Page 33 of The Business Trip

I got home later than I wanted Saturday after another long flight. In fact, I almost cashed it in entirely, but the neighborhood bar called my name, and I walked over for a few nightcaps. The place was billed as one of Atlanta’s oldest bars and had apparently been in that spot since the early 1900s, surviving as condos and apartments went up around it. I liked it for its dark ambience.

I was weary, so I sat alone at the end of the bar near the door, nursing a gin and tonic. A woman I didn’t recognize walked in and surveyed the place. She was wearing a top that really showed her tits.

I perked up and gave her the Trent slow look-you-up-and-down as a flirtatious opening, and she took it, immediately coming over to me and saying, “Hey, is this seat open?” We started talking. She was cool and pretty sexy. Said her name was Jasmine. She was new in town and super flirtatious, touching my arm and leg as she talked. I started thinking this might be a nice end to my trip, and I went to the bathroom to pop aViagra, just in case. Given my tired state, I figured I could use the boost.

When I got back to my chair, we talked for a while longer, and I was just about to invite her back up to my place when she said she had to go home for the night.

“Aww, no, don’t leave yet,” I implored.

“I’m sorry, I really do,” she said. “But give me your number and I’ll call you. This has been fun. You’re a super guy.”

“You give me your number first,” I answered, noticing that forming actual words was getting harder to do.

“No, I will call you. I promise, Trent,” she said. “In fact, I’ll text you a sexy picture when I get home. You’ve never seen anything like this.” She winked.

Well, that sounded enticing. What could I do but give her my number and hope like hell she followed through? I could text her back something equally fun. Maybe we’d meet up here tomorrow night.

Stumbling the two blocks home, I face-planted into bed and slept with my clothes on for most of the night. Waking up around six a.m. to use the bathroom, I checked my phone and was irked to see there was no text with a sexy picture. Still tired, I stripped down to my boxer shorts and went right back to bed.

Sunday was the NFL playoffs, and I wouldn’t miss that for anything. My plan had been to hit the gym for a workout to keep that old BP down for the doctor, then meet up with some buddies at our favorite sports bar, the one with ten TVs, bottomless wings, a pool table, darts, and good Bloody Marys.

But when I woke up again at ten a.m., I had the worst stomachache I had ever had.

“Ugh,” I moaned, rolling over in bed and clutching my gut.

I rushed to the bathroom and threw up. What the hell? I never got sick.

It was all I could do just to crawl back in bed.

I’ll sleep it off and then go meet the guys, I told myself, burying my face into a pillow and moaning again. Within seconds I was out.

When I woke up again, it was three p.m., and I had missed the first game entirely. I also had five texts from my buddies at the bar wondering what was going on—and zero sexy pictures from Jasmine.

“Well, fuu-uuck me,” I said aloud and texted my friends that somehow I got the “Rona” or some other virus at the conference.

My stomach was still feeling tight and painful, but at least I wasn’t wildly nauseated anymore. Moving from bed to couch, I turned on game number two bitterly. Who gets sick and sits around like a loser on an NFL Sunday? I thought of my buds at the bar, laughing and whooping it up, maybe playing the retro video games the place also had. It was a good spot to meet chicks too. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I barely ate the rest of the day and hit the bathroom a few too many times. I found myself dozing on the couch.

By 8:30 p.m., I even contemplated texting my secretary to say I needed a sick day Monday, but I never took sick days, priding myself on how steely I was. All those wimps who used every sick day they had and then complained about not having more. Nope, not me. I would go in come hell or high water.

But Monday morning, I had a pounding headache in addition to the stomach symptoms not being fully gone. I still had diarrhea, my throat was dry, and my bloodshot eyes burned.

“Motherfucker,” I said to my reflection in the mirror. Ilooked like hell. Would this actually be my first sick day in years? People at the station had heard me make fun of others who were constantly out sick. Was it my turn to be the butt of a joke? That thought made me ill in a different way.

If there were two things I couldn’t stand, it was getting laughed at and appearing weak. Weakness was not the trait of a leader; my team needed to see me strong as an ox at all times. If their leader was down, how would they go on?

But I felt like crap. Reaching for my phone, I made that call to my secretary that I never wanted to make, clearing my throat as it rang on her end.

“Trent, good morning,” she said. “How was your trip?”

“Yeah, hi, Mary, it was good, but I seem to have caught… some kind of bug.” It was embarrassing for me to even say the words.

“Oh no!” she responded. “You don’t sound that great. Do you need to take a day off?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other at the thought. “Maybe I’ll just take the morning and come in later.”

If I could just buy myself a half day, maybe I’d be better.

“Trent, your voice sounds pretty rough. Why don’t you take a day to rest so you’ll be back tomorrow? You have that sales meeting with clients. Remember? They want to meet some of the news people. Might as well be fresh for that. I know it’s a big deal to Bill and the sales department.”

---