It's been unusually busy here at The Cave and will continue to be so as projects continue, hence the dearth in recent posts.
After a year, compliments on the remodel continue. I was asked recently if I'd ever read Poe's story, The Cask of Amontillado because The Cave reminded her of it. So I pulled it up later that day and loved the comparison. 'Skulls!' I thought, 'That's exactly what this place needs.' So, if anyone has about a hundred human skulls they need to unload, I have the perfect wall for them.
I remain convinced I have one of the better jobs on the planet and I'm fortunate to have inherited a decent enough customer base. What I love about them is they are overwhelmingly clued into this thing called life. While I'm a bit of a recluse, as troglodytes are, they cultivate life. Our mere and brief pleasantries somehow assure me that all is right with the world, the world is on track, when I myself don't always believe it.
A gentleman I'd not seen in awhile walked in one day to get some wine and he said, "life is short," an unusual statement. When he came out of the lockers I asked if someone had died, and yes, in fact, a few of his friends. He said, "I am going to drink up all my wine with friends." (as opposed to storing it for a day that may never come, I gathered.) I said, "I like your style," and I do.
Another guy came in recently, and I asked how it was going. He said he was tired, he's stayed up all night drinking with friends. That's exactly right, I said. There isn't enough of that anymore.
This certainly did not happen at The Cave: Within thirty seconds, a guy with a cold finishes a cherry lozenge, opens this wine, tastes it, swears like a sailor, declares it corked, and hands me the bottle. The second night, it was delicious.
Webkinz is bookmarked on my favorites list. How did that happen? I had no free will in this at all, I assure you, my position and any dubious authority therein hijacked by a little puntable-sized rug rat who may as well be named Pavlov for the way I get out of her way on cue. She seems like a nice kid, but while her father disappears into the lockers she gives me that coy look that has me apologizing for not moving out of her way fast enough. Watch out for those kids, they're just waiting for us to slip up so they can take over the world.
Around the time The Cave showed up on Facebook, someone suggested I do Twitter as well. I'd thought about that, but the wine pretty much just sits there, not quite the stuff of Twitter, (though little is). But that's not quite right, either. The wine just sits there, but every time someone comes in for a bottle, that bottle is a story about to happen. That bottle is a group of friends about to get together, a daughter visiting for the weekend, a couple of pals trying to stump each others palates, every bottle an accompaniment to life. My job is I get to witness these stories every day. How lucky am I ?