Fuck me. I had an inkling that our (former) nanny was helping herself to my Scotch, but turned an optimistic blind eye. But what the fuck?
At any time I’ll have five or six single malts on the bar: the standards (Macallan, Glenfiddich, etc.), something more peaty, something a bit lighter, and one or two higher-end blends (e.g. something from Compass Box). Nothing too out of the ordinary—most are the basic 12s, though a few a bit older from time to time. I also like to play around a bit, as in keep three Glenmorangies of the same age but different casks to give an idea of how wood affects flavour. Again, nothing you won’t easily find. I do drop a hundred or more on a single bottle once in a great while, but it lasts for months.
There were signs, but they overlooked through benefit-of-the-doubt extensions that would make even Barnum wince. Signs like uncharacteristically small amounts left (I just finish a bottle rather than leave a half-shot in there) and mysteriously dwindling levels (I thought we had way more of that?). But meh. I didn’t begrudge her per se. Shit, half the reason I keep a well-rounded bar is because I love sharing. The sneakiness and whatnot bothered me more so than anything.
But enough. A line of blatancy has been crossed.
Down in the basement I kept a small box of 30 or so nipper bottles of The Glenlivet 18—my airplane stash. Three or four in a carry-on breeze through security, and I’ve been noticed a couple times but never hassled by flight attendants. Stupid expensive way to buy it on the ground, but they’re about the same as what the airlines charge for a Johnny Red. Yes, I could probably buy a regular bottle and fill empty nippers, but that’s a giant pain in the ass.
We’re heading from New York out to Colorado for three nights of String Cheese Incident over New Years. I’m packing our shipping box (there’s another bourgeois concept. Screw lugging luggage around and waiting in more lines. We pack everything from glasses to a Keurig to all our clothes/toiletries and ship UPS before our flight. Now with baggage fees it’s about the same cost, and the time-savings is phenomenal), and go to add in a few bottles for the return flight.
There are three in the box.
Three.
There were about thirty.
Now there were three.
Really? Not content with skimming a bit here and there off the top, you go and take individual bottles? Make the effort to hide/dispose of the empties? And you do so thinking that I wouldn’t notice a store going from thirty to three? What, do you think I’m a bigger idiot than you are?
That’s dirtbag territory, not bored sneaking. No, not dirtbag. Depressing. Sad. Pitiful. You’re fifty-something and steal for this? So you saved yourself, what, sixty to seventy bucks? You could have worked a day and had enough left over for a lonely TV dinner for one, you biddy. Now you’ve killed the goose that laid the golden elixir.
So in this case the worst insult, the worst curse I can think of to throw at you is simple: be yourself. Exist in the thin shell of a human being you’ve plastered together. Be aware of your own reality and realize you’re forever trapped in a grey world of mediocrity.
