Sideways: A Novel

Sideways: A Novel

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by Rex Pickett
     
 

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Sideways is the story of two friends-Miles and Jack-going away together for the last time to steep themselves in everything that makes it good to be young and single: pinot, putting, and prowling bars. In the week before Jack plans to marry, the pair heads out from Los Angeles to the Santa Ynez wine country. For Jack, the tasting tour is Seven Days to D-Day

Overview

Sideways is the story of two friends-Miles and Jack-going away together for the last time to steep themselves in everything that makes it good to be young and single: pinot, putting, and prowling bars. In the week before Jack plans to marry, the pair heads out from Los Angeles to the Santa Ynez wine country. For Jack, the tasting tour is Seven Days to D-Day, his final stretch of freedom. For Miles--who has divorced his wife, is facing an uncertain career and has lost his passion for living-the trip is a weeklong opportunity to evaluate his past, his future and himself.

A raucous and surprising novel filled with wonderful details about wine, Sideways is also a thought-provoking and funny book about men, women, and human relationships.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781429907873
Publisher:
St. Martin's Press
Publication date:
04/01/2010
Sold by:
Macmillan
Format:
NOOK Book
Pages:
368
Sales rank:
293,472
File size:
328 KB

Read an Excerpt

Sideways


By Rex Pickett

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2004 Rex Pickett
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-0787-3



CHAPTER 1

FRIDAY: UNCORKED

The sun poured bright parallelograms of mote-swirling light through the venetian blinds of my rundown, rent-controlled house in Santa Monica. I was moving frenetically from bedroom to living room packing for a road trip with my best friend, Jack Cole. We were headed for the Santa Ynez Valley and a week of wine tasting before he was to be married the following Sunday. Though I couldn't afford this impromptu excursion, I desperately needed to get out of L.A. The place was suffocating me, fueling paralyzing panic attacks that had been a chronic affliction of mine over the years.

The phone rang, but the number that materialized on my caller ID didn't register so I stood frozen over the answering machine, waiting.

"Miles, is Roman," my landlord began in his Transylvanian-sounding drawl. "It is the fifteenth of September and I still not receive rent. Every month we go through this. If I don't get check by tomorrow I have no choice but to begin eviction. I don't like this. You are my friend. I know you are starving writer ..."

I levered the volume on the answering machine to 0, the hair on my forearms tingling. The rest of Roman's exhortation I could recite from memory. He would warm up with how lenient he had been, then he would launch into a foaming-at-the-mouth diatribe about how my financial shortcomings were the cause of his elevated blood pressure and a host of other onuses that daily racked him on the property owner's cross. His jeremiads were worthy of Job and their intent was to make me feel guilty and scrape together the $850 in question.

I resumed packing, the call pecking away at the edges of my already frayed psyche. Into my travel-scarred suitcase I threw a couple of bleak-themed novels I knew I would never crack. For good measure I added The Oxford Companion to Wine, Jancis Robinson's brilliant and exhaustive tome on everything you ever wanted to know about the universe of wine. It was the perfect book to calm the nerves at three in the morning when you wake in an unfamiliar motel room in a cold sweat, trembling from excess. After all, Jack and I were journeying to wine country, and I wanted to have the one book that had supplied me with all the basics of my one undying passion — besides, of course, the unrepentant penning of two unpublished novels and scores of unproduced screenplays.

As I was about to shutter the house the phone rang a second time, jangling my nerves. I raced over to the caller ID, expecting it to be my disgruntled landlord again, amplifying on his first message with another warning salvo. But the number that came up on the display was a 212 area code so I lunged for the phone. "Hello," I answered breathlessly.

"Miles," sang a cheery woman's voice. "It's Evelyn, your favorite agent." She was the sixth in a long line of backstabbing sharks, but so far she seemed to be the rare exception: an agent who believed in me.

"Evelyn, what's up? You sound upbeat for a change." In fact, she had that uncharacteristic lilt in her voice that promised argosies, ships of fortune that would diminish the pain of the thirty-five rejection letters from the who's who of major publishing houses that I had arrayed on my living room walls: a festoon of failure, I proudly told everyone.

"Some potentially good news," Evelyn said. "Richard Davis at Conundrum liked your book."

My jaw dropped. The novel she was referring to had been shopped around New York for nearly a year now with no takers. There had been the first tier of submissions to the cream of the crop, when excitement was high and optimism exaggerated. Then there was the second tier: less prestigious houses, which meant less advance money, and considerably less budget for promotion once I got published, which I still assumed I would. The slow morphine drip continued as more rejection letters sluiced through Evelyn's New York office and were shunted to me in L.A. Bringing up the rear was the third tier: boutique houses on the periphery seeking a home run and a move into the second tier. Short of vanity presses and the Internet self-publishing venues, this was where Evelyn disembarked and moved on to the BBD — bigger and better deal. We were clinging to tattered ribbons and we both knew it.

"Great," I replied, almost not wanting to hear the qualifications for fear they would put a damper on my excitement.

"He's passing it to the other senior editors to read over the weekend. I'm expecting a decision toward the end of next week. Of course, he recommended some revisions."

"Of course," I replied. "A publishing deal would certainly have that galvanic effect on me."

Evelyn laughed heartily, the gallows laugh of a hard-working agent who wasn't getting any younger. "So, we're in pretty good shape," she said. "I've got my fingers crossed."

"Terrific," I replied, glancing at my watch. "I'm getting ready to take off for a little trip."

"Oh? Where?"

"Santa Ynez Valley. An hour north of Santa Barbara. The poor man's Napa/Sonoma. My friend Jack is getting married and we're going to go out in style. It's research for my next book," I added.

"Sounds like a blast," she said. "Are you writing anything new, Miles?"

"Well, um," I began haltingly. I glanced around at the rejection letters thumbtacked to my walls, their stinging words glaring reminders of why I had been unproductive recently. Of course, there was also the divorce, the dwindling bank account, the renewed wave of panic attacks, the loss of my film agent to the St. Vitus's dance, and the sudden departure of a short-lived girlfriend who couldn't put up with my occupational moodiness. "I've got something brewing," I said finally. "Something epic."

"Well, keep writing," she encouraged. "And I'll call you when I hear something."

We signed off and I stood still for a moment, a hundred thoughts crisscrossing in my head. I had almost given up the book for dead — two years down the toilet and all the bad debts that backed up with it — but I was thrilled Evelyn had not. I made a mental note not to give up all hope in humankind.

I locked up my house, threw my suitcase into the back of my Toyota 4Runner, and headed off to the weekly Friday afternoon wine tasting at Epicurus, where I was to rendezvous with the incorrigibly late Jack.

Epicurus was a long railcar-shaped wine emporium wedged in between a mattress store and a spa that specialized in high colonics. Wine bottles were racked halfway up both walls and down the middle of the long rectangular space, arranged according to varietal and country of origin.

The familiar crowd was packed into the small cordoned-off tasting area, affectionately dubbed The Bullpen, in the rear of the shop. In recent years The Bullpen had been witness to many wild Fridays after the owner had gone home, leaving the store entrusted to James, his English wine guru. Usually James would uncork bottle after bottle, recklessly cherry-picking the store's inventory in retaliation for what he referred to as his insulting salary. It was the place to be on Friday for the Westside wine cognoscenti.

This afternoon they were pouring Gary Farrell, a high-end vintner whose winery is smack in the middle of the Russian River Valley. Pinot Noir country. My grape. The one varietal that truly enchants me, both stills and steals my heart with its elusive loveliness and false promises of transcendence. I loved her, and I would continue to follow her siren call until my wallet — or liver, whichever came first — gave out.

There was a buzz in The Bullpen when I arrived. A few people called out hellos and waved as I squeezed into the small space and found a clean glass. Most of the regulars were already holding court in their customary positions,arms crooked with wineglasses held below their noses. They included: Carl, an electrician at Warner Brothers, a small roly-poly man with a thirst for Bordeaux and a private cellar stocked with some of France's finest (and the burst capillaries in his face to prove it); Jerry, a reptilianfaced, paunchy man in his forties, dentist by trade, oenophile by avocation, who used the Friday tastings as a way to meet prospective new paramours even though we all knew he was married; Eekoo, a wealthy Korean real estate entrepreneur who boasted a temperature-controlled bedroom stacked floor to ceiling with the finest California Cabernets, Chardonnays, and Pinots, the highly allocated ones, the mythical bottles you don't find in wine stores. Eekoo's trademark was the varietal-specific Riedel stemware he lugged around in a wooden case from tasting to tasting. Then there was Malibu Jim, a slender, sallow-faced man in his fifties who sampled the wines, then typed in tasting notes on a laptop, research for a book he probably would never get around to writing. Recent newcomers, I noticed, were a pair of pleasantly plump office assistants who had discovered the best $5 party in the city and were fast becoming regulars. They didn't know much about wine, and they came reeking of perfume — a wine tasting no-no — but they were a load of laughs once they got a few tastes under their belts. And then there were the walk-ins, the one-timers, the curiosity seekers who heard the convivial banter in the back of the store, noticed wine being sampled, and thought it would be fun to join in. Sizing up the fresh dramatis personae, I became aware of three attractive women in their early thirties, huddled together, demarcating a proprietary space, conscious of the leering stares but determined to enjoy their afternoon outing.

"Miles," Carl called out, raising his glass, already flush in the face. He tended to arrive early and get a head start on the festivities. "Didn't think you were going to make it."

"Gary Farrell, are you kidding?" I said as I elbowed my way over to the lineup. Manning the bottles was a matronly woman with a pie-shaped face and a friendly but strained smile. As disembodied arms snaked in between jostling bodies she tried to monitor the amounts that were being poured. It usually began politely, then slowly deteriorated into a help-yourself-to-all-you-can-drink line of attack. We were still in the polite phase of the afternoon when I held out my glass to her.

"Would you like to begin with the Chardonnay?" she asked over the din of voices.

"Absolutely," I said.

She picked up an open bottle of the Farrell Sonoma and poured me a splash. I put my nose in the glass, inhaled deeply, and got a whiff of honeydew and underripe pears. On the palate the wine was indelicate, slightly oaky, very tropical-fruity, a little on the flabby side: a fairly typical California Chard for the Chard-swilling masses. I compared notes with Carl and he readily agreed.

As I waited for Jack, I edged my way nearer the three women who were making their first appearance. They were deep into the reds and I sensed they were getting ready to head for the hills.

"What do you think of the Farrells?" I asked the one in the middle, a pretty, dark-haired slip of a girl.

"Mm." She wrinkled her forehead. "I guess I like the Merlot the best." Her pals concurred with her assessment, nodding and mmm-ing.

I grimaced. Merlot, a quintessential blending grape, when left to its own devices almost always — Pétrus notwithstanding — results in a bland, characterless wine. "What about the Pinots?" I asked, smiling what I hoped was a charming and knowing smile.

"I didn't like 'em." She formed her mouth into a tight little O trying to describe her displeasure with my favorite grape.

Disenchanted, I backed my way toward the lineup of bottles, sensing I had struck out. As the crowd shifted and reshifted in the cramped space, I quickly sampled the second Chard, a single-vineyard wine with a better balance of fruit and acidity and subtler oak overtones that imparted a slightly smoky, almost nutty taste.

"Excellent," I said to the wine rep, when she asked if I liked it. I rinsed my glass and held it back out. "Let's get serious."

She reached for the first Pinot and poured me a splash. It was Farrell's Sonoma standard, blended from a selection of vineyards. It gave off that unmistakable Pinot nose of cassis and blackberry, but it wasn't distinguished, drifting in the mouth like a rudderless boat. The second Pinot was a single-vineyard from the nearby storied Rochioli property. It had notes of cardamom and exotic berries, and it pinwheeled around on my palate, deliciously lingering. Mm, I thought to myself, rolling the wine around in my mouth, this is more like it.

I shuffled my way through the crush of bodies back to where the three neophytes were winding up with the Cabs, hoping for one last shot. I was beginning to feel a little high and it emboldened me to re-approach them.

"You don't like this Rochioli Pinot?" I asked.

The dark-headed one shook her head again.

"Really?" I sipped and took another spin around the block. "I think it's close to dazzling."

Jerry the dentist, face florid from having already traipsed through the lineup several times, butted in. "I don't think it's that dazzling," he contended, hoping to curry favor with women I didn't think would give him the time of day. They all smiled at him and I drifted away for a second and final time. Ten minutes later he had the darkheaded one buttonholed against the wall and — more appallingly — she seemed fascinated by his ineloquent winespeak.

Dispirited, I kept returning to the Rochioli as if to a trusted friend. As the rep poured me more, Carl sidled over to solicit my opinion. I barraged him with hyperbolic hosannas, reaching deep for the metaphors and the polysyllabics, which always made him chuckle.

"You're right," he said, after I had finished reeling off my lyrical account, the wine liberating my tongue to new heights of glibness. "Absolutely first-rate Pinot."

"How was Spain?" I asked.

"Excellent," he said. "Had a great time."

"Drink any good Riojas and Riberas?"

"Yeah, some really tasty ones." He winked, then filled me in about a big feast at a winery where they roasted lambs over flaming vine cuttings.

While listening to Carl's chronicle of his Spain trip, I bypassed the Merlot and reached for the Zin, not wanting the rep to think I was hogging the Pinot. I refilled Carl with a scandalously healthy splash that drew an admonitory stare from the rep. We clinked glasses and laughed, delighting in our naughtiness.

Then Carl bent close to my ear and whispered, "Woman in the black shirt and blond hair is checking you out."

I shot a furtive glance in the direction Carl was indicating. One of the dark-headed one's friends was not just looking at me, but smiling. I didn't know if she was flirting or had simply discovered the slippery pleasures of Pinot at my urging.

"They don't like the Rochioli," I told Carl. "I can't date a woman who doesn't like Pinot. That's like getting involved with someone who's disgusted by oral sex."

Carl laughed. "How long's it been since you've had a girlfriend?"

"I can't remember. A while." I sipped the Zin. It was spicy and full-bodied, but it didn't transport me. "But it's been a welcome break. I can feel the creative juices starting to flow again."

Carl screwed his face up in disbelief. Suffering months without sex was unimaginable to him. Indiscriminate in his own tastes, he often came to the Friday tastings accompanied by the lees of womankind. "Maybe it's time to reevaluate the pleasures of Merlot," Carl suggested, tipping his head toward our three novices.

"I'm not going to journey from the sublime to the pedestrian for a phone number," I said, shaking my head. "What's the deal with Jerry?" I noticed that the dentist was still locked in conversation with the dark-headed one.

"Flatters them, doesn't put them down for not liking Pinot," Carl affectionately criticized me.

"Imagine getting a root canal from that guy." I affectedly staggered in place, imitating a drunk. "He's probably one of those drill-and-fillers who anesthetizes his patients and then feels them up in the chair."

Carl laughed, goading me on. We loved the mordant humor that the combination of wine and gossip evoked in both of us.

Eekoo edged into our cabal, his Riedel Sommeliers glass cradled in his hand like the Hope Diamond. "What do you think of the Farrells?" he said, his speech hobbled by the series of tasting events he had strung together beginning early in the day.

"Rochioli is nice," I said.

He sipped the wine from his bulbous stemware and worked it professionally around in his mouth. "Not as good as the '99 Kistler."

Carl and I rolled our eyes at the same time. Of course, nobody but Eekoo could find — let alone, afford — the '99 Kistler, so the reference was a nowin one-upmanship, but we humorously tolerated his elitism all the same.

"Heard you were taking a little trip," Eekoo said to me, blinking like a gargoyle through the thick lenses of his glasses.

"My friend Jack's getting married a week from Sunday. We're going to do a little Santa Ynez wine tour."

"Ah," Eekoo said, smiling benignly as if recalling fond memories of just such a trip.

"Where is Jack?" Carl suddenly wondered.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Sideways by Rex Pickett. Copyright © 2004 Rex Pickett. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Rex Pickett lives in Los Angeles, CA. Sideways is his first novel.


REX PICKETT is a young screenwriter who lives in Los Angeles. Sideways is his first novel.

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Sideways 4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 23 reviews.
beachdarryl More than 1 year ago
I became interested in this novel after I saw the film adaption. That is to say I became interested in the film when I saw it on cable and almost instantly identified with the character Miles. I rented a DVD and that was it, the film became one of my favorites ever. But after watching it so many times and learning of the novel that came before the film, I wanted to see if I could expand the limitations of the film by reading the novel. So, I purchased it a few weeks ago and haven't set it down since. I read it everywhere - at home, inbetween classes in college, in the car if I'm waiting on someone. It's a novel that I identify with so well. You learn a lot about wine very quick into it, but you'll also realize that the novel is much more wide-open and full throttle than the film. Miles is nowhere near as depressed as in the film, or rather he is extremely bipolar. The chartacter of Jack isn't expanded all that much from the film, but there's a few differences. The novel truly is an entirely different animal. It takes you far beyond the film, but I would reccomend watching the film first as it seems to help you understand more and visualize what's going on better, or at least that's how it works for me.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book was absolutely amazing! I had heard about the movie but hadn't seen it, so when I saw it at the bookstore I grabbed a copy. Little did I know I was in for quite a surprise, I fell in love with it right away! I still haven't seen the movie but I can't wait to after reading this book! If you've ever taken a fun roadtrip, or would like to, pick up a copy of this book today and be off on a journey you won't soon forget after the pages have run out!
Guest More than 1 year ago
Pickett¿s debut novel brilliantly combines comedy and pathos, his main characters oscillating between the hilarious and the introspective. Miles, the narrator, and his best friend, Jack, are in for a week of unbridled hedonism; it will be Jack¿s last, as he is to be married at the end of the week. Miles and Jack¿s antics are consistently hilarious, with well-written dialogue (the back cover tells us that the author is a screen writer) that is often laugh-out-loud funny. Don¿t be surprised, though, when the ending leaves you with a tear in your eye. The novel has a depth that one would not expect from a comic novel, exploring subjects from love and marriage to divorce and death, and, most importantly, the bonds of friendship, all through the medium of wine. Miles is self-deprecating and suffering from the failure of a recently penned novel, but despite his misfortune he is a truly lovable character who uses humor to get at life¿s deeper issues. Pickett¿s novel has been adapted for the screen by Alexander Payne of Election and About Schmidt, and is set for release this fall. Don¿t miss the chance to read the novel before the movie comes out ¿ you won¿t be disappointed. Oh, and, pick up a bottle of wine ¿ it¿ll taste better than usual alongside ¿Sideways.¿
Guest More than 1 year ago
I got a chance to read an advance, bound galley of the book. It's soooo funny and poignant. Story about two guys heading to a wedding, one getting married, the other his best man. They get into some mischief in the Santa Ynez wine country, but there's a depth of feeling in the book that belies its comic antics. I understand it's Alexander Payne's (ELECTION, ABOUT SCHMIDT, CITIZEN RUTH) next film. What a combination!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
The movie is one of my favorites. Now the book is as well. Miles and Jack and painted so vividly so complex that the movie and book combined equal an incredible story.
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Pups1 More than 1 year ago
funny, energetic tale of two friends on a journey to find good wine and some last minute trouble for the groom to be. A delightful story!
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Guest More than 1 year ago
I really don't think that you can compare the book and the movie at all. The movie was a very good 'adaptation' of the book, but two were very different. I enjoyed the book, but the characters and events were portrayed much more differently in the movie. In the book, the character of Miles is much less dark and depressing, and a lot more goes on. The book was entertaining and engaging, and without it, there would not have been a movie. I loved the movie so I am indeed thankful for the book. I enjoyed them both a great deal, and believe that many others will as well. I recommend it.
Guest More than 1 year ago
In Santa Monica, Miles Raymond wonders where he went wrong. Divorced for over a year, his writing efforts a failure and now his landlord is on his butt, he ponders whether his wine expertise has pickled his brain. Still he looks forward to the trek with his best friend actor Jack Cole as they travel to Santa Ynez wine country to celebrate the latter¿s last week as a free bachelor...................................... Jack shocks Miles with his expectations, a week of sexual depravity starting with a bimbo he picks up as soon as they arrive. Miles also meets Maya who wants him, but he becomes philosophical ignoring the sexual attraction between them. He ponders why modern day marriages usually end in divorce, thinking of him and Victoria while envying her new spouse. He conjectures whether marriage could survive if society-accepted men sleeping around? Meanwhile Jack hops into another bed until the women learn he is getting married on Sunday and bring, with a bang, Miles out of his musing and the fure groom out of the boudoir..................................... This male bonding road show is a step above most genre entries because of the sensitive, at times maudlin, but mostly amusing narrative by Miles. Readers will genuinely be fond of Miles but wonder what is wrong with Jack as he out of control when sows his wild oats. The support cast adds to the wackiness whether it is to hunt women and animals or crash a car. SIDEWAYS is a fun tale that is at its best when the slapstick is limited and Miles contemplates relationships while ignoring a potentially loving one............................ Harriet Klausner
Guest More than 1 year ago
I should note - I saw the movie first, bought the DVD, then recently bought the book. If you've seen the movie, I believe you'll be extremely dissappointed with the novel. As much as I tried to separate the terrific characters and performances from the movie, I couldn't. The screenplay writers took a book that doesn't work and made it into a movie that does. The author attempts to create complexity with Miles' character by making him depressed and outgoing, elequent and filthy, sensitive and perverted, and so on. But rather than achieving complexity, Miles appears schizophrenic. Also, it seems the writer got a little too crazy with the synonym finder on his laptop and inserted many complex words that would have been clever and smart in a better novel, but were simply annoying in this one. Reading the book won't ruin your appeal of the movie. It just makes you realize how much better a simple story can become when put into the hands of more talented writers.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Different than the movie too wordy corny at times funny at many points maya is lame terra is likeable silly boar hunting sequence
Guest More than 1 year ago
The movie is really different from the book from beginning to end. Pickett uses to much profanity for my taste. I thought it took away from the story. But, it is an interesting read but I would not recommend it unless you have extra reading time.
Guest More than 1 year ago
It was definitely not as good as I had originally expected. The characters were somewhat interesting. Most importantly, the book does have a good message concerning human relationships. Lastly, if you were let down by the movie, the book is much better.