The Cocktail Club

by Pat Tucker

  “Yes, Mr. Liam. I see,” I responded dryly.

  “Well, what’s concerning to us is that there was virtually no increase whatsoever. None! Now, we’ve done newspaper before, and that worked out pretty good for us.”

  What savvy businessperson relies only on newspaper for advertising? An old man with old ways equals failure.

  “Mr. Liam, it’s like I told you before. We don’t guarantee any kind of immediate increase in sales, and honestly, a few weeks into a campaign isn’t really a true representation of the impact of your reach.”

  He chuckled.

  “These things take time.”

  “Now, see, all that fancy talk right there—that’s what got us into this situation in the first place. I guess I’m not as sophisticated as all the other slick Wall Street types you’re probably used to, but my Main Street mentality tells me that what we were doing before probably worked better for us anyway.”

  His bushy, black and gray eyebrows jumped.

  “Back when my grandpop started this business…,” he continued.

  I listened as the miser tried to blame his mom and pop shop’s declining sales on the multimedia package I had convinced him to invest in. The real problem was that Mr. Liam was accustomed to doing business a certain way, and was reluctant to change. When he did finally agree to give change a chance, it hadn’t worked fast enough for him, so he wanted someone to blame.

  What he didn’t understand was, that as close as we were to the end of my workday, I was not in the mood to listen to how ineffective I was at my job.

  “What exactly are you trying to say?” I asked.

  “Straight shooter,” he quipped. He cupped his hands and rubbed them together. “You say we need to hang in there for what, a good six months?”

  “Yes, that’s the length of the contract you signed,” I reminded him.

  “Yeah, yeah, about that.” He broke out into a round of hacking coughs that sounded as if he might pull up a lung. He began waving his hand toward me as if to say he’d be fine.

  I hadn’t moved a muscle. I needed him to spit it out, and get back to the business at hand. He doubled over, cleared his throat loudly, and composed himself. His eyes were filled with water when he finally whipped his head upward.

  “Whoa!” he exclaimed. Now he spoke as if bile was still caught in his throat. An offer of a glass of water would’ve been the polite thing to do, but he had pushed me to the brink already. The niceties were a thing of the past.

  Once he fully caught his breath, his dark, beady eyes focused in on me. “Ah, what I’m trying to say is, we think a few weeks is good enough. And we wanted to know who we need to talk to about maybe prorating the remaining months in this here contract.”

  His straight face left me at a loss for words.

  All I could do was exhale a hot and exhausted breath.

  His cell phone rang, and I was relieved when he raised that rusty index finger to silence me before I could speak again.

  “Hold on a sec,” he said and rose from his chair. “I gotta take this. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” I said.

  He mumbled into the phone, and eased out of the conference room door.

  I needed liquid therapy like nobody’s business. This man had me wound so tightly. I had to remind myself that he was a client, and his business was still very needed. I sat alone for about ten minutes before it dawned on me that he was still in the hall talking on his cell phone.

  A few minutes were excusable for an urgent call, but ten minutes and counting was downright disrespectful. I turned in my chair to see if he was near wrapping up, but it was hard to determine. As far as looks could tell, he didn’t appear pressed.

  His massive frame leaned against the wall, and there was no sign of stress across his face as he grinned and talked into the phone.

  I had a standing Thursday appointment, and Mr. Liam was not about to make me late. For his sake and mine, I began to gather my documents, powered off my iPad, and rose to leave.

  By the time I finished, Mr. Liam still stood in the same spot. It was obvious he was in no hurry to get back to our conversation. I treaded my way toward him, prepared to stand my ground.

  As I approached him from behind, it sounded as if his call was more pleasure than business. I tapped him lightly on his shoulder. “I have another appointment; fifteen minutes was all the time I had. Please call my assistant tomorrow, so we can schedule another meeting for next week.”

  “W-w-what the hell?”

  “Yeah, you’ve been out here for fifteen minutes. My next appointment can’t wait. We’ll pick up where we left off on Monday or Tuesday,” I said as I passed him.

  “But I was hoping we could get the ball rolling on the refund before then,” he stammered.

  I stopped, pivoted, and looked him dead in his eyes. “Oh, there’ll be no refund. We can discuss rearranging some spots, and making adjustments to the schedule, but the contract is clear. Please see page thirteen, the fine print under Section C.”

  He stared at me, seemingly unable to speak as his mouth fell open. I kept moving.

  “We’ll chat later. I didn’t mean to pull you away from your call.” I turned and wiggled my fingers in the air.

  If he had a response, I didn’t hear it. I had already slipped out of the door, and made a beeline for my car. The meeting with Mr. Liam helped me to realize that I needed to readjust my schedule on Thursdays. I would have to limit client meetings to the mornings, and end my day with paperwork.

  I didn’t like to feel rushed as I made my way to my standing, weekly appointment.

  Despite how hard I tried, the vision of Mr. Liam’s stingy behind pointing to those dismal figures was imprinted on my memory, and that frustrated me. My reputation was directly tied to my work. As a media consultant, everything I did spoke to my credibility, and my ability to make things happen for my clients.

  I worked at a firm that contracted media-related services for businesses. In most cases, the business either didn’t want, or need, an in-house department to handle media placement, advertising, or anything related to the press. As a senior partner at the firm, I served as a spokesperson, a buyer, and a media liaison for my clients.

  I turned on Elgin, and rode Westheimer Road down to Kirby Street. That much-needed liquid therapy was a good parking spot away. A whirlwind of adrenaline pumped through my veins as I swung my car into the parking garage attached to the building that housed Eddie V’s Prime Seafood Restaurant.

  HAPPY

  HOUR

  7

  DARBY

  The moment I swung my car into a parking space, Roger’s number popped up on my cell phone’s screen. Instead of the green button, I hit the red one to decline, and climbed out of the car. I wasn’t in the mood for any of his nonsense.

  My plan was to sit in the car, and text with my friend as I waited, but Roger’s call had thrown me off. Suddenly, I needed the numbness that only a good, strong drink could provide.

  I speed-walked from the parking garage to the restaurant, and decided to leave all my issues behind. I pulled the glass door open and stepped inside. I enjoyed absolutely everything about happy hour—the incredible aromas of all the fun foods that were torture to my waistline, the loud and giddy laughter, and the awesome eye candy. But the very best part had to be the time with my girls. It had quickly become the highlight of my week.

  The hostesses at the front desk greeted me with smile as I damned near skipped past them and over to the bar area. Yes, I loved happy hour.

  Of course, I drank pretty much every day, but nothing compared to the colorful, delicious cocktails with my girls. My time at home all day, taking care of the kids and my husband, who behaved like another kid, really made me appreciate my alone, adult time with my friends. After my recent stint in the principal’s office, and the intervention phone call from the playground moms, I couldn’t get liquor in me fast enough!

  We had been cuttin’ up, laughing, and carryi
ng on when the waitress approached. I hardly paid her any attention. I hadn’t asked for anything else.

  “Ummm, where did this come from?” I asked as she placed a drink down in front of me.

  The laughter and conversation stopped immediately. All eyes shifted in my direction. First, they looked down at the drink, and then back up at me. We hadn’t ordered another round yet.

  The waitress turned to her left, and looked toward the end of the bar. “The nice gentleman there in the plaid shirt sent it over for you,” she said, then smiled.

  I looked over her shoulder at him, and flashed a quick smile. I mouthed the words “Thank You,” and listened as my girls teased me.

  “Damn, it’s like that, Darby?” Ivee chided.

  “Yeah, it’s something about those wedding rings,” Peta said. “My single behind hardly ever gets a drink sent over, but you and Ivee,” she joked. “Y’all are like man magnets!”

  I watched as high-fives went around the table. We busted up with laughter again. The drinks flowed, and we enjoyed the sights and sounds. Every so often, I noticed the man in the plaid shirt as he glanced in our direction, but he kept his distance.

  I had ignored three calls from home already, and when the fourth one came, I started to get concerned. What if I ignored the wrong call, and something serious had happened? I tried to focus on the story Ivee was telling about her cheap client at work, but I couldn’t concentrate.

  Kevin wasn’t always bad. Unlike most husbands, he didn’t really have a problem when I hung out, and that made me wonder whether it could’ve been something serious.

  Guilt forced me to leave the table and step outside of the bar.

  “It’s home. I need to take this.” I waved the cell phone as I walked away. “I’ll be right back,” I said over my shoulder.

  “One damn night! One night! That’s all we ask! One friggin’ night!” Ivee yelled toward my back.

  Everyone began to laugh. We often talked about our husbands, and how they behaved the moment we had something to do that didn’t involve or include them. The strong, independent men suddenly became worse than needy toddlers.

  In the beginning, Kevin would call constantly when he couldn’t find a certain toy, or remember where he put the checkbook. As time passed, he got used to it. And once I heard other people’s horror stories, all in all, Kevin wasn’t that bad. I took Ivee’s jokes in stride. As far as husbands went, Kevin could’ve been a lot worse. I had grown accustomed to his neediness.

  Once outside, I redialed the house number. I didn’t panic right away when there was no answer. I took a deep breath, and blocked out the sounds of laughter and fun that poured from the inside of the bar each time the doors opened. I dialed the house again.

  “Hello?”

  My heart nearly stopped when there was finally an answer.

  “Uh, hello?” I greeted my mother-in-law, Madelyn, and wondered what in the hell was going on. I adored Kevin’s mother, but with hearing loss in one ear, she could barely hear. She also could hardly move around, and our kids were too much for her to handle alone.

  “Oh, hey, honey. Kevin didn’t tell me who gets what medicine, and I’m all confused,” she shouted.

  “Um. Excuse me?” I pulled a finger up to plug my free ear. It was hard to hear her, despite her shouting.

  “Medicine for the kids. I don’t know who gets what, and you and Kevin wouldn’t answer your phones. He’s off at Bruce’s.”

  “Okay, Madelyn, okay, it’s just Kevin Jr. He’s the only one who should get the medicine, and he needs five milligrams. It’s the first line you see on the small, clear cup,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  I was so pissed at Kevin. He never told me he had plans. He could’ve waited to go to Bruce’s house. Once I slowly repeated my instructions, Madelyn put me on hold. When she returned, she confirmed that she’d poured out the right amount of medicine for my son. I spoke briefly to the kids, and thanked her for calling.

  By the time I made it back into the bar, I felt like I had just arrived. My buzz was a thing of the past.

  8

  PETA

  After the day I’d had, happy hour couldn’t have come fast enough! It all started at eight-thirty in the morning. I was about to leave Gordon’s house for a meeting with a new shoe distributor when my cell phone rang. It was Cecily Palmer, one of my drivers.

  “Hey, Miss Peta,” Cecily sang into my ear.

  Cecily was a good find. She always dressed well, and enjoyed talking to the clients about the latest fashion trends. She wanted to be a fashion designer, and was honest during her interview when she told me she wanted to own a boutique one day. I loved her honesty and her style.

  All of the drivers were able to wear the items that we sold. They were like walking billboards for the boutique. When I first branched out, one of my main concerns was how to prevent the staff from stealing. I decided the best way to avoid that was to let them have first dibs on what they wanted. The staff bought everything at incredible discounts. They paid five dollars for tops, ten dollars for pants and skirts, and twelve dollars for shoes. Since I bought my products from China at wholesale prices, I wasn’t taking a serious loss.

  We ordered items in small quantities, so that helped to move product quickly. Women liked the idea that we never exceeded twenty-one of the same item, per truck. They knew that meant they had to buy fast, or miss out. I made sure that I only picked the most unique items, and some of the best feedback we received was that our clients often stood out in a crowd. Business was growing, but I hadn’t turned a profit yet. I was able to pay my employees and myself a small salary. So my ex-husband’s money helped to take care of my daughter while I tried to build the business.

  “Hey yourself, Cecily. What’s up?”

  She sighed hard and loud in my ear. “I was on my way to my route, and I blew a mickey fickin’ tire! The only reason I’m calling you is because I was supposed to deliver something like seven orders this morning, and I’ve been waiting on triple-A for nearly an hour already. I dunno how long this thing is gonna take.” She sighed again.

  I glanced down at the clock, and I wanted to cry. I’d have to reschedule the meeting again.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “Fifty-Nine and Kirby,” she said.

  “Oh, wow! It’s going take me some time to get to you,” I told her.

  “I know, Miss Peta, I know. I’m so sorry. I only called because I didn’t want the clients getting all worked up. You know how they get when their stuff comes in,” she said.

  “Oh, yes. No, you did the right thing by calling me. I agree we don’t need them waiting for their stuff any longer than they have to.”

  In my head, I rearranged my morning, but decided to hold off on moving my lunch appointment back.

  “I need to make a few calls. I’ll head your way shortly,” I said.

  “Okay, and, Miss Peta, I’m sorry again.”

  “No, no, not your fault. I’m glad you called. We’ll get it together.”

  Early morning traffic in Houston, from any direction, was a nightmare. For that reason alone, I set all of my meetings at ten in the morning. I figured there was no point in wasting good gas and time sitting in traffic.

  Kendal was already on her school field trip, and as I headed out on I-10, I wanted so badly to crawl back into Gordon’s bed, but duty called. Traffic moved slower than I walked. My blood boiled instantly. Since I was stuck in traffic anyway, I needed to handle some business. I dialed Cecily again.

  “Hi, Miss Peta, AAA still isn’t here,” she reported. I heard the disappointment in her voice.

  “Oh, that’s fine. I figured since I was sitting in traffic, I may as well do something. If we have any special orders, please text them to my phone. Also, the seven clients who are waiting on their orders, please call them, and let them know I will be making the deliveries.”

  After I called Cecily, I returned other calls, and made voice notes of special orders that needed to
be placed. I finally got to Cecily. As soon as we’d finished loading the orders in my car, the AAA vehicle pulled up.

  “Ain’t that some mickey fickin’ luck for ya?” Cecily said.

  I shook my head. “That’s the way it works.”

  “Okay, Miss Peta, all except one of these are already paid for, and most of the deliveries are going to Chevron’s headquarters. They are on Louisiana Street downtown.” She gave me a slip with a name and phone number written on it.

  “Theresa will come down and meet you; she’ll sign for everything, and make sure her coworkers get their orders.”

  “Oh, that’s good. So after that, I stop at the radio station in Montrose, and the preschool across the street from there?” I confirmed.

  “Yup, that’s it.”

  “Okay, this isn’t so bad after all.”

  Hours later, I sat and waited for my lunch appointment to arrive. I felt like I still had tons to do. The meeting with a shoe distributor was rescheduled for the following week, but lunch was with a hair distributor who wanted to supply my fleet.

  By the time lunch was over, I was off to my next appointment. My cell phone rang the moment I got behind the wheel. It was Kyle. If I ignored his call, he’d simply call back until I answered.

  “Hello?” I tried to sound rushed. I hoped he’d take the hint and not hold me long.

  “Peta, ummm, listen. I need to talk to you about something,”

  “Okay, you’ve got ten minutes,” I said.

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I mean this evening, or tonight, after work.”

  “Kyle, it’s Thursday. I’m not free. Let’s set something up for next week.”

  He huffed loudly.

  “Look, Peta, this is real important to me. It can’t wait ’til next week. I don’t understand why we can’t meet when I get out of here today.”

  I wanted to say, “Because my life no longer revolves around you, and I really don’t give a good goddamn about what’s important to you.” Instead, I kept it cool. “Kyle, if we can’t meet next week, I don’t know what to tell you. I have plans this evening, then I’m booked solid tomorrow, and I refuse to entertain the thought of this weekend.”