by Mike McCrary
“Do?”
“Yeah, do for a living.”
“It’s funny. I spent a month in Australia on business last year and let me tell you, man, those folks got shit figured the hell out.”
The bartender cracks open the bottle, serving two fresh glasses.
Justin gives a thumbs-up while continuing. “Work is something they do for money. That’s it. Their job doesn’t define them, just a thing they do so they can have food and shelter. They let their life define them. Not work.” Justin pauses, shakes his head in disbelief. “Here it not only defines us, it’s how we introduce ourselves.”
“Sounds nice.”
“Sorry, you were just being polite and I’m being a complete douche. But to answer your question”—Justin clinks glasses with Davis—“I make sure people have a good time.”
Davis scrunches his nose. “A good time?”
“A great time, actually.”
“What does that mean?”
“People hire me to show people the time of their lives.”
Davis takes a sip, trying to digest that statement.
Justin smiles, as if this is the response he gets all the time.
“Sometimes it’s a casino courting a whale,” Justin explains. “Maybe a Hollywood studio wants to sign talent. More than once a CEO of a large corporation has used my services as a gift, or a gift for themselves. And as many athletes and celebrities can attest, discretion is my natural state.”
Justin never breaks eye contact with Davis as he explains. Each word is chosen, polished and served to his new friend on a silver platter. He offers no apology for what he’s saying, nor does he have a hint of shame. He doesn’t come across as boasting either.
He is merely stating facts.
Davis is mesmerized. This is a peek into a world that he is not familiar with.
“Trust is the main thing. You spend a lifetime building it and can lose it in the blink of an eye. If you remove the trust between people, there’s nothing to hold on to. Don’t you agree?”
Davis nods, not completely sure what he’s agreeing to. He doesn’t have these types of conversations at the swim meets. At dance lesson drop-offs. Nobody talks like this at the cookouts or those damn PTA meetings. This guy Justin has a magic to him. Has the world by the balls and doesn’t even seem to care about the grip he’s using. Seems almost bored with it.
This is the first time in forever Davis can remember having an interesting conversation with anyone. An actual verbal exchange with an interesting person. They are not discussing lawn care, schools or the best way to get to work. There’s no talk about what needs to be fixed at the house, or bought, or money issues, or a problem that needs to be solved, or something he isn’t doing correctly.
Davis finds himself wanting to keep this going, if only for a moment. He knows he can’t afford another drop from this bottle, but he can’t stop. Not now.
“So that woman, the one who was just here, she does what?” Davis takes a drink then lowers his voice. “She works with you?”
Justin smiles, winks, takes a drink as well, and shrugs his shoulders. “So, Davis, what do you do?”
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
“My work doesn’t define me, Justin,” Davis says with a laugh.
“I apologize.” Justin laughs, putting a hand on Davis’s shoulder as if they’ve been friends forever. “Strike the question.”
“Okay, fine,” Davis says, starting to feel the whiskey. “I’m here pitching my new company.”
“Oh, that sounds cool.”
“It is. We’ve started a software company that’s about to blow up huge.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s going to solve a big problem.”
“Problem?”
“Yeah, a problem with how we communicate.”
“Sounds heavy, man.”
Davis snickers, the whiskey well past doing its job.
Justin refills their glasses. “A lot of money in tech,” Justin says. “Metric shit ton of money, if I may be so bold. You gotta be doing well, right?”
Davis looks into his glass, letting his understanding of the truth flicker then fade into the background. He lets that truth dissipate out into the air, floating away like smoke drifting out into the noise of the crowd mixing in with the thumping bass. He allows the fact that the walls are caving in to slip away from his mind. The fact that his company, his dream, his everything is currently on the ropes? Davis lets those lumps of unpleasant truth to simply melt.
The debt.
The failure to land clients.
The arguments with family and friends. Hattie. Todd.
He wants to press pause on all of it, if only for the moment, to let the facts drift away. To take a vacation from himself.
It feels good. Nice. Great even. Letting go is freedom. Denial, his private Fiji.
“Yeah,” Davis says, slugging back more whiskey, “it’s going really well.”
“Cool.” Justin clinks his glass again. “Good on you, man. Getting anything done in this shit world is worthy of a goddamn parade.”
Davis wishes any word of that sentence—it’s going really well—were true.
“Glad I met you, Davis.” Justin runs his tongue over his teeth, raises his eyebrows and stares toward Davis like he wants to say something.
“What?” Davis asks.
Tilley slinks over behind him.
She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to. She puts an arm around Davis and gives that damn smile. Davis smiles back. The whiskey and the conversation are melting that mythical strength Justin was complimenting him on only moments ago.
“Well, sir,” Justin says, “this is where I need to ask you a really important question.”
Davis fights to hold on to that small part of him that’s in control. The part that knows the value of the word No. He looks between the two of them then puts his hands up as if calling for mercy.
“Look, guys,” he says, “I appreciate this but—”
“Don’t you want to hear the question?” Justin asks.
“Guys—"
“You should at least hear the question,” Tilley says.
Davis takes in a deep breath, letting the excitement dig its claws into him while his head buzzes. The feeling off the whiskey has hit him fast and hard. Harder than he’s ever experienced. It’s a sharper buzz than he’s used to. Feels different than drunk. He blinks his eyes, working to find some focus.
“I think, this is just me now, but I do think”—Tilley leans in close, letting her blue eyes hypnotize—“you should hear what the man has to say.”
Davis nods, powerless to respond otherwise.
“Good.” Justin takes a drink, then leans in too. “Would you like to see what I do for yourself?”
Tilley squeezes Davis’s arm. Davis feels his heartbeat accelerate even faster.
“What?” Davis asks, clearing his throat, his head hitting a full-on drunk.
“Sorry.” Justin shakes his head. “I wasn’t being clear.” He glances to Tilley, then lets his eyes slip back over to Davis. “You ready for the time of your life?”
Part II
5
Davis forces his eyelids open.
His head is on fire. Pounding like a drum. His vision a soup-like fog, with blobs of smeared colors cut up by shafts of light.
As he sits up, his stomach turns. Quickly he realizes he did this way too fast. There’s a rush of nausea coupled with a whirling whip-spin inside his head. He’s been hungover before, but this is different. This cuts like a knife, but is dull at the same time. His fuzzy memory fights to find clarity. Not much there to cling to, however there are some things that are as clear as can be.
As his head and sight come back online he remembers jagged pieces of last night.
He remembers talking with Todd.
With Hattie. With the girls.
Looking around the room, something seems off to him. It looks like his room. Seems familiar. The
colors of the walls, the décor are all the same, but the room feels different. Davis smacks his lips, moving his tongue around the inside of his mouth, hoping to find some form of moisture.
It’s not there. It’s a mouthful of cotton-wrapped sandpaper.
On the bedside table is a tall glass of water with an iceberg mass floating at the top. Next to it are four Ibuprofen, what looks like an antacid pill and some eye drops. All laid out neatly in separate rows on a black napkin. Looks like it’s made of silk. A thoughtful care package set out with deliberation.
Did I do that?
How is the ice not melted?
He doesn’t remember getting ice last night, doesn’t remember getting himself a glass of water this morning, and he certainly doesn’t remember laying out pills and hangover supplies for himself on a satin napkin. He doesn’t even know where he would have gotten one. His phone is on the charger lying next to him on bed.
Looking down, he’s dressed in a pair of boxers he doesn’t recognize. They’re silk as well. Black too. They seem new. Not something he owns.
Looking around the room, everything is in order. Everything in its right place. His suitcase is open, but all of his clothes are folded neatly inside. Even what he had on last night. Davis wouldn’t know the first thing about packing a bag like that. When he leaves a hotel he wads everything up into his suitcase and jams it closed best he can, often testing the engineering of the zipper. His black workbag is zipped up, sitting next to the suitcase.
He remembers Justin.
What happened?
He remembers Tilley.
I turned them down. Didn’t I? Oh God, what happened?
Davis jumps up from the bed, ignoring the storm raging in his head. Compartmentalizes the sudden drop in his stomach and the aches in his bones. There’s no sign of someone else being there or having been there. No shoes. No empty bottles or dirty glasses. No women’s clothes. No scent of perfume. Nothing.
He rushes to the bathroom.
Not the way I left it.
Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Shaving gear. It’s all laid out carefully, in perfectly spaced rows on the now familiar black satin napkins. The towels are all folded perfectly and stacked in their proper place. There’s not even a drop of water anywhere in the sink or on the counter.
“What the hell?” Davis mutters, checking himself in the mirror.
His hair is neatly combed. Perfect. His face is clean-shaven. He feels his skin. His hands, his arms, his body are soft with lotion. His fingernails and toenails have been attended to and cared for as well.
Stepping out from the bathroom he sees the clock. It reads twelve noon. Davis hasn’t slept past six a.m. in years.
Fragments of last night are crawling back to him now. Pulses of memory pop up in bursts and flashes. He remembers talking on the phone outside the hotel. Meeting Tilley at the bar, then Justin. Justin talking about his business.
What he does for a living.
Australia.
Talking about trust.
He remembers coming back to the room before he went to the bar, slamming his fist into the wall and knocking down the picture. Turning toward the wall, Davis’s heart skips a row of beats. There’s a picture hanging on the wall, but there’s no broken glass. The glass is perfect. It’s not the same picture. It’s a black and white picture of a beautiful beach, not the crashing wave photo.
Davis spins around, his eyes dancing, scanning the rest of the room. He sees it now. This is different. The bed is on the wall on the other side of the room. The chairs are in a different corner. He throws open the curtains. It’s overlooking the pool, not the view of the front of the hotel from last night where he watched the cars come and go.
This isn’t my room.
Panic fires through Davis. He dives toward the bed, grabbing his phone. There are a ton of missed calls and texts. For a flash of second he feels hopeful; maybe it’s people from the meetings he took. Maybe they are placing orders. It’s not.
There are several from Todd. Davis skips those.
There’s a single text from Justin.
Great time, man. You really needed that. We’ll settle up later.
What the hell? When did he get my number? Settle what?
Most of texts are from Hattie.
Any better today?
Did you really need to call at 3AM?
Are you okay?
Where are you?
Did you miss your flight? Davis steps back, his mind flipping. Miss my flight? Confusion spiking, he checks the date of the last text. He lets the phone drop to the bed.
He’s missed an entire day.
6
Davis grabs the phone from the bed.
He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, but he has to tell Hattie something.
Something that will give him some time to think.
Time for him to figure out what the hell is going on.
His brain scrambles. His emotions redline.
With hands shaking he dials HOME.
“Davis?” Hattie picks up on a half ring. Her voice is panicked. Tired.
“I’m sorry.”
“What happened? I was up all night. Are you okay?”
“I’m so, so sorry.” Davis glances to his black bag, looking for something to say. Stable ground to build from. “I… I was out with a lead at the bar last night. A big one. They wanted to go out.” He closes his eyes, hating how easily the lies on top of a lie are coming to him. “One drink turned into two and so on.”
“You couldn’t call or text?”
“They’re old-school hard-asses. They wanted my full attention. They hate people using phones all the time. I lost track of time. Had way too much drink.”
“Jesus, Davis. You know you’re not a big drinker.”
“I know. I shouldn’t have tried to keep up with them, but I wanted the business. It got out of control, then they brought me back to the hotel and I passed out. I just woke up.”
“Oh baby, how do you feel?”
“Like complete shit.” For more reasons than one. “I hope I didn’t screw it all up.”
“It’ll be okay,” Hattie says, coming down. Her tone has softened, replaced with genuine concern. “When are you leaving?”
“I’m heading to LAX in a minute to figure out a flight back.”
“Okay. I’m… I’m just glad you’re okay. I was worried. I didn’t know what to tell the girls.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Just come home. I’ve got to go into the office, but I should be back before you land.”
Davis almost hangs up.
“I love you,” Hattie says.
Her words cut his heart in half. He doesn’t know what happened in LA. He knows he turned Justin and Tilley’s offer down, at least he thinks he did, but the idea that something could have happened is killing him.
Did I? Did I actually do something wrong? Why can’t I remember any of it?
His stomach twists. His head spins. It all happened so damn fast. There’s so much he doesn’t know, and now, all the lies he’s told.
“I love you too.”
He hangs up.
He wants to break down, wants to release the emotions swelling inside of him, but he gets ahold of himself. He wants to throw his guts up, actually, but controls his insides as they weave into a pretzel.
Davis slumps down to the bed, giving his shaking knees some sort of relief. He turns toward the front of the room. There’s something he didn’t notice before. Squinting, he sees what looks like a greeting card standing up on the dresser next to the TV. Davis stands up, taking a closer look at the card. It’s a glossy, stark white card with elegant black script that simply reads, DAVIS BRIGGS.
He opens the card.
He wants to drop through the floor.
To escape.
The inside of the card asks…
DID YOU HAVE THE TIME OF YOUR LIFE?
7
Davis’s head throbs hard as the cab pulls awa
y from the Viceroy.
The world is still in a fog. There’s still a thick haze coating his senses, but it’s better than before. At least he can make things out better. Objects are more than blobs. He doesn’t have to expend so much energy to focus on understanding words and images.
Hopefully he can get on standby for a flight home. He just hung up with the airline and there’s a decent chance he can get on at least one flight today. There are three more if he misses this one that seem to have greater than zero odds, but the last one leaves at ten p.m. Fighting security at LAX isn’t going to be fun given his physical state, but he’ll gut it out.
What choice does he have? He needs to get home. This needs to end.
Davis hates this feeling, even though he’s not completely sure what this is. Guilt is taking hold of him even though he doesn’t know that he has anything to truly feel guilty about. He doesn’t remember doing anything wrong, but obviously something happened.
That room. What the hell was with that room?
His belongings were all tended to. Tended to better than even he would have done. He was dressed in boxers he did not own. Davis fumbles through where he went wrong. What mistake did he make? Yes, he shouldn’t have gone down to the bar. Yes, he probably shouldn’t have even engaged in conversation with Tilley, but hell man.
He was only talking to her.
How can I not remember more? Was I drugged?
He doesn’t remember taking anything. Doesn’t remember seeing them slip him anything. There was no evidence of it in the room and, more importantly, why would they drug him? They didn’t steal anything from the room. All his credit cards are there, not that there was any available credit on any of them, and the cash he brought is still in his wallet.
What was their game? What’s in it for them?
He remembers emotions more than actual events. Flares of feelings, not images of the night that’s passed him by. Thoughts slip and fumble around, all struggling to find some form of stable ground. He’s becoming more and more frustrated that he can’t piece together anything that happened.
He remembers feeling listened to. Feeling wanted.
