Congratulations
Mr. Farlow had set up living arrangements for me with a sweet widow in her eighties. Miss Georgia Ellis had a lovely antebellum home down on South Front St., and lived on her own, except for innumerable cats. There were living quarters on the second floor of the old detached kitchen where she put me up, and I, in return, did minor repairs, painting, yard work and occasional cat-sitting to earn my keep. When the leaves fell off the trees in the backyard, I had a lovely view of the Cape Fear River through a window facing the back of the property. It was a fantastic set-up, especially after the tiny $1500 per month studio apartment I had in San Francisco, which had a view of the adjacent tenement-like building.
I quickly fell into a routine: a run before dawn, a big breakfast at the Dixie Café on Market St., walk two blocks back to Miss Georgia's house for a shower and change, and be at the office two and a half blocks away by 8:00 a.m. I'd walk unless it was raining, and then I might ring up one of the guys at the office to pick me up on the way in.
The office was incredible, always abuzz with work. Farlow Lewis' creative genius fueled the fire, and youthful enthusiasm in the bullpen kept production up. I had seven or eight projects at a time, plus the museum, plus always interviewing clients about potential work, with Mr. Farlow sitting back and observing, with a keen eye and incisive observations from time to time to remind new clients why they brought their projects to us.
I'd finish up most nights about nine or ten, not really tired, but knowing I needed to step away from the drawing board if I was going to keep it fresh and fun. A couple of blocks up from the house is an old "locals" bar, The Barbary Coast, where I would drink my dinner most weeknights. Dinner usually consisted of two or three of whatever the two-dollar beer special was that week, and occasionally some General Tso's chicken from the Chinese takeout place two doors down.
Even though I'd only been in town a few weeks, I got to know the local denizens pretty quickly. There were the drunks, the people that brought their dogs, the old military guys, the college kids – mostly girls – and downtown businesspeople hanging out to unwind from the day. The young single ladies mostly lived around the corner in the Carolina House and hung out at the Barbary because it wasn't a pickup bar, and they could smoke and play pool and be themselves without a big hassle from guys trying to get in their pants.
There was one group of ladies that I managed to insinuate myself into, because any of them could kick my ass at foosball and I'd let them, and I'd buy them more beer and enjoy watching them getting more raucous and salty as the evening progressed. In my tie and jacket, I was totally out of place with them, but I didn't hit on any of them and they took it as a sign that I could be included as a "non-threat". They probably thought I was gay.
All of the girls were good-looking, with beautiful clear faces and eyes and classic bone structure with little makeup on, but they usually wore flannel shirts or hoodies or other comfy unflattering clothing which hid their bodies. One in particular was a little older than the rest - likely in her late twenties - and had a certain smoldering intensity about her that I found irresistible. She had some Mediterranean ethnicity to credit for flawless olive skin and alluring gray-blue eyes. She went by "Em", which I feel sure was an initial, short for Martha or Myrtle or some other unfortunate Southern family name, but she never volunteered it, and, out of politeness, I never asked.
Em usually showed up at the Barbary in workout clothes with her fuzzy dark brown hair pulled back into a pony tail. A typical outfit might be cross-trainers, sweats or running warmups, some kind of sports top and a hoodie or an old denim jacket. I got the idea that she may have been some kind of instructor or personal trainer. Again, it was a little hard to get a bearing on her physically because of the loose bottoms and the sports top that created the "uniboob", but she seemed very trim, and she was fairly tiny at about 5'2", so I thought anything she gained would probably show up in her lovely face.
Despite the fitness outfit, at the bar she smoked like a chimney, and had a prematurely raspy voice, which was sexy in way, but also gave her demeanor a harshness that she seemed to like. She was the "house mother" of sorts to the other girls and would freely dispense advice on every men and relationships as though she had written a book. The first thing any girl had to understand is that All Men Are Pigs, and then any additional advice will become much more valuable. Em would say something along those lines and give me a quick wink and a smile. I'm not sure if she was including me or not. She probably thought I was gay, too.
The rumor was that Em was a lesbian, or at least bi-sexual, which would work well with her general loathing of men. I never saw her do anything to deny such allegations if there was any name calling, as there can be over a heated foosball game, but she remained an enigma to me. She rejected any attempts to feminize her name: if someone casually called her Emma or such, she'd retort with a quick "my name is Em, not Emma, not Emily, fuck you very much", which also discouraged any one asking about her real name, if there was one.
There were a few nights where the three or four of us would get all drunk and flirty, hugging and tickling like little girls, and I'd exchange long, lustful glances at Em, which she would usually break off first. I knew there was some heat there, some passion, but was it just the PBR talking?
One Thursday night on the way home, I was on cloud nine because we had closed a deal on an important hotel project. We thought we were going to lose the deal to some stiff competition out of Chicago, but the old one-two punch of Mr. Farlow's distinguished reputation and my youthful bravado won them over. I had a work hard-on, and I was going to splash around what little money I had by celebrating with my homies at the Barbary Coast. When I got there, Em wasn't there, and I was immediately disappointed. I had promised myself not to get emotionally involved with any of my new pals, but I still had a little crush on her and wanted her to celebrate with us. I bought a round of beers for everybody and we whooped and hollered and played foosball and dumped quarters into the electronic jukebox and generally lived it up in celebratory fashion.
It was about ten o'clock that night when I saw Em walk into the Barbary. She was nearly unrecognizable in black leggings and a tight fuschia cashmere cardigan that showed off her magnificent shape, clicking along in some high black patent "fuck me" pumps that made her about 5'7". Her hair was soft and down to her shoulders, some miracle of physics that probably involved paid professionals. Her eyes had a smoky shadow and her lips almost matched the intense pink of her sweater. There was no cigarette hanging from the corner of those beautiful, full lips. She had the intensity and sexiness of Marion Cotillard, with the radiant confidence that was Em's own trademark. She owned the room for a few moments, until the whistles and catcalls died down and she approached us at one of the foosball tables, where I was getting my ass kicked, as usual.
When she was still a few feet away, I realized my jaw had actually dropped, and I expected to hear her crack something like, "Whatchu looking at, dickhead?" with a big laugh and a punch in the shoulder, but the insult never came, and I managed to close my mouth before she had completed the journey.
In a moment, I was heartbroken. She had found someone. Someone who had changed her life and made her want to offer them everything she had to offer. I didn't know who she was on her way to see, but they were the luckiest man (or woman) in the world that night. I decide to shake it off and enjoy the view. Damn, she was beautiful.
We joked with her a little about turning tricks to pay the rent or other such banter to make us more comfortable around this side of Em we had never seen before, and then quickly fell back into the usual trash talk about whose ass was about to be kicked at the foosball table. Em took the opposite side against me, and I drew Liz to be on my side, who was some kind of idiot savant who could not hold down a job, but was probably the best foosball player in the county. I smugly felt a little better that I was at least about to win at this damned game.
While we played, Em yelled over the jukebox "I heard about the hotel job. Congratulations!"
I felt like a selfish, self-centered dick while I thanked her. She was being nice to me and I hadn't so much as offered a decent compliment on how incredible she looked.
"Does that mean you'll be gone a lot?" she asked.
"Just for the first month or so, to get the ball rolling, and then maybe a visit every two weeks", I yelled back.
"We'll miss having such a great loser to play foosball with us", she smiled, and the other girls agreed.
