The Driver

I stepped into Governor's from the pouring rain, near closing. Lou and Boone were both there keeping some noob entertained. This was our first rain storm of spring, only one week earlier it was thundersnow. Even still there was something comforting about the shower, pissing down as it was, probably the fact that you don't have to shovel water. When spring springs, it springs hard here. This year it seemed spring's springs were sprung, and that it might not spring at all. That all changed literally overnight, suddenly there were tulips pushing 3 or 4 inches above the soil, trees budding spontaneously, and folks acting like convicts whose cell doors had been mistakenly left open. Case in point, earlier in the day I was flashed by a woman on the back of a Harley, and my beloved lake trail was overrun by...people.

"There he is." Boone said as I shook my coat and saddled up. "Been wonderin' about you, where the hell you been at?"

Lou started to pour my pint but I stopped him just in time to ask for a bourbon Sidecar.

"I ain't got any of them martini glasses." he said with a cautionary air.

"You guys...your grammar is awful. On the rocks is fine, Lou."

Boone introduced me to the new guy, Jose. "He's from Mexico. But he speaks English pretty good." Jose said nothing, just gave me a salute and smiled wide. "He works for the Mexican Consulate."

"Diplomat?"

"Security." Boone said.

"I thought you said he speaks English?"

Jose hiccuped mid sentence, "Where do...you work?" Lou and Boone both stopped and waited.

It dawned on me that neither of them had ever asked what I do for a living...nor had I ever asked them (Lou's was obvious), so I paused for effect. "Did you know it takes three pounds of olives to make one cup of olive oil?"

All three just stared, so I took this as a sign that I should continue.

"Imagine you're standing on a hilltop overlooking a large olive grove. All around you is nothing but row after row of the most meticulously groomed olive trees in the Mediterranean. This grove has been maintained by the same family for generations. They watch after these trees for signs of disease and insects. Every bug is squashed between thumbnails, no chemicals. If a tree needs water, they bring it by hand. One bucket at a time. Some of these trees are over a hundred years old, the trunks have grown wide and thick, the roots reach out for yards under the ground and intermingle with those of the trees next to it. This has been their livelihood for so long, none of them know how to do anything else. They consequently...make some of the most succulent olive oil in the region."

Lou set my drink down in front of me. In a margarita glass. I took a sip and flapped my tongue quickly in the air. "Is it alright?" he asked.

It was awful.

"Oh yeah, just right. It'll smooth out after a few sips. Where was I? Oh yeah...the olives have to be watched closely, because the harvest window is very short. Picked too early it makes the oil taste bitter; too late and it turns out overly sweet. The moment has to be just right, and it has to happen in one day. They walk through and strike the base of the trunk with ax handles, the ready olives fall to the ground. This way all the fruit gets back to the press unbruised.”

Once the nerves in my throat burned off, the drink was palatable.

"The olives are pressed in an old cast iron contraption, the wheels are turned by hand. The juice goes into a series of centrifuges, those wheels also turned by hand. All the fragments cling to the walls, lured by physics. Over and over it is sent through until clear, pure olive oil comes out the spigot on the other side.  Then it gets interesting."

Lou said “Oh good.”

“The trip to town is treacherous. They've got this team of massive horses pulling a rickety old wooden cart through rutted valley trails, over windswept passes, through fields of wild flowers, down into town where people are waiting for that oil. One false move on the ridge line and that entire season's work will be lost. Without a steady hand, every bottle would break going too fast down the other side. Poor timing with the whip going uphill might cause the team to not make it up at all. Any of these things might mean financial ruin, and leave the people in town very, very upset. No oil to toss with their pasta. No oil to mop with their bread. No oil at all.”

Lou looked at his watch.

“So...yeah.” I said flatly.

After several seconds Lou broke the silence. “You're a bullshit artist.”

I leveled my finger at him and said “No...I drive the cart.”