BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

CHAPTER 23-DOMAIN

JENNIFER TAYLOR’S POV

and here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson

February 22, 2011, earlier that Tuesday evening…

The black skirt you were wearing that evening was Saks Fifth Avenue on clearance….four hundred and fifty marked down to fifty. The pale, silky blush-colored blouse was Victoria’s Secret, a gift from Tuck when you brought home that skirt. The black pumps were Givenchy, purchased with a gift certificate Brian had given you for Christmas one year. You’d started the day with your hair pinned up, but Tuck had released it when he got home from school because it made him hard just to watch it fall. When Rube called your cell to confirm that the two of you were still on for the evening, Tuck’s hands were moving quickly underneath your skirt, pulling your black panties down to the edge of your thigh-high stockings, his fingers teasing between your legs until you hung up the phone. You told him you didn’t have much time as he pressed on your back, pushing you down on the kitchen counter, your brand new bottle of Chanel’s Chance shattering on the kitchen floor.

“Tuck!”

“I’ll clean it up.”

Being fucked like that—by a man who was nearly twenty-five years your junior—well, it definitely kept the self-esteem pump primed.

He’d promised you a new bottle and a much rougher repeat if you could get home before he fell asleep grading papers

*******************
Mr. Big Stuff,
who do you think you are?

…in Jennifer’s 2009, Barbera Red, BMW Series 5 Sedan

The white cargo van in your rear-view mirror kept getting closer and closer, and you were about to slam on your brakes to teach it a lesson when Emmett glanced back over his shoulder and then told you, “That’s Zeek. Just ignore him.”

“He’s gonna hit me!” you replied, as Emmett turned back around and fastened his seatbelt.

Gabe mumbled from the backseat, “Yeah, he wishes.”

“He better not wreck that van,” Ted added, from his position next to Gabe, “Brian insures that vehicle; he’ll kick his ass.”

Gabe snorted.

You hadn’t been around Gabe that often, but every time you were, he seemed to be getting a little more uptight. Emmett seemed to be absorbing your thoughts, and whispered, “He and Zeek are having marital problems today.”

Been there, done that.

“Why? What’s wrong?” you asked.

Emmett looked flustered and regretful for a moment and then said, “Oh, it’s nothing really--just brotherly love/hate--you know, same old story.”

You used your rear-view mirror once more to try to cheer Gabe up, “Gabe?”

He seemed to snap out of his sour mood and back into his customer service one, “Yes, ma’am?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met your brother.”

“Lucky lady,” he responded, his polite demeanor having once again sunk out of view.

……

You didn’t realize that when you offered to show Rube the ‘perfect house for him’ (Brian’s description, not yours) that it would involve a caravan and more ‘advisors’ than you could stuff in a clown car. “I think it’s because he’s a twin,” Emmett explained, “Rube just doesn’t like to be alone.”

Well, he certainly wouldn’t be, you thought, considering he’d insisted on bringing his decorator, financial advisor, handy man, and chef to this showing. You’d get over it, though, if he bought the house.

(And if Tuck kept his promise.)

*******************
who let the dogs out?

Ruben was laced with excitement when he tumbled out of Zeek’s van, ran into the front yard, faced the house and proclaimed, “I love it.” He was definitely going to be a client different than any you’d had before. You led him to the front door, undid the lock box and stepped aside so that he could be the first one inside. When you tried to follow, you were prevented by a plethora of gay men who’d apparently forgotten the laws of chivalry. As the last man in line, Zeek gave you a smile that you instantly knew was some sort of physical approval.

“Name’s Zeek,” he offered, as if it was short for ‘God of this Foyer.’

“Jennifer.”

”Jennifer,” he repeated. “Very nice.” And then in some sort of macho-attempt to impress you, declared rather loudly, “Rube, gonna go ‘round back and check out the main panel for you.” Rube thanked him, his eyes fixated on a ceiling fan, which you’d made sure was running.

Zeek was more or less blocking your ability to get through the front door when he asked, “Anything I need to know before I go looking for it?”--a self-satisfied smile perched on his face.

You smiled as sweetly as you could, “That it’s already been inspected and certified by Pittsburgh’s chief electrical inspector?”

He recovered too quickly, “Right. Well, better safe than sorry.” You sneezed as he stepped off the front stoop, his cologne tickling your nose. “Bless you, Jen,” he added as he walked away.

……

The interior of the two story house at 711 Luster Drive was immaculately clean. It’d been empty for almost two months, and you made sure that everything was perfect because you so desperately wanted to sell it. You eventually joined Ruben in the vast master bedroom and stood beside him as he looked out the window at the back yard.

“I want this house,” he told you. It was the easiest sale you’d ever made. “The backyard is perfectly flat. That’s what I want.”

“Great.”

“’711 Luster.’ It’s like a slurpee.” And then he added, before you could even respond, “Ice cream headache.”

You laughed a little, “I suppose so.”

“What’s up there?” he asked you, turning around and pointing to the spiral staircase in the corner of the bedroom.

“A little loft, basically. Some people use if for an office or reading area.”

“I like it,” he told you. “It’s cute.”

You were trying to decide if he meant the staircase or the loft when Zeek walked back into the room with the rest of the real-estate-posse in tow. “Place looks good, Rube. Excellent condition,” he announced, posturing with his hands on his hips.

“Cool,” he responded, and then looked back at you, “I want to go up there.”

“Go right ahead,” you told him as a huge smile spread over his face. He walked slowly and purposely up the staircase as if it was the path to a religious altar.

Zeek moved so that he was standing right beside you when, tilted his head, letting his hot breath steam up your ear, “He’s thinking about his slinkies.”

“Oh.”

And then you decided to join Ruben in order to distance yourself from pseudo-Cassanova. It proved to be critical error in judgment when, as you descended the stairs after Ruben had explored the loft (which included seeing if he could fit his entire body into the tiny storage area under the eaves), you saw Zeek standing underneath the stairs pretending to evaluate their stability while looking right up your skirt.

A proper upbringing and the aura of a possible sale kept you from driving the heel of your Givenchy’s into his nuts when you were back on level ground. And then finally while your prospective buyer was trying to do a cartwheel in the walk-in closet, Ted was prattling on about fixed-rate mortgages, and Gabe was sulking in the doorway after having admitted to liking the kitchen, the remaining man (and ironically, the most effeminate of them all) took care of it for you.

Emmett’s tone was almost sweet when he spoke, “Zeek, can I talk to you for minute?”

Zeek was smiling at you when he answered Emmett, “No.”

“Please. I want you to look at the plumbing in the master bath,” he continued. “Something’s not right.”

He immediately changed his tune, “Be glad to,” walking backwards until he got close enough for Emmett to grab him. “Ow, what the fuck?”

You pretended not to listen, to be just as fascinated with the backyard as Rube had been. Ted came and stood beside you, as if it just dawned on him that there was a testosterone intervention going on. You ignored his ‘better late than never’ gesture and listened to Emmett’s poor excuse for a whisper:
“Zeek, you know earlier today when you were rather upset about that waffle thing?” (His question made Zeek very agitated and, admittedly, made you very confused.)

“Not now, Fruitopia. And let go of me before I clock you in the pocketbook.” (You understood that; it was literal. Emmett was carrying a man purse.)

“Well, if Eggo is who you say he is,” Em continued, pausing for a moment, “Then that’s Aunt Jemima.”

……

There was a long, thick silence after that, which Zeek eventually broke, “Aw, mother fucker.”

“Exactly.”

You turned your head just in time to see Zeek curse the day he was born, punch Gabe in the stomach, and stomp down the stairs. ”You’re an asshole, ‘Cakes!" he yelled and them slammed the front door.

Gabe was grinning from ear to ear when Rube jumped out of the closet and proclaimed, “I’ll take it!”

*******************
BRIAN’S POV
we don’t need no education

early—the following Wednesday morning

When the alarm sounded at six a.m. that Wednesday morning, you reached across Justin’s slumbering form and slapped the snooze. You hadn’t fallen asleep until almost three-thirty, and the thought of getting up right then made you cover your head with your pillow and groan. Justin grabbed your arm when it flew in front of his face the second time ten minutes later,

“Stop. I’ll get it.”

“Throw it out the window.”

“I turned it off.”

You turned away from him, refusing to look at the impending sunrise coming in the window and mumbled, “Wake me up in an hour.”

You felt the bed shift as he rolled back to the nightstand, knowing he was adjusting the alarm for you. When he finished, he pressed himself against you, his hand snaking around your waist.

“Sleep,” he whispered in your ear, but you knew it was code for ‘Wanna fuck you.’ (Fuck the same person for ten years, and you just sort of know these things.) Your body was acknowledging him as your brain was trying to power back down. You tucked your head underneath the sheets and gave your dick a dirty look that meant not now, but it completely ignored you. It was staying in the game.

So you tried in vain to pretend that you’d fallen back asleep, that you were immune to the seduction techniques that you taught him, but as history has proven time and time again, education is never wasted.

Especially on the young.

And besides, turning Justin down was about as likely as Debbie retiring one of her wigs. So, you resigned yourself to the fact that he was going to put his warm hand between your legs, kiss your shoulder blades and every other inch of your back, nudge you onto your stomach without saying a word, and proceed unabated with Operation Anal Invasion.

At least there was no need for body armor anymore.

The coffee that Justin brought you afterwards came with a complimentary, steaming hot blow job with extra foam. You renamed your bedroom ‘Starfucks’ as you stared out the window at the ‘gnomadic’ debauchery in your backyard, drained your mug, and came down his throat.

Life was good.

*******************
if you got the goods they'll come and buy it just to stay in the clique

"Good morning, Mr. Kinney. Today is Wednesday, February 22, 2011. The time is seven forty-five a.m. The current temperature is fifty-six degrees under partly cloudy skies. You may enter your destination now."

“KINNETIK.”

"Thank you. Kinnetik is entered as your destination. Have a safe trip."

“MESSAGES.”

"At this time, there is one new messages available. Press or say--”

“ONE.”

You knew it was Ruben; he called every Wednesday morning (as Wednesday was his Monday) to give you an analysis of the previous week. You and Theodore had both tried over the years to sit Ruben in front of a PC and get him to use a spreadsheet but had given up when he had to keep sitting his yo-yo down to type. Every time he sat the damn thing down, his mind went blank. At first, you wondered if he had a learning disability, perhaps dyslexia, but his ability to analyze data put in front of him—identify trends, areas for growth, problems, etc.—was almost better than Theodore’s or Gabe’s, so you abandoned that theory, ultimately realizing that stopping to put information in a spreadsheet was a hindrance for him. So, the two of you agreed to an oral report at the start of each week, which you’d listen to and then forward to Cynthia for transcription and then finally to Theodore.

”Today, five thirty a.m. Hey, Brian. Week ending Sunday, February 20, 2011: sales were strong this week, on par with the rest of the first quarter. We brought in $46,778.51 in cash sales. Our payables have stabilized, but more about that later. Increasing the cover charge during contest nights and offering drink specials is netting us more in the long run than the other way around. By more-- maybe half a percent. The coffee area upstairs is doing really well, especially on contest nights. It’s attracting a much more mature and wealthy client. He basically comes to see the contest, and then adjourns with all of his friends to the lounge upstairs. They stay there all night, talking about mutual funds and getting utterly smashed on spiked coffee. That was a really good idea, and a great use of your VIP lounge. If we bought a cab company, too, we’d absolutely mop the floor with cash on Thursday nights. I’m kidding…no, actually, I don’t think I am. I’ll run some numbers on that.

“You were right about our core customer aging and his tastes changing. I think we should take this one step further and add a more comfortable, private back room to the coffee lounge. Overall, concessions are more expensive up there, and when those guys bring a young guy upstairs with them, they’re buying for two. Plus, there’s intense one-up-man-ship with that clientele. Hell, they’ll pay a second cover just to get in there. In fact, they’re calling it ‘Mecca.’ Their name, not mine. I think we should adopt it. It’ll practically guarantee their patronage because they’ll feel included in the decision. So, maybe we can renovate up there, create a cushy back room, and then have a grand re-opening where we reveal the new name, etc.

“Regarding payables, we’re looking at about twenty-five cents on the dollar right now, which is up from eighteen, but you’d expect that with the new lounge and the upfit we had to do. I think that’s it. Have Ted call me if he needs more specifics. I’ve got them…I just know you’re in the car right now. Bye.”

“ARCHIVE IN.”

“Archiving. Please specify location.”

“RUBEN. PERSONNEL FILE.”

“File archived—"

“FORWARD. CYNTHIA. FORWARD THEODORE. MEMO.”

“Recording memo for Ted Schmidt...”

“TED, I LIKE RUBE’S IDEA. LET’S RUN THE NUMBERS ON THE CONSTRUCTION SIDE OF IT AND GO OVER IT NEXT WEEK. SET A DATE. I WANT RUBE, CYNTHIA, YOU, GABE, AND POSSIBLY ZEEK THERE…STOP.”

“Listen, re-record, or send? Please state--.”

“SEND. ARCHIVE IN.”

“Sending. Archiving. Please specify location.”

“THEODORE. PERSONNEL FILE. CYNTHIA. PERSONNEL FILE.”

“Files archived.”

……

“MARKET.”

”….the bottom line, Lou, is that Apple’s first quarter earnings are right on target. Many thought they were a little ambitious…”

That reminded you…

“iWWINN.”

”One moment please…”

*******************
it was a secret meeting in the dead of the night with mysterious sanctimony

Of all the things in your life you’d ever admit to courting, there’d been one that still eluded you, one prize that you were still chasing…the Apple Computer account. Your affection for the brand had grown considerably since you purchased your Mercedes and discovered that Apple was the wizard under the dashboard. And one day a couple of years ago, you received a phone call from the car itself—a pre-recorded message inviting you to log on to its website, fill out a survey, and participate in a focus group. It was your first exposure to iWWINN®, and, as far as you were concerned, a brilliant strategy to know your prospective client inside and out.

“Accessing iWwinn…

“Voice-imprint successful. Please select module.”

“ONE.”

”One moment please…”

……

From that day on, you’d been a Wwinner®.

iWWINN®--World Wide Integrated Nutrition Network®—was a hand-selected group of twenty-five men and women with gratuitous amounts of disposable income and influence and no shortage of ego or vanity. The twenty-five of you, scattered around the globe, made up the APPLET-- the Apple Pilot-Project for Lifestyle Enrichment®-- and were the proud hosts of a dynamic group of household devices—a refrigerator, sink, dishwasher, stove, and washer and dryer-- that were sleek and smart. The primary purpose of you and your comrades was to maximize the features of the Nutrition Module, which meant that there was no way around forging a very intimate relationship with the refrigerator.

Tall, dark, and steel. A match made in heaven.

The focus group was top secret in an attempt to keep Microsoft in the dark, so there was no publicity, no advertising, no promotion. In fact, since day one, you’d never even been given a list of who was officially in the trial with you. You saw them at quarterly meetings that were never held in the same place twice—which was regrettable because you really wanted to go back to George Clooney’s.

In the beginning, Katie Holmes campaigned hard to get an iWWINN® t-shirt (or at the very least, a beer Koozie). But her request for paraphernalia was denied immediately, as was Harry Connick Jr.’s attempt at a jingle: Oh, when the robots come marching in…, and Barack Obama’s suggestion of a tie-tack for the men and a brooch for the ladies.

Six months later, the powers that be softened just a little after you and Isaac Mizrahi put your heads together and designed a clandestine magnet for the group, a two hundred dollar investment which you gladly bankrolled:

There were only twenty-five in circulation.

*******************
the problem’s plain to see,
too much technology

”Module One, please state your pass-"

“ORSON.”

Thank you. One moment please…

……

“I’m sorry. Please repeat your-"

“ORSON.”

Thank you. One moment please…"

……

”I’m sorry. Module One is inaccessible at this time—"

What the fuck?

“OVERRIDE.”

Thank you. One moment please…

……

”Administrative Override denied. Module One reporting as either inaccessible or corrupt.”

Goddamnit. This wasn’t wwinning.

”Preparing error transcript…..sending error transcript….receipt acknowledged. Your request will be reviewed within four hours. Thank you for using iWWINN®.”

"Mr. Kinney, you are now one mile from your destination. Weather reports indicate a thirteen percent chance of precipitation.” An umbrella popped out of its hidden compartment next to your left leg. ”Have a productive day."

You were becoming less than optimistic.

*******************
we supposed to be pillars of the community

The first firm thing on your schedule that day—figuratively, of course-- was a request from Gabe to meet with you at ten a.m., so you decided that you’d call Gavin Newsome, the former mayor of San Francisco and current fuck of Anderson Cooper’s, to solicit some help with iWWINN®. Gavin was a high-end user of iWWINN®, treating every appliance and every gathering as if it was a prelude to The Last Supper. It was very early on the West Coast, but Gavin was an early riser. Only he didn’t answer the phone…

”Hello?”

You knew it wasn’t Gavin, but you said it anyway, “Gavin?”

”Kinney?”

“Hi, Anderson. Gavin around?”

“In the shower.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to tell Anderson Cooper that you were afraid your iWWINN® was broken, although he had a set, too. “Can you ask him to call me?”

“Sure.”

There was an insincerity in Anderson’s voice that both of you pretended wasn’t there. Sometimes rich fags with public personas and fat wallets could be so unbelievably cunty. (Then again, the fact that Gavin blew you in the hot tub on your first iWWINN® retreat while you were chanting, I wwinn. I wwinn. I wwinn, under your breath may’ve had something to do with it.)

You were disgusted at yourself, but unable to stop kissing Anderson’s ass, “That was great report you did on those women who snort Crystal Light the other night.”

“Desperate housewives.”

……

“Right. Well, if you could just let Gavin know I called, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure.”

*******************
I’ll do all the laundry if you’ll pay all the bills

So your plans to settle up with iWWINN® before the next hour of reckoning—lunchtime—were gradually disappearing. And that was non-trivial because you knew you’d done more than just fallen off the weight wagon while vacationing at The Rockford. It was more like you’d been kicked off of it, stripped naked, and dragged through the town square in concentric circles.

You drummed your fingers on your desk…

Checked your email…

Checked it again…

Called the twenty-four hour, exclusive, toll-free number for iWWINN® technical support and listened to their latest updates…”At this time, all of iWWINN®’s modules are up and running. Thank you for calling iWWINN®, and remember, with iWWINN® you’re always a Wwinner!”

(You had to win the Apple account just to change their utterly asinine marketing.)

It was your personal policy not to publicize the fact that you were on a ‘wellness regime,’ and you were hoping that Justin hadn’t noticed you surfing the ‘net on your honeymoon trying to find the true fat content of young artiste-ejaculate. (Because let’s face it, you weren’t giving that up.) iWWINN® found the answer for you and after receiving a firm ‘no’ when asking if you were willing to remove that from your meal plan, informed you that an extra seventy-five to ninety minutes a week of aerobic exercise would negate the intake altogether. That you could do. Plus, you could still eat his ass all you wanted. According to iWWINN®, eating ass was ‘not recognized as a significant caloric contributor.’

Your frustration was mounting with your denied access to your daily routine, so you broke down and called Justin. He answered his cell on the fourth ring. You got straight to what you felt would be the crux of the conversation, “Hey. It’s me. I need you to reboot the refrigerator.”

(Studies have shown that talking to your significant other as if they’re on your payroll can have unpleasant repercussions.)

“What?”

“I need you to reboot the refrigerator.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s something wrong with it.”

……

“No, there’s not.”

……

“Yes, there is.”

The conversation was becoming circular, spinning rapidly down the drain.

“No, there’s not. I just opened a very well-chilled Diet Coke. It’s working fine.”

……

“That’s not the part that’s not working.”

……

“Then I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

……

You sighed, which in retrospect, was a mistake, “Look, I don’t need the refrigeration part. I need the computer part.”

“Why?”

Jesus.

“Why the fuck does it matter why?”

……

“Brian, I’m working right now. Can we talk about this later, please?”

“No.”

”Do I call you up in the middle of your workday and ask you a bunch of inane questions?”

“Yes?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

You began to tug on a stray thread hanging off your shirt, oblivious to the fact that you were unraveling your own wardrobe.

……

“I just need to see what I’m supposed to eat today,” you tried one more time. You were beginning to feel like you were picking a scab, unable to stop but thoroughly unimpressed with yourself.

“You need the refrigerator to tell you what to eat?”

Your forehead collided with your palm.

”And the car to tell you where to go?”

“Justin.”

“I’d love to continue this conversation, but my bat..ter…ies are dy…ing.”

Shit head.

”If I’m lethargic when you get home, just recharge me, so I can tell you who to fuck.”

“Justin.”

And he was gone.

Holy Acrimony.

It was nine-thirty a.m. when you abandoned iWWINN® completely, and as you began to go through the stack of messages Cynthia had given you, you looked up and saw Gabe standing in the doorway.

“I’m early,” he announced apologetically, burdened with muffins and Mochachinos.

“Perfect timing. Come on in.”

You were starving.

*******************
ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV
you burden me with your questions

The events of the previous day were wholly responsible for you drinking yourself stupid that same very night and ending up at Ruben’s apartment. You knew that Gabe would be less than sympathetic to your woes, and besides, you weren’t speaking to him anyway. The worst thing about crashing at Rube’s place was sleeping on his lumpy couch and waking up with Lego imprints on the side of your face. You awoke earlier than you planned because your cell phone was going berserk on the coffee table. You’d missed three calls from West Virginia. You dialed the number with trepidation, unsure as to which half of Rich & Famous was calling you.

It was Famous. “Something is fucked up.”

“Good morning to you, too.” (Like you wanted waffles for breakfast.)

“I’m not kidding. The fucking thing won’t stop peeping at me and asking me for shit. What’s the administrative password?”

You could hear Kinney’s refrigerator in the background, a barrage of error-beeps and random voice instructions, and then told Justin the truth, “How the fuck should I know?”

“Because it’s your job?”

“It’s not my job. I’m a mechanic, not a butler. I hooked up the ice maker, set the clock, and plugged the fucking thing in. That’s all I know how to do.”

“Well, where’s the manual?”

“There isn’t one.”

“Right.”

“Listen, you told me to make it stop talking to you, so that’s all I did.” You could hear the beeps getting farther away; he was walking out of the kitchen.

……

The next time he spoke, he spoke much more quietly, “Okay, look, please come over here and help me fix this thing. He’s going to kill me. He’s already figured out that something’s wrong and he’s only been gone for two hours. Zeek, I tore his study apart trying to find that stupid tutorial he has, and I can’t find it anywhere.”

“I don’t know how to fix it.” And you weren’t going to touch anything of Kinney’s ever again without Kinney’s permission.

“Put it back the way it was. You can do that, right?”

By that time, you’d stumbled to Rube’s bathroom and were staring at your rather haggard reflection when you heard yourself giving in to him, “Look, I can try.”

And listened to the relief in his voice, “Thank you. How long ‘til you get here?”

You told him about an hour; you needed time to shave, shower, and shit…and figure out what the fuck to do.

*******************
BRIAN'S POV
I have a tendency to wear my mind on my sleeve

Gabe sat opposite you on the other side of your desk and handed you a Mochachino and a muffin. “What kind are they?” you asked.

“Cranberry and orange, I think.”

“Low fat?”

“Of course.”

You watched him pull the paper off of his muffin; he always had such a deliberateness about him. “The coffee bar at Babylon is doing really well,” you told him.

“I know. Rube told me last night.”

“Rube thinks we should buy a cab company; you know, complete the circle.”

Gabe nodded, speaking only when he’d swallowed his first bite, “Just hired a guy to wash dishes who was just laid off from Liberty Cab. They’re in trouble over there, I think.”

“Ripe for the taking?”

“Probably.”

You pondered that idea for a while. “I think we should sell VIP passes to Babylon that include admission to both bars, a free drink in the new part, and a pre-paid ride home.”

Gabe laughed, “Might as well. Otherwise, security just spends all night trying to talk those guys into letting them call a cab. That would eliminate that complete waste of time.”

“And we can have them waiting outside the restaurant, too. You get your fair share of heavy hitters.”

“Definitely.”

You threw your muffin wrapper in the trash and folded your hands in front of you on your desk, “So, what’d you want to talk to me about? Finally going to break down and go on one of those gay cruises?”

He rolled his eyes, “No, thank you. I appreciate you having that travel agent call me, but that’s just not my scene.”

“You and Debbie going at it again?”

“No, not at all. We’re getting along fine.”

“Good.” You waited for him to continue. Gabe was deliberate with everything, including conversation.

……

“I wanted to apologize for my brother.”

“Oh?”

“If I’d known what he was up to, I would’ve put a stop to it.”

“No need. I saw the ice machines he got. They look great. I’ll admit I wasn’t convinced he could deliver, but he did. He did a good job. I’m impressed.”

……

Gabe stuffed his trash into the bag he’d brought the muffins in, rose from his chair to cross your office and throw it away, “So, you’re happy with the work he’s doing?”

“Yeah. Might even have him help us with the VIP backroom renovation Rube wants to do.”

……

Gabe smiled at you, that same smile he was wearing the day you hired him in the city, “You’re a bigger man than I am, Brian. I don’t know why I thought you’d be ready to fire him when you found out about him and Justin. I was just freaking out for no reason, as usual. Sorry I took up your time.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you told him, finding yourself on your feet as he was leaving, walking around your desk, the open door of your office switching from his hand to yours, “Haven’t I always told you that sorry’s bull shit?”

Gabe waved good-bye to Cynthia, and you stood there, very still...watching him walk out the door.


Lyrics taken from Simon and Garfunkel’s Mrs. Robinson from the movie The Graduate, Jean Knight’s Mr. Big Stuff, the Baha Men’s Who Let the Dogs Out?, Pink Floyd’s Another Brick In the Wall, Smashmouth’s Walkin’ on the Sun, Ray Steven’s Shriner’s Convention, Styx’s Mr. Roboto, Ray Steven’s Shriner’s Convention again, Paula Cole’s Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?, EMF’s Unbelievable, and the Barenaked Ladies’s One Week.