4:47 p.m.
*
Location
: Office of Lawrence Peters, World’s Most Tedious Man.
I FIND MYSELF THINKING about that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark when a female student blinks at Indy, and her eyelids have words on them that read “I Love You” in black eyeliner. Maybe I can do that but make it look like my eyes are open. Even if I weren’t already sleepy, this company’s CEO would do me in.
He is ether in human form. I could easily keep up even if I hand-wrote everything.
In calligraphy.
Mr. Peters, on the downward slope to retirement, does not self-edit. Interspersed with the incredibly slow-spoken actual negotiations, we get it all. Some of it twice. The kids. The grandkids. The basset hound.
They’re a hardy breed, seventeen years old before Peters had him put down last week. He will be missed.
Peters has prostate issues as well. Nothing’s off limits, it seems.
During this, Canon doesn’t even bat an eye. One would think he might be concerned about the health of his own prostate, given that it has been cohabiting with a very large stick.
He makes notes of this minutia as though it’s as vital to closing the deal as the fine print in licensing our intellectual property rights.
Canon has remained stoic. Begrudgingly, I must admit I’m impressed.
Warm afternoon sun beats down on me from the window. There’s a sunbeam on the carpet near my chair. I want to curl up in it like a tabby cat.
The morning was less trying. Three other executives had livened up the discussion. One was even lively enough to check out my ass. A pen jab to the leg he just happened to keep bumping against mine under the conference table seemed to give him the message that he was not my type.
“I must say, you have thought of everything. What do you need me for?” Peters chortles. Yes, chortles.
Canon smiles and raises his eyebrows infinitesimally; he doesn’t need this guy in the least, and I’m fairly certain Peters is going to be enjoying his retirement sooner than planned. Mr. Peters doesn’t notice and excuses himself to make a call. His meandering trek to the door takes about five minutes.
We’re alone for the first time since his hotel room this morning. Canon takes out his phone then returns it to his pocket almost immediately.
I turn, shifting toward him just a little. I’m sure my eyes are a bit wider than normal due to my struggle to stay alert.
Our eyes meet, and I must be punch-drunk from sleep deprivation and three hours of Peters’ monologue because I can’t help the smile that takes over my face and, just when I think I might be able to rein it in, one corner of Canon’s mouth turns up too. The shock wave ruptures the dam, and I can’t help a single laugh escaping. He looks at papers he’s holding, but even in profile I can see tell that his smile is bigger. Oh, good Lord, we have both been tortured for hours, and he’s just better at hiding it. I clear my throat and shake my head, trying to resume professional behavior.
Not much longer. About 45 minutes, tops. Though it will seem twice as long since this Peters guy has tortoise nervosa.
“What?” Canon is looking at me.
The filter is broken. I’ve said that out loud.
Oh, crap. I’m mocking a potential business partner. I am so fired.
I own it. I repeat myself.
And Canon laughs. Hard.
Holy shit. I have actually fallen asleep on the job. Or died.
I hear myself laugh, too. It is a bit nervous and hollow. I need to get out of here. “May I get you a drink, Mr. Canon?”
He nods repeatedly, pointedly avoiding eye contact, regaining composure.
“Take a chance with their coffee or just a Coke?” Caffeine on an IV drip?
“Coke is fine.” He clears his throat.
Over thirty minutes later, our drinks are gone and Peters has yet to materialize.
“Do you suppose he’s left?” I break the silence. I’m concerned about running late to dinner; I had planned on being back at the hotel by now, and I need time to change.
I bet this is killing Canon, this waiting around.
“We will give him two more minutes, then we will leave.”
I’m in the shower when I realize Canon said “we.”
7:54 p.m.
*
Location
: Sierra De Touro Churrascaria.
*
Itinerary Item
: Dinner meeting with 4 top execs.
*
Dress
: Black. Littlest one I brought. Worn intentionally. Don’t judge me.
THE FOOD IS AMAZING. Freshly grilled meat straight to the table again and again. Salad bar with items I can neither recognize nor pronounce.
We’re dining with the comptroller and three VPs. There appears to be a shit ton of suits at this company; thinning the herd seems to be in order.
My recommendation is that we begin with one Diana Fralin, VP of Marketing. Tits on display and blatant, just blatant, flirtation attempts with the males. She’s the embodiment of every negative connotation with female executives. Giant step backward for the women’s movement.
It is an all-you-can eat restaurant. All you can eat meat. Meat.
Fralin wants the only kind not on the menu. Her attempts would only be more obvious if she stuffed her panties directly into Canon’s mouth.
Most of the evening has been pleasant enough. Canon is beside me, so I’m spared his judgmental looks. I do get a few errant brushes from Fralin’s heels when her attempts to play footsie with my boss go astray.
If she snags my stockings, I might have to cut a bitch.
“More top sirloin?” the server says, leaning a skewer of meat over Fralin and her décolletage. Making sure he gets a tip tonight. She’s giving him two right now.
Others take slices, and I wave him off. Undaunted, he returns with chicken moments later.
“Beautiful lady perhaps prefers chicken?” He smiles down at me. Beside me, I feel Canon stiffen. All eyes are on me.
How unfair is it that this moment feels more unprofessional than all of the off-color comments made by others during the evening? I’ve listened to these company executives execute enough puns and double entendres to rival a sleepover chock-full of twelve-year-old boys.
“Look at him pound back the meat.” Way to stay classy there.
“Don’t choke the, er, I mean on your chicken.” Been waiting all night to say that one?
“Well, hello, Sir Lion, so we meat again.”
How exceedingly droll. Yawn.
Now, with the waiter orbiting Diana’s omnipresent moons, I feel more like a chicken than like eating it. “No, thank you. I’m finished,” I say.
“I will take whatever you’ve got,” Fralin chimes in.
I just bet you would.
“We have glazed pineapple. Sweets for your sweet smile.” He cuts meat for Fralin as he speaks to me.
I shake my head again. Canon clears his throat loudly.
Fralin’s eyes narrow. “How sweet, Ms. Baker. Should I get his number for you?” she sneers.
Silverware clangs next to me. “Thank you for the dinner. We really must head out and go over those new proposals.” Canon stands and pulls my chair out.
Sure. I don’t mind leaving. I’m done. Thank you for asking.
Peters takes a break from his protein bonanza. “Well, well, well. Throwing in the towel already, are you, man?”
“Oh,” Fralin says, crestfallen. “We will see more of you tomorrow, right?” Oh, she wants to see more of Canon, that’s for sure. The thought is nauseating. Her…him…across the hall from my room…touching…each other. I push my chair in a bit too forcefully. The place settings clatter.
I should be thrilled at the prospect of someone keeping him occupied. I shrug it off. It’s probably just the thought that someone so crass, so unworthy, might get noticed when I have failed.