The Baker, The Butcher and The Brewer, Part Four – The Bottle 1
Serial Fiction
It’s me, your humble narrator.
Rituals are what keep you sane, believe it or not. Espresso in the morning, drink after work, milk before bed, steak and eggs, black socks, haircut, mirror time and so on. Rituals are what drive me crazy! The ritual of a bottle of whiskey, that’s a one I want to get rid off but it’s the only one I have.
My ritual is to sit at the top shelf of the bar among other single malt scotch whiskeys that are rarely drunk by people. May be I am too expensive, too strong, too peaty, too unknown, than Jack, Johnny and Jim. Perhaps all of the above.
I’ve seen countless bottles of tasteless over-distilled vodka being consumed in a matter of minutes. Why not me? I realized that I am asking the wrong question. I am complex, aged, full of layers and wisdom beyond the comprehension of the common folk. That’s a comforting thought. However, too much comfort has not gotten anyone far. Advertising helps but I despise it.
So what I do is I observe, I let go of forms and concepts and I take everything in. I don’t talk to the bottles of vodka any more, it’s bad chat anyway. What I do is look for good talk, conversations with other single malts that posses similar to mine powers. And when someone recognizes me I pass along everything that I know about life and I know a lot.
I know a lot from the regulars, the tourists, the industry people, the bartenders but mostly from my brothers single malts with whom I share the passion of a fruitful conversation.
I dream. Yes, bottles of scotch have dreams and aspirations. I sit on a shelf most of the time so I really have nothing else to do. I dream of life so poetic that it would be worth novelizing. But! After a couple of centuries of shelf life and unrealized dreams I grew to prefer fiction to poetic realism. That is why I romanticized my incarnation into the human world. And. I invented the Baker, the Butcher and the Brewer.
I, the bottle, have gravitated to my final resting layer on the social ladder. Restrained by the boundaries of the physical world and my own nature I can only fulfill my liquid mind’s desires through incarnation. It is a lot like having children. The difference is that I posses the tools to perfectly condition these children. My incarnations will follow the bend I provide and never look aside. The Brewer will believe in my purpose and use every single calorie to manifest my ideas.
Selfish! If you were sitting on a dusty shelf most of your life you would be selfish too. You probably are anyway.
Location is a key. Choosing a healthy surrogate, everything else is a lie.
I am located better than average. I have to choose with care. In front of my shelf is a center for alcoholic tourism. The majority of this faceless throng rejoices around movies with names like the Ship, the River, the Donkey. Bellies are in fashion. They live the fast life. As fast as riding a wooden donkey.
They are like an ant colony, streaming from a crack in the ground, maneuvering the entire garden to the far side of their universe. Just so they can eat, save a dried plum for the next of kin and die.
Men pay their dues in life either with money or with white hairs. The yellow teeth layer of men pays with both.
Choice is challenging, hence poetic.
First, the sifter with the biggest holes is when they choose me over the countless bottles on the shelves. Then I plant a test seed. A seed that will inspect their biochemical make up looking for that sturdy infrastructure required to manage a mind like mine.
Only then I provide a goal, ideas, tools, inspiration, the whole package and push them from the edge of comfort into uncertainty, risk, real danger, love, pain, scars, all the good stuff.
My gift to them is color. A switch from the grey routine to the colorful metaphoric, hyperbolic, personified, pseudonymic world of magic.
Magic is like an iceberg, most of it is hidden. It only manifests itself for a brief moment to the world and then goes back to work. Magic is immense will power, self control, discipline, isolation. Magic is discipline until will power and self control are no longer required. Until optimum balance is reached. When you stop acting the part and become the part.
I am like a garden thief. I tiptoe in the watermelon fields looking for the sweetest most potent fruit. I wedge out a tiny cone from every watermelon to check the repines. Until I found him.
A jaded office worker aspiring to be a flea market mentor. In his own words, good humored, young, under-ripe, un-addicted. The perfect host for brave new ideas.
next: The Baker, The Butcher and The Brewer, Part Four – The Bottle 2
previous: The Baker, The Butcher and The Brewer, Part Three – The Butcher 23
all chapters: The Baker, The Butcher and The Brewer
more by PETER ODEON
photograph by Hatim Belyamani
