Being the Deputy Director of Operations means in essence you get to do what the Director does not want to do. He does not like to travel; which is interesting for someone in the logistics business. I, on the other hand, don't mind it, and the family understood it is part of the job.
The travel falls into three categories -- the Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Which also happens to be my ringtone on Charlotte's phone.
The Good? Meeting with folks in the field for promotions, awards, recognitions, etc.
The Bad? Meeting with clients. It's collegial, and the company credit card does most of the heavy lifting. But the ice is thin and can crack with one misplaced step.
The Ugly? I put on the black hat and become Dr. Doom. Cut-backs and layoffs, be they just bad luck or bad performance, are always unpleasant at this time of year but given the last two years, now it's ugly.
A sub-depot in the Northern Tier needed to be cleaned up and the Fifth Floor could not afford to wait any longer. Everyone answers to someone and the spreadsheets don't lie.
So when I arrived this morning without notice, management knew what was coming. Explanations were offered, leniency was sought, and hardships were pled. I was as flexible as I could be, but the result was the same -- clean house.
An hour after closing found me fighting the wind and flurries as I walked across the parking lot from the hotel to the restaurant. There was no hostess so I walked over to the bar. It was in the center of the floor and was u-shaped, the open end facing the kitchen. I took a seat closest to the end, where I could see the door. No one else was on my side; there were three or four on the other side with one guy by himself opposite mine. I nodded to the folks as I sat.
The bartender dropped the menu with a smile and a 'what'llyahave?' I don't drink much on the road, but this was not a good day. A double Tequila, neat, with no foo-foo and the Grilled Chicken Salad with Rranch was my reply.
Taking a couple of serious swallows, I sat back and looked around. There were a couple of families, but the rest were working folks. Frayed caps, stained Levi and Carhartt jackets over sweatshirts, and well-worn parkas was the dress code. But not the guy across from me. He had a ball cap with the DU logo, but it looked fresh off the shelf, a pull-over sweater with a collared shirt underneath and a khaki overcoat laying over the chair beside him.
I lingered too long sizing him up, which he noticed. He nodded, smiled and gave a little shrug as if to say, 'yeah, I'm a little out of place'. I smiled back and shrugged as well thinking, 'yeah, a lawyer from Denver'.
I took a couple more sips and then did the obligatory phone check, thumbing through emails looking for anything radioactive. I had no interest in dealing with the routine. I just wanted to move the evening along.
The salad came. Appetizing as it was I only looked at it to target the fork. The phone was face down as Charlotte never allowed outside distractions at mealtime. So that left my side of the restaurant for distraction between bites. As I mentioned, there wasn't much going on. The working guys were chatting with the bartender and the families were either eating or keeping kids under control.
That left the fellow across from me. A detail I did not pick up on the first go around was his gloves. They were black and tight fitting, like vinyl but leather. And he kept them on while drinking his wine. It's cold outside sure, but whatever. Maybe it's a Covid thing.
A couple of bites later and he is pulling the gloves off. They are obviously tight so he is tugging on them like a stripper early in the act. I miss a couple of bites watching the process, the bar lights reflecting off the gloves catching my eye. He notices and gives a little smile. Embarrassed, I give a shrug, z nod and start paying attention to the salad.
After a few bites with my head down, a flickering reflection starts to catch my eye. I look up to see what it is. The guy has removed his gloves and is slowly drumming his right hand on the bar, which is what is catching my eye.
His nails are reflecting the light. Not only that, they are painted a reddish-gold. They aren't real long, but long enough. When she waited tables, Charlotte used to wear a color called "I'm not really a waitress'. It was a dark red wine, reflective color. In a word, eye-catching.
I stare. A guy with painted nails is weird enough, but in this town? This place? He might as well have walked in wearing a Speedo.
As I'm staring, the bartender is in front of me taking my plate and asking if I want another drink. "Yeah, sure," I say. "Say, what's up with the guy across from me?
"What do you mean?" she asks.
"The red nails; a little out of place don't you think?" I reply.
She glances over. "Yeah, I suppose," she chuckles. "As long as he tips, what do I care?"
"Fair enough," I say. I leave her a nice tip for the professionally neutral answer.
I can't take the drink back to the room, I mean I could try, but why try. So I'm nursing it with slow sips. It's not the worse Tequila I've ever had. And I'm trying to avoid staring out around the bar, especially at the fellow with the nails, by giving the wood grain a careful examination.
But my head keeps lifting up just enough to see the nails. His fingers are moving in a slow, smooth patter - - little finger first and then a three-four second pause before starting again. And I find myself breathing in and then out with each flutter. Pretty soon my glass is empty and I'm just staring and breathing.
A few moments later, the bartender puts another glass in front of me and says with a slight smirk, "Compliments of the fellow over there."
This startles me out of my stare. "Thanks," I murmur.
I raise the glass and make eye contact with the fellow, again a nod and a mouthed 'thank you'.
He nods back. He then stops the strumming and rotates his hand palm up. Now his nails are cascading towards his wrist. He caresses his palm as he extends them and pulls them back, little finger first.
With his other hand he raises his wine glass to take sip, pausing for second to suggest that I do the same. Which I do without thinking.
A few more moments, a few more sips, and then he stops the fluttering. He extends his arm and gives me to come here gesture---like Neo in the Matrix. I just stare. But on the fourth wave, I slide my phone in my pocket, put on my coat and walk around to him.
As I approach he clasps his hands together with his elbows on the bar so that those rich red shiny nails on his left hand are moving ever so slowly. I stop at the stool, just staring.
His voice is soft, but deep and firm.
"Thanks for letting me buy you the drink. You seemed like you needed it. Am I right?" he asked.
I could barely get more than a whisper out, still watching the nails. "Yeah, rough day, I appreciate it."
"Good," he says. "Seems you'd like to put this day behind you, right? Just head back to the hotel and relax, right?"
"Yeah," I agree.
"That's why I like to move my fingers like I've been doing. It relaxes me---soothing and calming. And apparently it does you too. I notice you've been watching them since I took my gloves off. Just drifting and relaxing."
Had I?
"I like this color. It's so rich and soft. The red is so alluring and the hint of gold gives them an irresistible lure. So much so, you came over to see them up close and now that you have, you really can't look away can you?"
I was falling into a warm stupor. I could feel a tingling in my neck and my abdomen. My chest was swaying towards him in time to the motion of his nails.
"That's right. More and more relaxed. More and more agreeable. More and more compliant," his voice was still soft and firm at the same time.
"You are staying at the hotel?" he asked. "Just nod if that's right."
