Marketing Beef

by Rick Bettencourt

  I shut the vacuum off and wheeled it back into the laundry room, off the foyer. While in there, I took out the load from the dryer, brought it back into the bedroom, and had just begun to fold when my cell phone rang.

  I looked at the screen. “Ron.” I picked it up. “Hey. What’s up?” I sat down on the edge of the bed. “I was just going to—”

  He went on about having pulled his back while working out at the gym.

  “I told you bodyweight exercises are the way to go. No equipment and you get a better—”

  He interrupted and said he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to make it.

  “Oh?” I smiled slightly, then shook my head to wipe it from my face. “I was going to head up early and stake out a spot for us.”

  He said that he might try to come up Saturday night or Sunday morning for the kayak trip, if he was feeling better.

  I pulled a pair of Dillon’s underwear from the laundry pile and smiled. “Oh, no problem. I’ll be bringing a…buddy of mine.”

  He muttered something, with an air of surprise.

  “Yeah. A lot’s happened since we last talked. Work…” He interrupted and said something about the scandal. “Yeah, I figured you’d have heard…I know, it’s been all over the—”

  He asked me if I had heard the latest about Whitfield.

  I bolted up. “What?”

  I hung up with Ron, ran to the TV and flipped it on.

  “We continue to bring you this developing news,” the blonde newscaster said—she was a pretty thing who looked older than me but was probably fresh out of college. “Thoroughbred Marketing of Beverly, Massachusetts, was dealt another slap today. CEO and founder, Jonathan Whitfield, seventy-eight, is said to have died in his Marblehead home. No further information is available at this time.” Mr. Whitfield’s headshot from the company’s website, of him dressed in a gray suit and a red tie, flashed above the newscaster’s left shoulder.

  My cell phone rang again. It was Dillon.

  “Did you hear?” I asked upon picking it up.

  “Holy shit. What happened?”

  I shut the TV off. They had moved onto the weather. “I don’t know. The last I saw of him was Sunday.”

  “You think he was murdered?”

  I sat on the edge of my Pottery Barn chair. “I…I would hope not. He was old. Maybe just the stress of it all?”

  “What a time to go!”

  I leaned back in the chair and exhaled. “I feel bad.” I gave a slow, disbelieving shake of the head. “I don’t think he knew about it.”

  “The scandal?”

  “He was too old, nearly ready to retire. I think he had the wool pulled over his eyes.” I almost forgot I was talking to Dillon for a second. “I should’ve warned him.”

  “Huh?” I could hear fumbling in the background, like he was getting out of bed, or something. “Did you know about it, Evan?”

  I got nervous flush and felt a bit tingly. “No!” I sat up. “Why would you think that?”

  The silence on the other end seemed like it lasted forever. He huffed. “Anyway…” Then his voice got that smoky, low tone and he went on, “I was just thinking about you.”

  I grinned, any nervousness I had about the scandal suddenly vanishing. “You were?” I bit my lower lip and asked, “And something popped up?”

  The doorbell rang.

  “Hold on,” I said to Dillon. “It’s probably Mrs. Johnson wanting me to walk her dog or something. I’ll call you later.”

  We hung up, and I went to the door and opened it.

  My mouth fell open. “What?”

  There was a delivery man, holding a beautiful bouquet of yellow roses. “Mr. McCormick?”

  “Yeah.” I opened the screen door. He handed me the flowers, and I signed a delivery slip.

  He nodded. “You have a great day,” and headed back to his truck.

  ****

  Dillon stood in my living room. He was dressed for hiking, in a pair of Levis, North Face hiking boots, a Kings of Leon concert T-shirt, and his Red Sox baseball cap. He had arrived right on time. “I didn’t want to send them after we got back from camping,” he said. “I couldn’t wait. They’ll still be fresh when we get back Sunday.”

  I looked over at the display I had put on the island between the dining area and the kitchen. I had never had anyone buy me flowers before, let alone have them delivered. “Dillon, I don’t…I was so shocked.” I looked back at him, reached out and kissed him. “Thank you. You’re…you’re the best.”

  He gave a dismissive wave. “Ah.”

  I looped my finger into the back of his pants and led him into the kitchen. “I have a little surprise for you, too.” I held out a hand. “Nothing fancy.”

  “A surprise for me?”

  I pulled out a seat for him to sit down at the café table. “It’s not much, but…” I went to the counter and grabbed a bag of still-warm muffins and some coffee, which were away from his view, on the other side of the refrigerator. “I know you like blueberry muffins.” I walked over and put them down on the table. “There’s this little bakery up the street that makes them. They’re to die for. They just came out of the oven.”

  He patted his stomach. “I thought I was watching my girlish figure.”

  I peeked over the table, in obvious exaggeration, and looked down at his crotch. “There ain’t nothing girlish about you.”

  He chuckled, pulled the bag closer, opened it and sniffed. “Ah, heavenly.” He put his nose in the bag and took another whiff. “Umm.”

  “Well, we could sit and smell them.” I sat down. “Or eat them.”

  He looked up. “How about both? Why don’t we take them in the car and eat along the way? I want to get up there.”

  I pushed my seat back and slapped my thighs. “Great idea.”

  I went over to the television to shut it off. “You heard, right?”

  “Heart attack.”

  I turned. Dillon was right behind me. “Poor guy,” I said.

  “Poor?” he asked.

  “You know what I mean.”

  ****

  We crossed the Piscataqua River Bridge into Maine around eleven. I was driving my Explorer. Dillon sat in the passenger seat, looking very sexy.

  “You’re too much of a distraction,” I said.

  He chuckled and grabbed the muffin bag. “Keep your eyes on the road.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything left.”

  He opened the bag and poured the remaining contents in his mouth. “There were a few more crumbs.”

  I pushed the glasses I wore for distance up on the bridge of my nose. “God, you eat like an ox. You want me to stop for lunch?”

  “Nah. I’ll be fine. I can wait.” He pulled at the inseam of his jeans, scooting himself up in the process. “Though quite honestly, I can’t wait to get you in that tent.”

  I glanced over. He was fidgeting with his crotch, which instantly got me hard. “Neither can I.”

  We drove a little longer, listening to more of Kings of Leon’s “Mechanical Bull.” I came upon a rest stop.

  “Oh, thank God,” Dillon said. “I really gotta go.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve stopped earlier.” I turned on my blinker and pulled off the exit.

  Dillon unplugged his iPod, and The Pretenders’ CD I had in started. I parked next to a Vanagon with a Human Rights Campaign sticker on its bumper. Two women got out.

  Dillon opened the door. “You have to go?”

  “No.” I smiled and changed the track.

  “What are you? A fucking camel?”

  I snickered. “I’ll wait here.” And I did.

  “Lover of Today” changed to “I’ll Stand By You” and I hummed along. I was grateful for Dillon being in my life. “Thank you, God,” I muttered.

  The lesbians came back. Dillon was walking several feet behind them. The girls were chatting and laughing. The heavier one grabbed the tip of the blonde’s fingers and helped her toward t
he car. Dillon smiled at me. The girls got in their van.

  “What’s the matter?” Dillon asked, with the passenger door open.

  I turned my head and wiped a small tear from my eye. “Nothing. Why?”

  He got in, grabbed my hand and we drove off.

  ****

  Around one, we got to the campsite, which sat on a bluff overlooking the bay.

  Dillon stretched his back, wandered over to the edge, and took in the view. “This is awesome.”

  I walked around the front of the car. “This is my favorite spot.” I kicked at the ground where I usually put up the tent and then looked out at the ocean. “Great view, huh?”

  He turned back. “I never knew camping could be so nice.”

  I kicked away a few pebbles. “If we waited another hour, all the good spots would be taken.”

  “Is that why you wouldn’t let me pee again?” he said, walking over to a clump of bushes.

  “Not there!”

  He turned around with his zipper part way down.

  “There’s an outhouse down that path,” I said, pointing.

  He sighed, zipped back up and headed down the trail.

  When he got back, he helped me finish setting up the tent. We had the entrance face the water, so we could sit inside and look out at the view.

  He climbed inside. “I love the smell of a tent.”

  I scooted in behind him. “You and your smells.”

  “I love smells.” He leaned into me and sniffed slowly. “Like you.” He kissed my neck.

  “Dillon.” I pushed him away. “Not yet. There are kids around.”

  He leaned back on his hands. “All right, all right.”

  “So,” I said, with a clap of my hands, “now that we’re staked, why don’t we get some lunch?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “You are a ravenous fella.” I leaned in and kissed him.

  He kissed me back and sat up. “I thought we were waiting.”

  “We are,” I husked into the side of his neck.

  He moaned. “Okay.” He returned the kiss. “If this is waiting…” he grazed his hand along my neck, as I leaned my head back, “…then waiting is awesome.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Nine

  Woody’s was a burger joint on the outskirts of Little Point, Maine. A lot of people from the campground went there, as it was within walking distance. I had been there a couple of times with the L.L. Bean group, but I usually just hung back at my site and cooked up something on my propane grill.

  In the middle of Woody’s sat a bar. A woman, probably in her mid-forties with a ruddy complexion and dyed blonde hair, poured draft beer from a tap. Guys with big bellies and bushy beards played darts in front of her. Behind her was a pool table with a small group of men and women surrounding it.

  “Merle!” she shouted. “Here’s your Bud.” She slid a beer down the bar. A dart player with a Harley Davidson bandana put out a hand, caught it and winked at her.

  Dillon and I brushed our feet on the foyer’s mat. The pool table group looked up, stopped talking for a bit and then went back to their business. We stepped in further and took a small table near the head of the bar, between the dart players and pool table. “This good?” I asked Dillon.

  He pulled out a chair. “Good as any,” he said, sat down and pulled a menu out from between the condiments and napkin dispenser.

  I sat, took out a menu and looked at it. The corner of the menu had a little burn mark on its plastic covering that went through to the paper underneath, which claimed the fame of having Sagadahoc county’s best burgers. “The place looks worse than—”

  “What’ll it be, fellas?” said a deep voice. “Something from the bar?” he added, with a drop of the r, as did a good many New Englanders. He was a large man, balding, unshaven, and wore a stained apron around his rotund mid-section.

  “I’ll have a Bud Light, please.”

  He looked over at Dillon and pointed with his chin.

  “Same,” Dillon said and watched him leave.

  I grabbed a napkin to dry a spot of wetness that I hoped was left from someone wiping the table down. “The service may not be the best either, but I promise the food is decent.” I balled up the napkin and put it aside.

  “No worries,” Dillon said, without looking up from his menu.

  I wiped at a spot in front of him, and he smiled at me.

  “This place is fine.” He touched my hand with the tip of his finger and made a couple of soft little scratches.

  I leaned back and let out a small sigh of relief. I wanted him to have a good time.

  A tall woman, in a red uniform and nylons, made her way out of the kitchen, skirted past the group by the pool table, and came toward us. She was carrying a tray of burgers, and a pencil stuck out from the jet-black bun on top of her head. She stopped at our table. “Did Billy get you some drinks?” she asked, with an infectious smile.

  Dillon looked up from his menu. “Oh, yes.”

  She winked at him and snapped her gum. “Great. I’ll be back in a bit. It’s crazy tonight.” She walked away.

  “No rush,” I said, but I didn’t think she heard me.

  “Hey, look.” Dillon held out his menu and pointed to the back of it. “They serve Yankee Neighborhood Beef.”

  I flipped my menu over and saw their logo on the bottom of it, next to another burn mark. “Hmm.”

  We perused the dinner options a little while longer. Billy brought us our beers and took our order for the waitress, as she was still “in the weeds,” as he put it.

  We both ordered burgers and were halfway through our beers when one of the bearded dart players approached us.

  “You the branded one?” he asked me and made a horizontal line across his chest.

  I looked down at my shirt. I was wearing a non-descript blue T-shirt I bought at Target years ago. Is my wine stain showing? I pulled at the bottom of my shirt.

  “I’m sorry?” Dillon said, sat up and stuck out his chest.

  The man stepped closer. “You’re not the cut one?” He held his beer up and listed a bit. A tall, trim man came up behind him.

  I looked at Dillon. He was red in the face. I shook my head at him, so as not to start anything.

  The waitress with the pencil still in her bun stepped between them and our table. “Jerry, you bothering these handsome fellas?”

  “No.” He wobbled a bit. He pointed at me, “I just thought he was that Yankee Beef guy.”

  I jerked my head back.

  Dillon laughed loudly, putting his hand on the table and pushing back in his chair.

  The waitress took a hard look at me, then waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, no.” She pointed at me. “This guy’s much cuter.” And she walked away.

  I squinted. “Huh?”

  “You’ll have to excuse my pal here,” said the trim man. He was wearing an untucked, long-sleeve red-checked shirt rolled up at the sleeves, a pair of jeans, and work boots. He held Jerry up by the shoulder. “He’s had a little too much.”

  I looked at Dillon, then back at the guy and laughed nervously. “That’s okay.” I furrowed my brow.

  Jerry headed back toward the dart board, using the bar stools for support along the way. His friend watched him and then turned back to us. He shook his head. “Man’s been here all afternoon. Doesn’t know when to say ‘when’.”

  Dillon took a sip of his beer. I grabbed my mug.

  Jerry’s friend rubbed his chin. I could practically hear the scrape of his stubble. “If you’re up for some darts,” he said, and then scratched at his jaw. “I could use a partner or two.” He snickered and put his hands on his hips. “Jerry’s beer goggles have him seeing double. I can’t win for losing.” He shook his head and extended his hand. “Name’s Pike.”

  ****

  Pike slapped me on the back—in his chummy way. It was a little harder than the last time. The beer must have been affecting his sense of touch.

/>   We had beat Ireland’s Trio, as our opposing dart team called themselves. They were huddled in the corner, drinking away their shame from being beaten by the “Pretty Boys,” as they called us.

  Dillon came over with another pitcher of Bud Light and sat down at the new table we had grabbed—this one a little closer to the dart board.

  “You do kind of look like him,” Pike said. He took the pitcher and started to refill my glass.

  “I told him that,” Dillon said. “It’s uncanny.”

  I shook my head.

  Dillon pushed his glass closer to Pike. “But he hasn’t seen the ad Jerry was talking about…with the brand marks on the model’s chest.” He watched Pike fill his mug.

  Pike slowed his pour as the beer head in Dillon’s mug began to rise. “There’s a billboard over by the Sagadahoc Bridge,” he said. He got his own mug and started to pour. “You should check it out.”

  I grabbed my beer.

  Pike put the pitcher down and raised his mug. “Thanks for the win, boys. The Pretty Boys.”

  ****

  We spent the next morning kayaking. Dillon took to it quite well.

  We paddled our way around a crop of black rock, and then made our way to a little beach by the bridge. A small wake of waves from the other boats about the bay splashed the sandy shoreline. Hanson Bay was so far inland that it didn’t have crashing waves like the coastline.

  I could hear the flop of Dillon’s paddle behind me. “I kind of like this kayaking thing.” A flop came from my other side. “See? We didn’t need to do a test run out on the lake. This is easy.”

  “It is. The bay is calm. It’s a great place to learn.”

  “In other words, I ain’t seen nothing yet?”

  I nodded. “In other words.” I looked back at him and he stuck out his tongue. “You might need that later,” I said, turned back around and paddled. “You might want to keep it in your mouth for safekeeping.”

  The boat rocked, and I felt a splash of water on my neck.

  “You’re gonna tip us,” I said, shimmying my hips to exaggerate the rocking. He had admitted earlier to being a little afraid of capsizing.

  “All right. The tongue’s back in my mouth.” He paddled. “But only ’til I get you back in that tent.”