In which the WC parodies yet another Christmas classic – because who else who writes about wine would do that?
“Now, George, do you really want to jump?”
George Bailey, standing on the edge of the bridge, looked next to him. A small, bald man was sitting on the bridge railing. He ignored the man, moved to climb on to the railing.
“Now, George. …”
George stopped, turned. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m your guardian angel.”
“And I need one because?
“Because you’re going to jump – because you don’t think there’s any reason to keep going. Three of your distributors are going to drop you. Your sales manager is quitting. And it doesn’t seem like anyone wants to buy your quality, inexpensive wine.”
“I don’t know about the guardian angel thing, but you’re right about the rest. I’d be better off jumping. Then my wife can sell the winery and the vineyards, cash in on the value of the land, and everyone will be better off.”
“Your wife? The one who looks like Donna Reed?”
“Terrific. I have a guardian angel with a sense of humor.”
“I have more than that, George. I can make you see what the world would have been like without you.”
“What do you mean?” asked George, and then he didn’t remember anything else.
•
“This is my winery. Or it should be my winery. Why does it look so strange?”
“Because, George, you were never born. So this can’t be your winery.”
They were standing outside a building that looked like it should be on the cover of Architectural Digest – all glass and ceilings and reflections.
A young man, who looked like he lived in a building that should be on the cover of Architectural Digest, walked up to them. “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” said George. “This is my winery. I need to get in it. I have a Zoom sales meeting.”
The young man looked at him. “Your winery? I think not. This is Mt. Holy, a subscription-only winery where we only make reds, each scores 100 points, and none cost less than $150 a bottle. And, since we only make 35 cases a year, we’d certainly never let anyone like you buy one.”
“But this is my winery. I own this land. My kids’ stuffed animals are in my office.”
The angel took his arm, led him off. “It can’t be your winery, George. You were never born.”
•
They were standing outside what looked like a wine shop. “I know this place,” said George. “It’s the terrific little store in the Bay Area, the one owned by the smart, funny guy who has always, always liked my wines.”
“Look again, George.”
He did, and then wished he hadn’t. The store was called TotAlcBevCostKrogTarg, and there wasn’t an employee in sight – just rows and rows and rows of rows of merchandise, each row looking exactly the same.
“Where’s my wine?” said George. “I need to find my wine.” He ran to the front of the store, practically tackled someone who seemed to be an employee.
“Where’s my wine?” He was close to screaming.
“Wine? Who buys wine anymore?” said the employee. “Now, if you want to buy hard seltzer or craft beer or canned cocktails or strawberry gin or kombucha, we’ve got that. I think the wine is in the back of the store, aisle 176.”
“No, no, no,” said George. “It can’t be. …”
The angel took his arm, led him off. “It can be, George. You were never born.”
•
“What am I going to do?” said George. He was near tears.
“Just realize that jumping wasn’t going to solve anything.”
“You’re right, you’re right,” said George, and then he wasn’t on the bridge. He was in his office in the winery, stuffed animals exactly where they should be. The angel was gone.
His sales manager walked into the room. “I’ve changed my mind, George,” she said. “I don’t want to quit after all. I’d rather work for you. What’s the point of flogging wine where the only selling point is that it’s smoooth?”
“Thank you, thank you,” said George. “But what are going to do about the distributors dropping us?”
“You know, that’s a funny thing,” said the sales manager. “Did you see this, written by that guy with the beard and glasses, the one who wears the hats?”
She handed him her phone. It was a glowing review of the winery’s $12 red blend: “Just the kind of wine California needs to make more of … highly recommended … certain to enter the Hall of Fame next year … candidate for Cheap Wine of the Year.”
“And I always thought he was weird,” said George.
“I think I can use this review to find new distributors, ones who will give us a better shake than the old ones did,” said the sales manager. “We’ve at least got a shot now, which we didn’t have much of before.”
“You’re right,” said George. “I wonder how that little guy on the bridge knew that.”
And then George thought he heard a screwcap untwist and someone pour a glass of wine. “Of course I knew that, George. That’s what guardian angels are for.”
The WC’s apologies to Frank Capra, Jimmy Stewart, Donna Reed and everyone else who made “It’s a Wonderful Life” the classic that it is. And I would be remiss if I didn’t note that the movie failed at the box office in 1946 and was largely dismissed by critics. Which, of course, shows how much critics know.
More WC Christmas wine parodies:
• A Wine Curmudgeon Christmas Carol
• ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas: The cheap wine version