Dress pants. Wool pea coat. Red plaid scarf. Black leather gloves.
He puts his hand up when I approach, and we slap each other a high-five.
“Hey man, what took you so long?” He wants to know, stuffing his phone in his coat pocket. “I was texting you?”
“Jogged over.”
He looks me up and down. “You look like shit, man.”
“Thanks.”
We move to the revolving doors and are back in the street, flagging down a cab to head to our lunch reservation.
Well, reservation might be an exaggeration. Adam and I have a standing reservation at a sports bar slash restaurant in the shadier part of town. It’s an institution near the baseball stadium, having been around longer than the stadium itself has; dark and dingy, walls covered in memorabilia I’ve tried to buy off the owner at least a dozen times.
Spence and Boone’s.
Except only Boone remains.
Food is fucking fantastic, the locals love hearing the latest insider gossip (when it’s not confidential, of course) and Adam and I love hearing the fan’s point of view.
Our spot by the window is taken — the place is packed for a college Bowl game — but Boone is working and pulls a table over near one of the flat screen TV’s, rearranging chairs and squeezing us onto a table that hadn’t existed before our arrival.
It’s hella inconvenient, and I feel my cheeks flushing from embarrassment of how much effort is being put in to accommodate us, but who are we to insist we sit somewhere without a good view?
Adam wouldn’t let that happen. He loves the special treatment. And when the bills come, we always show our appreciation with a hefty tip. Sometimes tickets to a game, sometimes vouchers for merchandise. Sometimes autographed apparel.
Depends.
Boone has a server bring us our usual draft, whatever IPA is on tap that day from a local brewer, and a basket of chips to occupy us while we wait for our usual lunch: two bratwurst with sauerkraut, mustard, ketchup, and a shared basket of fried cheese curds, and another of fried pickles.
With ranch.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, it’s probably going to give me the shits — but we’re from the Midwest, give us a break.
“Big plans for tonight?” Adam asks, stuffing a few chips into his mouth, washing it down with the ice water on our table.
“Yes actually — big date tonight.”
His eyes go wide. This is news. I haven’t had a date in months, and not one I even cared to talk about way back then.
“A date? Like… a first date?”
“Yeah.”
“A first date. On New Year’s Eve?”
I lean back, tilting my head. “Yeah? Is that bad?”
Adam seems to think so. “New Year’s Eve. That’s like having a first date on Valentine’s Day, man.” He lets out a low whistle. “Dude. This is setting the bar way high.”
“Maybe I want the bar to be way high. I like this woman.”
“Well I hope so, because you could end up with a clinger after this one.” He whistles again, chewed chip flying out from between his lips. “Don’t get too fancy or you’re setting yourself up for a letdown.”
“You’re being really dramatic.”
“Really?” Chew chew. “How long have you known this woman?”
“I…” Let’s see, how do I put this? “I don’t. We connected on a dating app.”
Adam pauses before shaking his head. “Dude you are insane.”
“Oh that’s right, you hate dating apps and dating for that matter — you were just lucky enough to find the love of your life at work, right under your nose.”
He scoffs. “That’s true — but I didn’t know she was right under my nose, remember? We met because she was having technical problems and we accidentally started chatting on the office messenger system.”
“And the messenger system is so much different than a dating app?”
He shrugs. “HR already vetted the crazies out for me.”
He’s got me there.
“Aren’t you forgetting about the elevator incident, though?”
He rolls his eyes. “Who could forget about that? No one wants to be trapped inside an elevator at the company Christmas party, especially me. Especially without food.”
Maybe. “But if you hadn’t, you wouldn’t have realized Meg was the love of your life.”
That statement he likes. “True. So it stands to reason that maybe — just maybe — there’s someone at McGinnis who’s your perfect match, you just haven’t met her yet.”
Right, but it’s not the same for him as it is for me. I own and run the company, and you don’t shit where you eat, and you don’t dip into the company pond. It puts everyone in a compromising position, and I would never abuse the influence I have by making a woman feel obligated to go out with me.
No.
Not going to do it.
There is a no fraternization policy, but the rules are obviously not heavily enforced. It’s up to me to hold myself above the regular standard of proper behavior, and lead by example.
“Honestly bro, it’s just easier doing it this way. For one, I avoid gold-diggers who only see dollar signs. I don’t even want to meet someone at a fundraiser or whatever — they all know who I am before we’re introduced. Gold diggers are like piranhas.”
Worse actually.
“What’s the second thing?” He sucks down some of his beer.
“Secondly, even if it’s the daughter of someone wealthy,” — say, a team owner’s daughter or niece or granddaughter, that’s a whole different story — “That’s almost worse. Because they only want to date me to maintain their lifestyle — not because they have any interest in me romantically.”
He nods because he gets it. “Is there a third thing?”
Yes. “And if I meet someone out in the wild, they see the flash: the thirty-thousand-dollar watch, the expensive car, the silk tie — the smoke.” I pop a chip in my mouth, too. “I’m not about that life.”
“Uh. The smoke looks more like fart today, man — you look homeless.”
That’s a stretch. “I do not. My mother gave me this jacket,” I press on the down Patagonia, then feel for the zipper, tugging it down and removing it.
“Your mom gave you that jacket?” Adam rolls his eyes again. “Wow, if anyone needs a girlfriend, it’s you.” He laughs. “Your mom. Does she buy your socks and underwear, too?”
I scowl, because yeah, sometimes she does, and who cares? She’s bored out of her mind and my dad drives her insane now that he’s not working seventy hours a week.
His last idea was to buy an RV and drive it across the United States, but she quickly put the kibosh on that idea.
* * *
“So okay, you met this chick where?”
“On a dating app called LoveSwept. That’s like, the non-hooking up app for professionals.”
“Sure, sure, I’ve heard of it I think. My cousin just got engaged to someone she met on Sparks, except I’m pretty sure dudes are able to send pictures through that? You know, like dick pics.”
“I got what you meant.”
No way would I ever do that. The thought of some strange woman taking a screenshot of my nads? No thanks. Besides, men who think their dicks are photogenic are out of their delusional fucking minds.
“Anyway — New Year’s Eve, huh?”
The server chooses that moment to come with our food, placing it in front of us before asking if we need anything else and walking away.
“Yeah — N Y E.” I dip one of the fried pickle chips into the ranch dressing, blow on it before popping it in my mouth and scalding my taste buds. SHIT THAT’S HOT. “Except, she doesn’t actually know my real name, which isn’t that big of a deal, right? But might be weird at the beginning to be like, ‘Hey, my name is Harrison, haha.’”
This interests my friend in a big way. “What did you tell her your name is?”
I shrug. “Steve.”
“Eh,�
� he says. “I don’t blame you. It’s way too easy to find people online and shit. You wanna make sure she’s normal before you give her all the good details. I get it.”
“Exactly. It’s not like doing a search for Harrison McGinnis is going to turn up tons of other men. I’m a sitting duck.”
“You’re a genius.” He’s biting into his brat, but because we don’t have all the time in the world to sit here shooting the breeze, he powers on, even with a mouth full of food. Which is gross, but whatever. “Maybe Meg and I will join you. Where is your date?”
“The hell if I’m telling you!”
“Why?” He pretends to be insulted.
“Because of what you just said — joining us! I do not need an audience when I’m making an ass of myself.”
“Just don’t wear that outfit tonight, or she’s going to think you’ve spent the day cruising around the block in your Losermobile.”
Losermobile?
He’s an idiot.
Adam checks his phone, grimaces, sets it down, then wipes his mouth. Chugs half the beer in his glass before announcing, “We have to bounce.”
I quickly chug from my beer, too, but stand and reach for my jacket, shrugging it on. Dip into my pocket for my wallet and throw down a hundred-dollar bill.
Grab my bratwurst, because I’m not leaving this baby behind.
“What’s going on? Why can’t we stay and finish?”
“Manuel Gomez took a hit and they had to take him off the field on a stretcher.”
“Fuck!”
Manuel is one of Adam’s clients; he’s with the Nashville Mountaineers and was in negotiations to sign a more lucrative contract with a three-time Super Bowl winning team.
“That was his mom. They want to see me.” He grabs his own brat and slides out the of chair. “I’ve been fielding calls all day from reporters and sponsors alike, all asking for updates. Vultures. Hell if I know how long he’s going to be out yet. Give the doctors a chance to do their work first.”
We flag down a cab, of which there are many, and eat our brats on the way, licking our fingers as we head back to the office. From the glare in the rearview mirror, I’d say the driver isn’t thrilled about bringing food into his car, but seriously, no way my lunch smells worse than the interior of this thing. Or maybe the smell is just me post jog. Regardless, he’ll get a big tip and get over it.
When we get back upstairs, Adam goes his way while I begin to go mine, but not before I tell him, “If there’s anything I can do man, let me know.”
“I will. Good luck tonight.”
We bump fists and I trail along to the bathroom so I can wash my hands after being in the cab; noticing that it’s oddly quiet when I make my way to my office.
Strange.
I just assumed more people would be working, considering our clients rarely get a break. Regardless of the time of year, they’re too busy entertaining the masses with their physical aptitude to have time off today. I suppose it’s primarily just our football clients.
Still.
We represent a good chunk of the active athletes on the field today, and a nice percentage of the retired ones who have endorsement, television, and film deals.
Maybe I should dash downstairs to do a quick wellness check on accounting — it’s early enough in the day for them to have time to hit their goal, but the end of the week and the end of the line; just need to make sure they’re not buckling under the pressure. Hell, I’ve got nothing else to do other than check on them. My list is pretty short.
Haircut.
Shave.
Shower.
Date.
Yup, plenty of time to get everything done.
I got this.
I… take a deep breath and realize…
I stink.
Smelling one’s own armpits is never the classiest thing to do, especially not out in public, but it’s an action I can’t stop; not after catching a whiff of myself.
Sweat and fried food.
Ugh.
I stare at my reflection in the gold paneling of the interior of the elevator, groaning at the sight of my stubble, ripped up jeans, worn sneakers, and baseball cap with a shredded brim.
Adam was right. I should be carrying around a cardboard sign right now.
I suddenly regret leaving my jacket on the chair in my office. It sure would have been useful to cover up this mess of a concert tee shirt from the 90s.
I also could have used the sleeve of my jacket to scrub off the grease that’s on the inside of the doors when they slide open. I make a note to have Skeeter’s crew do a cleaning sweep of the four floors we occupy since the cleaning crew apparently hasn’t done it.
Not that I’ve seen him at all lately. I’ll mention it when I see him after he’s back from his vacation.
I step off the elevator and look back when it squeaks, the doors sliding slowly closed — then back open, stuck.
Hmm.
Weird.
It wasn’t doing that before when I got on; maybe the doors need to be oiled and not just cleaned. Granted, the maintenance guys aren’t elevator technicians, but if there’s something they can fix before we call in a third party, more power to us.
I push the red STOP button on the inside and the car stays put, halted.
Crouching in front of the power box, I open the small door with the Swiss Army Knife in my back pocket — the one I keep on my keychain — unscrewing it with alacrity.
Peer inside to see if a power switch has been tripped.
I may be no repair man, but I also live in a building with a cargo elevator that routinely breaks down, so I know a thing or two about the basics.
No electrical shorts. No tampering with the control panel.
No…
“Phew! There you are.” A cheerful voice is at my back as I stuff the pint-sized tool inside my jeans. “I’ve never been so relieved to see someone in my life.” The voice pauses. “Okay that’s overly dramatic — once I was relieved to see Santa Claus in my living room eating cookies, but we both know he’s not real and you are.”
I pivot on my rubber soles — which squeak the entire way, not unlike the elevator—and stare.
* * *
The young woman claps her hands together in mock glee. “I’m so glad you’re finally here! When you’re done with the elevator can you replace that bulb above my desk?”
I have no idea what the hell she’s talking about, but she’s amusing and I keep my lips shut.
“If you haven’t listened to my voice messages, go ahead and delete them — I was starting to sound desperate, ha ha!”
What voice messages?
“I can honestly tell you that I have not listened to any desperate sounding voice messages.”
It’s not a lie, but it’s not an admission that I have no idea who the hell she is. She, on the other hand, apparently knows me? But…
“What do you guys do down there in the custodial office all day? Drink coffee and eat donuts?”
Or maybe she doesn’t know me. What is she talking about?
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that — I’m sure you’re putting out more fires than I can only imagine. My busted light bulb situation is hardly a priority, not when elevators are breaking and windows have to be replaced.”
She looks to me for concession or agreement, and stupefied, I nod.
This girl is…
Cute.
No, scratch that. Not cute — pretty.
And oddly familiar?
Or am I losing my mind because I just had a pint of beer in the middle of the work day?
I find my voice. “I’m sorry, what did you say the problem was?” Sounds like a lightbulb in her office needs to be replaced, and that I can surely do.
After all, this is my office and my responsibility, and how better to lead by example than physically completing a task someone on my team needs help with.
I can lend a hand. I don’t have anything to do until four o’clock anyway.<
br />
“The light above my desk is flickering and it’s driving me insane — I have reports to get done by this afternoon and cannot afford the distractions. You have zero idea how awful it’s been! I had to buy a visor to wear to block out the flashing — I feel like a race horse wearing blinders.”
She laughs.
My stomach does a strange little roll I recognize as: attraction.
Shit.
Not okay.
I have a date tonight with Felicity, whom I’ve been flirting and chatting with for weeks, and building a foundation with. I know more about her than Adam.
This woman works for me, and remember what I said earlier about shitting where I eat? Despite there not being an enforced fraternization policy?
“I even have a new lightbulb!” She chatters on, leading the way, weaving through a labyrinth of cubicles set up in the center of the main floor. “I know I shouldn’t have, but I’m confident that this is an easy fix, and thought maybe I could change it myself? Only that wasn’t going to happen because, well — look at me.”
Oh, I’m looking at her alright.
Pretty, petite, this woman has curves in all the right places and tiny to boot. I highly doubt she could reach the ceiling unless she had a seven-foot ladder. Even then it’s iffy.
“Where’d you get the light bulb?”
“I had it delivered from the hardware store.” Her laugh tinkles. “I was going to submit the expense to my boss next week.”
Resourceful little thing.
Long dark hair, exotic eyes. Full lips that don’t look like they’ve been cosmetically enhanced.
I know this person.
How do I know this person?
The thought niggles at me until we reach her office; eats away at me like a song playing in my mind I cannot recognize or remember the words to. But I know the melody and the era it’s from.
I also know that if I look online, I will find the title and the artist.
Just as I know, that if I look online, I will find this girl.
Call it intuition.
So oddly familiar.
So happy and cheerful.
Her hands are braced on her hips and I realize she’s standing in the middle of her office, under a flickering fluorescent light, one of the bulbs going haywire, casting stroke like effects into the room.
New Year’s Steve Page 4
