I’ll give you my prognostication, Criswell says, but I’m a little superstitious. In actuality, more than a little. Okay if I write it down? Doesn’t count unless you sign your name to it anyway. Something about the act.

I see the snow starting to pile up outside.

Criswell bites his flowing gray General Custer mustache, looks left and right, fishes a pen out and tears a sheet from a pocket notebook. I’ve given this one detailed analysis. You ready?

All ears, I tell him.

He clicks the pen, covers his paper with one curved hand like a school boy guarding his answers, glances at the ceiling, heaves a deep sigh and begins to write, but deliberately, with big curly-cues. He dots an “I,” then looks over his shoulder, turns the paper face down on the bar top, and slides it forward.

I slip it into my pocket.

My theory? His voice drops to a whisper. No lead is safe. Whoever makes a mistake is going to pay, big time. Know why I’m nervous? Rampant over-confidence. We are going down to the wire.

Can’t agree more, Professor. The yahoos are taking LA too lightly.

My main worry: is Tom injured? He doesn’t look himself. I’m not going to say Bill’s lying, but he’s telling a story. As he’s prone to do. Bottom line, they no longer trust each other. And, when the trust is gone…

Yeah, well, who knows? So, what’ll it be?

Feels cleansing to finally commit this to paper. Thanks for asking. The fact is though, LA is no joke. They’ve got beasts. On both sides of the ball.

The storm’s kicking up, they cut the heat around 9:30, and no one else is left at this hour of insanity but me shivering with my long scarf on, Professor Criswell, the pride of Medford, who loves throwing around his ten dollar words, and Tony Boy, bar back extraordinaire, chattering on his cell phone, sweet talking substitute girlfriend number three.

Sir, I repeat, may I pour you a beer?

Alas, he says, scratching the mustache, the latest is I’m gluten intolerant. So said the medical authorities just last Thursday.

A glass of wine, then?

Excellent idea! Very good! Haven’t had wine in ages. Since that trip to New York last year. It always helps steady the nerves. Glad we’re not playing those Eagles again, though. Holy crow! That would send me over the edge. Talk about under-estimating your adversary. You know, I woke up four times last night? What do you recommend, he asks, sticking his jaw forward, licking his cracked lips.

For wine? You want something light, or more full bodied?

He stares, strokes behind his ear. You have a menu, I presume. If it’s not too much trouble.

I hand him the card, go back to cutting fruit for tomorrow, and realize I’m humming the Twilight Zone theme.

This, he says, is one hell of a list, pardon my indiscretion, but with such a plethora of choices, I don’t know. How’s this San-soo-ray?

I take the card from his hand and see where he’s pointing. That there is French, I tell him. Made from Sauvignon Blanc.

Oh, he says, chuckling, I know what it is. Depend on that. Those French are tricky devils though, aren’t they? Instead of saying Sauvignon Blanc it’s just like them to camouflage it with a fancy-sounding name. How’s the taste?

It’s dry, I say. Then I look at my watch. Five minutes later than the last time.

Such a thoughtfully-crafted list, he says, might I take another teensy peek?

So, I hand it back over and he studies it, mumbling to himself, mispronouncing each name out loud. Gur-natch, he says, got to love that one. Moose-kidette, but that’s a tad sweetish, if I’m not mistaken. Hmmm, they even carry a Spanish Al-bur-rig-no? Most impressive! Someone Bobby hired knows their wines, I wish every establishment I frequent carried selections with half this originality. When I went to New York for last year’s game I could not believe the price of their libations! He laughs. Fourteen bucks a pop, and that was the cheapest. From, of all places, Austria. This sour-tasting red with a funny name. Shiraz. Ever try one of those?

I shake my head, cover the limes in plastic wrap and start cutting lemons.

Well, if you’re ever tempted, save your money. I informed that so-called bartender, Hey, I’m just a working man, don’t you have something more reasonable? Because we’re not all millionaires. He just stared at me, kind of snotty, like there’s something wrong with doing real labor instead of mixing cocktails, then he turned and started tapping away on his cell phone. Weighed about a hundred and five, barely spoke the language, but could he put on airs! Did you even know conversing on cell phones was allowed in a restaurant? Guess that’s what passes for hospitality in the Big Apple. Then, he finally bestirs himself and the wine tastes warm as mulled cider. Correct me if I’m wrong, but wine should not be served warm, should it? I mean, I go back to when five bucks would get you a decent size glass in the city of Cambridge and it would arrive properly chilled. Or else! Fourteen dollars. I mean, who could afford this? For something from Austria! Who knew they even made wine near ski resorts? Don’t you need sunshine to ripen, what is it, grapes? Maybe these Austrians use apples. The problem is, there’s so many different wines they come out with just because they think Americans are suckers who’ll over pay for anything fancy and imported. Austria, I swear. Where do they get off? The prices alone are enough to upset your stomach.

I excuse myself, and disappear into the kitchen for a quick smoke. Tony is still buzzing away with his latest, laying it on thick: Mi amor… It’s warmer in here, but I go back out after a minute.

Sir, I ask, have you made a selection?

Well, nothing Austrian, he says. That’s for sure. What about a glass of good old fashioned California wine? Which would you recommend?

White or red?

Is the kitchen closed, I wouldn’t mind getting a bite. To settle my stomach.

Unfortunately. Two hours ago.

Well, in that case, I suppose I’ll have red.

Glass of Merlot?

It’s good?

I like it.

He stares.

You want a taste first?

That, my good fellow, would be gracious and hospitable of you in the extreme. I need something to restore my equilibrium. I wish it was game time. I’m watching alone, I swear. No small talk, no distractions. No siree! Unlike last year. I’ve learned my lesson. Steer clear of the jokers.

So, I pour him a healthy drop of Merlot. He extends his arm as far as he can overhead and squints up at the glass in the dim light. Mmm, mmm, mmm, he says, such depth of color. Then he covers the glass with his palm and begins to spin it. Five times, ten, fifteen, a series of big exaggerated circular arcs. Removing the palm he lowers his big bulbous nose into the glass and starts snorting before gulping the contents.

Voila! he says, exhaling with his mouth wide open, exceedingly delicious! But, kind sir, I’m afraid my preference is for one with a burn. Is that the appropriate terminology? I haven’t had the pleasure since that ill-fated trip to the Big Apple. But I prefer my wines to leave a burning sensation.

I can’t give you another taste, sir, I’m sorry.

He folds his arms. I understand. He runs his finger over the names on the list again and mumbles something else about the Big Apple. Something about common decency.

The lemons are all cut and wrapped. Tony emerges from the kitchen. Should I empty the ice, boss? he asks. Break down the station?

I nod, roll my eyes and indicate Criswell. 

Professor, I said, it’s Last Call. Would you like anything?

He exhales slowly, and points. This Zin-FAN-del. Does it leave somewhat of a burn?

If any wine does, I tell him, it’s bound to be that one.

Well, then, he says, let’s give it a go. At least it originates in our country. Have you ever taken a trip out? To, you know, California.

I smile, shake my head, pour the Zinfandel, ring up the check and then leave it next to him. Watch the door, I tell Tony. Then I go to the office and dial Mal’s number.

Yeah? he says.

Scottso. What do you got for me?

Still New England minus the 4, my friend. Same as the last time you called.

I look at the sheet of paper Criswell has scribbled on: New England 38-34. And the over/under? I ask Mal.

Fifty-nine. And a half.

Wow! All right then, give me the Pats and the over. For, let’s go five grand.

Mal whistles. Stepping up in class, huh, Scotty? Business must be booming. Okay, you got it, guy. Enjoy the game.

When I get back to the bar Criswell is telling Tony, who’s all smiles, about his ex-wife. She considered herself a real aficionado. Used to buy all these pricey Eye-talian reds, her family’s from Palermo, so they thought, you know, we’re experts on wine. But, between you, me, and the lamppost, she had no idea what she was drinking. A glass or two used to get her engine humming though, so I humored her. If you see what I mean.

Tony, I say, you could do the floors.

No idea where she’s gone now, Criswell says, turning to me, twirling his mustache. A strong-willed woman, that Elvira. Probably drinking some homemade vino out of a plastic cup. Spitting image of, you remember Connie Francis? The Gagliardo’s. That’s her family. Solid stock, hard workers. Never drank anything as distinctive as this Zin-FAN-del with them, that I assure you, not in Bensonhurst Brooklyn. This is a tasty wine, indeed. No, a fine wine.

Thanks, I said, lifting his check, and thanks for that inside tip on the game. Given your unblemished track record, I’m counting on you. Mind if we settle up, though? So I can close out the register.

This one has quite the burn, he says, raising it. Superb recommendation! Extremely good. I might consider acquiring a bottle of this. For the big game. It has a calming effect.

Glad you like it. The check, Professor?

I always say, you can count on one of Bobby’s establishments. For quality. He and I go way back, did I ever mention? Tough businessman, hot-tempered, but honorable. Did a little refrigeration work for him, back in the Cambridge days. Hasn’t been himself lately, from what I gather, poor chap. His health. He points to his head. But, you must be cognizant of that, right?

Yes, sir, I am, I answer. Fully and thoroughly cognizant.

# # #

AN Block teaches at Boston University, is Contributing Editor at the Improper Bostonian and a Master of Wine. Recent stories have appeared in Buffalo Almanack (recipient of its Inkslinger Award for Creative Excellence), Umbrella Factory Magazine (a Pushcart Prize nominee), Lowestoft Chronicle (a Pushcart Prize nominee), Solstice, The Maine Review,and several others.

Photo: Morgan Paine