by Paul Cwalina
Chapter Ten
It had been a full week of meetings and under-the-radar campaigning in four different counties. I’d had enough for the week. It was a beautiful Friday afternoon and I left the office early to get home, get in a good power nap and get ready for Greg’s bachelor party that evening.
We reserved the Camelot room at the Good Knight. It was the perfect room for such an event. In keeping with the club’s theme, the room was right out of the medieval era, with a beautiful big, bulky wooden dinner table fit for a king. Surrounding the table were twelve classic high-back wooden chairs with gothic designs carved into them and thick, comfortable padding and royal blue velour on the seats. Had the room been shaped differently, I imagine they would have preferred to have furnished the room with a round table to bring to life the days of the Knights of the Round Table.
The walls were adorned with all the trappings of medieval times, as well. Swords and other weapons of the era were on each wall, as well as shields and coats of arms. In the corner stood a full suit of armor, complete with helmet and gloves.
On my way to the party, Chelsea called.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me...” she said.
“Yeah...I know. I have one of those fancy phones that has that caller ID thing going on.”
“Shut up,” she said playfully. “I’m just calling to tell you to have a good time...but not that good.”
I didn’t respond. “Did you hear what I said?” she asked.
“Yes, and I will definitely have a good time.”
“And you dare to call me maddening?”
“Oh, relax,” I said. “It’s going to be very tame. There are no strippers or anything like that.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, unconvinced. “I know the reputation of that place.”
“We’ll be in the back room. It’s just going to be us twelve guys.”
“Whatever. Why don’t you come over to my place after it’s over?”
“Well, I have no idea how late it’s going to go.”
“I’ll be up late. No work tomorrow.”
“Ok. I’ll see you later then,” I reluctantly said.
“Behave.”
“I always do...just a matter of how.”
“Hey...”
“Relax. Later,” I said and ended the call.
I pulled into the parking lot and entered the Good Knight through the side door. The place was packed with happy hour hopefuls - young bankers with loosened ties and looser wallets for any woman willing to trade her self-respect for a couple of free drinks, groups of co-workers celebrating someone’s birthday or just the fact that it was Friday, and the usual array of boys and girls puffing themselves up, polishing their stories and waiting for the opportunity to impress someone.
I made my way to the Camelot room and pushed open the large castle-like door. Greg and about half of our invited guests were there admiring the macho decor and slowly warming their testosterone.
“Gentlemen..” I said with a wide smile.
“Isn’t the host supposed to be here before the groom?” Greg jabbed, and put out his hand.
“Only when he has a chief of staff to make sure he his. Where were you, slacker?” I joked.
I made my way around the room, shaking hands, something that just came as habit of political life. As I was doing that, the remaining invitees arrived in pairs or by themselves until we had our full dozen.
“Is everyone here?” I asked Greg.
He quickly surveyed the faces and said, “Yes, I believe so.”
I stepped to the head of the long wooden table and gave my first order of the night. “Gentlemen, without sitting down, pick a place at the table.” As they did, I walked over to the suit of armor in the corner and lifted the helmet from the display and brought it to the table. “First things first. Everyone shut off their cell phones and place them into the helmet. You will get them back as you leave.” There was no resistance. Each of the guys willingly complied. They knew the danger of camera phones and the irritation of watching others staring down at a screen all night. I kept mine, just in case of a city emergency, but placed it on vibrate.
As they passed around the helmet, two waitresses came into the room.
“Hey guys...My name is Katie and that’s Lauren and we’ll be taking care of you this evening,” she said. Immediately came the catcalls from an over-anxious pair who were having trouble keeping their testosterone at a simmer.
“Easy, guys,” I admonished.
“What can we get you to drink?” she cheerfully asked as Lauren walked around the table handing out menus. As each guest grabbed a menu, he sat down.
“Guys, I’m thinking we just get pitchers of beer and make this easy on everyone. Any objections?” I directed. Being in charge of city government and the urge to direct everything was kind of spilling over into the events of the evening for me.
Smatterings of “sounds good” and “okay” came from around the room, so I told Katie to bring pitchers of lager and light beer.
“Okay, we’ll be right back with those,” she said with exceeding sweetness. I observed as almost every guy watched her walk out of the room, each of them in his head trying to figure out how to be the guy to take her home at the end of the night. Being predictable is our strong suit.
They left the room and we started studying the menus. Even the quietest conversations amongst the guys were amplified by the echo of the stone-walled room. I listened intently for any off-plan attempts to hijack the party and turn it into a public relations nightmare.
After Greg and I had decided what we each were going to order, I pulled him aside. “Hey, sorry to mix business with pleasure, but I need your advice on something.”
“No problem. What’s up?”
“I agreed to go with Chelsea to this fundraiser at the museum, not thinking.”
“Why do you think it’s a problem?”
“Well, a lot of our larger campaign donors will most likely also be there. If they see me there with Chelsea Blue-Hair, they’re gonna freak out.”
“Can’t you tell her something came up?”
“I guess that would be a last resort, but it’s a little weak,” I said. I paused for moment, then said, “So you agree that I shouldn’t go and be seen with her at this thing, then, right?”
“Maybe you’re selling your donors short. Maybe they won’t mind.”
“How many beers have you had?”
“I’m serious.”
“Come on. One look at her and they’ll think I’ve lost my mind. They’ll question my maturity. They’ll wonder if I’m stable. They’ll wonder what kind of influence she’ll have on me. Besides, if a photo of the two of us hits the internet, Spencer will kill me with it in his advertising during the Senate campaign.”
“Would she consider getting rid of the blue for one night?” Greg asked, thinking he may have solved the problem.
Sounded good at first, and I considered it, but then I said, “Something to consider, but, honestly, I doubt it.”
“Wait a second,” Greg said. “I just thought of something. You can’t miss this thing. Think of all the people that are on the museum board of directors. Think of the Schmidts. They’ll take it as a slap in the face if you don’t attend.”
I deflated and sat back in my chair. “Damn.” As if that wasn’t enough, I received a text from Chelsea reading ‘I paid for your tux at Carlo’s. You just have to go get measured. Thank you for going with me!’ Ugh.
Dinner came and went without incident. One of the guys set a box of cigars on the table and the guys helped themselves. Soon the air was heavy with the sight and scent of cigar smoke. The beer and mixed drinks continued to flow like a river. We were men in full. I had to keep my eyes on two twenty-five year-old guys who were growing beer muscles with every twelve-ounce arm curl they did. When one of them obnoxiously yelled for the waitress because two of the pitchers were empty, I put my hand on his shoulder and pushed him down into his chair. I
grabbed the two empty pitchers. I stared him down and said, “Just cool your jets, there, rookie. I will get the refills.” I don’t know if he was intimidated by my forcefulness or my position, but he immediately quieted down and apologized.
Putting a guy in his place like that puts a spring into a man’s step and I felt my testosterone simmering as I exited the room and headed to the bar. I found an open space to the left of a black-haired woman standing there wearing one of those little black cocktail party dresses. It seems those dresses were specifically designed to be draped over a body like hers. While I waited for the bartender to notice me, I turned to the woman and said ‘hi’.
“Hi!” she said with a wide smile. My best guess was that she was in her early thirties.
“How long have you been waiting for a drink?” I asked her.
“Oh, I don’t know...a couple minutes, I suppose.”
“A couple minutes? A woman who looks like you shouldn’t have to wait a single second. That’s criminal,” I said.
She laughed. “Oh, listen to you, sweet talker.”
“No sweet talk, just the truth,” I sheepishly said. I put out my hand and introduced myself. She placed her hand into mine and said, “I’m Jennifer.”
To her right, a similar-aged woman appeared, grabbed Jennifer by the arm and yelled, “Hey!” She pointed her finger at me across Jennifer’s face. “Get away from her. No freakin’ men, tonight.”
Every woman has at least one psycho friend. I only knew Jennifer for about thirty seconds and I had already found hers.
“Whoa. Sorry. I had no idea it was no man’s night,” I said, putting my hands in the air.
Jennifer turned to her friend and said, “Calm down, Ashley. It’s ok.” Then she turned to me and apologized for her friend, “Sorry. She’s just trying to protect me.”
“No problem,” I said. I put my hand out to Ashley and introduced myself. She responded, “Put it away. We’re not interested.”
Ouch. The temperature must have dropped fifty degrees in here.
“Don’t mind her,” Jennifer assured me.
Ashley looked at me, studying my face. “Hey. You look familiar. Where have I seen you?”
Uh-oh. I was hoping not to be recognized here.
“Oh, you’re talking to me now?” I asked sarcastically.
“Just answer me. Who are you? I’ve seen you before.”
“Have you ever been in the post office?” I joked.
“You work for the post office?” Ashley drunkenly asked.
Unbelievable. I hope it’s the alcohol making her this stupid.
“Yes, I work for the post office,” I said, mustering all the condescension I could.
“I knew I’ve seen you before,” she said.
Fortunately, Jennifer got the joke and smiled at me. “I’m so sorry for my friend.”
“It’s alright,” I assured her through a smile.
“Ashley, sweetie, why don’t you go sit down at the table. I’ll be okay,” Jennifer said to her protective friend.
Ashley reluctantly turned and walked away but managed to issue one more warning. “Fine. But make sure he knows no freakin’ men, tonight. You just got rid of one. You don’t need another one.”
Just got rid of one? Interesting... I felt like a street thief that just saw someone pull a wad of bills from her purse.
“Sorry about that,” she said again.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s fine. Looks like you’re here with a group.”
“Yeah...it’s my divorce party.”
“Divorce party? Well, I guess I should say that I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Oh, no...not at all. It’s a good thing. I finally kicked him to the curb,” she said full of conviction and strength.
“Ok, then...in that case, congratulations are in order,” I offered.
“Thank you. And who are you here with?”
“Ironically, I’m here with a bachelor party,” I said.
She seemed a bit disappointed. “Oh...are you the groom?”
That stung a bit. I should be the groom. This should be my bachelor party and I should be marrying Sarah.
“No, no. I’m just the best man,” I said and noticed she looked down at my hand to see if I was wearing a wedding ring.
The bartender had finally come over and took our drink orders. I heard Led Zeppelin’s ‘Trampled Under Foot’ come on the overhead sound system and it was all I needed to bring my testosterone to a boil. I said, “Let me help you celebrate and buy that drink for you.”
“Why, thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome. Tell you what. Let me get those pitchers of beer to my pack of wolves in the back room and I’ll come back here and we can get to know each other a little better.”
“Okay. Promise?” she asked with a coy smile.
“Oh, yes. That’s a promise.”
I tipped the bartender and walked the pitchers to the party at a quick pace, told Greg I’d come back in a little bit and headed back to the bar.
Jennifer didn’t move a single step. I walked up behind her, ran my finger up her spine and said, “I’m back.”
“Oooh, that felt good,” she said. “I like a man who keeps his promises.”
“So, did Ashley issue any more warnings while I was gone?”
She chuckled. “Nope. I’d ignore them anyway.”
“That’s encouraging,” I said. “So, tell me why you’re getting divorced.”
“Not getting divorced. I am divorced. It was official today. That’s why we’re here.”
Excellent. She’s going to be in a free-spirited mood. I may have struck gold here.
“Ah, I see...congrats, again,” I said. “So, what happened?”
She went on for a few minutes about her husband, describing him in harsh tones as neglectful and controlling at the same time. She believed he had cheated on her, but he denied it. From her story, she obviously wasn’t buying his denials. She was convinced.
I definitely see opportunity here. A divorced woman with revenge on her mind....it’s getting good.
I just needed one more piece of information. “So, what do your parents think of you getting divorced?” I asked her.
“My parents? Well, my mom is upset, you know, for a lot of reasons. She doesn’t want me to be alone or hurt and she liked Jeff, although I don’t know why.”
“I see. How about your dad?”
“I haven’t seen my dad since I was fourteen. And even before then, he didn’t pay much attention to me or my brother and sister. He was pretty useless. He left when I was twelve. I saw him on Christmas day the first two years and then never again after that,” she said, rather matter-of-factly.
And there it is. The trifecta. Another fish in the barrel.
Every good fisherman knows, though, that these fish are strictly catch-and-release.
“I’m sorry to hear that. That must be rough for you,” I said.