My brother hasn’t
changed very much since I left for Europe. He’s just a little more of everything. Cocky, charismatic,
and quite charming. Give him an audience, no matter how small, and he’ll
captivate them within minutes.
Not that I
haven’t been accused of being cocky myself. Okay, maybe I’ve been called an
asshole on more than a few occasions. But charming I am not. My brother is
great at telling people exactly what they want to hear. It’s a skill that will
serve him very well in politics. I’m more of a say-what’s-on-my-mind kind of
guy. I’m always straightforward and honest. I tell people what I think they
need to hear even if they don’t want to hear it.
“Austin Graham,”
my big brother says when he finally spots me. He excuses himself from the small
group of would-be campaign donors and heads in my direction. “The rebel without
a cause returns to the roost.”
To my surprise
my brother grabs me into a hug. I reflexively look around the ballroom to see
if there are any photographers snapping shots of us. That’s the only reason I
could see Drew giving me such a warm greeting. We didn’t exactly part on the
friendliest of terms when I left the country.
“I take it Dad
summoned you back to the States to help with the campaign.”
“Help is really a strong word. I get the
impression I’m needed for publicity photos. He says he wants to show the press
that our family is strong and united. You are running a family values campaign,
aren’t you?”
My brother
glares at me. Then after a few moments of being at the center of his arctic
stare he says, “Nice suit.”
“It should be.
You probably paid top dollar for it.”
“I thought it
looked familiar.”
“Suits and I
don’t really get along.”
“I guess that
means Dad hasn’t talked you into getting a real job yet.”
“I’ve had plenty
of real jobs all over Europe.
Everything from milking cows to fixing motorcycles. Whatever odd jobs people
had in exchange for a hot meal and a warm bed.”
Drew shakes his
head. “Sometimes it’s difficult for me to believe we’re products of the same
two parents.”
“You were there
when I was born,” I remind him.
“And you were
stubborn and willful from the moment you took your first breath. Some things
never change.”
“I need a
drink,” I announce. Drew, always being the perfect politician and everything
his constituents want him to be wrapped in a picture-perfect package, rarely
drinks anything but water and orange juice. I, on the other hand, imbibe on a
regular basis.
“Maybe stick
with one,” he suggests. “Nurse it for a while.”
“Yes, Sir,” I
give him a cheesy little fake salute.
As I approach
the bar I see a gorgeous little blonde serving small cups of wine to several
middle-aged women wearing matching conservative navy blue suits and single
strands of white pearls around their necks. They all have their hair cut short
and look like they’ll be absolutely no fun even with a little wine in them.
Once the women
of the blue suit brigade have cups of wine in their hands they make their way
over to my brother. As I wait for the bartender to acknowledge me I’m a little
hurt that she doesn’t even glance up at me when she asks me what I want. Then I
remember I’m wearing one of my brother’s stuffy suits and that I probably look
just like another one of the conservative jackasses at the fundraising event.
This girl looks
like someone who prefers a more down-to-Earth kind of guy. If I had on my
everyday attire: leather jacket, well-worn jeans and black biker boots, I think
I’d get her attention in a heartbeat.
“Beer,” I say,
trying to will the blonde to at least glance at me once. But to no avail. She’s
all business, serving drinks then taking the next person’s order.
“We’ve got
Miller, Bud, and Coors.”
“Miller.”
She nods and
fills up one of the small cups with beer. It’s not even the size of a Dixie cup.
Maybe half as large. “Got anything bigger than that?”
She shakes her
head. “Sorry. It’s complimentary. You can have as many as you like.”
I hold up the
ridiculously small cup. It would probably take about ten of these before I even
felt a buzz. “Thanks.”
She nods, but
she’s only half paying attention to me. When I glance down at her name tag I
see her name is Mazzy. Unusual name. I’m completely intrigued. Not just because
she’s beautiful with a smoking hot body to match, but there’s something about
her that’s different.
Most girls fall
all over themselves to get my attention when they figure out who my family is.
Being from a wealthy and well-connected family is like an aphrodisiac for most
women. I look down to make sure I’m still wearing my name tag and it’s
definitely there. This girl just hasn’t even bothered to take a look at
it.
Two guys are now
standing behind me so I know I have to let her serve them, but I don’t want to
move from this spot. I just want to look at her for a few seconds more. I like
watching the way she moves. She seems so carefree and comfortable in her body.
As carefree as I like to pretend to be I know I’m really just a mass of
insecurities and compensative tactics.
“Anything else?”
she asks.
Your number, I want to say, but what’s
the point. I don’t plan on being in New Jersey any longer than I have to. I
promised my dad I’d stay through the election and that’s it. Then my backpack
and I are off to Asia.
I take my
ridiculous little cup of beer and head off in search of someone I might find
even remotely interesting to talk to.
As luck would
have it I run into my mother and her league of women voters. They’re all
wearing the same conservative blue suits as the blue suit brigade who were
ordering wine in front of me at the bar and they each have a tiny American flag
displayed prominently on their lapels. As soon as my mother spots me a look of
disgust overtakes her face. She can’t seem to control it whenever she sees me
and I’m not sure she wants to. She’s even less thrilled with me than my father
and she usually has no trouble expressing that displeasure to me. My only
saving grace is that I know she won’t rail at me in front of her supporters.
She’s much too shrewd for that. She’ll do her best to pretend I’m the perfect son
in front of potential donors and wait to condemn me in private.
I’m so glad I’ll
be staying at the lake house. My mother won’t consider venturing out to
Northern New Jersey this late in the season. When it’s less than seventy
degrees she has no interest in the lake house.
“Austin,” my
mother says as she approaches and places a quick peck on my cheek. “So glad you
could make it.”
The other women
in her small group are all smiling and eyeballing me, even though they’re all
my mother’s age or older.
I down the rest
of my beer and stare into the empty cup. “I think I need a refill.”
My mother
expresses her displeasure with a harrumph, but then quickly replaces her
grimace with a broad smile. Hers isn’t as rehearsed as my father’s or
brother’s, but it’s equally phony.
“When you come
back, Mrs. Lexington has an opening in her firm that might be of interest to
you and she’s already said she’d love to talk to you about it.”
“Great,” I lie
as I loosen my tie. I’m already feeling trapped and the stupid material around
my neck isn’t helping matters any. I can’t even remember the last time I wore a
tie.
As I hurry back
towards the bar I’m glad to see that Mazzy doesn’t have any other customers.
She’s all mine, at least for a few minutes.
I order two
beers and down them both double-fisted. When I look up I imagine that Mazzy
will have a look of horror on her face, but all I see is puzzlement. As if
she’s looking at a creature from a brand new species.
By the time I
order my fourth miniature beer I have just enough liquid courage to actually
start a conversation with her. It’s not that I generally have a hard time
conversing with women. On the contrary, I’m generally quite smooth with the
opposite sex. But I feel different in this monkey suit and a political
fundraiser is definitely not my native habitat. I’m used to picking up women at
dive bars or neighborhood pubs. The more relaxed and casual the atmosphere the
better.
There’s
absolutely nothing relaxed or casual about my present circumstances. But at
least the beers have taken the edge off.
“Mazzy is an
unusual name,” I say as she hands me my beer.
She just gives
me a polite nod in return.
“Do you live
around here?” As soon as the words leave my lips I realize it’s a ridiculous
question. I’m sure she doesn’t commute very far for a job as a bartender.
“I’ve lived in
Old Town my whole life.” Her clipped tone leads me to believe that she has
little interest in talking to me. Not that I blame her. If I ran into me in
this setting wearing this suit I wouldn’t want to talk to me either.
“Know of any
good bars around here.” I hold up the small cup. “These tiny cups aren’t really
doing it for me.”
That remark
elicits the tiniest of smiles. At least it’s a start.
“Try Haymakers.
It’s the only bar in Old Town. Do you like country music?”
I shrug. “I’m
more of a rock-and-roll kind of guy.”
“Haymakers is
definitely a country bar. I used to work there.”
“Maybe I’ll
check it out.” I’ll be staying at my family’s lake house, which isn’t too far
from Old Town. I’m sure I’ll go stir crazy after a while and will need some
kind of escape. “Thanks for the recommendation.”
“If you tell
them that Mazzy sent you they might even give you a free beer.”
“Free is good.”
I give her my sexiest smile, but it doesn’t seem to make much of an impact. I
realize that maybe she’s just being nice so I’ll give her a good tip. I reach
into my pocket, pull out a five dollar bill and add it to the mostly singles
lining the tip jar.</
It's hard ... waiting.
People will tell you "God has a plan for you." "It wasn't mean to be." Or my favorite, "This just means your kids are still out there."
Now ...
