Little White Lies

by Paul Watkins

  Walking along Karen looks at me and says, “Sheri thinks you walk on water so a little damp ground shouldn’t concern you.”

  I turn to look at her and I am met with another cover girl smile. But I am fast on my feet and I recover quickly… I think.

  “Ah, she’s very nice to me,” I stammer, “a wonderful person, very easy to work for. Karen doesn’t reply, but continues walking with a half-smile on her lovely mug.

  “I guess I’ve already said all this before… haven’t I?”

  “Yes, you have. I don’t recall ever seeing or hearing about an employee/ employer relationship that was such a mutual admiration society. How about A.J., does he think the world of you, too?”

  I laugh. “If he does, he’s keeping it under wraps. No, I think I’m just another employee to Mr. Jackson. But that’s okay.”

  “Why? Why is it okay?”

  “Because that’s what I am. He employs a lot of people… I’m just one of many.”

  “But Sheri says you run everything… you have so much responsibility.”

  “Not really. We have an excellent staff here, so any success in that area is due mostly to their efforts. Let’s face it, managing an estate, even one as large as this, is not exactly high technology… it’s just fairly straightforward work. You make a plan and you execute the plan… that’s all.”

  Karen shakes her head slowly in reply, but she does not comment further. That’s okay, I can live with silence. This has been one of those perfect weather days… not a cloud in the sky and only a gentle breeze with a slight edge to it, warning of the change to come. We walk slowly. I let her questions guide the conversation.

  A.J. has a lot of plans for next year that will keep most of our grounds staff busy through the winter. I’m not sure if he really wants to do these things or simply wants to keep our staff fully employed. It seems every time I talk to him about laying-off seasonal employees, he comes up with another project. I suspect one would not have to scratch A.J. very hard before you ran into a very large heart.

  Eventually we come full circle and return to the house. Karen extends her hand and says, “Thank you for the tour. I look forward to seeing you next week.”

  “You’re welcome,” I reply, “but I doubt that I will see you then. You will most likely be meeting alone with the Jacksons. However, if there is anything you need in the meantime, please do not hesitate to call. It was very nice meeting you.”

  I watch as she turns and heads towards her car. Another time, in another place and I think I would respond differently. But she’s a little younger than I, and I’m a little older than she… and besides, I only work here and I must not forget that part. I suspect Karencould make a man forget a lot of things.

  ***

  A.J. returned late last night. The energy in the house is starting to pick up and all he has been doing so far is sleeping. I’ve been waiting in the library for about ten minutes but I can tell the great Himself is about to arrive just from the growing noise level.

  “Hey, Martha,” he yells from somewhere in the foyer, “I’d like a ham sandwich on rye… bring it to thelibrary… and a coke, too. Please!” The drink is ordered as he walks through the door. “You want anything?”

  I shake my head, no.

  “I’m starved. Damn restaurant food… god, I hate the road! No wonder the homeless people are all so skinny. They have to eat in those goddamned restaurants all the time… mine are different, of course.”

  I give him my most understanding look, which probably does not come off exactly as intended.

  “Okay, okay… bad joke, I know. Shit, everybody’s always on my narrow ass. Just like last night. After the show one of my wife’s relatives shows up… an aunt, I believe. I don’t know… she has a lot of family… it seems I’m always meeting someone new. Anyway, the poor old woman is in a wheelchair and another old lady wheels her in and introduces her. Says ‘this is Sheri’s Aunt Edna’. I say, ‘what’s up, Momma? How you doin’?’ She smiles, shakes my hand… real cute ol’ thing. ‘You from around here?’ I ask her. I’m trying to make small talk. She tells me she’s from some town I’ve never heard of and she reads the look on my face and says, ‘Never heard of us? We have the largest indoor lake in the world.’

  “An indoor lake is a new one on me, so I say, ‘Indoor lake, huh… what you folks do when the roof leaks? Or don’t you care, being an indoor lake and all?’ She screws her face up, gets all flustered and says, ‘I didn’t mean indoor lake… I meant inland lake!’ I say, ‘Aren’t all lakes inland?’ She says she doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. Then she turns to the old lady wheeling her and says she’d like to get up out of that chair and kick my ass. And then they leave!

  “I’m telling you, I can’t believe it. There I am, minding my own business and the next thing I know, I’m in trouble with one of Sheri’s relatives. And don’t think I won’t hear about it.” A.J. pauses to catch his breath. “Tell you what though, I like to see that old bag try something. The trick to dealing with those old people is to go for the cane or the walker… whatever they’re using to hold themselves up. You kick that brace out from under them and they’re easy. I’ve never lost a fight to one of those old farts once I learned how to make the first move. Then they’re not so tough. Just that little bit of knowledge has made my life a lot easier. Kick my ass, huh? Anyway, what’s up?”

  This is another fine example of a typical A.J. monologue… a man having an argument with himself. I’ve found the best thing for me to do during one of these bullshit storms is to just sit back and wait it out. There’s certainly no way to stop it, so I might just as well let him finish and then get on to the business at hand. And that’s just exactly what he does.

  “Sheri tells me you invited some female reporter in to do a story on us. Is that true?”

  “If that’s what Mrs. Jackson said, then it’s true.”

  “That’s not what I asked you. You never answer the questions I ask. You are the toughest bastard to pin down I’ve ever seen. Where the hell did you go to school… K.G.B.? You talk like some damned secret agent.” He pauses, apparently allowing time for arebuttal, but I decide to stonewall. He holds up his hands, shrugs his shoulders in resignation and says, “Okay, just tell me this: do I want to meet with this broad or not?”

  “Miss Adams seems to be a very nice lady,” I reply calmly. “Admittedly, a bit unusual in her profession, but appearances can be deceiving. I checked her out and she appears to be on the up and up. The file is there on your desk.” I point to the pile of papers to his right containing the file, mail and other assorted matters requiring his attention. “She will probably do a nice article on you and your family. If you would like some publicity in one of the better ladies’ magazines, she will most likely give it to you. The real question is: do you want an article about you and your family? She may want to discuss things you would rather keep private. It’s your call. But don’t ask me why a ladies’ magazine would want an article on you, on that subject I don’t have a clue.”

  A.J. smiles and ignores my aside. “No shit… you checked her out? There’s a first. No one ever bothered to do that before. You know, I’ve been down this road a few times before where I got stuck in the ass… big-time! I never saw so much horseshit in my life. You wonder why they bother interviewing you when all they do is go back to their office or cave or whatever, and make up any damn thing that comes into their heads. The hell of it is, in this business… you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t.”

  He looks at the pile of papers and shakes his head. “Okay, I’ll look at this later, let’s talk about the other stuff… then I have a very important matter to discuss with you.”

  It takes us about thirty minutes to bring each other up to date. We keep in pretty close touch on the telephone, so there’s very little we haven’t at least touched upon during one of the calls. I
’ve noticed a steady increase in the number of projects coming my way that are restaurant related. A.J. hasn’t actually changed his mind, but he doesn’t appear to be concerned with the level of my involvement any longer. Still a little hard to tell, but I’m not letting it affect me one way or the other. I’m sure that if I cross some imaginary line I’ll hear from the master.

  “That’s about it. What’s your very important topic? Did you get caught in the ladies’ room again?” I ask. The last is a not-so-subtle reference to one of A.J.’s latest escapades.

  His eyes narrow to mere slits as he gazes at me in silence. I think this is his ‘one more word and I’m liable to get real pissed’ look. I’m not sure, but I think that’s what it is. As far as I know it has never worked with anyone, including his children, who just laugh when he does it.

  “You know,” he replies, “what happened to me that day could have happened to anybody. If I hadn’t had to go so bad I would have left, but I had already started. Hell, I think I started before I had even gotten to the damn bathroom. But really, I didn’t know it was a ladies’ room until those broads came in chattering away and I’m sitting there in the middle of my business… I’ll tell you this, it was a conversationstopper. I think after the initial barrage, it might have been the size twelve shoes that blew my cover. Suddenly it got real quiet. They didn’t stick around very long. I think my first effort made some real wavy lines on the Richter Scale out in California.”

  He leans back and studies the ceiling. “You know, I don’t think I’m going to tell you anything of a personal nature in the future, if you’re going to remember every damn thing I say. Anyway, to answer your question: no, I have not been caught in the ladies’ room again, nor have I entered a ladies’ room for any reason. I’ve tried the ladies’ room and I find it no better than the men’s room, so I have decided to use the men’s room in the future. I don’t know why they don’t just say men’s room in plain English, or show a man with his cork hanging out, or something equally understandable… instead of all these cutesy, artsy-fartsy symbols no one can understand… especially if they’re in a hurry… know what I mean? But that’s not what I want to talk about.”

  A.J. is being extremely patient with me right now. He must want something.

  “What I would like to know, if you’re finished with my bathroom preferences,” he continues, “is whether or not you play golf. The company is going to have an outing next week for the managers. We’ve talked about it and we think it would be a good idea to have a bull session to plan our opening meeting currently scheduled for sometime around the first of the year. You know… get some idea of what the troops would like to cover. It will be a one day thing, a meeting in the morning and grab-ass in the afternoon. There will be only four or five foursomes, so we didn’t have any trouble getting on a course. Some of the managers who have talked to you in the past would like to meet you… don’t ask me why. Anyway, one thing led to another and a few bombs were thrown. Now it’s time for a showdown. They dreamed up the idea of having two-man teams from each restaurant or operating unit, plus a few other employees who deserve a day off. It’ll be a best-ball match. If you play, we’ll be the headquarters team. If you don’t play, then I guess headquarters won’t have a team.”

  “Yeah, I play… it sounds good,” I reply. “I’d like an opportunity to meet those guys… but I haven’t played since last year. It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea if I hit some balls once or twice before the great event.”

  “Well I should warn you, we have some real players in the group. Some of them have pretty low handicaps.”

  “Are you playing handicap or scratch?”

  “We play scratch… no handicap bullshit. We’re all about the same anyway, but we try to make the matches reasonable. If a team is completely out of competition, then we’ll throw them a couple of strokes, but that’s it.”

  “How low are the low handicaps?”

  “I don’t know… nine or ten, I think.”

  This is really interesting. A.J. has become a different person talking about golf. He’s animated and squirming in his seat. I think he wants to get it on right now.

  “What’s your number?” I ask.

  “I’m an eighteen, but I think I can get to fifteen this year… or even lower.”

  “And you want to play a nine or ten handicap… and you want to play him level? That’s interesting.”

  A.J. sits up straight in his chair and shakes his fist. “We’ll kick their collective asses… I don’t lose… especially to those assholes.” Now in a belated attempt to tone it down, “Don’t get me wrong. They are all fine managers, but when they step on the first tee to take my money… then it’s different.”

  I nod more in understanding than agreement. “Well said, but golf isn’t a contact sport. By the way, how long have you been playing?

  “Almost five years, but only two really seriously. Haven’t gotten out much lately because of work and the new house and all.” A.J. spins sideways in his chair and shakes his head. “I absolutely hate the damn game, but I can’t stop playing it. It’s like a disease.” He bends forward and holds his head between his hands… then lets out a moan as if in serious physical distress. “If my woods are good, then my irons stink. If I get the irons going, then I can’t get off the tee. If I’m hitting it halfway decent tee to green, then I can’t putt. If I play reasonably well one day, the next day it’s as though I’ve never played before. I want to quit, but I’m afraid to for fear I’d want to play again, and then I’d have to start all over just to get to the miserable state I’m in now.” He looks up and shakes his head in dismay. “Do you know some people actually think golf is a game?”

  “I know,” I reply sadly, “but they’re wrong. It’s not a game. Games are fun and that’s seldom the case with golf. I always played simply because no matter what kind of problems I had in business, golf gave me a different set of problems for a few hours and somehow it seemed to help. Bottom line… I can’t stand it either. I’m just grateful I don’t have to make a living at it. Like our esteemed former president, when he considered retiring, I’ve decided to stick it out for a while longer… and then the hell with it.” I smile with the understanding of a fellow addict. “But if it’s a game… it’s the infinite game.”

  “Amen to that. By the way, what’s your number? You seem to have a very good understanding of the… sport.”

  “When I was playing, I was a five… I could probably play to an eight or ten with a little work.”

  “Well kiss my black ass. Take the rest of the day off, my good man, and do a little work.” He accompanies this with a flourish… truly the gesture of a magnanimous man. “There are two things at stake here. The first is a bit of money… we should clean those rascals out… send them home in a damn barrel. But the most important thing is braggin’ rights.” He holds his hands up to prevent any possible protest on my part. “Oh I know I seem shy and retiring most of the time, but man, that’s just something I have to do. It ought to be a law that’s printed in all the science books so our great nation’s children will know: A.J., in the main, is the best when it comes to making the claim… and that goes for just about anything and everything.”

  A.J. sticks out his chest and closes his eyes. From where I sit, it looks like he’s already counting the money. The bragging part will be as natural as oxygen.

  “I’ll make them wish they had stuck to a good black sport like basketball. ‘Course, we’d kick their asses there, too. I don’t think I ‘ve ever lost at that game. Might have to hire Charles or Michael for the headquarters’ team… nothing wrong with that. The only trouble is, those guys might have a bit of an ego problem… might not be enough room on the court for all of us.”

  Tell me about it. Boy, if there were ever anyone who gets higher as his own supplier, I’d like to know who it is.

  “Hot damn! A five! And all th
is time I thought you were just another pretty white face.”

  I get up and leave the room to A.J. and his hallucinations. There’s one guy who will never have a substance abuse problem… other than natural gas maybe.

  CHAPTER 10

  Sunday’s party went well. At least I thought it did if my opinion counts for anything. It was mostly a showbiz group consisting of approximately two hundred of A.J.’s closest friends and a few acquaintances. Included were most of the local glitterati. Probably holdouts, waiting for some fantastic happening that never materialized, then finally trapped in the city for the weekend. Whatever the reason, they came to the party and that’s all that counts. The timing was good. It started around two in the afternoon with everyone back on the road by eight… apparently a lot of early calls on Monday. And it was as casual and laid back as it could be… just a nice time.

  The art of the schmooz was in full force as most everyone took advantage of the time to talk and relax. As always there were a few who made it their business to do a little business, but thankfully they were in the minority.

  Because of the large number of guests, I decided to have the party catered with Martha and her crew supervising. We tried that system before with a smaller affair and things worked out to everyone’s satisfaction on that occasion. In any event, the Jacksons seemed pleased, which is the bottom line on our scorecard.

  Most of Monday was spent cleaning up and getting everything back to normal. Tuesday was a long day catching up on all the things we should havebeen doing on Monday. And today, Wednesday, is the big golf match. I assume there’s still a meeting, but listening to A.J., the golf match may be the item uppermost in his mind. I made arrangements with the management of the golf club to use one of their conference rooms for our meeting. It will be easier if we’re right there when we wrap things up after the morning session. If we meet anywhere else we’re good for at least an hour to get everyone in cars and on the road and then organized again at the club. Karen Adams called just as we were getting ready to leave the house. We set her meeting with the Jacksons for tomorrow morning at eleven.