by Matt Minor
It’s still early, with the sun just setting. We get our drinks and take a seat. What I find so cool about this place is they have tables fitted into the corners and enclaves. The actual floor area is littered with pairs of large, cushioned chairs, like something you’d find in a nice living room.
The shadows darken as what is left of the day goes down in the few windows that allow it through at all.
We’re chillin’ with our wine. Her already supple features are further softened by the low purple light.
“So what’s it like to work for the county judge over in Fort Bryan?” I ask her. It’s not just idle conversation, I’m genuinely interested.
“He’s not so bad, actually. I worked for the last D.A. we had for a bit. He was a total asshole. I mean this guy was totally in love with himself—and never wrong!” Her disdain is palpable. “But the judge is okay. He loves his wife. He’s honest. He takes care of his employees.” As she mentions this aspect of her boss she sits up in her chair and arches her back.
It’s what I call her “pew position.” It’s both elegant and sexy. I love it.
“What about Crane?” she reciprocates.
“Crane’s Crane. I mean he can be totally lame one minute and totally cool the next. It’s a roller coaster ride sometimes.”
“What’s up with his new wife?”
“Brandy? Brandy’s a freak. First of all, she’s like almost thirty-five years his junior.”
“Right. His original wife died, didn’t she?”
“Yeah, she had breast cancer and apparently went down really fast. It metastasized all over the place. Horrible by what I can gather. This was before I came on board.”
“She was considered his right-hand man, so-to-speak, wasn’t she?”
“Like I said, this was before I showed up—before he was elected to anything, too. But by all accounts, she was a very good woman. I mean she was great with people. Everyone loved her.”
“I hear she had really great taste in just about everything.”
“Yeah…but I think that died with her. Crane’s just your typical business-type. All he thinks about is money.”
“So you said this new wife of his, Brandy, is a freak?”
“Big time. I mean, first off she’s a total gold digger. Why else would she marry a dude his age?”
“How old is she?”
“Mid-twenties.”
“How long have they been together?”
“A couple of years.”
“When did his real wife pass?”
“A couple of years ago.”
“Oh my God, people didn’t see that as a little creepy?”
“She went to his church. As far I can determine, she didn’t show up with him till he ran for office. I think it feeds people’s need for redemption. Folks wanted him to be happy after what he’d been through.”
“Even though she’s that much younger?”
“She played everyone with the religion card. That’s all you have to do with some voters—wave a Bible around and they love you. They’re suckers. It’s sad, really. Look at our attorney general for God’s sake!”
“Yeah, I understand. I haven’t seen it on the scale you’ve seen it, but I do see it working for the judge.”
“Overall, Crane’s an alright guy. But like nearly all the other legislators—both state and federal—he pretty much lives in a fantasy land. Is the judge like that, too?”
“Yeah, I suppose. I mean, I think it just comes with the package. You have to be rich to be in politics.”
“Especially a state legislator, they only make six hundred a month.”
“Really? I knew it wasn’t much, but I didn’t realize it was that little.”
“But you’re right, it usually comes with the whole elected official package. Of course, even if you’ve got money, it’s never enough.”
“Sure, but what are you referring to exactly?”
“Crane wants to run for Congress.”
“You’re kidding me.” There is contempt in her tone. She picks up her glass and polishes off her first Merlot.
“I wish. Not that I don’t think he’d have a good shot at knocking off the incumbent—but all the work involved.”
“And the money! How much does a race like that go for anyway?”
“At least a million.”
“Does Crane have that kind of money?”
“Of course not. He could probably swing a couple hundred grand. But he’d have to raise the rest.”
“What does he do exactly?”
“He does financial planning and business consulting now, and something called charted financial analysis. He was the vice president of a bank. He sold out his interest, which I think was sizable. But, he blew a ton of money on his wife when she got sick—experimental treatments.
“He must have really loved her. That had to be terrible.”
“Yeah, no doubt.” I pause to flag down the waitress. “Anyway, Jack Clark gave Crane forty grand in August.”
“That Jack Clark, he apparently knows how to raise it.”
“Yes, he does. He runs something like twenty different charitable organizations and PACs. Runs both 501(c) (3)’s and 501(c) (4)’s.”
“How does that work, what’s the difference between the two?”
“Well, both are considered non-profits: 501(c) (3)’s are charitable and prohibited from political donations, the (c) (4)’s are civic and thus can make donations.”
“Okay, this is accounting talk, which I confess I don’t understand at all.”
“I don’t really either. As far as I know the 501(c) (3)’s act as scholarship funds and are affiliated somehow with a 501(c) (4). Basically, they give a donation from a 501(c) (3) and the recipient of the donation then gives a portion to a joint 501(c) (4). Voila, now you’ve legally laundered money into politics, and concealed donors in the process because they originally donated to the former. There’s a term for it: ‘Dark Money.’”
“‘Dark Money,’ sounds spooky,” Brenna comments, giggling.
“What do you say we stop talking about our bosses, I’m more interested in you.” The wine is kicking in and so is my confidence.
“Likewise,” she says with a sly smirk and a bat of the eyelashes. She’s getting flirty.
“So what are your interests? What are your dreams? What do you really want to do?” I ask her.
“Wow, that’s a lot to take in. I need a sip before I try to answer.” Though concealed in the twilight of the bar, I can feel the blood rush to her cheeks. She brushes a curl from her face. “Um, I don’t know…really. Everything that I’m really interested in you can’t make any money doing.”
“Like what, exactly?”
“I’d love to work with animals. I really love animals. Cats, dogs, horses…you name it.”
“I love animals, too. I have a cat, used to have a dog—he died.”
“How long ago? What’s your cat’s name?” Her tone is like a little girl. I’m eating it up.
“Wyatt died, I’d say two and a half years ago. He wasn’t that old. My wife and I lived in the country, we had a problem with coyotes.”
“Oh no,” she squeaks. Then in a forlorn reprise, “Oh no.”
“Yeah, terrible. Savages got him. I won’t go into the gory details this time.”
“Don’t! I don’t want to know.”
I guess she remembers our first encounter at the zoo. “I love dogs.”
“So do I.”
“Bastard savages—the coyotes I mean.”
“They’re just trying to survive. Their ecosystem’s shrinking and all.”
“You’ve never been out to my place in the country…obviously.”
“It’s that ‘country?’”
“Pretty much BFE.”
“What about the cat? It’s still alive…right?”
“What, Clarissa? Yes, she is.”
“A female, I love it!” Brenna’s words are slightly slurred. She’s already drained her second gla
ss of wine.
I’m concerned she’s getting fucked up, but I don’t say anything. I just answer her question. “Yeah, she’s awesome, lives with me now in the apartment.”
“What happened to your wife, Mason? I’ve heard so many stories.”
I observe her sort of rocking back and forth in her chair. She’s drunk. “What do you say we talk about that later?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to pry or be….”
“You weren’t, or aren’t…I’m just getting really hungry. Let’s hit the Grotto.”
“You’re right. I probably should eat.”
“I’ll get the tab.”
As I pay the waitress I realize I’ve learned very little about her at all.
The Grotto is a slightly upscale Italian place that can still be construed as reasonable. I’m more than a little self-conscious when the valet guy walks up to the passenger’s window and it doesn’t roll down.
“Did I break your window?” Brenna turns to me in innocent confusion.
“No, it’s been like that for some time—a fuse.”
The valet guy takes the keys and looks at me like we don’t belong there. He’s kind of a chump. The tip will reflect his attitude.
The restaurant is packed. After I give the hostess our party name and count, Brenna and I take a seat at the bar.
“I think we both should order some water, what do you say?” I suggest.
“Uh, you’re probably right,” Brenna agrees as she rocks lightly on her stool.
Luckily, the place is largely big parties so we get a seat fairly quickly. I need a drink, but don’t want her drinking anymore. I go ahead and order one anyway. Brenna interrupts and asks for another glass of wine.
I just fucked up. “Are you sure?” I ask her as I’m trying to swallow a mouthful of bread. I know it’s rude, but at this point I’m feeling a little sick to the stomach myself. “Here, have some bread.”
“I’m trying to avoid heavy carbs,” she retorts.
Jesus Christ, she’s got to be drunk. Maybe she’s sticking to her diet, so the alcohol is getting to her quicker.
By the time our dishes arrive her face is hanging pale.
“Mason, can you get me a to-go box? I don’t feel good.”
I knew it!
The whole way back to the burbs she’s lying down in the Expedition’s backseat lightly moaning in agony. I just know she’s going to yak all over the back of my car.
She doesn’t. She waits till we get to her house.
I spend the next three hours nursing her. The first hour lying down next to her on the bed as she groans, the next hour on the other side of the master bathroom door as she gets really sick, the last hour helping her undress and tucking her in.
“I’m sorry, did I ruin our night, Mason?” she asks, muttering low to me as I rub the soft warm pudge of her naked tummy.
She’s not completely naked, but in her panties and bra. Even in this wasted state she looks so beautiful to me. “You didn’t. You just had a little too much to drink,” I whisper.
She starts to snore. I cover her up, gather my things and leave.
In a way I’m relieved. I was worried she might want to have sex. Not that I don’t want to, I’m just really nervous about it.
The weekend ain’t over yet.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN:
SATURDAY NIGHT
I love football season. Is this a component of what Keith dubs, “Southern Intellectual,” or maybe a nullification of it? I don’t know and don’t care.
At college in Baton Rouge I nary missed a game. In Houston, the sole major city I’ve ever lived near, I rarely have the opportunity to see the city’s pro franchise.
When I was a kid, it was still possible to be middle class and see a pro game from time to time. I remember my little league football coach taking our whole team to see the Oilers at the Astrodome. That could never happen today without a corporate sponsor or a government grant. The soul’s gone out of sports like it’s gone out of everything, I guess. Still, I love the game.
Baseball may be the official past time of the nation, but football is the official past time of the South. Texans (not the team, but the folks who live in Texas) are conflicted regarding their status as ‘Southerners.’
Though Tennessee (most definitely a Southern state) largely birthed it, there are Spanish and Western elements that all collide within its vast border.
For the sake of argument, I will stick to the fact that a healthy portion of the Lone Star State is Southern.
Despite the many great artists and philosophers that the region has spawned, the South is not a region given to contemplation, with the exception of religion, of course. Rather, it is a place of action. In the past, this was expressed in duels and the firing on Fort Sumter. In the modern sense, it is expressed with football.
I love football season. But before Sunday, sits Saturday.
This Saturday morning isn’t too brutal because I got ahold of my drinking before it was too late (I really had no choice, as I was caring for Brenna). If I’d been drinking something other than wine, I’d probably feel nothing at all. But wine loiters in the brain, and I forgot to pop a few Ibuprofens before bed.
Keith is sitting in his chair reading an old Thrasher mag from way back in the mid-eighties. I, zombie-like, head into the kitchen to make coffee.
“Is that out of one of those boxes I got out of storage for you?” I ask as I pop the Folgers lid.
“Yeah, it is. I have several of them, actually. What a great fucking magazine this once was. They wrote about so much cool music. I need to bring out some of my skate rock LPs. I think you’d really dig them.”
“I never was into skateboarding,” I respond. I’m trying to pour the water into the coffee maker tank, but I’m so tired half of it spills to the side.
“You don’t have to be into skateboarding to get into skate rock, Mason. You just have to have good taste in music, which you do— because of me.”
“Is that right?” I reply with a dash of sarcasm. I’m too tired to debate him.
“That’s right. I wish I still had my old skateboard,” Keith says with regret.
“Why? What would you do with it?”
“I’d skate on it!”
“Dude, you can barely walk. Don’t you think you need to shoot a little lower? I’m not trying to be a dick, but I just don’t want you to be hurt by unrealistic expectations.”
“That’s what’s wrong with you. You’re so worried about disappointment you won’t let yourself dream big dreams. Well, I do dream big, Mason. And I want to skateboard. All the doctors said I would never walk again. But I did. They said I’d never fuck again.”
“When did you get laid?”
“I haven’t been laid, but I’ve jerked off and that proves I can do it!” he declares, indignantly.
“Hey, it’s cool. I hope you get to fuckin’ skate man… I really do.”
“You need a cup of coffee, Mason.”
“I’m aware of this, Keith.”
“I won’t speak to you anymore until you’ve had a cup.”
“Sounds good.”
“Although I’m anxious to know how last night went with Brenna. I’ll wait until you’ve had a cup.”
“Fine with me.”
“I was reading about skating in the eighties. You interrupted me, by the way,” he turns back to the magazine.
I wait by the coffee maker and then pour myself a cup… and then another. After about ten minutes I go into the den.
“So what happened? How did it go last night?” Keith asks, impatiently.
“It went well. We went to the wine bar and then got dinner.”
“And then?”
“And then what?”
“What happened?”
“She got sick,” I say with an air of both defeat and factuality.
“No way!”
“Yep. She got sick, really fucking sick. She puked for…an hour at least.”
“Wher
e? Not in your car I hope—or worse—the bar or restaurant?”
“No, she waited ’til I got her home. It was terrible. She was so pitiful. I undressed her and put her to bed. Then split.”
“Undressed her?”
“Yeah, I got her into bed. She was wasted.”
Keith is looking at me suspiciously.
“She wasn’t naked you pervert! She was in her underwear.”
“I’m not saying anything, Mason. Just wondering what happened.”
“That’s it.”
“So how did she look?”
“Dude, what the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Okay…okay, sorry man…. But did she look good?”
“Yes, she looked good. She’s beautiful. Just my luck that she got sick.”
“Just your luck? You spoiled motherfucker. You know how long it’s been since I’ve seen an actual naked woman?”
“She wasn’t naked, like I told you.”
“You know what I mean. I’d kill to be in your shoes.”
“Well, I guess we’ll see. To tell you the truth, I’m really nervous about going to bed with her.”
“That’s perfectly natural, Mason. You loved your wife and she was taken from you. But, you’ll know what to do when the time comes—when the time…cums…,” Keith starts to snicker, “I think that’s what they call a pun.”
“Ha, ha, you’re an idiot,” I snipe. “I’m just glad Crane gave me those Texans tickets.”
I’m hungry so Keith and I go grab some breakfast at Whataburger.
“Is that your phone?” Keith asks when he hears the ping.
“Yep. It’s a text… from you know who.”
Such a fool. So embarrassed. Sorry. R U OK?
“What’s she say?”
I read the text to him.
He takes a bite of his taco, shakes his head, swallows his food down with a gulp of his OJ, and starts the process again.
“Well, how do you think I should respond?”
“I’m gonna need more orange juice before I can participate in this discussion,” He smirks at me.
“Look asshole, what do you think I should say?”
