Choke on Your Lies

by Anthony Neil Smith

  Octavia missed the Twin Cities a lot, and traveled back and forth at least twice a month except for a long five month stretch where her services were in demand during an especially divisive Congressional season. More dinners and lunches and phone calls than usual. Finally, the work was done, the threats threatened, the pressure applied. She destroyed a couple of promising political careers during those months, and drove more than a dozen lobbyists to retire rather than fight with her anymore.

  At last, plane ticket in hand, she boarded a flight back home just in time for the Thanksgiving travel rush. Unfortunately, she couldn’t get her usual first class seats—all sold out or given over to upgrades. Rather than wait for a late flight, she decided to chance it on a shuttle. By this point, she’d packed on a number of extra pounds, and the seats on those small jets could only take so much.

  She could barely squeeze in, to begin with. Adding insult to injury, the flight attendant, a frosted blonde young gay man, immediately brought her the seat belt extension without her even asking. He told her, “Oh, don’t thank me. We just don’t want you bouncing around the cabin in case of rough air. You might kill someone.”

  A small jet, too, so everyone around could hear. Giggles. Even with the flight attendant winking at her, Octavia didn’t take kindly to the joke.

  Then she heard the snap. Her seat reclined without pushing the button, and she let out a yelp.

  The attendant came back over, helped her up, but wasn’t too nice about it. She explained that it had just broken. He rolled his eyes. “I wonder why?”

  She looked up and down the plane, asked for one of the free seats.

  He crossed his arms and pursed his lips and said, “Well, they won’t take off with a broken seat, so that’s a delay right there.” Groans for the other passengers. “Plus, what are the chances another seat would survive?”

  That set her off. She was tired, cranky, and embarrassed, so the venom didn’t quite spill like she wanted. A lot of “How dare you?” and “Do you know who you’re dealing with, princess?”, but the attendant—you’ve surely guessed his name already—stood his ground, turned on the fake-polite Airspeak and told her she needed to hold her tongue. Flight attendants had gained so much authority after Nine Eleven, so all it took was another round of insults to get the pilot to step back into the cabin and kick her off the flight. It didn’t matter that mechanics would need to repair the seat anyway, giving everyone time to cool off. Too late. She’d pushed past the line of forgiveness.

  Needless to say, she left the airport immediately, went back to her apartment, and sulked. Didn’t bother rescheduling the flight. She went home, ordered some Vietnamese delivery, and shut herself in for two days.

  When she came out, she had it all planned, written, detailed, and ready to be unleashed. Her first discrimination lawsuit. She filed against the airline, the airport, the pilot, the flight attendant, and their respective unions. Of course, she had even lined up witnesses, her mind like a steel trap, remembering the names called out before boarding, those people who needed boarding passes or were on stand-by.

  And she was so pissed that even after the one-point-five million dollar settlement offer, she held onto one demand that was nonnegotiable—that Gene Jennings be fired by his airline and never again allowed to work in the airline industry.

  Of course the unions threw a fit, the airline clamped down, and their attorneys threatened to cut the settlement to eighteen hundred bucks and two free tickets to Hawaii. In fact, they had found some witnesses from the plane who thought her behavior was obnoxious and deserving of the expulsion. Smug bastards, sliding their hands behind their heads, feet on the desk, just waiting for her desperate call to save the original deal, sans firing the “stewardess”, as Octavia insisted on calling him.

  Oh, and yes, a call did come. Several in fact. All the fancy lawyers and union reps and airline CEOs had forgotten one thing: she knew a lot of Senators. Not only knew them, but knew their secrets. She had plenty of favors to call in, and she cashed most of them. In the end, it was three million, a year of free first class travel, and Jennings on the unemployment line.

  Once she had the check in hand she quit her lobbying job, moved back to Minneapolis, and bought this house. She had invested her Washington money well, and she was able to pick up an occasional consulting job for political campaigns or causes. Hated it, every moment. Completely sick of politics, Democrats, Republicans, grass roots. She didn’t believe in government anymore. Which is why she began seeking out other corporate victims, using the law she no longer trusted as a battering ram. She sued four companies that first year, and settled three times. Another two-point-five million in the bank.

  And then, she looked up Gene Jennings.

  It was being a flight attendant that had allowed him to hit all the hotspots around the country, bumping up a couple of social classes, partying whenever and with whomever he chose. I mean, he was twenty-three, living in Chicago, a huge hub so he could shoot off all over the world at a moment’s notice, having a blast. He’d scored the Minneapolis run that particular day so he could meet up with a friend for a concert at First Ave. After that, he’d been thinking Seattle, but the friend introduced Jennings to another friend, and the sparks flew. Magic. So he kept coming back to the Cities for a few weekends until things lost their charm.

  After losing his job, he couldn’t afford the loft in Chicago. His parents had kicked him out a long time ago. Airline friends shunned him. The New Yorkers he knew, mostly older, stinking rich…well, he couldn’t bring himself to sink that low. Process of elimination, it was the ex in Minneapolis who took him in, still hoping for a chance to rekindle, especially now that Jennings’s wings had been clipped. But Jennings was sinking into depression, sleeping all day, hardly leaving the apartment, taking too many anti-depressants that weren’t helping.

  Octavia showed up at his door. Guy was so gone, he actually invited her in and made coffee. It came down to this—he was miserable, broke, co-dependent, doped up, and full of anger and blame.

  Exactly what she’d been hoping for.

  So she offered him a job. Her butler, exact word she used, not gussied up for contemporary audiences. In fact, a live-in butler. Responsible for coordinating the other hired help, helping with her business affairs, occasionally stepping in as proxy to pay the bills, help manage upkeep of the estate, and drive her around as needed.

  He thought she was kidding. After laughing for a good while, he tried to sting her with insults—fat bitch this, lard-ass that, can’t even get a plane in the air with her giant carcass on board. He paced, swore, waved his finger in her face.

  She sat perfectly still, her suit costing more than he had made in an entire year with the airline. Not rising to the bait. Not answering his points. It took him time to notice. He finally shut his trap when she pulled out a business card and began writing his potential salary and benefits on it. Neither said a word while she scribbled.

  Finally, Octavia boosted herself up with her cane, tossed the card down, and said, “Think about it. Unless you’re happy here.” Followed by a dramatic look around the apartment, wrinkling her nose. “There’s something to be said for settling down, being middle-class. Loving one person, forsaking all others. Something to be said indeed.”

  Then she was gone. Jennings tried hard to ignore the card. Tried shoving it into a book without looking at it. More pacing. Pills and tequila. Calling his boyfriend at work a few times, almost incoherent. Curiosity got the better of him. He retrieved the card, read the offer, and, according to Jennings, he stood staring out the window for an hour, trying to figure it all out.

  Was it compassion? Maybe Octavia somehow had grown to feel bad about what she’d done? A sign of forgiveness? A peace offering?

  Whatever the motive, he couldn’t turn it down. He called her the next morning, packed his things, broke up with his boyfriend, and left for her house. Been there ever since.

  He knew now what it was all about. It wasn’t enough f
or her to win. She wanted more than that. She needed to know that whatever the offense, whatever bad blood was between them, and no matter what had been said about her weight, she had them. Not just once, but forever after.

  Jennings was in hell. He thought he was in hell back at his boyfriend’s apartment. Not so. Hell was a much nicer place than he ever could’ve imagined, so it sucked even worse to be miserable here, where he couldn’t do a goddamned thing about it. Too late. He made his choice, and Octavia had him.

  *

  “And now, my dear, she’s about to get you, too.”

  Harriet had grown more and more angry as I kept on, lips drawn tighter and crossed arms flexing. Mad at me, at Octavia, at Jennings, at herself. Sometimes, shocked, interrupting with “You’re fucking with me. Really?”

  At the end I waited. She was thinking about it, obviously. I was hoping she would just leave, not even bother to stop by the office on the way out. Of course, to Octavia that would be an act of cowardice. Much better to say it to her face and stand up to the abuse. She respected that much more, which is why she enjoyed my company. I would never back down in the face of her rants, her demands.

  Of course, all this with Frannie, well that was a matter of survival. I needed my house.

  I was tired of waiting for Harriet, and my alcoholic haze was returning with a new wave of sleepiness. “Well? What do you think?”

  She turned to me, hardening as if stone.

  “Harriet, please.”

  “Fuck that. It’s just a job. None of that shit’s going to happen to me.”

  I sighed. “Sure, okay.”

  NINE

  I left Octavia’s the next morning on my way to St. Cloud, not sure how I was going to do what I had to. Direct confrontation? Lead him to it? Promises? Threats? All of it while listening to local talk radio, an interview with a local filmmaker. I knew the guy, had met him at a few readings. Total sellout. Being pissed at him and David at the same time didn’t help.

  I mean, he was my student, my assistant. I trusted him with my office and computer and my files. He could’ve ripped off my works in progress, or sent scandalous emails under my name. Not to mention the sex he had with my wife, and the secrets she could’ve told him. He sat there day after day, barely saying a word, doing the job like clockwork, taking no pride, really. Just did what needed to be done. All the while, thinking of my wife naked, probably. I had to hand it to him: he never let his mask slip.

  First, though, why didn’t I leave Octavia’s until morning? Nothing sinister there. I was drunk out of my gourd. When we made it back to the office, it was obvious I wasn’t in any shape to handle the wheel, even after the hearty meal. I was a thin man, and that meant I didn’t have much cushioning to absorb the impact—the booze went straight to the brain. So during the meeting Octavia had Jennings bring me a bottle of Shiraz to keep me quiet. It didn’t, not really, but at least when I did speak it was mostly incoherent and comical, allowing our host and Harriet to enjoy smoking some of her home grown marijuana together. Octavia explained that it was the Khola variety, growing in popularity and very highly rated.

  If anyone would know, it would be Octavia. She was a connoisseur, passionate about her weed. It was why she didn’t drink, preferring the high of marijuana, which didn’t blunt her intellect and judgment the way alcohol did. In fact, the greenhouse out back? Loaded to the gills with some of the best weed in the world. She had a handful of other plants out there she just enjoyed looking at—hibiscus, some succulents, spider plants—as long as they weren’t those “ugly ass orchids”, an affront to her tastes. She was forever finding new strains of pot to cultivate, crossbreed, test, mix after the fact, her own private Garden of Eden. But it was a well-kept secret, only for the closest circle of friends and employees—another reason it was difficult for Jennings to bolt, with all the free marijuana available to him in exchange for his loyalty.

  I didn’t partake often. My lungs were averse to smoke, leftover from the asthma I had as a kid. That night, the scent of it along with the bubbling wine in my gut nearly had me vomiting. But I was too tired to actually get up and go find a toilet or a shrub.

  So Harriet enjoyed a joint, signed her contract, and agreed to start in two days. I occasionally called out “You’re ruining your life!” or “Please, free the girl, would you? It’s a tragedy!” But, like I said, it didn’t exactly come out that way.

  After Harriet left, Octavia came around the desk to the where I had sprawled across the couch, barely conscious.

  “You’re sleeping here tonight.”

  “No, no, no. No. No. I…I’m…no. I’m okay.”

  Like a Lady Buddha before me, all fish-eye lens-like, too. Peering down from an exalted place. I tried, though. I managed to set the bottle on the floor upright, then pushed myself off the couch, having no idea I was insanely dizzy until right then, flailing to support myself on the Buddha’s belly, but she had stepped back, and I kicked and waved my arms, sent the wine bottle airborne, splashing everything in its loop-de-loop arc. Sat down hard on my ass, legs twisted.

  She didn’t say anything to me or offer to help. No look of concern. Just…sad. Then she shouted to Jennings, told him to make sure the guest suite was prepared. And that some wine had been spilled.

  I allowed myself to be led upstairs by Jennings, where I collapsed into a very deep chair and wandered off to dream of a woman who changed faces—sometimes Nuha and sometimes Frannie, finally Stephanie, Ashton’s wife—until shaken awake by Jennings and told my bed was ready.

  Somehow I undressed and made it between the sheets, a fitful sleep but almost complete blackout on the details. Except, once the gray dawn began seeping in through the slit in the curtains, I remember waking with the clearest vision of Stephanie, naked, on my bed, beckoning me between her legs. I shook myself fully-aware long enough to feel my penis contracting, pulsing, wet, sticky, all over the sheets. I didn’t want to call for Jennings, and I didn’t know where they kept fresh sheets, so I simply peeled the soaked sheet off the mattress, dumped it on the bathroom floor, and sank into the deep chair for another few hours of much more relaxed, if guilty, sleep.

  After showering and before leaving, I sat with Octavia in the conservatory and drank coffee brewed from her favorite bold, dark African bean, stronger than what I was used to.

  “So, who was it? The woman you won’t tell me about, or Harriet?”

  Nearly choked. “What?”

  “It’s a good thing we don’t have guests too often, or I imagine our sheets would be a buffet of DNA. You couldn’t get up? There’s a bathroom in the fucking room, Mick.”

  I made a note to give Jennings a dirty look. I had thought we were in this together, he and I. Then again, he was the one who had to collect the sheets and take them in for cleaning.

  “I wasn’t…awake.” Did I just tell her that? Really?

  Octavia sighed. “Are you protecting someone? I could always have Jennings follow you around and—”

  “It was no one, I told you…just the wife of a guy I work with. A friend of Frannie’s, so, it was kind of awkward.”

  “Because you like her.”

  I shook my head. “Never thought of her like that.”

  “Sure, sure. Bullshit, but sure. What else?”

  “Why does this matter—”

  “Hey!” She snapped her fingers. I turned my face to her, cheeks full of coffee. “If you think it’s serious enough to hide it from me, I think it’s worth knowing. She’s a friend of Frances. She caught you at the office in the middle of summer. She’ll tell Frances. Frances will wonder why. What are the odds she’ll figure it out?”

  I finally swallowed the coffee, but felt it bubbling up again into my esophagus. “See, though, I, um, wrote David’s address on a Post-It, and ran into her coming out of the office.”

  “She saw the address.”

  “I handled it. It’s fine.” I cringed. You should never tell Octavia that anything’s fine. After that, it becomes her persona
l mission to find out what’s really going on. No one says everything’s fine unless everything’s fucked.

  She took a long breath, in and out her nose, dragonlike. On the tail end of the exhale, she said, “Okay.”

  Not the hand grenade I was expecting. “Her husband has been looking for a new position, and to have something really good come up over the summer is rare, and it would also put the department in a bind if he were to leave. So I caught her helping him with that, and she caught me with an address she thought was for a date. We made a deal—she doesn’t snitch on me, and I—”

  “I get it. And you believed her. She’ll hint her way around that restriction and Fran will guess as soon as she hears you’re headed to St. Cloud.”

  “Way ahead of you.”

  She laughed, sudden and hearty. “Oh, I don’t think so. You’d better get going. I’ll handle damage control.”

  “But there’s nothing to control.”

  She pointed at me with her mug. “If that’s what the you think, the only reason you’re ahead of me is because I lapped you.”

  *

  If she was right, then I might have been heading into a trap. At the very least, David would have been forewarned. But maybe that was good. I wouldn’t have to stumble my way through this. We’d both know exactly where we stood from the get go.

  I thought of lines from Yeats:

  I sing what was lost and dread what was won,

  I walk in a battle fought over again,

  My king a lost king, and lost soldiers my men…

  Shudder.

  At the right address, I parked on the curb across the street. Really, a dated eighties suburb, some refurbishments like bay windows and tall back decks added to the houses trying to class them up—the owners growing richer but choosing to add obnoxious additions and DIY upwards, throwing the whole street into a tizzy of styles and values. A real time warp from lot to lot. It made sense for David to be from a place like this. It explained his quiet demeanor. Other students, the ones whose parents knew from the beginning it would be a private college like ours for their kids, pranced through classes with a sense of entitlement, a cloud of smug over them whether they were working hard for the prof’s attention or doing their best to escape it entirely.