Her hair was tightly fitted to her head, set with broad curls pulled up into a professionally styled mass above a face colored with carefully applied eyeliner and deep red lipstick. Her tight Italian fashion didn’t quite fit the humble surroundings of little ol’ Linden. Each and every passerby affirmed this.
The gloss-white high heels made climbing into the pitch black Escalade a wobbly exploit, and yet she managed the ascent as she’d done a hundred times before.
Vehicle in reverse, the brakes were firmly applied, blinking on and off – on, off, on, off – as the tiny pilot uneasily lurched the behemoth from the parking space. I’m sure that every last bottle of carbonated spring water in the seat beside her was ready to pop from the trauma.
I was preparing to take her parking space, so I waited. She turned to look this way. She turned to look that way. She edged back a little further, and then looked again. And I waited. Was it only coincidental that “Highway to Hell” was on the radio?
Once the vehicle was clear of the space, she began tumbling across the wheel to straighten the car and proceed upon her way – brake lights on, off, on, off through the parking lot.
Would you be surprised that the Escalade had a significantly damaged front quarter panel? Would you question that any of the other panels were hardly untouched by bumps and gashes as well? The Escalade had clearly been abused by this little, fashion conscious woman.
One can hardly argue that The Glenlivet has some pretty esteemed label designers. The whisky, no matter the particular edition, is always dashingly decked and ready for public presentation. The problem, however, is that the contents of certain well-dressed editions – like, say, the inexperienced 12-year-old – lack the skills to steer the whisky’s reputation without denting incidents.
For this reason, I own this bottle only when it is gifted. I rarely spend my own money on it.
The nose is empty and pale, much like the whisky’s color, humming only a drivel of something sweet but not all that discernible.
The palate exposes the sweetness – a dull and retreating ginger, almost silent, as if embarrassed to speak too loudly and be noticed beside such company.
In the finish is a clean warmth that highlights a honey not noticed before. Unfortunately, the finish is very short, being whisked away in an uneventful hurry – unlike my friend in the Escalade.
Pulling into the empty space that I felt as though I’d waited a half hour to acquire, I said a little prayer for the parking space’s previous inhabitants, petitioning humbly that they would make it home safely and that no one would be unfortunate enough to leave an impression on the Escalade’s frame. I moved toward the party store’s door with no plan to buy a bottle of The Glenlivet 12-year-old.