Choke On Your Lies Part 7

I averted my eyes. Kind of. "I'm sorry."

"Jesus, can't it wait?"

"Well..." I looked away, then back, away, then back.

She finally yanked the tail of her s.h.i.+rt down hard and planted her fists on her hips. No more smiles for me. "Come on."

"I wasn't kidding about why you shouldn't take this job. I know she's my friend and all, but I wouldn't want to work for her."

"Yeah, I got that."

"Listen, don't you feel any sort of bad vibes? You've got to have some sort of little voice in your head telling you something's off. It's not your scene. You'll be miserable."

Harriet laughed before I'd even finished. "Miserable? You're telling me, like, an eighty percent increase in pay, health insurance, working with the best ingredients, pretty much cooking whatever I feel like, and no greasy, crowded, sweaty kitchens full of guys that can't even speak f.u.c.king English is my idea of a party?"

"Octavia told you that, didn't she?"

She ignored me and swooped the t-s.h.i.+rt off, revealing all the ink and a black sports bra. I'd been a.n.a.lyzed and tagged as harmless, my eyes weaker than your average males. She picked up a ragged local band tee, snugged into it, and then whirled, face to face.

"Mick, right? Mick. What does it matter, man? Why do you care?"

Yeah, why did I? Why look out for the happiness of someone who obviously thought I was a puny sn.o.b? Dunno. I just did. "Those guys in your kitchen? They're your friends. You drink with them, and they've taught you some cool phrases in a bunch of different languages. They showed you neat dishes and tricks in the kitchen that you would've had to pay a lot of money for at culinary school."

Shrugged. "I won't lose my friends."

"And you love the pressure cooker, right? You thrive on it. When you sleep, you dream about work. Your whole s.h.i.+ft revolves around where you guys go drink after, and all the bands you hang out with until sunrise."

Crossed her arms. "Now I'll have more time to sleep and still stay out all night. s.h.i.+t, it's healthier all around."

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Harriet, I swear, in six months..." Caught myself. Decided to try another track. "You know the vegan she talked about?"

"Well...I thought she meant you at first, but I suppose it was the butler. He's vegan?"

"Vegan, gay, and a jet-setter."

"Okay, I'm cool with that. Why'd he eat the steak?"

"She forced him to."

Harriet blinked. "No way."

"Oh, yeah."

"I'm not into all that s.h.i.+t, but if someone else is, you've got to respect, man."

"Octavia doesn't. She made him eat the steak to remind him who's boss. And she pays him so much money that he eventually gave up trying to date regularly because she would wait until his day off to find stuff that would make him late or miss it entirely. His only trips now are either short vacations or business trips for Octavia. In the old days, he'd spend weekends in Manhattan, L.A., Vegas, Tahoe. Tonight, she made him eat meat for the first time in years."

As I spoke, fear appeared in the middle of her pupils and spread outward until both orbs were quivering. Lips parted. Silence after I was done, until she realized she was staring into her own future, thinking about how it was all going to change, and she didn't want to believe it.

She closed her lips and swallowed and then said, "That's not going to happen to me."

"No, it will. Maybe not as direct a sting, but it'll happen."

She eyed her jeans, maybe trying to decide if my harmlessness extended to letting her change into those in front of me. I guess it didn't. Still some teeth on this old tiger.

"So, then, why, Mick? Why would he stay with her?" Lowered her voice. "They're not, like...lovers, something like that?"

"Not at all. Much worse. Let me tell you."

EIGHT.

Here's pretty much what I told her: After grad school, Octavia got roped into working for a conservative think tank. They paid her a lot of money to write papers on politics with an eye towards comparisons to cla.s.sic literature. I guess they thought if it's all happened before, maybe they could skip the part about finding new answers and just rely on the old ones, as long as enough people had forgotten about them. But then, a couple of trips to Was.h.i.+ngton later, she discovered her true talent was in lobbying. Octavia had a talent for threatening people to vote her way while still having them return her calls.

She was bored, though. Lots of money, lots of power, lots of dinners and lunches and drinks shared over topics like Ethanol subsidies, prayer in schools, television standards, pharmaceuticals, on and on. It was too easy for her. Talking points memorized, Psychology 101 level manipulation, close observation and deductive reasoning employed to find weaknesses and/or strengths that could be somehow ma.s.saged should the congressman vote a certain way. Dull stuff.

No matter what she did, how much she flirted or tried to build true relations.h.i.+ps with these people, it always came down to money and fear. Other women lobbyists, she noticed, could flash a little leg and laugh at the tasteless jokes, and could get a lot further than Octavia ever could unless it came down to the bra.s.s tacks and some serious blackmail needed to be put on the table. This was before she weighed as much as she does now, too. Back then, around two-fifty. A striking woman in high school and college, but not exactly what senators wanted to take to a hotel after hours. Forget trying to make herself the talk of the town for her expensive dresses and pretty face. She decided the power was worth chasing, which meant she had to say and do some awful things to get what she wanted-votes, s.e.x, respect-and the more fear that registered on the faces of her victims, the better.

Octavia missed the Twin Cities a lot, and traveled back and forth at least twice a month except for a long five month stretch where her services were in demand during an especially divisive Congressional season. More dinners and lunches and phone calls than usual. Finally, the work was done, the threats threatened, the pressure applied. She destroyed a couple of promising political careers during those months, and drove more than a dozen lobbyists to retire rather than fight with her anymore.

At last, plane ticket in hand, she boarded a flight back home just in time for the Thanksgiving travel rush. Unfortunately, she couldn't get her usual first cla.s.s seats-all sold out or given over to upgrades. Rather than wait for a late flight, she decided to chance it on a shuttle. By this point, she'd packed on a number of extra pounds, and the seats on those small jets could only take so much.

She could barely squeeze in, to begin with. Adding insult to injury, the flight attendant, a frosted blonde young gay man, immediately brought her the seat belt extension without her even asking. He told her, "Oh, don't thank me. We just don't want you bouncing around the cabin in case of rough air. You might kill someone."

A small jet, too, so everyone around could hear. Giggles. Even with the flight attendant winking at her, Octavia didn't take kindly to the joke.

Then she heard the snap. Her seat reclined without pus.h.i.+ng the b.u.t.ton, and she let out a yelp.

The attendant came back over, helped her up, but wasn't too nice about it. She explained that it had just broken. He rolled his eyes. "I wonder why?"

She looked up and down the plane, asked for one of the free seats.

He crossed his arms and pursed his lips and said, "Well, they won't take off with a broken seat, so that's a delay right there." Groans for the other pa.s.sengers. "Plus, what are the chances another seat would survive?"

That set her off. She was tired, cranky, and embarra.s.sed, so the venom didn't quite spill like she wanted. A lot of "How dare you?" and "Do you know who you're dealing with, princess?", but the attendant-you've surely guessed his name already-stood his ground, turned on the fake-polite Airspeak and told her she needed to hold her tongue. Flight attendants had gained so much authority after Nine Eleven, so all it took was another round of insults to get the pilot to step back into the cabin and kick her off the flight. It didn't matter that mechanics would need to repair the seat anyway, giving everyone time to cool off. Too late. She'd pushed past the line of forgiveness.

Needless to say, she left the airport immediately, went back to her apartment, and sulked. Didn't bother rescheduling the flight. She went home, ordered some Vietnamese delivery, and shut herself in for two days.

When she came out, she had it all planned, written, detailed, and ready to be unleashed. Her first discrimination lawsuit. She filed against the airline, the airport, the pilot, the flight attendant, and their respective unions. Of course, she had even lined up witnesses, her mind like a steel trap, remembering the names called out before boarding, those people who needed boarding pa.s.ses or were on stand-by.

And she was so p.i.s.sed that even after the one-point-five million dollar settlement offer, she held onto one demand that was nonnegotiable-that Gene Jennings be fired by his airline and never again allowed to work in the airline industry.

Of course the unions threw a fit, the airline clamped down, and their attorneys threatened to cut the settlement to eighteen hundred bucks and two free tickets to Hawaii. In fact, they had found some witnesses from the plane who thought her behavior was obnoxious and deserving of the expulsion. Smug b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, sliding their hands behind their heads, feet on the desk, just waiting for her desperate call to save the original deal, sans firing the "stewardess", as Octavia insisted on calling him.

Oh, and yes, a call did come. Several in fact. All the fancy lawyers and union reps and airline CEOs had forgotten one thing: she knew a lot of Senators. Not only knew them, but knew their secrets. She had plenty of favors to call in, and she cashed most of them. In the end, it was three million, a year of free first cla.s.s travel, and Jennings on the unemployment line.

Once she had the check in hand she quit her lobbying job, moved back to Minneapolis, and bought this house. She had invested her Was.h.i.+ngton money well, and she was able to pick up an occasional consulting job for political campaigns or causes. Hated it, every moment. Completely sick of politics, Democrats, Republicans, gra.s.s roots. She didn't believe in government anymore. Which is why she began seeking out other corporate victims, using the law she no longer trusted as a battering ram. She sued four companies that first year, and settled three times. Another two-point-five million in the bank.

And then, she looked up Gene Jennings.

It was being a flight attendant that had allowed him to hit all the hotspots around the country, b.u.mping up a couple of social cla.s.ses, partying whenever and with whomever he chose. I mean, he was twenty-three, living in Chicago, a huge hub so he could shoot off all over the world at a moment's notice, having a blast. He'd scored the Minneapolis run that particular day so he could meet up with a friend for a concert at First Ave. After that, he'd been thinking Seattle, but the friend introduced Jennings to another friend, and the sparks flew. Magic. So he kept coming back to the Cities for a few weekends until things lost their charm.

After losing his job, he couldn't afford the loft in Chicago. His parents had kicked him out a long time ago. Airline friends shunned him. The New Yorkers he knew, mostly older, stinking rich...well, he couldn't bring himself to sink that low. Process of elimination, it was the ex in Minneapolis who took him in, still hoping for a chance to rekindle, especially now that Jennings's wings had been clipped. But Jennings was sinking into depression, sleeping all day, hardly leaving the apartment, taking too many anti-depressants that weren't helping.

Octavia showed up at his door. Guy was so gone, he actually invited her in and made coffee. It came down to this-he was miserable, broke, co-dependent, doped up, and full of anger and blame.

Exactly what she'd been hoping for.

So she offered him a job. Her butler, exact word she used, not gussied up for contemporary audiences. In fact, a live-in butler. Responsible for coordinating the other hired help, helping with her business affairs, occasionally stepping in as proxy to pay the bills, help manage upkeep of the estate, and drive her around as needed.

He thought she was kidding. After laughing for a good while, he tried to sting her with insults-fat b.i.t.c.h this, lard-a.s.s that, can't even get a plane in the air with her giant carca.s.s on board. He paced, swore, waved his finger in her face.

She sat perfectly still, her suit costing more than he had made in an entire year with the airline. Not rising to the bait. Not answering his points. It took him time to notice. He finally shut his trap when she pulled out a business card and began writing his potential salary and benefits on it. Neither said a word while she scribbled.

Finally, Octavia boosted herself up with her cane, tossed the card down, and said, "Think about it. Unless you're happy here." Followed by a dramatic look around the apartment, wrinkling her nose. "There's something to be said for settling down, being middle-cla.s.s. Loving one person, forsaking all others. Something to be said indeed."

Then she was gone. Jennings tried hard to ignore the card. Tried shoving it into a book without looking at it. More pacing. Pills and tequila. Calling his boyfriend at work a few times, almost incoherent. Curiosity got the better of him. He retrieved the card, read the offer, and, according to Jennings, he stood staring out the window for an hour, trying to figure it all out.

Was it compa.s.sion? Maybe Octavia somehow had grown to feel bad about what she'd done? A sign of forgiveness? A peace offering?

Whatever the motive, he couldn't turn it down. He called her the next morning, packed his things, broke up with his boyfriend, and left for her house. Been there ever since.

He knew now what it was all about. It wasn't enough for her to win. She wanted more than that. She needed to know that whatever the offense, whatever bad blood was between them, and no matter what had been said about her weight, she had them. Not just once, but forever after.

Jennings was in h.e.l.l. He thought he was in h.e.l.l back at his boyfriend's apartment. Not so. h.e.l.l was a much nicer place than he ever could've imagined, so it sucked even worse to be miserable here, where he couldn't do a G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing about it. Too late. He made his choice, and Octavia had him.

"And now, my dear, she's about to get you, too."

Harriet had grown more and more angry as I kept on, lips drawn tighter and crossed arms flexing. Mad at me, at Octavia, at Jennings, at herself. Sometimes, shocked, interrupting with "You're f.u.c.king with me. Really?"

At the end I waited. She was thinking about it, obviously. I was hoping she would just leave, not even bother to stop by the office on the way out. Of course, to Octavia that would be an act of cowardice. Much better to say it to her face and stand up to the abuse. She respected that much more, which is why she enjoyed my company. I would never back down in the face of her rants, her demands.

Of course, all this with Frannie, well that was a matter of survival. I needed my house.

I was tired of waiting for Harriet, and my alcoholic haze was returning with a new wave of sleepiness. "Well? What do you think?"

She turned to me, hardening as if stone.

"Harriet, please."

"f.u.c.k that. It's just a job. None of that s.h.i.+t's going to happen to me."

I sighed. "Sure, okay."

NINE.

I left Octavia's the next morning on my way to St. Cloud, not sure how I was going to do what I had to. Direct confrontation? Lead him to it? Promises? Threats? All of it while listening to local talk radio, an interview with a local filmmaker. I knew the guy, had met him at a few readings. Total sellout. Being p.i.s.sed at him and David at the same time didn't help.

I mean, he was my student, my a.s.sistant. I trusted him with my office and computer and my files. He could've ripped off my works in progress, or sent scandalous emails under my name. Not to mention the s.e.x he had with my wife, and the secrets she could've told him. He sat there day after day, barely saying a word, doing the job like clockwork, taking no pride, really. Just did what needed to be done. All the while, thinking of my wife naked, probably. I had to hand it to him: he never let his mask slip.

First, though, why didn't I leave Octavia's until morning? Nothing sinister there. I was drunk out of my gourd. When we made it back to the office, it was obvious I wasn't in any shape to handle the wheel, even after the hearty meal. I was a thin man, and that meant I didn't have much cus.h.i.+oning to absorb the impact-the booze went straight to the brain. So during the meeting Octavia had Jennings bring me a bottle of s.h.i.+raz to keep me quiet. It didn't, not really, but at least when I did speak it was mostly incoherent and comical, allowing our host and Harriet to enjoy smoking some of her home grown marijuana together. Octavia explained that it was the Khola variety, growing in popularity and very highly rated.

If anyone would know, it would be Octavia. She was a connoisseur, pa.s.sionate about her weed. It was why she didn't drink, preferring the high of marijuana, which didn't blunt her intellect and judgment the way alcohol did. In fact, the greenhouse out back? Loaded to the gills with some of the best weed in the world. She had a handful of other plants out there she just enjoyed looking at-hibiscus, some succulents, spider plants-as long as they weren't those "ugly a.s.s orchids", an affront to her tastes. She was forever finding new strains of pot to cultivate, crossbreed, test, mix after the fact, her own private Garden of Eden. But it was a well-kept secret, only for the closest circle of friends and employees-another reason it was difficult for Jennings to bolt, with all the free marijuana available to him in exchange for his loyalty.

I didn't partake often. My lungs were averse to smoke, leftover from the asthma I had as a kid. That night, the scent of it along with the bubbling wine in my gut nearly had me vomiting. But I was too tired to actually get up and go find a toilet or a shrub.

So Harriet enjoyed a joint, signed her contract, and agreed to start in two days. I occasionally called out "You're ruining your life!" or "Please, free the girl, would you? It's a tragedy!" But, like I said, it didn't exactly come out that way.

After Harriet left, Octavia came around the desk to the where I had sprawled across the couch, barely conscious.

"You're sleeping here tonight."

"No, no, no. No. No. I...I'm...no. I'm okay."

Like a Lady Buddha before me, all fish-eye lens-like, too. Peering down from an exalted place. I tried, though. I managed to set the bottle on the floor upright, then pushed myself off the couch, having no idea I was insanely dizzy until right then, flailing to support myself on the Buddha's belly, but she had stepped back, and I kicked and waved my arms, sent the wine bottle airborne, splas.h.i.+ng everything in its loop-de-loop arc. Sat down hard on my a.s.s, legs twisted.

She didn't say anything to me or offer to help. No look of concern. Just...sad. Then she shouted to Jennings, told him to make sure the guest suite was prepared. And that some wine had been spilled.

I allowed myself to be led upstairs by Jennings, where I collapsed into a very deep chair and wandered off to dream of a woman who changed faces-sometimes Nuha and sometimes Frannie, finally Stephanie, Ashton's wife-until shaken awake by Jennings and told my bed was ready.

Somehow I undressed and made it between the sheets, a fitful sleep but almost complete blackout on the details. Except, once the gray dawn began seeping in through the slit in the curtains, I remember waking with the clearest vision of Stephanie, naked, on my bed, beckoning me between her legs. I shook myself fully-aware long enough to feel my p.e.n.i.s contracting, pulsing, wet, sticky, all over the sheets. I didn't want to call for Jennings, and I didn't know where they kept fresh sheets, so I simply peeled the soaked sheet off the mattress, dumped it on the bathroom floor, and sank into the deep chair for another few hours of much more relaxed, if guilty, sleep.

After showering and before leaving, I sat with Octavia in the conservatory and drank coffee brewed from her favorite bold, dark African bean, stronger than what I was used to.

"So, who was it? The woman you won't tell me about, or Harriet?"

Nearly choked. "What?"

"It's a good thing we don't have guests too often, or I imagine our sheets would be a buffet of DNA. You couldn't get up? There's a bathroom in the f.u.c.king room, Mick."

I made a note to give Jennings a dirty look. I had thought we were in this together, he and I. Then again, he was the one who had to collect the sheets and take them in for cleaning.

"I wasn't...awake." Did I just tell her that? Really?

Octavia sighed. "Are you protecting someone? I could always have Jennings follow you around and-"