It might’ve been John Steinbeck who wrote that the grapefruit groves in this part of California in May might be mistaken for snow-covered fields. In fact, aslant in a certain morning light, they remind me of winters in Des Moines, especially the innocent winters of my childhood before I knew the taste of alcohol. Anything was possible then; I could’ve been a writer. I could’ve gained the attention of sophisticated women and men, those who understand the beautiful difficulty of weaving together story and landscape into something worth remembering. That’s what Steinbeck did.

Anyway, here I am in California looking over the Central Valley and trying to get sober. My Des Moines doctor sent me out here because I have money and because his brother owns a ranch west of Fresno where he says I can work the liquor outta me. “At your own pace, Jeff. No need to rush things. Work and discipline sometimes make all the difference.” It’s not just the booze, of course, but that’s the main thing. There are also the painkillers and my ex-wife, who treats me like dogshit now because, according to her, I “let things get out of control.” Truth be known, she drinks more than I do, but that’s for another story. She’s just more careful about it. She never tries to drive when she’s whipped up, while I have this odd tendency to get behind the wheel and pass out in live construction sites. It was after my fifth DUI and after I (finally) lost my job teaching English at the community college that things got out of control. So I’m here—and let me tell you, the Central Valley is remarkably beautiful and I can finally understand why Steinbeck wrote about it. I take my coffee from the ranch kitchen and wander out toward the grapefruit in the morning before lunch. In the afternoon I roam about the strawberries and avocados, the almond trees—their whites even deeper and more mysterious than the grapefruits—before stumbling in at six for one of John’s wife’s meals back at the ranch. She cooks well: spaghetti and meatballs, sweet corn, Cobb salads, you name it. They want me to start doing light chores around the ranch, but the idea of working without drink scares me. I miss my bourbon. I miss the sound of those three ice cubes falling softly into that short glass. I miss Iowa in the evening. Our corn back home doesn’t come till late July, but it’s better.

It’s a different way of being out here in California. Softer, deeper, but also somehow more fragile. My grandfather was born and raised out here, and did well in the fertilizing business in the 1930s—The Grapes of Wrath time—until he, too, came across the bottle and let it sink him. They say the disease resides in the genes and maybe skips a generation, but I don’t know about that. I think it’s more simple. Some people like the taste of it and others don’t. I started drinking beer when I was twelve, then gradually as a teenager latched onto the harder stuff. I like the taste of bourbon on the tongue because it reminds me of something I might’ve lost in some other life. I like how the booze makes everything all right for a while. Ask anyone who drinks and he’ll tell you the same. I could, of course, step out to Fresno for an afternoon and sidle my way up to one of the bars in town and get washed, but I’m not ready to do that quite yet. I like getting up in the morning feeling refreshed. I arise in one of the back bedrooms at the ranch, spread the quilt back over the bed, and go for the coffee. I’m happy here, but still the thought of real work scares me. Teaching English back in Iowa was nothing—commas and semicolons, paragraphs and topic sentences, the occasional Jack London or Zane Grey to keep the kids interested. They paid me to do very little, and what pay I got went to Mister Daniels. He’s a nice man, but he has a sinister side. 

Today I walked into Fresno to buy a few things for John’s wife. Memorial Day’s coming up, and they plan to have a spread with some of the other ranchers in the area. There might even be fireworks—no one’s sure yet. Out here, plans go in accordance with the wind. I bought a sack of potatoes for potato salad, some green beans, a cantaloupe, and a case of Pepsi. Trader Joe’s also happens to have a fantastic wine aisle, which I cruised through on my way to the cashier. So many Cabernets, so many Pinot Noirs, and I studied the prices. For the alcoholic, temptation’s a whore with big lips and a beautiful smile. Temptation comes with the words: “Maybe just this once.” It was going to be a holiday, after all, so I bought two bottles of Cabernet with cash, secured them in my knapsack, and made the forty-five minute trudge back to the ranch weighed down with all that goodness. I’m no longer allowed to drive, but I don’t miss that. I didn’t buy the wine to drink; I bought it merely to have. One of these days—when the weather feels unbearable and mean—those bottles will be stowed away in the closet behind my Iowa clothes to think about. Sometimes I think a drunk needs the possibility of drink more than the drink itself. That’s how it works for me, at least. That’s Cabernet’s insurance, a lifeline for when the days grow bleak. I hope I’ll never drink it. I hope I’ll never drink again, but that’s the good Jeff talking.

The bad Jeff knows better. He knows there’ll come a time—this weekend, next week, next month—that he’ll find the necessary excuse to palm one of John’s corkscrews, sneak it back of the ranch, and open a bottle, then the other. He knows that two won’t be enough, and he knows exactly what he’ll say, the words already being aligned like poker decks to the hopeless gambler: “It’s only wine, and this is Wine Country.” It’s a battle, you see, and one that can only be overcome when I’m out here in the morning looking over those grapefruit trees. How beautiful they are before the afternoon turns hot and all is bathed in simmering white light. How beautiful it is to know that they’ll be waiting for me again tomorrow and the day after that. I’m only 38, I tell myself, and this is the way life ought to be lived. It’s a nurturing life here—the variegated colors of the land, the San Joaquin River turquoise-purple at twilight, the overalled farmers coming home satisfied to soup, a good story, a kind of conversation that lingers deep into the night.