“Do her texts look anything like this?” I asked, brandishing the phone again.
“No, nothing like that.” My phone went off again. A gif of a man getting his dog to play dead. Now, what on earth told her that it was a good idea to send her boss something like that? It was my first time being an employer and I didn’t think I was being too tough asking for someone who would text me in full sentences. Surely not. I couldn’t work like this.
“Give me her number.”
3
Easton
“Remind me why you have to be here for this?” The elevator rose smoothly up the floors, delivering us to our destination.
“Because you have proven your incompetence time and time again when it comes to basic people skills,” Toby said. I shook my head as the elevator doors opened. The restaurant was on the top floor of a thirty-floor skyscraper. Italian food, or French food, whatever. To be honest, I didn't really know the difference or care to learn.
Today was the big day. I was meeting my personal stylist. It was the dumbest thing I ever heard in my life but I was going with it. Toby would finally get off my back and even if I didn't show it, our company was important to me. I could sense the way that people reacted to me, I just didn't care very much. Nothing bad had happened up to this point, but I didn't want to handicap anything going forward. It wasn't just me. Toby’s blood, sweat and tears had gone into our company, Rotorhead as much as mine had. I didn’t like the thought that something as trivial as the way I looked could get in the way of our future success.
How hard could it possibly be? I could suck it up and wear a suit to the next contract negotiation if that meant people would be talking about Rotorhead in one hundred years the way they talked about Google or Amazon today.
The fact that this stylist person was the hottest woman I had ever seen in my life was a definite upside though. Maybe the only bright spot in this whole ridiculous game. A maitre’d met us at the entrance of the restaurant.
“Good afternoon, do you gentlemen have a reservation?” he asked. No, we didn't. I shot a glance at Toby.
“Something under Toby Anderson?” he asked.
The man went silent briefly looking for the reservation that I knew very well was not there. Suddenly his eyes lit up and he looked back at us. “Mr. Anderson, Mr. Schultz, welcome.” He ushered us into the restaurant and started leading us to a table. It was pretty full. I knew that I hadn't booked the reservation and I was pretty certain that Toby hadn't either.
“What's up with that?” I asked him when we were seated. Our table was placed near a window so we had an unobstructed view of the whole city. It was too nice of a spot to be able to get on such short notice.
“What?”
“Did you make a reservation ahead of time? Was it the stylist?”
“No. I told him who we were, and he knew, and he decided we deserved a table.”
Right, preferential treatment. I wasn't complaining although it felt a little weird. There were probably people who weren't getting a table because we had gotten it instead. It was interesting how many doors money could open for you. Even doors that you didn't necessarily want to open. Doors that you weren't interested in. My family was never poor, but I knew what the value of a dollar was, and I was trained to work for the things that I wanted. Having people throw things at you was nice, but it taught you pretty quickly that your worth as a human being depended on how much money you had. How much money another person could hope to extract from you.
Toby and I had gone from a couple of guys straight out of the army to stinking rich in a matter of years. Neither of us had started at zero but coming out of the force was as good as trying to learn how to ride a bike again. Since neither of us wanted to go into the police or the other popular jobs that former military members gravitated towards, we made good on the business idea that we would idly discuss when night fell in our barracks. It had paid off tremendously. I didn’t get out as much as Toby did, so I was constantly surprised to see the way our new status played out in the real world.
A server appeared with the menus and the wine list. Toby told them that we were waiting for someone. My mind went to her, Artemis James. My soon-to-be personal stylist. She was beautiful and only a fool was going to say no to spending time with her. Toby didn't know that that was more than half of the reason why I was here. I was still having a hard time believing that we lost that contract the other day because I wore flannel to the negotiation.
“We should have a bet.”
“A bet? For what?” Toby asked.
“A bet for whether or not I need a stylist. That woman is going to show up here and tell you that it's a waste of time. There's nothing wrong with what I wear and in our industry nobody cares anyway.”
“If you want to make a bet, I just hope you are ready to part with your money.”
“Nobody gives a shit what I look like. They're interested in our product. Maybe I'm a little rough around the edges in meetings but that's what you are here for.”
“We're not discussing this, East.” At that very moment, Toby was wearing a suit with the jacket taken off and I was in some sweats and a t-shirt. Come to think of it, if we weren't who we were, we would probably have been turned away at the door coming to a place like this. Well, I would have been turned away at the door. Toby would have no problem getting in. I let my hair and beard grow out, but he kept both short, only allowing a light scruff to grow out on his jaw. He carried the look well. He looked at home in settings like this. Image did matter, but I didn't feel like it was more important than what we had to offer as a business. However, I was going to at least give this a try if it meant that much to Toby.
“I'm just saying. Nobody talks about Steve Jobs and Mark Zuckerberg always wearing the same outfit. When have you ever seen either of them in a suit and tie?”
“One of them is dead and the other one is one of the most memed people in history. What's your point?”
The maitre d' appeared leading a woman to our table. I was about to give Toby my point, but the words left right out of my head. It was her, Artemis James.
Okay, I wasn't mad anymore.