To everyone's surprise, the doors opened to show dozens of bottles of varying age.  With wonder matching that of a junior high school-er opening dad's liquor cabinet for the first time, we examined the booty.  Some bottles had sealed shut.  Some had cracked, with mysterious shrapnel inside.  We didn't lose hope, though, because each bottle became a comedic defense by Big Ed not knowing or remembering why he'd own such elixirs.  Then, out of nowhere, this gem presented itself:  

That's an unopened bottle of Chivas Regal, with a TAX STAMP.  I'm old enough to remember when liquor bottles of all sizes had these red stickers.  Then we view the tax stamp:

1966

Everyone was stunned, and even I had to ask: at some point, Big Ed (or someone) purchased this bottle.  This bottle sat in his cabinet as he moved multiple times.  It made the trip over a decade ago to Las Vegas.  Packed and brought along because...he might need it for parties.  It remained, and when I was asked if I wanted to take it home with me, the answer was swift.


Consuming it was another matter.  It is a spirit...but does it go bad?  (No, it doesn't)  Does the extra age increase its value?  (Apparently not: this isn't wine)  Is it worth anything?  (No takers)  Well, I guess I'll just have to drink it.

Is it a special occasion thought bouncing around my brain, or casual nervousness?  Whatever the case, I waited a handful of months until I decided to go for it.

Opening this sucker was not the easiest task...but with some prodding, it accepted its fate.  A sniff test produced the expected: yeah, it's Chivas.  Smells right.  Color is fine.  Nothing has settled.  Into the glass...let the cubes cool it down.  The taste?

It tasted...a bit thin.  I wondered if, over time, it weakened.  A quick glance at my report card shows that I enjoyed Consumer Chemistry in high school, but they don't grade on the chemicals I enjoy, so that was of no help as the glass was finished with ease.  I ate some Cheetos and realized that I might as well have another.  Poured #2, and it was a much smoother affair.  Maybe things did settle somehow, someway.  But over time, glass two was finished, and I was starting to think I was a better drinker at my age than I--

SLAP

"Good evening!  My name is Chivas Regal, and I'm sorry it took me so long.  I was stuck in this bottle forever.  I am a genie of happiness and joy.  Well, well...it appears you hit this pond a bit quick.  This time it's my fault.  I was asleep.  Do you feel it now?  Haha!  I bet you do.  Isn't that enjoyable?  It's enjoyable for me, too.  Thank you for bringing me back to life."

This conversation ended once Smiley came home, but even she couldn't detect what just occurred: this old friend was woken from a decades-long slumber, and it was ready to party.  Every occasion is the right occasion as long as there's moisture in the bottle.

The Heart of Beverly Hills

Lunchtime.  The sun shines, though a bit breezy, but it isn't stopping anyone.  Even at work, they are dressed differently...dressed to make deals because of the location.  Dressed to make you notice how they're dressed.  Everyone except me, of course.  But don't let that distract you (or them)...I'm a tourist from Sacramento for all they know.  Just walking around.

"...was some show they're trying sell internationally, and..."
"...you have to send me that when you get back to work so I can look..."
"...did you hear that cab driver?  He said "hope to see you again."  Uh...no."

These aren't the grinders at the office park, heading en masse to Quiznos with coupons, wearing the same shirts.  There are Bentleys, Rolls Royces, and even an old Camero.  This is where deals are made, and they arrive each day in force.  As an epicenter, it is an enjoyable show.  What makes it even better is the attempts by everyone at making it look effortless.  Hey, this is just our life.  This is normal.

"OK...this is totally top secret; I shouldn't let this out.  So, the script they're..."
"I've got one date at 7, and then another at 9:30...I know, I'm so bad."

Could these quotes happen anywhere?  Maybe, though it would be a different setting.  A backlot, or swanky restaurant.  But the people (for the most part)?  Yeah, they don't make these people where I grew up.  That woman with the skirt that ends juuuuust below her rump?  Of course she got out of that Maserati.  The next table over?  Don't question their tactics.  They wouldn't be there by accident. 

And then there's a roughed up Saturn.  A wide collar, shades, and unmanageable hair.  A laugh that, when spontaneous, is likely a bit too loud.  The conversation can be about deals, but it can also be about Foosball.  This dish cost $30?  Fuck this place...we'll go the other Italian place.  No, the other one...next to that one. 

The conversation stopped when I sat down.  Not because I don't belong, but that they were surprised to see that I do belong.  What does it matter?  There's a place at the table now.  As I look at the freaks, the gems, the models, the dunces, and the gold?  I fit in there somewhere.  I could step up some material things, but the bell-bottoms?  Sorry, they stay.