The Cocktail Club (5 page)

Principal Johnson was a fortyish-year-old man with a slicked-back mane of thick, jet-black waves. He towered over my petite frame, and didn't take his seat until I sat.

“Well, it's not like I had a choice,” I said.

His office was neat and homey. There was a large, wooden desk, and two wooden file cabinets to the left. A tall, leafy tree stood in the opposite corner, along with an oval-shaped table surrounded by several chairs. The lighting in the room was far too soft for my taste, but I could feel the mood he tried to set with the faint jazz that played in the background. He even had curtains at his windows.

It was hard to believe that the idea of a visit with the principal struck such dread into my heart, yet the thought of my kid in trouble frightened me even more.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Jaxon? Can I offer you some coffee or water?” he asked.

A flood of adrenaline rushed through me as I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead. I didn't like the idea of him and his colleagues talking about my family, and that was probably exactly what they had done.

“Oh, no, I'm fine, but thank you. Now about Kevin Jr.”

“Yes, well, as my secretary told you, this is most unusual. I've been an educator for more than thirty years, and I can read children pretty well. Here lately, he's seemed very hostile. He's on edge quite a bit, and it's almost as if something drastic has happened. So, naturally, we try to reach out to mom and dad to see if there are any significant changes at home?”

I scoffed inwardly. The hairs on my neck bristled on end as I listened to the man describe a stranger. It took a moment for me to grasp that there was a question in his statement.

“Oh, nothing has changed at home,” I said quickly, realizing how long the pause had been. He eyed me skeptically.

“We often see this sudden change when parents talk of divorce, or if a close relative dies suddenly.” He tried to lead me into a confession. I had nothing for him.

I sat erect in the chair, my hands folded in my lap as he described a couple of other possible scenarios that could explain the change in my son's behavior. Still, I felt lost. At home, Kevin Jr. seemed normal. I would notice the so-called change if it was as drastic as the principal described.

Then, as if he had read my mind, he asked, “By chance, have you noticed any changes at home?”

“Nothing. This is all so strange to me.”

“Well, we finally called when Kevin told Lucas that he'd slap the piss out of him the other day,” Principal Johnson said.

“Lucas Stevens?” My eyebrows probably touched my hairline.

Lucas lived a few houses down, and the boys played together often, or at least they used to. I knew where my son had heard those words, and I prayed the principal didn't question their origin, although I feared he already knew.

“So, again, this is completely unlike Kevin. We are at a loss.”

The two swigs in the parking lot had definitely not been enough.
I should've drained the flask,
I thought as I stared blankly at Principal Johnson. I wasn't sure what he wanted me to say.

After a few additional moments of awkward and uncomfortable silence between us, he asked, “You do stay at home? I mean, you don't work outside the home, correct?”

It might have been the way he asked. I was instantly irritated.

“That is correct.”

It never failed. Everyone thought
that
was supposed to make such an incredible difference. Right off the bat, I knew where his mind was. Of course
my
kid couldn't act up. My perfectly manicured lawn, and leisure-by-day, laid-back lifestyle didn't allow for such an abnormality.

After all, I did stay at home! What in the hell was I doing with all of my free time? Was I too busy consuming bonbons and being pampered to notice that my perfect, suburban kid was morphing into a thug? He probably thought I had a gardener whose bedroom privileges blinded me to the chaos that had been brewing in my own damn house.

Being under the principal's scrutiny was no fun at all. I really needed to have a talk with my child, and then enjoy a stiff drink.

IVEE

M
y focus centered on the hairline crack that created a zigzag pattern on the wall near the clock. I was determined not to check the time again. It seemed as if the hands had started to taunt me long ago.
Could they move any slower? Had they gone a few seconds backward?
I sighed. When thoughts of what I would've rather been doing flashed through my mind, I shook them off. I shifted in the chair that was too hard for comfort, stifled another yawn with a forced, fake smile, and tried not to make my eye roll too obvious.

Yes, I was bored, and beyond tired of work. I had to be present at my last meeting of the day. Or at least I thought I had to be there. It was clear that my client was in a mood, as Jessica had already warned. On top of that, I realized he was angry that I'd made him wait an entire day for the meeting. As I sat across from him, allowing his words to sink in, I wondered when the integrity in business had vanished. I had totally missed the memo on the new wave of business people.

Carson Liam was a middle-aged man who ran his family's business. He could pass for much older with his potbelly and receding hairline that looked more like a greasy mop of salt-and-pepper strands. The blemishes and age spots that marked his face did very little for his appearance. With the dark, drab colors he always wore, he looked just as miserable as he probably was.

“You see here, Ivee, these figures are for the three-week period following the media campaign you designed specifically for us,” Carson said.

My eyes followed his raggedy finger, with dirt-encrusted nail beds that had probably never seen a manicure, and took in the numbers he pointed out in an effort to make me seem incompetent. I forced myself to focus on his fingers. His teeth, covered in what looked like a yellow blanket, made my skin crawl.

“Yes, Mr. Liam. I see,” I responded dryly.

“Well, what's concerning to us is that there was virtually no increase whatsoever. None! Now, we've done newspaper before, and that worked out pretty good for us.”

What savvy businessperson relies only on newspaper for advertising? An old man with old ways equals failure.

“Mr. Liam, it's like I told you before. We don't guarantee any kind of immediate increase in sales, and honestly, a few weeks into a campaign isn't really a true representation of the impact of your reach.”

He chuckled.

“These things take time.”

“Now, see, all that fancy talk right there—that's what got us into this situation in the first place. I guess I'm not as sophisticated as all the other slick Wall Street types you're probably used to, but my Main Street mentality tells me that what we were doing before probably worked better for us anyway.”

His bushy, black and gray eyebrows jumped.

“Back when my grandpop started this business…,” he continued.

I listened as the miser tried to blame his mom and pop shop's declining sales on the multimedia package I had convinced him to invest in. The real problem was that Mr. Liam was accustomed to doing business a certain way, and was reluctant to change. When
he did finally agree to give change a chance, it hadn't worked fast enough for him, so he wanted someone to blame.

What he didn't understand was, that as close as we were to the end of my workday, I was not in the mood to listen to how ineffective I was at my job.

“What exactly are you trying to say?” I asked.

“Straight shooter,” he quipped. He cupped his hands and rubbed them together. “You say we need to hang in there for what, a good six months?”

“Yes, that's the length of the contract you signed,” I reminded him.

“Yeah, yeah, about that.” He broke out into a round of hacking coughs that sounded as if he might pull up a lung. He began waving his hand toward me as if to say he'd be fine.

I hadn't moved a muscle. I needed him to spit it out, and get back to the business at hand. He doubled over, cleared his throat loudly, and composed himself. His eyes were filled with water when he finally whipped his head upward.

“Whoa!” he exclaimed. Now he spoke as if bile was still caught in his throat. An offer of a glass of water would've been the polite thing to do, but he had pushed me to the brink already. The niceties were a thing of the past.

Once he fully caught his breath, his dark, beady eyes focused in on me. “Ah, what I'm trying to say is, we think a few weeks is good enough. And we wanted to know who we need to talk to about maybe prorating the remaining months in this here contract.”

His straight face left me at a loss for words.

All I could do was exhale a hot and exhausted breath.

His cell phone rang, and I was relieved when he raised that rusty index finger to silence me before I could speak again.

“Hold on a sec,” he said and rose from his chair. “I gotta take this. Hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all,” I said.

He mumbled into the phone, and eased out of the conference room door.

I needed liquid therapy like nobody's business. This man had me wound so tightly. I had to remind myself that he was a client, and his business was still very needed. I sat alone for about ten minutes before it dawned on me that he was still in the hall talking on his cell phone.

A few minutes were excusable for an urgent call, but ten minutes and counting was downright disrespectful. I turned in my chair to see if he was near wrapping up, but it was hard to determine. As far as looks could tell, he didn't appear pressed.

His massive frame leaned against the wall, and there was no sign of stress across his face as he grinned and talked into the phone.

I had a standing Thursday appointment, and Mr. Liam was not about to make me late. For his sake and mine, I began to gather my documents, powered off my iPad, and rose to leave.

By the time I finished, Mr. Liam still stood in the same spot. It was obvious he was in no hurry to get back to our conversation. I treaded my way toward him, prepared to stand my ground.

As I approached him from behind, it sounded as if his call was more pleasure than business. I tapped him lightly on his shoulder. “I have another appointment; fifteen minutes was all the time I had. Please call my assistant tomorrow, so we can schedule another meeting for next week.”

“W-w-what the hell?”

“Yeah, you've been out here for fifteen minutes. My next appointment can't wait. We'll pick up where we left off on Monday or Tuesday,” I said as I passed him.

“But I was hoping we could get the ball rolling on the refund before then,” he stammered.

I stopped, pivoted, and looked him dead in his eyes. “Oh, there'll be no refund. We can discuss rearranging some spots, and making adjustments to the schedule, but the contract is clear. Please see page thirteen, the fine print under Section C.”

He stared at me, seemingly unable to speak as his mouth fell open. I kept moving.

“We'll chat later. I didn't mean to pull you away from your call.” I turned and wiggled my fingers in the air.

If he had a response, I didn't hear it. I had already slipped out of the door, and made a beeline for my car. The meeting with Mr. Liam helped me to realize that I needed to readjust my schedule on Thursdays. I would have to limit client meetings to the mornings, and end my day with paperwork.

I didn't like to feel rushed as I made my way to my standing, weekly appointment.

Despite how hard I tried, the vision of Mr. Liam's stingy behind pointing to those dismal figures was imprinted on my memory, and that frustrated me. My reputation was directly tied to my work. As a media consultant, everything I did spoke to my credibility, and my ability to make things happen for my clients.

I worked at a firm that contracted media-related services for businesses. In most cases, the business either didn't want, or need, an in-house department to handle media placement, advertising, or anything related to the press. As a senior partner at the firm, I served as a spokesperson, a buyer, and a media liaison for my clients.

I turned on Elgin, and rode Westheimer Road down to Kirby Street. That much-needed liquid therapy was a good parking spot away. A whirlwind of adrenaline pumped through my veins as I swung my car into the parking garage attached to the building that housed Eddie V's Prime Seafood Restaurant.