Have You Ever Played Spin the Bottle?

The game is simple, people sit in a circle, someone spins a bottle.

In the early 1960s, a Canadian construction company was awarded the contract to build a pulp and paper mill in southern Chile.

My sister Graciela was the executive assistant to one of the top managers of the project. She was fully bilingual and a very skilled typist and stenographer.

The company built a base camp not far from the construction site. It contained the executive and technical offices for the project, as well as a mess hall, and a recreation center.

Adjacent to the office complex they built rows of prefab homes for the management team. My sister lived in a small house on the site.

The invitation

One afternoon she telephoned me with an invitation to travel south for a visit. She suggested that I trade the suffocating summer heat and smog of Santiago for milder temperatures and cleaner air.

I was just weeks shy of my thirteenth birthday.

She mentioned that she had friends who owned a farm not far away from the camp. They had invited me to stay with them for a couple of weeks.

I had never been to a farm. It sounded like an adventure, so I agreed to the offer. She also mentioned that her friends had a couple of kids my age.

I boarded a crowded bus for the six-hour ride south. My sister greeted me upon arrival. She introduced me to her colleagues, showed me the construction site, and treated me to a great dinner at the mess hall. The following morning we headed to the farm.

At the farm

The farmhouse was imposing. Thick adobe walls covered in white plaster, held by ancient timber, constituted the basic structure. Thick ceramic tiles covered the roof, giving the place a Mediterranean feel.

The wrap-around verandas provided shade and a collection of outdoor vine-covered patios offered outdoor lounging comfort.

The host family came out to greet us, and they introduced me to their eldest daughter Teresa. Her younger sister Vicky, who was the same age as me, was unwell and had been sequestered to a back bedroom to recover.

The interior of the house resembled a movie set from a turn-of-the-century western movie. It looked cozy and inviting. One side of the house contained the sleeping quarters. I lost count of the number of bedrooms. The opposite end housed the kitchen.

Beyond the kitchen were the living quarters for the maids and cooks who kept the house running like clockwork. I had never seen a place quite like that. It was overwhelming.

The setup

The parents asked Teresa to give me a tour of the property. We headed outside to visit the barns, the stables, the chicken coops, the pig pens, the orchard, and the never-ending rows of grapevines. During our walk, she introduced me to some of the farm-hand children who lived on the property, away from the main house. We heard the lunch bell and returned to the house.

Saturdays were party time at the farm. Gaggles of friends, relatives and neighbors would arrive mid-morning with kids in tow. They brought home baking and salads to augment a traditional Chilean BBQ. The food seemed endless and wine flowed easily, the atmosphere was intoxicatingly fun. I could imagine that this was going to be a great holiday.

I started to suspect that the adults were plotting a match-making game between Teresa and me. There were too many “Teresa sit here next to Rodrigo,” or “Would you two head to the orchard and bring us a couple of dozen pears?” or “How do you like Teresa? She is nice, isn’t she?”

It made me feel uncomfortable.

Teresa was a nice enough kid but I found her too frilly, prissy, and self-absorbed. Our conversations seemed to reach a dead-end rather quickly. There was no chemistry between us.

Setting the traps

My intention for the weeks ahead was to immerse myself in farm life. I wanted to try it all, do it all. Feed the pigs, milk the cows, collect the eggs, brush the horses, trim the grapes, harvest the bounty.

A farm-hand boy named Pedro would take me under his wing and show me the ropes. He was a smallish kid with leathery skin toughened by the sun. His constant grin was hard to ignore. He loved to laugh. We began spending time together. One afternoon he asked me if I’d be interested in learning to trap wild rabbits. He said to meet him at the milking barn about an hour before sunset.

We headed out and set the traps. The next morning we collected our bounty which consisted of two rabbits. Pedro’s dad butchered the animals and gave each of us a rabbit’s foot for good luck.

“Take them into the kitchen. They make a tasty stew” he claimed. The next day when the stew was served at lunch, I felt a twinge of pride.

In the days that followed I learned that there is a rhythm to farm life. Work starts early while the temperatures are manageable, and by one o’clock work stops. People retreat home for a hearty lunch and a siesta.

The farm goes silent.

Vicky

It was during one of those quiet afternoon hours that I walked past Vicky’s bedroom and noticed that the door was ajar. She was awake. “How are you feeling?” I asked. “Better” she responded. “I’m Rodrigo, would you like some company?” She waved me in.

We chatted, a get-to-know-you kind of interaction. She was curious about life in the city, I wanted to know what it was like to live at the farm during the winter.

We talked about our friends, our likes and dislikes, funny anecdotes, and visions of the future. I was surprised by how different she was from her sister. Vicky seemed well-grounded, self-assured, genuine, free from affectation or fluff.

She spoke in clear, descriptive, rich language. She had my full attention. “Do you read?” She asked me. I nodded. “Would you read me a story? I’m feeling a bit tired but I could listen for a while.”

She handed me a book from her night table and tapped the pillow next to her head, “Lay down, I’ll be able to see the illustrations.” After a couple of pages, her convalescent body had succumbed to sleep. I covered her shoulders with a blanket and left the room.

In the days that followed I returned to visit Vicky during the quiet afternoons. She was slowly gaining some energy, so she was able to share photos from old family albums and drawings and stories that she had crafted.

Our friendship blossomed. On one occasion, I entered her room but she was asleep. I sat at the edge of the bed and watched her sleep. She was stunningly beautiful. A miniature version of a young Mariel Hemingway.

A classic beauty softened by sun-kissed flawless skin. My eyes followed the gentle waves of her hair towards her hands. She had delicate tapered fingers that would be the envy of a violinist.

“What are you looking at Rodrigo?” She asked without opening her eyes. She startled me, shaking me out of my transcendental voyeuristic state. “N-No-Nothing!” I lied. She looked at me and smiled with her eyes. I could tell she knew the answer to her own question.

The dream

“Do you dream in color?” She asked me. “Generally” I replied. “What do you dream about? “Poultry mostly,” I responded, I told her my recent dreams had been hijacked by farm animals. She chuckled.

I shared images of the structure of feathers and how diverse, beautiful, soft and strong they could be. She told me that the high fevers she had experienced had given her hallucinations.

On one occasion she had developed aquamarine butterfly wings. They allowed her to glide through make-believe worlds filled with friendly creatures who offered love and comfort to young children. “I want to write and illustrate those stories,” she confided, “I’ve started making some sketches.” By mid-week, it was easy to tell that her health had improved.

One evening I was reclining on a chaise lounge chair on a patio overlooking the fields below. The sprinklers produced multi-color rainbows in the mist aided by the low evening sun.

I was feeling melancholic. My visit to the farm was coming to an end. Vicky approached me from behind and said “Here is someone who looks like he needs a job…Would you like to brush my hair?”

Before I had a chance to answer she straddled the seat and sat in front of me, close enough for our bodies to touch. I started gathering strands of hair close to her ear and with each pass of the brush, I would let my fingers caress the soft skin of her neck.

There were no words spoken. I took my time. When I finished she told me “You are very gentle Rodrigo. That felt nice. Thanks.” “Your hair is beautiful,” I told her. “Tomorrow is going to be a wild party, we should get some rest,” she replied.

Spin the bottle

The next morning I awoke to the sound of clanking metal and the smell of smoke. Men’s voices seemed to be problem-solving. I stepped outside for a look to find a piglet roasting on a spit in a gigantic BBQ.

The crowds arrived, the Pisco Sours were served, the kids dispersed to the hayloft to build forts, play in mud piles, or chase goats in the fields. The music got louder, the laughter echoed through the land. The festive atmosphere was not enough to mask the feeling of despondence that I felt. The next day I’d be leaving the farm.

By sundown, the families with younger children began to return to their homes. The hard-core party animals carried on, sipping cognac from crystal snifters and singing traditional romantic songs of old.

The dozen or so teens who were left retreated to a private outdoor tiled patio area away from the adults. Someone suggested a game of Spin the Bottle.

The game is simple, people sit in a circle, someone spins a bottle. If the spout points to someone of the opposite sex, the spinner walks over and gives that person a kiss. ‘Oooh’s and ‘ahhh’s ensue. After a couple of spins, we got a hit. The young woman sprang up like a grasshopper, ran to the boy, gave him an imperceptible peck on the cheek, and ran back to her spot hiding her face with her hands to hide the embarrassment. ‘Oooh’s and ‘ahh’s predictably followed.

When my turn came to spin the bottle it ended up pointing to Pedro. I told him “You are a good friend Pedro but I am not going to kiss you.” In his best dramatic voice, he responded “But I thought you liked me!” The group erupted in laughter.

There were a couple of more hits and misses and then Vicky’s turn arrived. She was sitting directly across from me. She spun the bottle with intent.

As the friction of the tile floor slowed the rate of spin I could tell that the bottle was going too fast to stop in front of me.

Just as the spout was coming to a stop past me, the bottle hit a small pebble which stopped its momentum. It made the bottle jump and fall back onto the pebble thus lightly reversing the direction of movement. The bottle settled on the grout line of the tile directly in front of me. My heart rate accelerated. Vicky did not jump up or rush. She let the ‘ohhh’s and ‘ahh’s fade.

She placed the palms of her hands on her knees and calmly stood up. She walked slowly towards me, knelt in front of me, and separated my thighs with her hands.

She leaned in, tilted her head to one side, and gave me a tender, long, loving kiss that rattled the tectonic plates of my spine, sending shivers to each vertebrae along my back.

She pulled away slowly, looked at me, and smiled with her eyes. The group was motionless and silent.

The scene did not have an opportunity to repeat itself. Moments later a group of parents dispersed the party.

I couldn’t move, my sister sat next to me and asked if I had had a fun time at the farm. I told her it was the best holiday ever and thanked her for making it happen.

“I’m taking you home tomorrow,” she said. “I’m greeting some Canadian executives who are coming to inspect the construction project so I’ll be in the city for a couple of days. We’ll leave early, right after breakfast. Make sure you are packed and ready.”

I got to my room, flopped onto the bed feeling worn, empty, sad, and helpless. This should not feel like an ending! In my heart, it felt like a beginning. I closed my eyes and thought of Vicky.

The promise

In the morning I collected my belongings and headed outside where the host family was lined-up at the entrance to the home looking like a receiving line at a wedding.

I faced the hosts and thanked them for the wonderful experience. “You are a nice boy Rodrigo. It was a pleasure to have you stay.” “I’m in love with your…farm” I responded.

I sidestepped to face Teresa and thanked her for being kind. We attempted a clumsy awkward hug that illustrated what our relationship had been like.

Then I faced Vicky. The warm glow of the morning sun behind her had produced a beautiful halo on the fringes of her hair. I wanted to hold her, embrace her, kiss her once again, but there were too many adult prying eyes.

I stepped towards her and placed my arms around her waist and drew her towards me. She wrapped her arms around my neck and as my lips touched her ear I gave her a soft kiss and whispered that I would miss her. “I will miss you as well” she replied. Our arms disentangled and we simultaneously dipped our heads to conceal the heartache and sadness we both felt.

I turned away and walked towards the car. Vicky scampered towards the house.

The ride home did not involve a lot of conversation. Graciela showed signs of overindulgence from the evening before. The roar of the engine and the pounding of loose gravel hitting the undercarriage of the car made dialogue strenuous. I reclined the seat and hoped to fall asleep.

Arriving home did nothing to elevate my emotional state. I hated everything, the noise, the stench, the heat, the lack of greenery, the hurried pace.

I stayed in my room dissecting my farm life experience.

I asked my sister if she’d be willing to deliver a letter to the farm, and she agreed.

I wrote a card to Vicky, illustrated with an image of a flying girl with butterfly wings. It contained just a few simple lines. “ I miss you terribly. You are the most beautiful girl in the world, smart, funny, caring, and have a heart of gold. You will soar. I will never forget you. Love, Rodrigo.”

That is a promise that I have always managed to keep.