Page 6 of Tied

Bypassing a few other faces I know, each acknowledge me as I pass down the rows of chairs with winks, nods, and hellos. The odd one grumbles or remarks crassly, to which I ignore. These conventions are where we feign moments of tepid frenemies. Most of these men despise each other, and the few women that attend congregate away from the cigar loving, loud burping, rancid farting competitive moments.

“Bullet,” I greet him as I walk up.

Pulling out the seat beside him and tapping the cushion, he motions for me to take a seat. “Glad to see you made it out, son.”

“Glad isn’t the word I’d use for this, but I’m here.”

“Donna working out for you?” he asks as I take the offered seat.

“She’s thorough, I’ll give her that.” Donna is my newest intern. Bullet felt she would fill the void after losing Carli. She has to be the oldest intern in the pools, but Donna does a great job. She just isn’t Carli. We don’t have a relationship other than that of boss and employee, and she doesn’t know about my family life. Work is all we confer on.

As I settle in, I’m introduced to the other men at our table. Fester Colins from Alabama, Galen Kerr from Oklahoma, Steven Preacher from Alaska, and Colby Morgan from Missouri. Other than Fester and Bullet, each of us are new governors.

For the next hour we talk about nothing political, but anything that has to do with war, our favored football and baseball teams, and Hollywood news. I’ve learned that my limited knowledge, or over knowledge, becomes a conversation piece all its own. I watch baseball and football only to check out the players, not to learn the game or figure out scores and stats, and if I start talking about Hollywood news, my fashion forward / gaydar comes out. I sparkle like a movie vampire.

Leaning in close, Galen whispers, “Did you see who this morning’s speaker is? I hear he’s quite flamboyant.”

“No, I hadn’t. Who is it?”

“He’s that guy over there. CEO and an Environmental Specialist something or other for New York Power.” Pointing to a well-dressed, mid-forties, greying blonde man with a bright smile, I take him in. He’s a gorgeous piece of man candy. Hell, he’s beautiful. Simple black slacks—tapered of course—fitted plain snow white button down shirt, black tie with large dark blue dots, paired with a plain black leather belt and an unobtrusive buckle.

“Really? What’s he going over again?” I ask, trying to feign disinterest. Pulling up the morning schedule, I look it over and find his name—Tyler Marshall, Con Edison CEO.

“He’s here to give us better ideas for our sustainable resources. What he doesn’t get though, is what works in New York doesn’t work for Oklahoma.” Continuing on, he states a bit louder, “I’d have a better chance pushing the idea of burning farm manure than what these froufrou cities do.” Sipping his bourbon on the rocks, I take in the man beside me. Mid-fifties, wearing a simple ‘my wife bought my outfit.’

Galen is the standard man’s man. I’m sure when it comes to unconventional lives and unconventional resources, he’s closed-minded. He’s been nice enough so far, but I doubt he’d be the guy to friend me after finding out I enjoy the same sex.

Deciding not to make enemies of new friends right away, I smile and say, “Well shit is in abundance in this room. Maybe we can harvest it from the full of crap governors that grace us here.”

“You won’t be hearing a nay from me on that,” Galen states, raising his glass in a toast.

As the hour passes, I’ve had three more straight scotches amid this nice company. I should slow down or soon my tongue will loosen, my mind will blank, and I’m sure to slip up as I swoon over Mr. Marshall. When I start tossing dollars in the air, yelling ‘I’ll buy whatever you’re selling,’ asking him to take it all off, that’s when I should leave.

Rising up slightly, I reach the middle of the table and pull the pretzels close. I don’t care if they’re gluten free or not. I’ll fart and burp instead of drawing attention to my man-tasy that’s up on the dais. I can’t seem to take my eyes off Mr. Tyler Marshall. He seems comfortable in his skin, relaxed and poised to command the room. Myself, I’m ready to peel out of here screaming like a queen.

Do I wish Carli were here? You betcha. She’d keep me in check, and I need a check.

Thinking on her, I pull out my phone to text.

Me: I’m here alone. Happy?

C: When did Versace catch fire?

Me: Ha. Not funny. I’ve had too many drinks and there’s a sexy man. Hold me back.

I know she’s laughing as she reads it, which makes it even sadder.

C: I have the feeling this will be a long night. Pucker up.

Me: Witch.

C: Whore.

She’s done what I needed: made me lighten up. Now I’m relaxed, slightly inebriated, and ready to make it through the rest of this unnoticed, and unsuspectingly moon over the man on the stage.

Turning my attention back to the MC, I watch as the lanky, greasy Jack Devoy as he smiling a leery grin that makes my stomach spin. Stepping up to the microphone, tapping it, “Could everyone take their seats, please. We’re about to start.”

As the room quiets respectfully, some take their seats, while others grab another drink quietly at the bar, or step out of the room with a phone poised at their ears. Our table settles as we all turn our attention to Jack.

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