Bottle Hunter

Entry "The Writer's Cramp"  Educational prompt. Write a story that teaches your reader something.



The seven A.M. sun promised a sweltering afternoon, but Calvin and Marie, riding in the truck, had the crisp mountain air streaming in through windows wide open. The heat would come soon enough. The Dodge Ram was loaded with boxes, and Marie's nose was buried in the Antique Trader Bottles Guide.

Calvin turned down the volume and captured Marie's fingers tapping in rhythm to the music. "You don't have to memorize the book."

Marie admired his lanky body and the way his shoulders tugged at the tee shirt. "You're the expert. I barely deserve my dealer's badge." Her hand twitched, anxious to run a path up his thigh. "How long before we reach Shepps Grove?"

Calvin checked the map. "An hour. You're going to love this place."

Marie rubbed burning eyes with her thumbs, trying to conjure the image of Shepps Grove as Calvin described it; a two acre field of meadow grass and dirt paths where antique traders converged annually for the flea market. She ran the cheap identification badge up and down her jeans, removing smudges.

When the truck rolled in, the place was already abuzz with dealers setting out their wares. Calvin consulted the sign-in sheet, found their spot, and parked the truck. The two empty tables he paid for were far from the entrance, but under shady trees.

"Come on, Marie. Let's get set up."

"How do you want the bottles arranged?" Marie asked, admiring a cobalt-blue bottle and Calvin's butt.

"The Hutches first."

Marie screwed up her eyes. "The Hutchinson Soda Water Bottle dates back to the 1880's."

"And why's it unique? Calvin asked.

"The patent on the spring-loaded internal stopper. The bottle, no matter how it was handled, stayed sealed until someone opened it. And this one still has some of the wire attached."

Calvin hugged her shoulders. "That's my girl."

Marie reached for a hand, but he was enthralled with his ink bottles. She lifted the tee shirt, wiping sweat from her brow. "It's gotta be over ninety degrees."

Calvin cast a nonchalant glance her way. "You're flashing skin." Now, his sea-blue eyes pinned her. "I'll give you away if someone bids."

As she yanked her shirt down, she smiled. Maybe Calvin was interested in her. She ducked under the table, sorting through boxes. "Pontils are unpacked?"

One of the onlookers overheard her. "Pontils?"

Calvin held up a green bottle and traced fingers around the bottom. "Marie's the expert."

Marie glowered at her boyfriend. "Right. Bottles with pontil marks were made between 1840 and 1865. The glass maker dipped a blowpipe into liquid glass and formed a bottle from the blob. Next, a metal rod, called a pontil, was pushed into the molten glass, creating the pushed up bottom, known as a kick-up. When the bottle was snapped off the metal, the pontil left a circular scar." She grinned in Calvin's general direction, but he was rooting through boxes.

"What about this lettering?" the man asked.

"Embossing identifies the origin of the bottle. The plain ones are common. The one you're holding"—Marie examined the embossing—"is a Mineral Water from Pittsburgh. Because of the pontil mark and the embossing, it lists between five and seven hundred dollars.

"Okay, I'll come back later."

Calvin stood next to Marie, shoulders touching. "Won't see him again."

The crowd parted, and an older gentleman stepped up. Most dealers knew each other, and the members were extraordinarily kind.

"Calvin, you found my poison?"

Marie flipped to the correct chapter and skimmed it, recalling that to avoid confusion, poison bottles were manufactured with quilted of ribbed surfaces, heavily embossed.

"How much money you carrying, Dave?" Calvin asked, handing over a tiny package.

"Mint?" Dave asked, unwrapping layers of bubbles.

The definition of mint floated in Marie's brain. Flaws in the bottle, like tiny seeds formed by air bubbles popping, were prized. On the flip side, a bottle with a ding or chip turned away expert bottle hunters. Bottles from the 1800's, and people wanted perfection. Mint.

Dave pinched the amber, 2 ¼ inch bottle in his fingers, and whistled low. "Skull and Crossbones embossed."

"Better watch out, Dave. Calvin's asking top price."

Dave slapped a wad of dollars on the table. "I been waiting too long for this beauty. Here's twenty-five hundred."

A woman, ignoring the 'Do not touch' sign, was holding an emerald green ink bottle.

"What're you looking for?" Marie asked.

"I want a pretty bottle for my desk. This one's lopsided."

"The bottles were hand-blown by imperfect humans. The charm's in the peculiarities. You're holding an umbrella ink, rare, worth around three to four thousand."

"Dollars?" The woman shifted the bottle back to Marie and scurried away.

Calvin laughed. "Doubt she'll come back."

Marie reached to caress his face, but was interrupted by another customer.

An elderly woman eyed the couple before pointing to a corner far back on the table. "Can I see the greenish-blue one?"

Calvin picked up the bottle, worth around fifty dollars.

"That's pretty. How much?"

"A thousand."

The woman bit her lip. "Oh."

Marie took the bottle cradled in Calvin's hand and stroked the cool length, admiring the air bubbles and tracing the pontil. "Calvin jacked up the price because this one's priceless."

The woman leaned forward. "Priceless?"

"When we met, Calvin introduced me to his astonishing world of glass. Brought me to a site he'd excavated. I nearly fell into the pit. How deep was it, Calvin?"

"Deep enough to know I'd uncovered every single bottle, but Marie—"

Marie pushed him aside. "I wanted to find one. I asked, 'What if one was tossed under that tree?' Calvin knocked that tree down with one massive boot, and—"

"You found this bottle."

"One year ago, today," Marie said.

The woman touched Marie's arm and drew her aside. "That man know you're crazy in love with him?"

Marie sighed. "Not a clue."

Calvin sidled over and took Marie's hand. "Sweetheart?"

Both women held their breath.

"Did we sell that umbrella ink?"



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