The District Manager (11 page)

“There’s no place else to go, Keith. This is as good as it gets.”

“That’s like saying that one pile of shit smells less than all the others.”

“Maybe you’re right. Like I said, I don’t know anymore.”

“Oh, and by the way, discovering that letter only confirmed what I was starting to suspect,” Keith comments.

“Oh?”

“It’s obvious that no woman has ever been here, let alone ever lived here, Mason.”

It’s getting late and I feel horrible and really need to gargle with mouthwash. Keith stays up listening to music in his headphones. I do my nightly regiment and now I’m lying in bed… but I can’t sleep.

My mind wanders back to the meeting I had with the boss this morning at the Capitol in Austin. The reason for my trip wasn’t necessarily for a district briefing, rather one for an interim study from one of the House committees he sits on. But before we go down to the conference room, I feel compelled to tell him of my recent exploits. I omit the part where I impersonate a cop:

“So you’re telling me that this Reynolds guy is gone? He’s disappeared?” he asks from behind his desk while blowing on his coffee, trying to cool it off.

“Right. His wife told me this before she retired into that tomb they call a house.”

“That’s terrible, poor woman. Is there anything we can do for her, you wonder?”

“Other than give her a flag that’s flown over the Capitol?” I ask facetiously.

“You don’t need to be an ass, Mason. This situation is just horrible and I wish there was something we could do for this woman— that’s all.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I falter, “When I get to the rodeo arena there is no sign of any dogs, only a piece of ball cap that resembles what Mr. Reynold’s wore on the one occasion I visited him regarding this issue.”

“Jesus Christ! You don’t think the goddamn dogs ate him do you?”

“Jesus Christ I hope not. I did not see any blood…except on my leg.”

“On your leg?”

“Yeah, when I descended those damn bleachers, one of the rotten slats gave way. I fell through up to my knees.”

“Lucky it wasn’t up to your pecker,” he says, laughing.

“I’m lucky I didn’t need stitches,” I respond, clearly irritated.

“Send me a bill whenever you need to, no matter what it is,” he says, coldly.

“So what should we do? This is fucked up.”

“No doubt about that. I say let the county sheriff ’s department handle it.”

“You serious? Those guys are incompetent creeps.”

“This is out of our league, Mason. Besides, we’ve got bigger things on the radar at this point.”

“Like what?”

“The Congressional seat, that’s what.”

At that point I didn’t feel like telling him about the files I stole. Besides, how could I? I stole them!

And by the way, I have yet to look at their contents. I’ve got other things on my mind.

That night at the power plant, before Brenna and I parted, our discussion meandered into areas I was not prepared to go. After getting up the nerve to ask her out on a formal date, Brenna dropped a bomb on me:

“…that sounds like fun. I’ve never been to that venue. Who is this band again?”

“X. They were an L.A. punk band back in the heyday. My buddy Keith told me about them. They’ve got a rockabilly twist to their music. They’re older now, but I watched a few clips online and they still sound kick ass! I’ve never been to that venue either, but I’ve heard the place sounds great and apparently it’s small enough so there’s not a bad seat in the house.”

“Okay, next Saturday. I should be able to get my mom to babysit Will.”

“Will?”

“Yes, Will. You didn’t know I had a son?”

“Uh, no, I didn’t.” I was sure she could see I was stunned, even while I was trying not to look like an asshole.

“That’s okay isn’t it?” she asked with an air of concerned finality.

“What? Of course! That’s awesome! How old is he?”

“He turned seven in June. He’s so smart it’s scary—totally into science.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. It started with his interest in Star Wars—like all his friends—but it just suddenly started blossoming into a life all its own. He watched a documentary on the Big Bang the other day!”

“Wow!”

I tried to remain…well not stunned. This revelation is a blow to any man not expecting it, particularly if that respective man has no children of his own.

But for me, at the time, it had a deeper, more painful meaning.

I bought tickets for both Keith and me more than a month ago. He has no idea about Brenna and I’m at a loss as to how to tell him. All week my mind has fidgeted with this question:
Should I lie or should I just level with him?
If I lie I’ll find myself in the trap that so many politicians find themselves in: the spawning of more lies. Lies beget lies. No, I’m of the opinion that I should just tell him straight up. But because of the news about Ann and his devotion to her (I’ve always thought he was secretly in love with her) he might take this truth very harshly. And I must confess that I have been experiencing thoughts and feelings of guilt myself. How does one move on after what I’ve endured?

But I’m human and I need love. I miss the touch of a woman’s fingers on my skin. I went so long without it before Ann. I’m worried that I might never know it again. Keith will have to deal with it. Time’s running out.

We’re both eating dinner in the den, burgers from a local choke and puke.

“So, dude, about this weekend? X! I can’t wait!” he says with a mouthful of beef and bread.

“Well…, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“What’s wrong?” He swallows hard. Mustard is in a broken ring around his mouth.

“Keith, I’m going to have to cancel on you, man. And not just cancel but kick you off the itinerary altogether. You see, I’ve got a date that night and I’m going with her to the show...not you.” I know this delivery is harsh, but it’s the truth. Isn’t a sharp ax to the skull always better than a dull knife to the gut? “Her name is Brenna.”

“Oh,” he acknowledges, wiping his mouth. The yellow stained napkin falls from his fist to the floor. “And who is Brenna?”

“Brenna is a girl…or woman…that I’ve met through work. She works for the Fort Bryan County Judge. She’s beautiful and she likes me…I think. I’m sorry. Maybe this is a bad move on my end—across the board. I just wanted to get a firm date while I had the chance, and she wasn’t available this Friday night. Maybe she’ll hate the band, but Saturday was it…man.”

“Saturday was it…man?” he repeats. He reaches down and picks up the napkin. He’s folding it into a paper airplane, not saying anything. His foot starts tapping. “Alright,” he finally says. “That’s cool,” he adds, launching the napkin in the air with a flick of his wrist. His head sinks low as the yellow-spotted craft collapses to the carpet, having failed to take flight.

I feel a drop of sweat trickle into my eyebrow.

“I understand,” he finally states, looking up at me.

“Are you sure?” I ask, almost begging for approval.

“Yes, I am sure. You deserve it, Mason. Hell, I’ve seen X on several occasions, and in their heyday. Take this…what’s her name again?”

“Brenna.”

“Brenna, take this Brenna to the show. It might enlighten her.” He wheels over to the stereo and puts on the headphones. He pauses before placing the cones over his ears. “So you really like her?”

“Yes, I do. Very much.”

“Is she like Ann?”

“No, she’s nothing like Ann at all really. She’s classy but a little silly. I like it.”

“Ann was very classy, Mason.”

“Yes she was, but she was also very serious. We rarely laughed.”

“She was very bright—brilliant really. That’s why she was so serious.”

“Brenna is just a different woman, that’s all. I like her.”

“Like I said, take her to the show.”

So there ya go, I’m taking Brenna to the show. Now I’m feeling guilty about two things instead of just one.

I’m not sure how much cologne to put on as I stand before the foggy mirror, staring at my freshly shaven face. I’ve cut my Adam’s apple and had to apply a styptic pencil. A large pink clump is visible through my blue collared shirt,
but how much cologne? This collar is too much.

Keith is over at our next door neighbor’s apartment playing computer games. The guy is a real gamer
(a stoner too?)
and he and Keith get along really well, as Keith is an electronics freak. I’m glad he has made some new friends, and I’m glad in particular that he’s not here while I’m trying to leave.

The settling day is clear and muggy as I dart out of the complex parking lot. I turn the A/C up all the way. I’m listening to The Replacements, another favorite of Keith’s. It’s a pleasant drive to her place. I park along the curb outside Brenna’s house.

I forgot my Listerine strips, so as an emergency measure I place my palm before my mouth and blow, smelling it. Nothing hits me as stinky and although I’d feel better if I had the breath strips, I’m here and need to get out of the car and to her door.

I ring the doorbell. The two small squares of grass that define the yard are high after the recent rains. I notice a rotting fascia board along one of the eves that comprises the front of this single-story, suburban Houston home.

I run my hands through my hair. Try to check my reflection in the door’s ornamental glass, but I look like I’m made of Silly Putty. I hear the short patter of furious footsteps.

“Hello, can I help you?” a small boy with curly brown hair and glasses asks, pulling open the door like a castle gate.

“Well, hello. You must be Will?” I respond, nervously.

“Yes! Who are you?” he shoots back like a laser into my self-confidence.

“He’s Mason!” Brenna declares before I can muster the verbal mechanics. Her tone is so definitive that it acts as a shield, for me.

“Will…how many times have I told you? You always practice politeness with our guests,” she calmly instructs. “Now, ask him how he is doing this evening.”

She’s looking up at me and smiles. Her teeth are as white as her gown.

“How are you doing this evening, Mr. Mason?” he asks enthusiastically, but measured.

“I’m doing great, Will.”

“Well, Will, welcome him in,” Brenna instructs.

“Please come in, Mr. Mason.”

The house is your standard 1990s, modest, suburban Houston home—the kind of house most people in the world would kill for. Will returns to whatever he’s engaged in.

When Brenna and I get to the kitchen, she is looking me up and down. “Oh God, am I overdressed?” she asks, self-consciously.

I look down over my blue-jeaned bottom half and can’t help but laugh. “Maybe I’m under-dressed,” I answer, smiling. Besides my jeans and boots, my upper half is decked out in an Army green T-shirt shrouded by my Camel Western coat. “I think we’ll both stand out,” I conclude.

“Really? I mean, am I going to feel awkward? I hate going someplace not dressed right. I bought this online, and since you can’t try it on before you buy it I always worry…”

“That’s the story of my life, both inside and out.” I have no idea what this means, it’s just what comes out.

Brenna starts laughing, which should be a good thing.

“What?” I ask, insecurely, “Do you think I’m kidding? And, if not, do I always look so bad?” I’m only joking, but there must be something about my tone, because she gets defensive.

“Gosh, no Mason. I think you look cute,” she apologizes with a blush.

If there’s anything that has a chance of fucking up, I will fuck it up!
I’ve got to get ahead of this…and now… “Look, to hell with it; you look great, unreal actually. That gown is gorgeous. And as far as me…so what if we don’t match? We’ll still be the best-looking couple there!”
Have I saved it?