“Promise you’ll check my toes?”
“Christ.” I adjust my watch. “Yes, just get it together. I’ve taught you better. Did you have your hangover drink this morning?”
Busy tucking in his shirt, he answers, “Dude, I still have that blonde’s underwear in my back pocket. There was no way I was able to down a hangover drink before I got here. The only reason I didn’t pass out at my desk this morning was because Polly guided me to the conference room and handed me coffee.”
Polly, Roman’s assistant, is another reason he hasn’t been fired yet. She covers his ass every damn day and deserves every cent of her hefty yearly bonus.
Before I can answer, people filter in through the door, followed by Frank, who shuts us all in. Roman visibly straightens in his chair and acts like the professional he is . . . or pretends to be.
“Good morning.” Frank stands tall and buttons his ubiquitous purple jacket. He scans the room. His goatee is longer than it should be and his eyebrows entirely too thin—there’s certain facial hair etiquette men should follow, which Frank clearly refuses to acknowledge. As he adjusts his cufflinks, he asks, “How was everyone’s weekend?”
Not giving anyone a chance to answer, he claps his hands together and starts pacing. He doesn’t pace the width of the room, though. He takes laps around the conference table, his hand hovering over our heads like some kind of grown-up version of Duck, Duck, Goose. When he stops behind you, buckle up, because your work life is about to be “blessed” with one of his asinine ideas.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about our social media presence and I think we’re missing out on something.” Oh boy. Here we go . . . He stops behind Caden and grips his shoulders while looking out over all of us. The tension in Caden’s shoulders is entirely too noticeable. I make a mental note to talk to him about controlling his body language. “What do you think we’re missing out on?”
Ever the try-hard, Caden suggests, “More news content?”
“No.” Frank releases him. “Leave that to CNN.” He balls his fists together and raises them to his shoulders. “We’re missing personability.” He walks to the front of the room and grips the table. “Who here has put their real life into their work?”
No one raises their hand—and for good reason. We all keep work separate from our personal lives. I may give advice and live up to The Modern Gentleman persona, but I don’t ever tell my readers about my specific experiences. I’m not a personal anecdote-giving guy. I try to keep things as basic as possible, as separate as possible.
“Exactly!” Frank jabs his finger into the air. “We’re missing a huge opportunity. Who are the career-driven people working at HYPE? What do they do when they part ways with their computers at the end of the day? What are their hobbies? What are their interests? Do they take cooking classes?”
Roman mumbles, “Does Love Swipe count as a hobby?”
From the corner of my eye, I see Caden elbow Roman, who chuckles to himself.
With too much passion in his movements, Frank starts moving around the room again, hand back to hovering over employees’ heads. “We need to humanize this company, connect with our public, show them they aren’t alone in this crazy, unpredictable world.”
I sit back and listen to Frank ramble on about his new idea, relieved I only write an advice column. Based on Frank’s enthusiasm, I can see the painful journey some of my colleagues will have to endure.
“That brings me to your new assignments. It’s time to get personal . . . personal,” Frank singsongs an off-key version of “Let’s Get Physical.” This man, Jesus. It’s as if the eccentricities of Johnny Depp had a baby with the trying-too-hard Michael Scott. He’s a vision, that’s for damn sure.
Making his way around the room, he hovers over Darla and places his hand on her shoulder. Her face says it all—an oh hell crossing her features. “Darla, your recipe videos have been informational, but I want more. For the next month, you will take subscribers into your kitchen and show them the ins and outs of your nightly ritual in front of the stove. I’m thinking apron, paper grocery bag on the counter, and that bright smile of yours.” Christ, that’s invasive. She nods and starts taking notes. Poor Darla.
I stretch my legs out and lean back in my chair, trying to predict who he’s going to target next.
“Keith . . .” Oh shit. He runs the adult content. “The erogenous zones of a man. What are they? What makes them tickle? How can you get them humming? This month I want you to experiment with your body and different techniques for how to get the male anatomy up and running.” Oh fuck, I hold back a chuckle as Keith turns white. “Charmaine, I want you to work on the same article but from the female point of view. Focus on your arousal and don’t be generic. Really dig deep.”
“Dig deep,” Roman mumbles and laughs like the hung-over, immature asshole he is.
Frank divvies out three more assignments. There’s a piece on family tree genetic testing, which didn’t seem too terrible until Frank required pictures of all family members for visual references. He assigned a pregnancy article to the only pregnant woman in the office, Sunny, who luckily pulled her HR card when he mentioned doctor visits. Good for her. And then there’s the battle with adult acne. Oh Greg, hang in there, man.
I grip the table, ready for this shindig to end, while Frank goes into detail with Greg about all the angles he can focus on. Slow-motion charcoal mask videos being a “high ticket” piece. I look at my watch and realize we’ve been in this meeting for over an hour now. If we can move past blackheads, that would be appreciated.
“I’m going to die if we don’t get out of here soon,” Roman mutters to me. “I need water, man, or a cheeseburger, something, because my stomach is churning. I don’t think I’ve ever been this close to death.”
I lean toward him and say quietly, “Don’t drink so much next time, and you won’t have that problem.”
“I told you, Crazy Town, okay? She was drinking her weight in vodka. I had to keep up.”
“You really didn’t. You could have—”
“And that brings us to our final participant, Wes.”
Er . . . say what?
I look behind me, and standing plain as day with a gigantic grin on his face is Frank. In slow motion, I watch his hand move from the collar of his purple jacket to my shoulder. I want to melt into my chair, disappear, anything to avoid that touch, the touch that could alter my entire career trajectory.
“This is the assignment I’m most excited about. It’s more of an experiment actually.”
Experiment? Oh hell. The thought of quitting passes through my mind for a second before I scratch that idea. Being unemployed isn’t going to pay the rent for my apartment overlooking Central Park West. And no job is going to pay me as well as Frank does, that’s for damn sure.
“We all know the popularity The Modern Gentleman has brought to HYPE, but I think it’s time we take it up a notch.” From the corner of my eye, I see Roman hanging his head over the table, chuckling to himself. Such an asshole. “Your advice is great, but I want to see it in action. Your new assignment, Wes, is to no longer be single.”
Dread fills me. No longer be single? It’s not like it’s by my choosing. I haven’t found the right girl yet. “I love reading your column but if you think about it, there’s no validity behind it. You’re a single man handing out dating advice from behind a persona you’ve created. I think it’s time The Modern Gentleman put his advice to the test.”
I am so not liking where this is heading.
“You are to take us through the process, the steps of securing a relationship the way The Modern Gentleman would. Show us it can be done, that in today’s society of digital media, online relationships, and a world of divorce, you can still manage to find love through a modernized version of chivalry.” He squeezes my shoulder tightly. “I’m so excited.”
He turns to address the rest of the room. “Think How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days, but the opposite. Show readers, the
se modern gentlemen, the proper way to court. I will need articles at the end of each week with your status update. We’re rolling out these pieces in a month, so get cracking. Meet with your directors for weekly progress reports and let them know if you have questions. You’re dismissed.”
Take us through the process.
As if it’s that easy—to go out and start dating someone, let alone date someone for work.
With my tablet in hand and an annoying weight on my shoulders, I go to stand when Frank catches my eye. “I’m extremely excited about your assignment, Wes. You can revamp the image given to today’s man. It isn’t about beer, boners, and Buffalo wings anymore. It’s about a proper shave, the right sports jacket, and the way you seduce a woman in the bedroom.”
I can’t hide the cringe this time. “Frank, with all due respect, don’t you think that’s bordering on too personal? Talking about my sex life?”
“Not at all. That’s the point. Real-life experiences. It’s what people are drawn to. You can spout off all the advice you want, but unless you’re actually in the thick of it, your opinion is moot. It’s time to prove your title as The Modern Gentleman.” He slaps my back. “Go get ’em. I’m giving you a week to find the right woman to pursue—and if you can’t within a week, I’ll step in and help.” He pauses and rebuttons his jacket, which he opened during his exhilarating meeting. “Don’t let it get to that point.”
Without another word, he retreats the conference room, leaving Roman and Caden laughing behind me.
“Dude, have fun with that,” Roman quickly says before holding his stomach and stalking off toward his office.
Still in shock, I turn to Caden, who shrugs. “Not going to lie, your life just took a turn toward the shitter.”
I couldn’t agree more. How could this not be a nightmare assignment?
Chapter Three
Dear Modern Gentleman,
I think I might have messed up last night. I mean, totally fucked up my image in front of the girl I’ve been dying to take out for months. I wound up working late with her, and, trying to be a gentleman, asked if I could walk her to her car. I kept telling myself, think about The Modern Gentleman and what he would do. I think I was too caught up in my anxiety because when we got to her car, I, uh, I told her she “looked swell.” I’ve never used that word before in my entire life, and I don’t think anyone has in the last couple of decades. I could tell by the way she scrunched her nose and thanked me politely that she thought it was weird. Then she retreated into her car and drove away before I could say anything to redeem myself. I don’t know if there is any recovering this. Help, please!
The Swell Guy
Dear Swell Guy,
Man, that’s rough. When I say embrace the gentleman in you, I don’t mean the gentleman from the twenties. But don’t worry; this is totally repairable. The good news: you complimented her, in a weird way, yes, but you complimented her. So move forward with that. Try complimenting her every day, but this time, with some more hip lingo. Try rad—that’s a few decades closer. *Smirks* All in all, Gent, you’re on the right track, so keep at it. I’m sure it will be something you can laugh about later.
Good luck, Gent.
The Modern Gentleman
WES
THE PROWL
“Got you all signed up.” Roman plops down on the barstool next to me. “Your username is CockDaddy69 and I used your picture from the staff directory. Go ahead, start swiping.” He holds out his phone, which I don’t bother taking.
“I’m not going to use Love Swipe—how many times do I have to tell you that? And I’m sure as hell not using it under the name CockDaddy69.”
“Wes, you have three more days before Frank steps in. You’ve been out every night for the past four nights and have yet to approach anyone. You’re toeing the line of desperation.”
“He’s right.” Caden sips from his tumbler. “Your chances of finding someone now aren’t looking promising. You might want to start swiping.”
“I’m not swiping. Jesus.” I sip my whiskey and suck in my cheeks when the heat of the drink hits my taste buds. “We’re talking about The Modern Gentleman here. There is no way he would start a relationship on Love Swipe.”
“What about Bumble?” Roman asks. “That’s more for good girls, and they get to make the first move.”
“I’m not using a dating app.”
“Why not? It’s the modern way to date. You have access to thousands of potential dates at your fingertips. Why wouldn’t you want to utilize that?” Roman asks, clearly insulted I’m putting down his method. “I know plenty of people who’ve met the love of their lives on dating sites.”
“My sister did,” Caden adds. “They’re going on five years now.”
I sigh and lean against the bar as I face the crowd of people. “I’m not knocking dating sites, especially when they’re used the correct way. They’re great actually, especially for people like your sister, who are on the shy side, or like your brother-in-law, who couldn’t find someone to connect with on an intellectual level. That’s not the problem.”
“Then what is?” Roman asks, exasperated.
“It’s just not how I envisioned meeting someone. I might be living the modern side of life, but I want to meet someone the old-fashioned way.”
Caden leans forward and taps Roman on the knee. “He wants a meet-cute.”
Roman nods and with a smarmy smile, he adds, “He’s such a romantic little teddy bear, isn’t he?”
“Don’t be dicks. Is it too much to ask to have a story to tell my grandchildren one day? A story that will blow them away? I don’t want to tell them I swiped right and the rest was history.”
Roman sips his drink and leans back against the bar. “Sounds romantic to me.” Turning serious, he asks, “Why do you think this person you’re supposed to meet is going to be the one? This is only for an assignment at work, man, not the woman you’re going to marry.”
“He’s right.” Caden’s phone rings. He checks it and gets up from his stool. “It’s work, got to take this.” Turning to me, he says, “Just pick someone, it only has to last a month. After that, you can meet the love of your life any way you want.”
When Caden takes off, phone attached to his ear, Roman tries to hand me his phone again. “Come on, CockDaddy69, take a look.”
I shake my head. “And what, tell my readers I used Love Swipe? Come on, that goes against everything I’ve been preaching.”
“They’re not going to know the difference. Just find a damn woman and conjure up your own meet-cute in your head.” He holds the phone out to me. “Look, there are women less than a mile away from here who you can meet up with. There might even be some in this bar right now.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to decide what to do. I really don’t want Frank to get involved. Something tells me I’d end up with Francine, his daughter, and the female version of him. I shudder inwardly and take Roman’s phone. Desperation is knocking.
And besides, I can come up with a meet-cute. I’m a writer and I’ve watched enough romantic comedies to make something up for the column—anything to avoid Frank’s choice.
“That a boy. Now look through the pics and see if there is anyone . . . oh, look at her tits. Pick her.”
Of course that would be the first thing Roman notices. Although, she does have nice boobs, but . . .
“She likes the Red Sox.” Deal-breaker, I don’t care how nice her boobs are or how desperate I am.
“Oh fuck that shit. Go back to Boston,” Roman yells at the phone. “Your tits aren’t that great.” Yankees fans to the core—can you tell?
As I look through the women Love Swipe suggests, I feel like a total asshole swiping left on their profiles. That’s what’s so wrong about this way of doing things—it’s all based on the first glance. What if the girl isn’t good at taking selfies, or maybe she thinks duck lips are attractive? She could actually have a beautiful soul and I’d never know.
; “This is fucked up, man,” I say as Roman takes over, swiping left at a consistent pace, not giving any woman not to his ideal a second thought.
“You have to be cutthroat, man.” His swiping picks up speed. “Left, left, left. You’re not into blondes or women who wear turtlenecks. Or women who are left-handed. Left, left, left.”
“I have nothing against turtlenecks or left-handed women,” I admonish.
“I sure as hell do. Turtlenecks were designed by the devil himself and damn if I will have two different can openers in my apartment because I’m with a left-handed woman.” Roman continues to swipe as I look out at the crowd, trying to ignore his idiocy while surveying the people around us. Most of the bar-goers are single—you can tell from the way they stand together in their comfortable pods. The sexes are mostly divided, men eyeing their prey, and women giving them a show.
From the outside looking in, it’s actually an interesting thing to observe. The way men—
“Dude, this girl right here.” Roman nudges me and puts his phone in front of my face. “Look at her. She’s perfect. Innocent-looking, has a sweet face. There’s no way she’ll take you to Freakville.”
I grab his phone and take in the girl Roman found. Brown hair, brown eyes, a sweet smile . . . huh, she actually seems like a normal, all-American girl.
“Swipe right, man, and start a conversation.” Sighing and hating every second of this, I swipe right, hoping to God she hasn’t swiped left on me. I blame Frank for this. “Look, it’s a match.” Roman shakes me as the screen lights up. “She must be prowling as we speak. Send her a message”
Shit, she swiped right on CockDaddy69.
Did I mention I hate this? Trying to make the most of this situation, I type out a greeting.
The Modern Gentleman Page 2
