The Walnut Tree Wine Cave

The Walnut Tree Wine Cave

One of my first jobs was at the Walnut Tree Wine Cave. The Wine Cave wasn't a cave at all. It was one of a row of shops in a shopping centre called Walnut Tree. There was a florist, pharmacy, travel agent, Wendy's burger chain, and the supermarket Stop and Shop. There was also the cinema where I saw Blade Runner when I was twelve. 

The Walnut Tree Wine Cave sold all types of alcohol in all shapes and sizes. Labels stared at you from everywhere and cardboard promotions dangled from the ceiling and filled any space not available to exhibit products. There were rows of shelves filled with predominately Ernest and Julio Gallo and Carlo Rossi wines, which were the same company and the big monopoly at the time. Gallo were master marketers and had every size and variety of wine you could imagine. Their 3 and 4 litre jugs of wine came in cases of four and were a pain in the ass to lug around. The Gallo and Rossi 3 and 4 litre jugs filled most of the bottom shelves. Their 1.5 litres filled the middle shelves and their 750 mills filled the top shelves. Gallo and Rossi flooded the market completely in those days but times were changing with the ripening wine boom and people’s desire to drink better wine. 

I didn't work behind the counter at the front of the Walnut Tree Wine Cave where the customers entered and paid for their items on their way out and very often purchased lottery tickets. I worked the shop floor stocking the shelves and cooler with wine, spirits, beer, coolers, soda and juices. Stock Boy extroidinaire.  I held the price gun in my hand or tucked in my back pocket. A holster would have come in handy. I walked around adjusting the price on the clicker then shot the price tag onto the new bottles of wine, whiskey, vodka, gin. Sometimes I tagged a new price over an old price. I was sixteen when I first started working at the Wine Cave and it was a good job, when it wasn't boring. I also took the deliveries in, checked the invoices, matched the items, checked for damages to the bottles or labels, made sure of the right sizes, etc. I made deliveries in the van to the elderly who couldn't walk any more and to other liquor stores in the area who we were part of our co-operative to stay competitive with the bigger liquor stores. 

Martin and his wife Agnes were the owners of the Wine Cave. They were in their sixties. Martin was of Polish descent and he liked to poke fun at himself for being a ‘dumb Pollock.’ 

‘I must be a dumb Pollock to be in this business.’ 

Martin had a day job as well repairing computers so he was hardly dumb. He came to the Walnut Tree Wine Cave at night to work and keep an eye on things. I usually saw him at the end of my 10 to 6 shift when he was coming off his 9 to 5. He was a stocky guy who reminded me of Lieutenant Columbo without the cigars and hair for Martin's hair was completely grey and he smoked Marlboro red cigarettes. Agnes worked behind the counter during the day and sometimes back in the office at night. She was soft-spoken and delicately mannered and always spoke glowingly of Martin and how he was one of those people that were lucky in life, that it was Martin who always won the raffles, that it was Martin who won in Atlantic City and Vegas. They were a good team. 

Brian was the manager. He was about 30 years old. He stood out because he was a sharp dresser and he always had something going on with his hair- a new style, a new colour. Brian had psoriasis, just about the worst case I've ever seen. Oddly enough, Martin also had psoriasis, probably worse than Brian's. Psoriasis was their bond.

Brian was much more self conscious about it than Martin. Martin was older and married with psoriasis free children and didn't have the same insecurities about it but he understood what Brian was going through and was like a father to him. For their bond of psoriasis people could be excused for thinking Martin and Brian were father and son, even if they didn't look at all alike. 

Martin and Brian didn't always agree, especially when it came to Ernest and Julio Gallo, (Carlo Rossi) and Albert, the Gallo salesman who came into the Wine Cellar every Friday afternoon. Albert usually arrived just about when Martin arrived, when Martin was off for the weekend, and in a good mood. Good timing. Albert looked like a Carey Grant gangster- impeccably attired to show that he was of worth- fancy suit, shoes, gold watch, rings, and necklace. Albert was a bulldog charmer of the first degree and he had Martin wrapped around his finger. He and Martin knew each other for years. Martin was loyal. I thought Albert was a character. He added spice to the place- the way he walked about the place as if it was his. He had amazing gall, like any good salesman. The problem was that Brian loved good wine and hated what Albert was selling, otherwise they would have got on fine. Brian wanted to improve the quality of the wine and beer on offer and this meant a battle with Albert. Albert would win the battle because Martin was loyal to him and Martin was slow to change with the times. Martin drank Budweiser. He didn't care much for anything fancy, just Budweiser. Brian liked to dress nicely and drink nicely. Martin was bluer collar and didn't want to change. Brian was blue collar and did. Martin used to crack open a Budweiser in the office when he came in from his day job. It was his store. He didn't care or believe in this fancy wine and beer movement Brian tried to persuade him into following. He did what he thought was right, and what he knew, what made him money in the past. He wasn't taking any chances. Better the devil you know. 

Martin was always friendly to me and trusted I wasn't cheating him. I could have many times cheated him by stealing a bottle here or there. I did the stock checks. It would have been easy. It was Brian who always charged me half price when I came to pay for a bottle of nice red California zinfandel I would be taking home after work to add to my growing collection. Brian was always educating me about wine so he felt a sense of pride that I wanted to take one home, so he gave me the stock boy discount. Brian was always cool to me and knew I was on his side regarding product placement and that Albert had too much say in the running of the store. Brian got me to appreciate wine. Whenever the salesmen came in with nice bottles to taste, ones Brian knew were good, he always invited me in on the tasting on the counter at the front of the shop. Brian let the wine swirl around in his mouth then spit it back into the glass. The salesmen always praised their wine and waited for Brian’s response, his affirmation that it is as good as the salesmen would have us believe. Brian would let him know what he thought. He could describe tastes very well, and tell you what was good about a wine, or what it lacked. 

There was another guy that worked at the Walnut Tree Wine Cave who had a really bad stutter and always wore a maroon vinyl reflective jacket such as the one football coaches wore in the 1970’s. His name was Ernie and I probably spent more time with Ernie than anyone else at the Wine Cave. I have never ever met another Ernie in all my life. Ernie was a lovely man in his late sixties and he and I spent a lot of time just chatting away, killing time. It was often boring, especially when the shelves and cooler were fully stocked and labelled and no deliveries coming in. We talked about sports mostly and sometimes politics. Once he got mad at me because I didn't know who Coretta Scott King was. I remember he asked me all incredulous, 'have you ever heard of Martin Luther King?' He annoyed me sometimes. I guess he got frustrated hanging out with a daydreamer all the time. Ernie didn't like it when he was talking to me and I would walk away with my price gun as if I was Wyatt Earp. He would follow me, attempting to get his point across, stuttering away in my wake. 'John ya ya ya ya you're walking away from me an an an an an and I'm speaking with you.' I don't know why he sometimes bored me because he was a very nice man. I guess I didn't like it when he lectured me. Maybe it was the maroon reflective jacket that he always wore. Why? I always wanted to ask him why he didn't wear other clothes, but it seemed a rude thing to ask. 

On pay day all the Stop and Shop employees came into the Wine Cave to buy lottery tickets, which was a pain in the neck for staff as it meant dealing with people's idiosyncratic ways and superstitions regarding their special numbers involving their grandchildren’s birthdays, marriage anniversaries... you name it. Sometimes the special numbers changed and Agnes would make a mistake punching them into the machine and the wrong number would come out. The customer would inevitably want to purchase the ticket with the wrong number. 

‘Don’t throw it away. Don’t cancel it! I want the mistake. I want the ticket. I want my lucky numbers and the mistake ticket with the wrong numbers too. It might be fate, you never know.’ 

We should have had a board on the wall or a notebook with these special numbers to save time as the people annoyingly read from some old piece of paper in their wallets or purse and a line would form behind them. The idea of the lottery machine was to get people into the store to buy alcohol or cigarettes but most of the people that came to play the lottery weren't interested in the alcohol or wine. The Stop and Shop employers that came into the Wine Cave every week to throw their money out the window were fools because they weren't going to win. They were wasting their hard earned money and everybody’s time. 

My grandfather was an accountant all his life and when he'd retired he still needed numbers. He believed in his blooming senility that he had acquired a system to predict the numbers before they were drawn. Grandpa had all the winning numbers from the past several years spread out before him on his dining room table. He was going to beat the lottery system. It wasn't superstition he was after or believed in, or luck or fate, but work.