While cruising in a red, open-top Sunbeam Tiger down a rural road through the green and gold hills of Napa Valley, I noticed large sign for a winery, with an arrow pointing left, down a narrow, winding road. I made the turn, and heading down the hill, could see the small vineyard in the distance.

After several minutes of travel, I pulled into a drive to what I thought must be the vineyard I had noticed earlier. However, I immediately realized that this was not the place I saw from the hilltop. There were two dilapidated buildings, both with badly peeling white paint exposing weather-grayed clapboard siding. One of them was a single story broad side, almost barn-link, with only the faint remains of painted adverts tauting Nehi soda and Nugget shoe polish; the other an equally worn two-story residence with wrap-around porch and tall Doric columns. The yard and parking area between the home and store was a simple dirt lot, red and dusty. Windchimes tinkled, dangling from the storefront.

I looked around, searching for the neat rows of grape vines I had seen from afar. A screech, and I jerked my head towards the crooked door of the store. A blonde lady, late twenties, early thirties, maybe, pushed open a screen door and walked down concrete steps towards me, a smile on her face.

"Would you like to see what we have," she asked. Her cheer was completely out of place in such age-worn surroundings.

"Sure."

Instead of waving me into the store, she took me the few steps across the dirt lot into the front door of the house. I assumed it was hers. Despite the warm California sunshine outside, it was cave-like inside. The rooms were small and dark, lined with cheap wood paneling and filled with musty furniture. We passed through several rooms, until reaching a slightly larger room with a large poster bed, covered with an orange knit blanket which looked like it was filched from a truck stop motel in 1967. Above the bed hung a deer head, and on the opposite, a rifle. Presumably the deer would be forever reminded of how, exactly, he got himself trapped in this altogether unpleasant room. A man (the husband of the cheery woman?), squeezed past us, heading out of the room and we continued walking through it, towards another. The final room seemed a mere closet, but a twin bed crowded onto one wall, with only space to walk by left. At the end of this room, the woman became excited, as if she were going to show off her prized collection of Beanie Babies. Dramatically she opened the closet door.

There was nothing. She pointed down, in fits of glee she squeaked, "That's it. I'll know you'll like it!"

On the floor of the closet were five boxes of firecrackers-- the kind you might buy legally in a state where the good firecrackers are illegal. Most of them were the little paper-wrapped snappers that are packaged in sawdust and sold to kids to throw at each other. Ah, childhood entertainment...

Her smile was not infectious. I was unamused, though I'm not sure she intended for me to be.

Without speaking, I turned and began walking away, back through the poorly lit, low-ceilinged rooms towards my Tiger anxious to get it's wheels back to the pavement. The blonde followed behind me, talking rapidly, about what, I did not notice. Finally, as I reached the door, she asked, "Are you sure we have nothing you want?"

I paused, hand on the screen door latch, and slowly, without even looking at her, "Do you have any moose jerky?" I was serious.

She said nothing for a moment, and then, "Moose jerky?" Now she was the confused one.

I opened the door and took the first step down, towards the car. The sun was low on the horizon now, and long shadows stretched from everything-- including the lion that stood beside my convertible. The lady proprietor had followed me out, and noticing my obvious fear of the lion which was now staring at me, said, "Oh, don't worry about her. She is old and docile."

Old and docile lions are still killers, but I carefully, without any quick movements, walked to the Tiger.

In a final effort to keep me from leaving, the blonde ran up behind me, grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. I reached in my pocket to hand her a fiver as a tip for taking the time to show me her stuff. Instead, I pulled out a single and pushed it in her hand. She ignored it.

"If you have thirty-five," she purred, "I can give you a massage." Her breath was warm on my ear, inviting and without any doubt as to what she meant.

I was finally intrigued. "30 minutes or 60?"

I woke up.