I’m at the office in short time — it’s not far from my place, but there’s no time to walk. And I’m not about to take a cab, so I jog, even though I’m in jeans; do I even care if I get sweaty, since I haven’t showered yet?
I’m panting when I make it to the front of McGinnis Headquarters, stopping to walk off the adrenaline coursing through my veins, pulling my thin winter jacket and tee shirt beneath it away from my body and from under my perspiring armpits.
It’s fucking cold out, too.
No doubt I’m going to be a freezing my balls off once my body temperature drops back to normal.
When I look up, Adam is waiting in the lobby, eyes glued to his phone, casually leaning against the desk by the turnstiles looking far more dapper than I am.
Dress pants. Wool pea coat. Red plaid scarf. Black leather gloves.
He puts his hand up when I approach, and we slap each other a high-five.
“Hey man, what took you so long?” He wants to know, stuffing his phone in his coat pocket. “I was texting you?”
“Jogged over.”
He looks me up and down. “You look like shit, man.”
“Thanks.”
We move to the revolving doors and are back in the street, flagging down a cab to head to our lunch reservation.
Well, reservation might be an exaggeration. Adam and I have a standing reservation at a sports bar slash restaurant in the shadier part of town. It’s an institution near the baseball stadium, having been around longer than the stadium itself has; dark and dingy, walls covered in memorabilia I’ve tried to buy off the owner at least a dozen times.
Spence and Boone’s.
Except only Boone remains.
Food is fucking fantastic, the locals love hearing the latest insider gossip (when it’s not confidential, of course) and Adam and I love hearing the fan’s point of view.
Our spot by the window is taken — the place is packed for a college Bowl game — but Boone is working and pulls a table over near one of the flat screen TV’s, rearranging chairs and squeezing us onto a table that hadn’t existed before our arrival.
It’s hella inconvenient, and I feel my cheeks flushing from embarrassment of how much effort is being put in to accommodate us, but who are we to insist we sit somewhere without a good view?
Adam wouldn’t let that happen. He loves the special treatment. And when the bills come, we always show our appreciation with a hefty tip. Sometimes tickets to a game, sometimes vouchers for merchandise. Sometimes autographed apparel.
Depends.
Boone has a server bring us our usual draft, whatever IPA is on tap that day from a local brewer, and a basket of chips to occupy us while we wait for our usual lunch: two bratwurst with sauerkraut, mustard, ketchup, and a shared basket of fried cheese curds, and another of fried pickles.
With ranch.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, it’s probably going to give me the shits — but we’re from the Midwest, give us a break.
“Big plans for tonight?” Adam asks, stuffing a few chips into his mouth, washing it down with the ice water on our table.
“Yes actually — big date tonight.”
His eyes go wide. This is news. I haven’t had a date in months, and not one I even cared to talk about way back then.
“A date? Like… a first date?”
“Yeah.”
“A first date. On New Year’s Eve?”
I lean back, tilting my head. “Yeah? Is that bad?”
Adam seems to think so. “New Year’s Eve. That’s like having a first date on Valentine’s Day, man.” He lets out a low whistle. “Dude. This is setting the bar way high.”
“Maybe I want the bar to be way high. I like this woman.”
“Well I hope so, because you could end up with a clinger after this one.” He whistles again, chewed chip flying out from between his lips. “Don’t get too fancy or you’re setting yourself up for a letdown.”
“You’re being really dramatic.”
“Really?” Chew chew. “How long have you known this woman?”
“I…” Let’s see, how do I put this? “I don’t. We connected on a dating app.”
Adam pauses before shaking his head. “Dude you are insane.”
“Oh that’s right, you hate dating apps and dating for that matter — you were just lucky enough to find the love of your life at work, right under your nose.”
He scoffs. “That’s true — but I didn’t know she was right under my nose, remember? We met because she was having technical problems and we accidentally started chatting on the office messenger system.”
“And the messenger system is so much different than a dating app?”
He shrugs. “HR already vetted the crazies out for me.”
He’s got me there.
“Aren’t you forgetting about the elevator incident, though?”
He rolls his eyes. “Who could forget about that? No one wants to be trapped inside an elevator at the company Christmas party, especially me. Especially without food.”
Maybe. “But if you hadn’t, you wouldn’t have realized Meg was the love of your life.”
That statement he likes. “True. So it stands to reason that maybe — just maybe — there’s someone at McGinnis who’s your perfect match, you just haven’t met her yet.”
Right, but it’s not the same for him as it is for me. I own and run the company, and you don’t shit where you eat, and you don’t dip into the company pond. It puts everyone in a compromising position, and I would never abuse the influence I have by making a woman feel obligated to go out with me.
No.
Not going to do it.
There is a no fraternization policy, but the rules are obviously not heavily enforced. It’s up to me to hold myself above the regular standard of proper behavior, and lead by example.
“Honestly bro, it’s just easier doing it this way. For one, I avoid gold-diggers who only see dollar signs. I don’t even want to meet someone at a fundraiser or whatever — they all know who I am before we’re introduced. Gold diggers are like piranhas.”
Worse actually.
“What’s the second thing?” He sucks down some of his beer.
“Secondly, even if it’s the daughter of someone wealthy,” — say, a team owner’s daughter or niece or granddaughter, that’s a whole different story — “That’s almost worse. Because they only want to date me to maintain their lifestyle — not because they have any interest in me romantically.”
He nods because he gets it. “Is there a third thing?”
Yes. “And if I meet someone out in the wild, they see the flash: the thirty-thousand-dollar watch, the expensive car, the silk tie — the smoke.” I pop a chip in my mouth, too. “I’m not about that life.”
“Uh. The smoke looks more like fart today, man — you look homeless.”
That’s a stretch. “I do not. My mother gave me this jacket,” I press on the down Patagonia, then feel for the zipper, tugging it down and removing it.
“Your mom gave you that jacket?” Adam rolls his eyes again. “Wow, if anyone needs a girlfriend, it’s you.” He laughs. “Your mom. Does she buy your socks and underwear, too?”