“Eight would be nice,” I tell him, “but 9:30 isn’t the end of the world. My ego is intact, Kieran.” I whisper, “I’m going to be okay.”
Actually, I’m humiliated that I couldn’t get a table exactly when I wanted it and I’m furious that someone other than me and the waitress or whoever was on the phone knows about it. No lie, the thought already crossed my mind how I would dispose of Kieran’s body should I decide to make the secret that much easier to keep.
Fortunately for Kieran, though, I’m a peaceful man.
“All right,” he says. “Did you already set up the car? I can set that up for you.”
It’s a ploy.
“Two things,” I tell him. “One, I told you that I’m really not upset. Two, I told you that I’m not telling you who I’m going to dinner with because it’s none of your business. Is there anything else you have to say that I haven’t already said no to today?” I ask.
“No,” he says.
“All right,” I tell him. “Go home. I’ll call you if I need you.”
“Hey, would you mind if I’m maybe not on call tonight?” he asks. “See, my mother’s in town, and I really haven’t been able to spend that much time with her since she got here. And…” he goes on with his sob story.
After a while spent acting like I’m listening so that Kieran can feel like he’s being heard while I’m actually trying to figure out the drum pattern for this song that’s been in my head since I got in the car this morning, I interrupt him and say, “Have the night.” I tell him, “Have tomorrow night, too. Spend some time with the family. That sort of thing’s important, you know.”
“Thank you,” he says with his usual, obviously manufactured look of humility and gratitude.
I really just keep him around to do the jobs I’m too lazy to want to do and so I can occasionally make fun of his name. He’s not actually a crucial member of team Damian.
I’ve let assistants get close before, but I’d rather not talk about that right now.
Anyway, I really don’t know why he’s laying it on so thick. The only times that I’ve ever called him at home have been issues of absolute importance. Either that, or the occasional prank call, but mostly it’s been in situations wher
e it was of absolute necessity that I disturb him.
I’m not sure he’s aware of the fact that I have never once kept track of his hours. The way it actually works is that I pay him on a sliding scale of how much he’s irritated me that week.
If he doesn’t wrap up the thank you parade here pretty quick, I have a feeling he’s not going to end up with that many hours this week.
He really should have gone for the salary option. I’m not to be trusted accounting for someone else’s hours.
There’s a knock on the door and a woman from the crew pokes her head in.
“Hey,” she says. “I’m sorry to bug you, but we really do need the room, so is there any way I can help you with your things, or—”
“We’re going,” I tell her.
I grab what I assume is a complimentary bottle of 21-year-old scotch from atop one of the tables. There’s a little paper on a string wrapped around the neck of the bottle that says, “Mr. Hansen.”
I don’t know who Mr. Hansen is, but I thank him for the rather expensive bottle of scotch.
The woman halfway in the room looks like she wants to tell me something, but can’t find the words with which to do it.
I’ll give her time to figure it out. If it’s important, I’m sure it’ll come to her.
Out of the dressing room and on my way out of the building, I come to a couple of doors with strips of glass in them. On the other side is a big crowd of young women in their late teens and early 20s.
When I was a kid growing up and I would see videos of actors and musicians being rushed through crowds of adoring and attractive female adulators, I would always get a little perturbed.
“Didn’t the fucking Beatles understand that those women were ready and willing to screw their brains out?” I would ask myself.
I didn’t get it.
Okay, I was a weird kid.