dylans-senior-year-at-college-1

Subject: DYLAN'S SENIOR YEAR AT COLLEGE Chapter 1 DYLAN'S SENIOR YEAR AT COLLEGE Chapter 1 by Donny Mumford I find myself looking forward to returning to college more and more every day. Three months ago, I couldn't wait for the junior year to end, and summer break to begin, and now I'm anxious to get back to Merrimack. Actually, I wish I was going back this week. It's really pretty simple, I'd rather be at college than in Hartford, Connecticut, on a business trip. I have trepidations about this trip although I've kept them to myself. It'd be uber embarrassing to admit I don't want to do this alone. Fuck, I've never done anything like a business trip where I need to be the authority figure expecting the managers and employees there to readjust their work schedules to accommodate me. Those people aren't working a summer job for some extra spending money at college. They're working real-life jobs supporting themselves and their families. What, for example, do I do if some fifty-year-old foreman on the job says they don't have time for me this week? Do I say, 'I'm gonna tell on you!' Oh I don't know, I've conjured up all kinds of scenarios where I'm out there with my dick in my hands and some 'adult' type person tells me to come back tomorrow, for instance, or whatever. Rob and his Dad would think I'm a pussy if I mentioned any of this to them, and anyway it'd be wicked irresponsible of me to wimp-out on this trip. I accepted this job and Hartford was always part of it. On the other hand, perhaps I've been making a mountain out of a molehill for weeks worrying about this stuff. Yes, this last week of summer vacation I'll be in Hartford and I've no one to blame but myself. I'm the one who kept putting this off. And I know... when you put something off it remains part of your future, but when you deal with it head on its then part of your past. Whatever, procrastinating is a habit of mine and I'm positively gonna work on improving that area, but not now... Early in the summer I actually thought a week's business trip would be cool. You know, staying in a hotel with an expense account, a company car, and whatnot. In hindsight though, I obviously didn't think it was cool enough to actually do it, and consequently here I am dealing with it now. My perceived coolness-factor has been replaced by a more realistic one of nervousness and the sense that I don't really wanna fuckin' do this shit. Nevertheless, I'm doing it... So I've said my goodbyes to everyone and I'm driving away from the house early Monday morning, the last full week of summer break. It should be a ninety-minute drive to Hartford so I'll be there by nine o'clock, which is when Dottie, Mr. Dickers' administrative assistant, set up a meeting for me with the office manager, whose name I've forgotten. Forgetting names isn't anything unusual for me though, so I wrote the woman's name in big letters on the cover sheet of the benefits presentations. I'll take a peek at her name before our meeting. I guess I'm as ready for this as I'll ever be, which isn't saying a helluva lot. Complicating matters for me is the forecast for rain sometime today and around here people lose their minds driving in the rain. I'm hoping the rain holds off until I get to the office in Hartford, but of course it doesn't. As I'm getting on the Mass Pike it begins coming down with a vengeance. Plus, omigod, the traffic at this time of the morning is unbelievably horrendous and now it's gonna be worse with this heavy rain. Why the hell didn't I do this earlier in the summer? Goddammit! Huh, my only consolation as I drive in this shit storm is that I personally need to make this trip only this one time in my life, while most of these crazy bastards driving around me need to deal with this five days a week, every week! Anyway, before I left the house Rob insisted I take the portable GPS from his pickup so I've got that to fall back on. It's already programmed for the Hartford office's address. I won't really need it to find the city of Hartford though; I already know the simple directions to Hartford: stay on the Mass Pike until exit 9 for route 84 east, and then stay on that right into Hartford. Once I'm inside the city though, that's when I'll need the GPS to give me directions to the office. I confess to being very tense driving on an extremely busy Mass Pike where it seems every tractor trailer in the world is towering over me in this little compact Chevy company car. Damn! Plus, this piece of shit's windshield wipers simply are not hacking it. The rain's too heavy and every swipe of the wiper blades leaves a smear of water on the windshield. I'm reduced to leaning over the steering wheel trying to see between the swipes of water. This goes on for thirty-nerve-racking-minutes and then I hear the female voice of the GPS providing a 'heads-up' to: 'Bare right onto exit 9 ahead.' Oh fuck, can ya give me a little more warning here. Jesus! Dammit, I can't get over to the exit lane because one of the million tractor trailers driving around me just pulled up on my right going the same speed I am and now there's a long line of cars in front of it, plus an SUV is tailgating me and I mean right on my ass! And if that's not bad enough, the tractor trailer's huge tires are constantly spraying water over this toy car I'm driving! Okay, so I miss that exit... and then I still can't get over for the next exit either... BALLS! It's like all these cars and trucks are conspiring to prevent me from getting off the Mass Pike! The GPS voice sounds annoyed now, as she again says, "Reprogramming," and then when it's reprogrammed it tells me to get off at the next exit... well, no shit! Rob did mention that this is a very old model GPS so I can't leave every decision up to it. Anyway my more immediate problem is staying alive as I'm driving seventy-miles-an-hour in a car that's hydroplaning like a mother-fucker and I can't slow down for fear of getting rear-ended. I finally take my life in my hands and pull just barely in front of the tractor trailer, um, some might say I cut him off. Well the driver thinks so anyway as he's blasting his air horn scaring the shit outta me for a couple of seconds as the little Chevy almost goes off the road. Screw that truck driver though, he's not supposed to be using the merging/exit right hand lane as a travel lane. Truck drivers are bullies! I fly past the transponder machine at the exit where toll booths used to be, and omigod I'm finally off the Mass Pike. Whew! Yeah, I'm two exits further west than I should be, but I'm off that insane road! Taking a deep breath, I hear the woman's GPS voice reprograming and then telling me to get back on the Mass Pike, heading east this time. I'd like to throw that piece of shit out the window! Instead I do what I'm told and get back on the Pike, but this time I take a page from that truck drivers and stay in the right hand lane until I'm finally able to get off at exit 9. It's apparently everyone for themselves on the Mass Pike at this time of the morning... in a torrential downpour no less. Now I'm on a congested route 84 west, which is no bargain either. It's another forty-five minutes of bare-knuckle-driving with rain continuing to pour down in Biblical amounts. My heart's in my throat by the time I finally see signs for Hartford, but now 84W become a six-lane highway with many directional signs overhead; tons of them. The signs indicate lanes for Hartford, lanes bypassing Hartford, one for New York, and a lane for the last exit before Hartford. Lots of big green signs but they aren't all that helpful because it's difficult to look far enough ahead determining which sign goes with which lane. Plus, at this speed the signage above comes up too quickly to adjust lanes and this old piece-of-shit GPS is vague with its instructions, saying, "Bare right'. Bare right how many lanes, you bitch? Well apparently more lanes than I'm able to negotiate because I panicked and guessed at an exit lane, which of course was the wrong one. It leaves me this side of Hartford in the town of Manchester, Connecticut. The GPS's female voice is of course saying, "Reprogramming," and this time it sounded like a reprimand, so I'm screaming at the device, `Go fuck yourself!' I know, that's not real mature of me, but.... Ya know, all this would seem simple if I ever, God forbid, needed to come to Hartford again. Everything is easier the second time you do it. I'd be prepared for these pitfalls that came up too quickly to deal with this time. I feel stupid though because this isn't rocket science. Anyway, what the hell is in Hartford that all these assholes can't wait to get there? Damn, do I ever wish I was back at college right now where everything is familiar and I know what I'm doing. Anyway, after two-or-three additional heart attacks I finally make it to the office. And yes, the GPS was invaluable in this instance and therefore very much appreciated. I'm glad I didn't throw it out the window. Still, I've been involved in this hellish drive for well over two-hours now and I'm rattled like never before in my life. Looking at my hand in front of my face... it's shaking like I'm ninety years old! Well that drive was life threatening! Fuck it though, it's over now. I drive past the office and naturally there are no available parking spots in their little parking lot, so I'm forced to park in a strip mall across the street. Christ, I'm sweaty and wrinkled and exasperated, and shaky. And it's still raining as hard as ever. Taking a couple of seconds to calm down, I think about having a cigarette but don't dare because I'm already over an hour late. Taking a deep breath and then, before venturing out of this tiny car, I remember to look in my case for the name of the office manager. The manager is a woman, I remember that much. Oh yeah... Susan Pulp. Checking myself out in the rearview mirror I finger comb my fucked-up haircut, then take another deep breath and get out of the car into the pouring rain. Umbrellas are for pussies! While dodging cars running across the street I get soaked. While trying not to get run over I'm repeating the manager's name to myself, 'Susan Pulp', 'Susan Pulp' hoping to remember it when I meet her. With a pathetic sigh of relief, feeling I'm in over my head already, I go in through the front door and stand at the receptionist's desk. The subtle sound of people tapping on computer keyboards stops abruptly. Huh, did everyone in here stop working just because I walked in? Oh great, everyone is staring at me now. I concentrate on ignoring that, hearing instead the steady ringing of the phone on top of the receptionist's desk. There's a woman behind the desk whose back is to me, the receptionist I presume. She's bent over looking for something behind her in the bottom drawer of a file cabinet. Will nothing be easy for me during this entire fucking trip... ever? After a few seconds I do a fake cough which has no effect on the receptionist so I glance over at a large woman standing in what I assume is the office's little cafe area. I mean there's a couple of vending machines, a coffee maker, and a few tables and chairs, so what else could it be? Hmmm, I give the big woman one of my really good smiles hoping she'll ask if she can help me. Well now she's looking right at me while blowing on her steaming cup of coffee. I raise my eyebrows like, 'I'm here' and she finally casually asks, "Who might you be?" I start to tell her who I am, but she interrupts, saying, "This is a 'no solicitation' office, ya know that, right? Read the sign on the door, kiddo!" Kiddo? Now there's a name I hate! It somehow infers you're inferior or, well a kid... Smiling again I tell her very politely I'm not a solicitor and say my name. She looks at me blankly, so I add, "I'm looking for the office manager, Susan Pulp." The big woman drinks some of her coffee, it's like she has all day. Giving me an odd 'look', she says, "Well you've found her, but it's 'Ms' Pulp to you, not Susan." Like I give a flying fuck! Oh man, really? Nodding, I'm like, "Oh okay, Ms. Pulp," and she says, "You've found me, whaddaya want?" What the fuck is this, she isn't expecting someone from home office? This morning really, really blows! Glancing back at the still ringing phone on the receptionist's desk for a second, and then back at Ms. Pulp, I'm stalling to edit in my head what I was going to say to her because it includes the word 'cunt'. Instead I try smiling for the third time, saying nicely, "Well, g'morning, Ms. Pulp. As I said, I'm Dylan Newman. Um, from the HR department at Home' Office. Ah, you weren't expecting me? I was told you were inform..." but she cuts me off again by waving her free hand in my face, sarcastically saying, "You're kidding me, right?" Okay, this isn't anything like I envisioned would happen, but maybe on business trips there's miscommunications or whatever, so I'm trying to be patient although I guess I'm frowning a little as I'm muttering, "Um, no... I'm not kidding! I'm here to..." and I fumble a memo from my case to hand to her, adding, "To see, you, Ms. Pulp, to review..." but she interrupts me for the third time by loudly yelling at me, "Stop!" and she actually looks seriously annoyed or stressed, saying, "I've had to deal with a fender-bender in this goddamn rain, and on a Monday morning no less, so I'm not in the mood for one of Janis's ideas of a joke. Be sure to tell her I'm not amused!" I mutter, "I don't understand. Who's Janis?" After taking another slurping slurp of coffee, she tries calming down, asking, "You're from the Framingham office, you say?" I nod, "Yes, as I've tried a number of times to tell you, I'm here to..." and she goes, "Oh, Jesus Christ, that's just great! Yeah, well I am expecting a representative from Human Resources, but at nine o'clock tomorrow morning, not today, and not at, what time is it? Not at ten o'clock!" Holy shit, I'm not sure what to say to that. She asks, "What's your normal job there at the home office, doll, mailroom boy? You're acting as delivery boy for HR. Um, an hour late and a day early! Tell me that isn't it." I go, "I'm the HR guy alright, but..." and she rolls her eyes, "Ya know what, kiddo. It's not your fault so I don't know why I'm giving you a hard time. It's like we always get second-rate treatment in this office. And I don't know why I'm surprised when it happens again and again." Oh man, I'm exasperated, but I manage to say, "Sorry to hear that, but I am the HR guy," but she isn't paying attention. She looks over at the receptionist, saying, "Yo Carol, sonny boy here is late, but he's also a day early. What's that, one of those oxymoron things or something?" Carol, who must have found what she was looking for in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet has been staring at me with furrowed eyebrows, like she can't believe any of this. Well, neither can I. Still frowning, Carol mutters, "I don't know, Susan," and then she finally answers her phone that's been ringing off the hook since I walked in here. It seems to me I've been in here for half an hour, but it hasn't even been two minutes... Slurping more of her coffee, Ms. Pulp smugly looks back at me asking, in a more conversational tone of voice this time, "Is that it, you're late but a day early, sonny?" Holy fuck, what a bitch! And did she say I was from the mailroom? Oh God help me, but I'm going to blow my fucking brains out! Okay, I'm now recalling the 'talk' Mr. Dickers' had with me about not letting employees or management staff push me around when I'm doing these benefit presentations. And anyway I'm still pissed-off from that ride-from-hell, so I lose my cool a little and raise my voice telling her again who I am and why I'm here, and then add, "And I'm not a day early. Today is the day I'm scheduled to be here, so what I need from you, Ms. Pulp, is your up-to-date employee listing, especially the outside construction personnel... and then I'll get started with the interviews." She hesitates for just a second, like maybe she's thinking perhaps she's wrong, but only momentarily. She goes right back on the offensive getting seriously angry now. Before she was snarky, and acting like a bully actually, but now she's starting to get seriously aggressive. She loses it a little and goes all ghetto on me, bobbing her head while sarcastically yelling, "Say what? You need what from me, sonny?" And then to a woman sitting at the closest computer station, a woman who's wearing what appears to be skiing apparel. "Can you believe him, Connie? Damn, I'm not paid enough money to deal with this unbelievable shit!" and then to me, she goes, "Get you a list, you say? Listen here, sonny-boy, you do not tell me what to do, or when to do it, not in my office you don't!" This is beyond surreal, but it's almost exactly one of the situations I was worried about! See, I knew something like this could happen. What did I do that was so wrong though? I'm so frustrated I could scream. Barely able to keep the F-bombs from flying I refuse to back down and emphatically say, "I've told you my name a number of times, so you know it's not, 'doll', 'sonny-boy', or 'buster' and certainly not 'kiddo'! And I still need to see your employee list!" Again there's that look in her eyes, that same look of doubt like maybe she's making a mistake... but only for another fleeting second and then, no...not her, she couldn't be mistaken. After the slight hesitation she goes, "No, no, no... this is bull-crap! I'm making a phone call to Framingham right now and we'll get to the bottom of this. And no matter what, whoever you are... you still do not walk in here and tell ME what to do in my office!" My face is red and hot, but by now I've lost my mind anyway and I don't give a shit anymore, so I say way too loudly, "Yes, I suggest you call that 'someone' in Framingham, Ms. Pulp, because if you don't, I will." Oh man, I can't ever remember being this legitimately pissed-off in all my life. This is all so unfair! I'm trying hard not to go completely off the rails, assuming I already haven't done that. I mean, the last things I was yelling at her I was leaning in close and yelling up in her face, which was not cool of me at all. I'd rather not bring myself down to her level of discord, except I think I did. Oh hell, it wasn't just her unacceptable rudeness, or that fucking two-hour terror drive I just went through, it's also the fact I'm standing here with my head and heart pounding like mad, rain water dripping on the floor from my clothes and hair, plus it's fucking humiliating that everyone in this office is listening and watching us. Ms. Pulp probably was acting that way to show her staff how tough she is. Putting on a show for the worker-bees to buzz about. Ms. Pulp struts back to her office stopping once to say something to an Ichabod Crane look-alike. She's obviously as pissed off as I am. The big difference being... she doesn't have any real reason to be pissed-off. She fucked everything up right from the start when she didn't know I was coming. I know damn well she was informed because Dottie copied me on the email. Meanwhile Ichabod looks confused about what she apparently told him to do. Maybe he's supposed to kick me in the nuts, but like I said he's confused and just sits there at the back of the office looking at me. Ms. Pulp meanwhile glares at me through her open office door as she snatches up the phone and calls 'someone'. Maybe she's calling that Janis-person she thought was playing a joke on her... meaning I'm the joke. Well I do hope she's calling the Framingham office and not the police. I shouldn't have shouted at her like that. My body language could be misconstrued, I suppose, as threatening. Yeah, except she's a lot bigger than me. I don't find out until I talk with Robby much later today that Ms. Pulp called a friend of hers in Human Resources and told her what was going on, and how she put me in my place and blab, blab, blab. Unbeknownst to me, or Ms. Pulp, the boss's administrative assistant, Dottie, had orders from Mr. D. that any calls from Hartford about the benefit program should be directed to her, and then to him if necessary. Maybe they've had some, um, issues with Ms. Pulp in the past. I'm watching Ms. Pulp making her call as I'm sort of thinking kızılay escort maybe I'm the one who will get screwed here. She's a manager and we were yelling at each other like kids on a playground. So I'm trying not to seem all pissed off as I'm standing here trying to be professional like. I trying to appear like... we all make mistakes, no problem... I'm hoping we can get on with this like, um, adults. She's a large woman, as in three-or-four-inches taller than me, wide and thick. Maybe fifty-pounds heavier than me so I felt small yelling up at her. She's wearing a white blouse and a woman's dark red business suit, or maybe it's that maroon shade of red, with a white silky fluffy-thingie hanging around her neck where a tie would be. If she had been nicer to me I may have offered her some styling tips. Ya know, like next time she goes shopping for a suit she needs to be looking for one that's any color other than the one she has on, plus it'd be better if she were to shop in the plus-size section for, I'd guesstimate, outfits three or four sizes larger than the one she's wearing, and her shoes simply don't go with that outfit at all, or any outfit that I can think of! No style tips for her though because she humiliated me, and now I'm sorta angry at myself for being this nervous as I'm waiting for the outcome of her call to Framingham. Nervous that somehow this is my fault. I didn't do anything wrong! Yeah except it was unprofessional the way I yelled at her. Mostly though I feel like shit standing here in my suit that got soaked during my forty-yards dash in the rain from across the street. At least my suit, wet as it is, fits me perfectly. But damn, am I a day early... and late? No I'm not, well yeah, I'm late, but I'm not a day early. Huh, I suppose I do look foolish in my soggy suit, especially when no one else in the office, except that bitch Ms. Pulp, is wearing anything resembling business attire. These people are dressed in khakis, jeans, sneakers, and pullovers... plus the skiing outfit on that one woman. Under my arm is the wet, borrowed fake-leather case containing the interview sheets and other paperwork for my job and by now I'm feeling very uncomfortable about everything. All these people are probably thinking... there he is, the nerd from home office who Ms. Pulp put in his place. It seems to me her phone call took forever but a glance my wristwatch tells me it's only been like ninety seconds since she stormed into her office. It actually wasn't a very long conversation as I see her now slam the phone down and then do an exaggerated silent scream. Oh fuck, what's that mean? Hmmmm, it could be that things are finally going my way! She's pacing back and forth in her office, maybe collecting herself? I'm feeling a little bit cocky now, staring back defiantly at some of these dorks who are staring at me No one says a word while we all wait for Ms. Pulp as she comes striding back up the aisle, this time though she has a huge fake-smile on her large face. She's holding out her right hand for me to shake as she's saying, barely loud enough for me to hear, "I am sorry, Dylan. Please accept my apologies for being short with you, but this has been a very trying Monday morning for all of us. This darn heavy rain made some of us late and that fool rear-ended me in the parking lot, and... um, well I'm sure you understand." No, I don't! I'm staring at her, so she glances around and mutters in an even lower voice, "It was my mistake too, I mean you are due here today." Then, turning her head to give a nice-looking older woman a dirty glance, she adds, "I can't imagine why Marge here told me it was Tuesday you were coming. You're late of course, but..." and then her words sort of peter-out at the end. Maybe because I continue giving her a blank stare, ignoring her offered hand. Fuck her, I knew I was right all along! After Ms. Pulp threw that poor Marge-person under the bus, blaming her for not knowing I was due here today, there's an awkward few seconds of silence before Ms. Pulp turns to her right, saying officiously, "Marge, please get Dylan a coffee. We'll be my office," and then back to me, she's sweetly asking, "Cream and sugar, Dylan?" I nod because a coffee sounds really good about now. She repeats, "With cream and sugar," to Marge, and then to me, "We'll talk in my office if that's okay with you." This is more like it! That's what I was thinking, but what I said was, "Yes, that'll do fine." Oh man though, I feel like shit... Ms. Susan Pulp is thankfully almost helpful now. Actually I have no more trouble with her but we never do warm-up to one another. Drinking our coffees in her office we compare employee lists, which doesn't take long. I need to correct my list for construction personnel who tend to turn-over more than regular office staff. Then, in spite of her protests, I insist she sit there and listen to every single word of my benefits' presentation, and then have her sign for it. Okay, to her credit she maintains her phony cooperative attitude, as do I, but I can feel this woman seething with loathing for me underneath it all. I feel the hate coming off her, but hell, I didn't cause the problem! Fuck it, her hatred doesn't bother me now, and obviously this woman has issues. As she's signing the card acknowledging the presentation she tells me some very negative things about how her office is ignored by the Framingham office. She goes, "We're treated as the orphan children of Dickers well most of them, not all. Three of the people I interview have lots of 'attitude', but I take it because I'm worn down by these people. The other interview I do in the morning is with the office flunky, Georgie Ball, who was super friendly and very appreciative of the benefits upgrade. He's a goofy-looking kid who told me he's going to college at night and he's grateful for the job. The other three, all women, reflected their boss's arrogance. All their negativity was recorded word for word because that's my job. I don't personally care to get them in trouble but I need to accurately fill in the 'comments' section on the presentation sheet. Bottom line though, alas I fear there are moral problems in Hartford. It's a rather slovenly crew here too; the sloppiness of the office would have Mr. D. throwing up if he were to make a surprise visit here. Yep, a management type from H.R. needs to check this joint out. In the afternoon, after eating a very late lunch alone at a Subway Shop, I do the last two interviews of the in-office personnel. One being the aforementioned Ichabod Crane lookalike, and the other was the receptionist, Carol. Both of them acted somewhere in the range of, um, normal behavior except Carol is obviously no Mensa candidate. My 'notes' accurately reflect the positive comments from a couple of these people, as well as the contentious attitudes from Ms. Pulp and most of her employees. What else could I do? When I'm done with the office personnel it's not even four o'clock. My clothes are still wet though and it's still raining so I make the management decision to put-off until tomorrow interviewing employees at the construction site. For one thing I'm pretty sure the construction guys begin work early and they may even be done working by now. I could ask Ms. Pulp about that but I don't. Like I said, I made a management decision... plus she scares me. Packing up my stuff, I'm thinking...Oh fuck, I should say goodbye to the manager, but I don't. Hey, it's my first time doing this shit! So I'm ready to go to the hotel and check in. Instead of doing the smart thing and programming the address of the hotel in the GPS, I take a shortcut and ask a woman getting a cup of tea for directions to the hotel, which I was told isn't too far from this office. I'm not claiming the tea-lady did it on purpose, but her directions weren't worth shit and, long story short, following the tea-drinkers' directions I found myself on a ramp that led me back onto route 84 going east. I'm heading out of town on the way back to Framingham which very well could be where they wanted me heading. In the car I'm again screaming curses like a wild man and pounding my fist on the dashboard. My blood pressure is probably reaching unhealthy levels. The traffic is wicked heavy again and to say I feel stupid and frustrated is to simply understate the situation. My eyes burn like I want to fucking cry! Finally I see a semi-safe spot to pull over onto a wider breakdown lane. I simply cannot fucking believe I'm on route 84 again! Parking as far over in the breakdown lanes I can get, I sit here for a few moments trying to calm myself. It's my own damn fault again! And this Goddamn rain keeps coming down in waves with cars and trucks flying by a mere three-feet away from me at what seems like a hundred-miles-an-hour making the little Chevy shake like crazy. Omigod, I gotta get my act together! I hate this business trip like nothing I've ever hatred before in my life! Errrrr! When I've got myself under control I do what I should have done in the first place. Looking in my pro-folio I find and then program the GPS with the address for the Holiday Inn, and after some hair-raising near accidents I just manage to get to the hotel alive. Parking as close to the main entrance as I can get, I sit in the car feeling sick to my stomach. Then, giving myself a good talking to, with renewed determination I grab my suitcase and the clothes Rob insisted should be on hangers, work up my resolve and then make a mad dash for the hotel as the rain continues pouring down on me. Waiting to register, I check my watch and shake my head. Can I believe this? It's taken me almost an hour to get to this hotel that's a mere six-miles from the office. Thank God the registration goes smoothly. Going into my room I'm still enormously frustrated and basically exhausted from the drive and then dealing with very hostile people every step of the way. Getting out of my soggy clothes I take a long hot shower, feeling sorry for myself. The shower felt good but afterward I'm still in a funk thinking about all the crap that went wrong today and then realize I haven't checked my cellphone since leaving home this morning. Taking it out of the side pocket of my wet and wrinkled suit jacket I see a few texts and emails. Good! Sitting in the desk chair I read Robby's email and get my first information about why Ms. Pulp slammed the phone down. I'm grinning like mad at Rob's description of how his Dad was bat-shit-outraged at Ms. Pulp. Rob thinks he's Dad was uber embarrassed that a manager in his company would act like that to anyone. Breaking-out with a full smile I'm imagining how shocked and furious she must have been listening to Mr. D.'s one-minute rant and then I remember her silent scream of frustration after she slammed the phone down. Oh man, I feel better! After what she put me through I have no sympathy for her, and then I do have some. I don't know what her life is like, so she could have all kinds of problems outside of work and... oh, I don't know... And the other email I care about is from Chubby. He says I'm gonna love our new car. New to us anyway. We bought a previously owned 2014 Kia Soul when neither of us ever thought in a million years we'd ever be driving a Kia! That odd car was never remotely on our radar screens, but the low mileage, good price, and all the extras it has, plus the funky green color with that funky boxy shape... well it is kinda cool in a weird way. Anyway, I'm thrilled Chubby's so 'high' on the car after driving it home this afternoon. While I was having a shit-storm afternoon he was having a good time, so I'm happy for him. Jeez, I can hardly wait to drive the car myself. For right now though, I put off reading the other texts I see, except the one from my Mom's wishing me good luck ...with love. Pulling back the bedspread I get in bed; yeah I'm in bed at a little after five o'clock in the afternoon. I was feeling depressed in the shower and depression makes me tired. Thankfully those three messages on my cellphone brightened my outlook a little. I think about Chubby and Rob and how wonderful my Mom always is to me and I feel the love from those guys. Thinking those warm thoughts, and feeling homesick, I drift off for a nap. Only for a half-hour though and when I wake-up I find that now I'm pissed-off someone in HR hadn't warn me about that Hartford office being full of miscreants. Is it possible no one is aware of them? Maybe Ms. Pulp has a point about her office being ignored and consequently they're left to operate mostly off-the-rails with limited direction from Framingham. Jesus, what I'll find tomorrow in the 'field' with the gruff construction workers I dread thinking about right now. It's way past five o'clock so Rob's surely done his day at work and I really want to talk with him. I wanna hear his voice and hear about every tiny detail of the blow-up Mr. Dickers had in support of me. So I call and we're both kind of excited at first, talking over each other for a bit before settling down. I love hearing Rob talk, especially after the shitty day I just had. Robby has a young person's voice, it's almost boyish and very pleasant and sexy to hear. He tells me he texted me about his Dad's outburst on Ms. Pulp as soon as he heard about it from Dottie. She's quite the gossip, Dottie is, but mostly she knows we're boyfriends, Rob and me, so she wanted to tell Rob about it knowing he'd tell me. Dottie likes me I think, or at least she likes teasing me about shit. Anyway I never got around to checking my phone to learn about all those going ons until just a little while ago. I tell Rob I was too engaged in a tug-of-war with the hefty office manager to think about my phone. We talk for half-an-hour without me complaining too much. It's soothed my mind somewhat finding out the support I got from Rob's Dad. I mention to Robby the drive here in the rain, getting lost and all, but I don't make a big deal out of it. I merely say the drive sucked. I don't want to come off as a whiner or, um, incompetent. Anyway I'm not feeling all that stressed now because talking with Rob gets me mostly over all that crap. It's in the past and can't be changed, and I'm fine now. I tell him, "Rob, if your Dad asks how I'm doing, tell him I'm good. I've completed the office personal and they all signed-off on the new benefits. There's some notes he'll probably be interested in but, um, it was like no problem basically. That's mostly what I'm trying to say... no major problems at all." We obviously talk some about Ms. Pulp because the people there in Framingham were talking about the incident. Office gossip, ya know. I down-play her obnoxiousness because, like I said, by now I'm feeling a little bit bad for her. Anyway Mr. Dickers can come to his own conclusions from Ms. Pulp's own words that I diligently transcribed without any comments of my own. When we're off the phone I'm proud of myself for not throwing-up on Rob with elaborate descriptions of all the nasty aspects of this terrible day. That'd be unprofessional and, um, kinda embarrassing too. After we're done our conversation I walk around my hotel room, like: okay, what's next on the agenda for a professional businessman on a business trip? Oh yeah, dinner, dummy! Looking out the window I see the rain hasn't let-up at all and I don't want to do any more driving in that tonight. I get dressed in jeans and a pullover shirt, resigned to eating alone at the Holiday Inn restaurant. First, of course, I tried for an easy dinner solution by looking at the room-service menu but it's wildly overpriced with a limited selection and nothing on it appealed to me. At the restaurant, waiting to be seated, I'm slowly shaking my head because I've always hated eating alone in restaurants, and I'm definitely not looking forward to doing it now. I've got a book with me as a 'prop' that will hopefully project that I'm occupied. Ya know, implying that being alone at the table is my preference and doesn't mean I have no friends. The book I've been reading for two weeks now is David McCullough's, 'John Adams', and it's an interesting non-fiction book that at times reads like fiction. The world has changed in so many ways in the past hundred-and-sixty-years-or-so, but in many ways people haven't. Tough to wrap my head around some of it. And, omigod, the modern conveniences we take for granted weren't even imagined in those folks' wildest dreams. But they were a much hardier people than we are now... much hardier! The lady at the desk finally gets around to escorting me to a table-for-four. Huh, I'm looking at tables-for-two that are out of the way against the wall there, and I'd be less obvious at one of those tables. If there's a next time I'll speak-up and insist on one of those tables. I was caught off guard this time. Sitting here I pretend I'm reading my book while trying inconspicuously to glance around to see if anyone's looking at me. As far as I can tell no one is. Most of the people here appear to be on business. At least I don't see any families. Mostly there's two people at a table, although there are some tables with three-or-four people, and then there's one loud group of eight men at a big round table who all appear to be drunk. Anyway men outnumber women three to one but I assume women are as likely to be on a business trip as men. And then there are the three tables with one person at each table, all against the wall where I should be. They must have thought to speak up and insist on those tables while I didn't, and consequently I'm situated exactly in the middle of this room... alone at this table for four. Balls! As I continue to 'pretend' reading my book a middle-age waitress comes over and is very nice asking me if she can get me something to drink. I say, "Yes, please. I'll have a Manhattan straight-up made with VO, and a Maraschino Cherry and, um, a splash of the cherry juice." She sighs and then apologizes for needed to verify my ID. We go through a quick 'carding' ritual and then 'Bee', that's what it says on her name tag, goes off to get my cocktail. Hmmmm, I'm seriously considering getting drunk tonight. The Manhattan is very cold and sweet, giving me a little buzz. Huh, I order another one while placing my dinner order for grilled pork chops, scalloped potatoes, and the 'seasonal' vegetables that apparently go with whatever else you order. Yes, the second Manhattan is just like the first but the dinner disappoints from the start. I strongly suspect, and hope for the sake of this Holiday Inn that I'm correct in assuming the regular chef has Mondays off because the fill-in chef needs a lot more training. My valiant effort at eating the salad is waylaid by the mysterious orange dressing on the limp lettuce; the dressing being even sweeter than my Manhattan. Hmmm. Oh well, here comes my main course; maybe it will save the meal. A few bites of the scalloped potatoes, however, brings to mind Stop have you ever used mnemonic devises. For example, 'Dale works in sales'. See? Or alliteration like, 'John's from Jersey'. Like that." What in the fuck is he talking about now? I go, "Oh, uh huh." Still nodding my head and gulping my latest beer I realize I've already forgotten his name again. He goes, "Anyway, my name should be easy. Tony Blair was the Prime Minister of England for years. He was in the news here all the time during the Bush administration... the Iraq war. Remember? Ring a bell?" I must have a very blank expression on my face because he mumbles, "Yeah, I guess that's before your time." I go, "What was that about the Iraq war?" and he laughs out loud again, and then says, "Okay, you hot-shit, I know when I'm being 'put-on'. Good show! I have a feeling I can't teach you anything." Have you ever been in a conversation when you have no idea what it's about? I'm definitely feeling the booze by now so I need to get the hell out of here. The Prime Minister is quiet for a minute and then he mumbles, "This band needs some work, huh, Dylan?" Well I understood that! The band is playing, 'Sargent Peppers' Lonely Hearts Club Band' very poorly, and so for something to say, I mutter, "The Beatles are the most overrated band in recorded history. kolej escort I'm not saying they suck, but that they're simply way overrated." He goes, "Holy shit! I totally agree with you, but you're the first person I've ever met with the balls to make that definitive statement. The Beatles are like the band that can do no wrong... band royalty. Did you ever here their song where then just keep repeating, 'Number 9' over and over." No, I don't know about that, but we start talking about rock groups. The groups' drummers, guitarists, and lead singers, whatever. We don't agree on much, not after our initial agreement about the Beatles, but this dude is very well informed about rock music. A couple of beers later he helps me remember his name. We're laughing as he makes me repeat, 'Tony' out loud a few times, and I do remember it after that. He goes, "See, that's another way to remember names. Saying the name a number of times in your head or even better saying the name out loud a few times. Obviously, depending where you are at the time, that can be slightly weird." I go, "No shit, like in a bar with people gawking at you." Tony goes, "Pay these people no mind, Dylan." I must be drunk to have agreed to repeat his name out loud like that, but then I did a version of that same thing this morning running across the street memorizing what's-her-name's name; the arrogant office manager, um... well, I can't think of her name right now. Anyway, Tony's easy to talk with and when we finish talking about our likes and dislikes music-wise, and I've memorized Tony's name, we move on to talk about our favorite sports teams and before I know it, it's Tony who says he's got appointments starting at eight o'clock in the morning and he needs to get some sleep. It's me who says, "One more for the road, Prime Minister," but he won't have another beer and then insists on paying the tab. He tosses a credit card on the bar, saying, "I'll stick this on my expense account, Dylan. You're Doctor Newman tonight... ha ha." We agree to meet here at the bar around six o'clock tomorrow evening to have dinner together someplace, any place other than here will do fine as far as I'm concerned. He leaves and I finish my beer and then pay the tab for the first three beers I had, leaving too-generous of a tip. In my room I'm thinking this business trip thing isn't so bad after all. Then the next morning I don't wake-up until almost nine o'clock and of course I've got a pisser of a hangover. I'm also pissed-off that I agreed to meet that guy tonight for dinner. Why in the hell did I say I'd do that? Goddammit! That's my first thought this morning when my first thought should have been: I'm late for work! I can't even remember everything I said last night... I know I was babbling there for a while. I quickly do everything in the bathroom I need to and then get dressed in a suit that is just back from the cleaners. Okay then, yeah I'm late again this morning but at least I'm looking good! Carefully placing a 'Stick em tag' with the name of the manager I'm meeting at the construction site on my pro-folio satchel, I take the elevator down to the hotel's breakfast cafe and buy a coffee to go. This is brand new day and somehow I'm feeling optimistic about it. After weathering all the shit that went wrong yesterday I figure everything bad that could happen has already happened. Plus, having the name of the foreman I'm meeting staring me in the face from the Stick 'em tag on the front of this fake leather case gives me a sense of confidence. And I've got another thing going for me too: my email correspondence with this guy never included an exact time I'd meet with him this morning, so there's no way I can be late. Getting this late of a start means I'll be missing the rush hour traffic too, so things are looking up for me. Outside I see the rain has finally stopped so, yes indeed things are starting to go my way finally. Sure, it is an ugly overcast day with rain water still dripping off the trees and everything else, but it's not fucking raining! Ha ha, and there's that piece of shit car they lent me for this business trip, right where I left it. Nobody stole it and no there's flat tires. Nope, nothing bad happened to my 'ride', so that's another good omen right there. Getting in the car I turn the engine over and it starts right up. Punching the address for the construction site's sales office into the GPS I'm like... huh, what's wrong? After trying the address twice without any luck, I'm like: what the fuck? This old model GPS won't accept the address? Damn, I'll bet the address is too new for this worthless piece of shit GPS! I hold my breath for ten seconds and then scream as loud as I can for as long as I can. Holy shit, I feel like I'm gonna pass out. A man emptying a trash barrel from the hotel just stops and watches me screaming. Oh gawd, I'm frustrated beyond words! After a few seconds I yell at the man, "What the fuck are you looking at?" The car's windows are up though so he probably didn't know exactly what, or who I was screaming at. Oh man.... So much for my positive outlook today and goodbye to that temporary sense of confidence. I had the good vibes for ten whole minutes there. Balls! How the hell am I going to find the construction site? Ya know what? I never knew something as bull-shit and sucky as this business trip could even exist in this world. No fucking idea anything could suck this bad! Reluctantly, but roughly, like I'm trying to break it, I'm stabbing my finger on the GPS getting the 'Last Ten Addresses' to appear and forcefully poke on the address for the Hartford office. Without any other choice I take off for the office getting a little squeal from the back tires as I fishtail away from the parking spot. I'm so pissed I can't even scream now, I mean this is going to be embarrassing beyond anything I can think of, but there's no way around it, I'll need to get directions to the site from Ms. Pulp. The trip to the office doesn't take long, making me think again about the fucked-up way I took getting to the hotel from the office last night. Parking at the strip mall again I jerk the car door open and stalk across the street to the office. Ironically I'm going through the front door at a little after ten o'clock, almost exactly twenty-four hours after I came through this exact same door yesterday. Gawd! The receptionist looks up giving me one of her furrowed eyebrow 'looks' as if she's never laid eyes on me before in her life. I'm trying to calm the fuck down and not take my anguish out on her. I force a smile and after standing here, both of us looking at each other for an awkward ten seconds, she says, "G'morning, um, can I help you?" I keep as much of the smile on my face as I can while reminding this moron who I am and that I was here the whole day yesterday. I can almost hear the gears grinding in her head and, Bingo! she remembers. Yeah, she remembers and gets a startled expression on her face as she glances back at Ms. Pulp's office. She's probably afraid I'll start yelling at her. We both see the door to Ms. Pulp's office is closed, so I say, "Um, I'm not here to see Ms. Pulp necessarily, um," and I glance at her name tag, adding, "Carol. Actually I'm sure you can help me." Her furrowed eyebrows deepen as I continue, "Ah, yeah... there's no need to bother her, heh heh." It's easy calling a person by their name when they have a name plate on their desk. Everyone should have a name plate, or better yet wear a name tag around their neck. Carol isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer however, so I go slow, "Here's the situation, Carol. Um, the construction site's address is a relatively recent one. It's too 'new' to register on my old GPS." She looks back at Ms. Pulp's closed office door again and, resisting the urge to slap her, I continue, "And there's no need to bother Ms. Pulp if you could give me directions? Tell me how to get there from here, ya know... um, do ya think you can do that?" Gawd, it's like I'm talking to a six year old. While Carol's thinking about that I glance over at a woman who's staring at me from her work station. Omigod, it's the tea-drinking lady who gave me the bogus directions to the Holiday Inn yesterday... is she smirking? Looking back at the receptionist I see she's now going through her top desk drawer, mumbling, "I think I have something. We printed some, oh, where are those darn...?" and then she brings out a brochure, mumbling, "Oh good." Handing me the brochure, she proudly says, "That's a promotional brochure for the new condos and retail space for the Derry Hill project. I mean, if that's the one you want." Brilliant deduction on her part since it's the only project Dickers it didn't take much to make him laugh. Nice guy though. Done his latest laugh, he goes, "We owe you a sock, Dylan." So I'm on my way back to the Holiday Inn before four o'clock and the good news is I don't get lost. I'm in my room by twenty-after-four and my first order of business is another long, hot shower. After that I dress in jeans and a short-sleeve pullover, plus sneakers, of course. Sneakers being my only other footwear at the moment. After taking the elevator down to the lobby I ask at the front desk about a mall. I need to buy a pair of shoes. The mall's only a mile down the same road the hotel is on, so even I don't get lost driving there. Parking in a spot close to an entrance, I go in a random door and it leads right into Nordstrom Department Store... the Men's Department no less. Ha! Something has finally worked out well for me. A sign indicates Men's shoes are to my left. In the shoe department I pick-up and look at six loafers and settle pretty quickly on a pair of Cole Haam Harrison, Penny Loafers regularly priced at $220.00 on sale for $131.98. Yeah, I know penny loafers aren't real cool but I like them anyway. Plus, since Rob isn't with me to talk me into buying something else, which would only have happened after he'd examined every fucking pair of shoes in the store, I'm done my 'shopping' in ten-minutes. Shopping for clothes, which I'm not a fan of, is much simpler when doing it alone. Speaking of Robby, he calls as I'm driving back to the hotel. We talk as I'm driving and then continue talking for twenty-minutes more when I'm back in my room. He wants to hear about everything. I save the more gruesome stuff, like my lost muddy-loafers, for when I get home. Perhaps it'll seem funny to me by then. After ending the call I flop on the bed feeling homesick again. I miss Rob and Chubby mostly, and I want to get in our new Kia and drive around familiar places and just be with familiar people who like me. Yeah, I'm not cut-out for business trips. It's not in my DNA or something, and the other thing is I haven't once during this trip thought to check-out guys for cuteness and/or sexiness, not even once since I got here. I'm not even sure if the guy last night qualifies as either cute or sexy, not really. I haven't looked at him that closely. Christ, at the mall I didn't even think about looking at guys. Not too long ago I'd have at least taking a stroll up and down the mall and looked around. Actually, now that I think about it, I'm kinda pissed-off I didn't do that. Lying on the bed thinking those thoughts, all of a sudden I think, 'Oh fuck... I've got to have dinner with that guy tonight. Dammit!' I try talking myself into blowing-off dinner but I can't make myself do that because I said I'd meet him at the bar and I'm not big about going back on my word. Also, what if I didn't show up and then see him later in the elevator or lobby? Jesus, that would suck! Okay, I'm still dressed in jeans, a Polo pull-over, and sneakers. I don't feel like changing out of these clothes so I leave the room at ten-of-six wearing what I have on. Waiting for the elevator though, I start wondering if I should have put my suit back on. Yeah, as a businessman I probably should have. Or maybe... oh, I don't fucking know! As soon as I walk into the bar I and see the back of his head and remember his name, it's Tony-something. He's sitting there still wearing his suit and tie. I go over and sit next to him getting a big smile from him as he says, "I just got here from my last appointment, Dylan. Get this bro, the administrator at this big hospital told me he didn't care for my attitude and then I got stood-up for a luncheon appointment and the rest of my day wasn't much better. It goes like that some days. I hope your day was better than mine." Shrugging, I mumble, "It was kinda weird actually." We get beers and because he's not saying anything and seems a little 'down' I tell him about the mud and loafers fiasco. He laughs hysterically at that. I mean, in between him apologizing, "I'm sorry for laughing, Dylan, I know it wasn't funny when you were going through it," and then he laughs some more with me chuckling along by now. After a couple of beers he suggests a few restaurant options and I motion at my clothes, asking, "Is what I have on gonna be a problem for any of the restaurants?" He goes, "You're kidding, right? Nowadays anything goes. Hell, I would have changed too if I got back in time." We finish our third beers and walk out with me saying, "I'll drive if you give me directions." He shrugs, "Sure, okay." I'm actually embarrassed about the compact car, but I'm willing to put up with being embarrassed in order to feel more in control of, um, whatever. Ya know, by having my own 'ride'. Naturally I don't tell Tony that. We go to a restaurant that's a twenty-minute drive from the hotel, passing a number of closer restaurants, but Tony highly recommends this one place so I just drive. The place is called, 'Dan's and Jan's Angus Beef Palace'. After parking, we're walking to the front door as I mumble, "I'm feeling like 'fish' for dinner tonight. How 'bout you?" Tony does his laugh and then says, "How do you handle disappointment, Dylan?" Tony seems like a good guy but then he is a salesman. Salesmen usually need to be upbeat and they tell jokes and they can carry-on a conversation about almost anything, and so forth. One thing I've learned from this time with Tony is I would not make a good salesman. I can't constantly carry on small talk, or be constantly 'up' all the time, or be as accommodating as he is about everything. It's exhausting just thinking about doing all that. He orders a Manhattan before dinner and I wonder if he somehow knew that's what I had last night before dinner? Did I tell him? Anyway I order a Manhattan too, saying, "This is what I had last night before dinner. Did I tell you that?" He nods, "Yeah, you mentioned it and it sounded good. I usually get a vodka martini... two or three actually," and he chuckles. Yeah, that's another thing he does, he chuckles and laughs a lot about almost everything. Tony and Mac could have a chuckling contest. As we're drinking our Manhattans, he goes, "Did I tell you I have an identical twin brother?" I shake my head, "No, I don't think so," and he tells me his brother is in medical school on his way to being a surgeon, like their Father. He says, "I'm the black-sheep, lazy twin. I took this pharmaceutical gig as a compromise between medical school and what I really wanted to do." I go, "And what's that?" He laughs, "I've always wanted to join the Air Force, even as a little kid. Obviously being gay put a crimp on those aspirations although not as big a crimp as my Father put on them." I hope I didn't look startled hearing that, as he goes on, "What the hell though, it's probably for the best. It would have complicated matters being a closeted gay in the Air Force." I do a fake cough into my napkin. Holy shit, he said that part about him being gay as if I already knew he was. He says, "Oh fuck. Didn't I tell you that last night?" I don't remember him saying anything about it. He looks at me and goes, "Oh shit, the look on your face tells me I didn't." I shrug, "If you mean about you being gay, I don't remember, but it's no problem one way or the other. I mean if that's what you're thinking." He shakes his head, "No, I wasn't thinking it's a problem. Not in today's world, um, on the east coast of America anyway, ha ha." Christ, what the hell are the chances he'd be gay? He finishes his cocktail, and says, "Well hell, you know from your own experience it's not a big problem being gay nowadays. It's just that, I don't know, I should have mentioned I was gay before suggesting we have dinner tonight," and he does one of his natural-sounding laughs as he adds in a humorous manner, "And we're going 'Dutch' with dinner tonight, by the way." I say, "Sure, I assumed we'd split the bill." He grins, adding, "Just so ya don't thing we're on a date, ha ha." I frown, and he says, in a serious manner, "I'm not coming on to you. Please believe me, Dylan. We're two businessmen having dinner. It happens a million times a night." I go, "Yeah, I know that!" Yeah, but I'm thinking he said, 'as you know,' meaning what? That I told him I'm gay? I wasn't that drunk last night, was I? He's looking around for the waitress, probably to order another Manhattan. Looking back at me, he asks, "Do you mind if I have another drink before dinner?" I nod, "No, I'll have one too! Ah, um, did I mention last night that I'm gay?" He goes, "No, not right-out, but you obviously weren't hiding the fact." I go, "Whaddaya mean?" and he chuckles, "You mentioned your horrible haircut, remember? I don't see what's so bad about it myself, but you said your boyfriend usually cuts it, except not this time." Oh yeah, I remember that thirty-second conversation last night. I felt self-conscious about Danny's attempt at giving me a haircut. That's right, and I must have said 'boyfriend', meaning Rob, without giving it a thought. Well, it's not as if I'm in the closet. Not for the last three years anyway. This development does put a different slant on the evening though. We both order another cocktail and then have steaks for dinner. Mostly I talk about what I'm doing in Hartford. Tony goes, "Oh, Human Resources. Wow, that's kind of a big responsibility, huh? Sounds like it is to me anyway. Um, do you mind telling me how old you are? You look awfully young for an important job like that." I tell him my age and explain it's a summer job and blah, blah, blah. He finally chuckles and goes, "Ah ha, your boyfriend's Father owns the company! Now I understand. Still, you look so fucking young." I'm like, "Do you think so?" and he goes, "Are you serious? Now me, holy shit, I've been getting 'served' at bars since I was nineteen. I've always looked older than I am. Obviously it was great back then being the hot shit who could buy booze for my buddies, but not so cool now." I ask, "How old are you?" He goes, "Twenty-eight. How old do I look?" I go, "Twenty-thirteen," and he laughs, but he looks about twenty-eight, or maybe thirty-something. Once you get a certain 'look', you normally stay like that for twenty years or so before starting to look older again. He tells me some funny stories about growing up as an identical twin, but he never says if his twin brother is gay. If he's 'identical' does that necessarily mean they're both gay? Somehow that seems too personal a question to ask, so I don't. The meals are served and my steak is perfectly grilled and its super tender, juicy, and delicious. Aged beef, ya know? And the rest of the meal is very good too. Way different than last night's meal. After dinner Tony gives me half the cost of the bill, plus tip, in cash and I put the charge on my debit card. We have a few beers at the bar and then Tony says he needs to turn-in early tonight. As he pays for our beers, he goes, "This will be another expense account item. Well, ha ha, so was half the dinner tonight except I'll probably put the whole cost of the dinner on my expense account claiming I lost the receipt. Fuck 'em." An experienced business traveler's deceit, I guess. As I'm driving us back to the hotel, he says, "Sorry for cutting the night short, Dylan, but I'm a little bummed-out about what I didn't accomplish today. In the past, in my younger days, after days like I had today it was too easy for me to fall back on getting smashed, drunk as a skunk and feeling sorry for myself. maltepe escort I've been working on growing-up lately though, so I don't wanna use the over-drinking thing as a crutch anymore." Huh, he's still growing-up at age twenty-eight. I mumble, "No problem, I get it," and he nods, "Yeah, as much as I hate the thought, I need to kiss-up to that hospital administrator tomorrow to get back on his good side, and then do some serious cold-calling in between my scheduled appointments. So it'll be an early start in the morning for me. I hate it, but I gotta do it." Fuck, I am not gonna be a salesman! At the hotel he gives me a pat on the back and takes the elevator up to his room. I go in the bar for one more beer wondering if I'm even interested in Tony as a side-sex partner. Of course he hasn't given me any indication he's interested in me, but just as an exercise I think about us doing it. Huh, ya know what? I just figured something out and it's that Tony's 'looks' remind me a little of Willie. Yeah, if Willie were ten-years-older-looking. I mean they both have that longish face and the little wrinkle in the bridge of their nose when then grin or laugh. Holy shit, I knew he reminded me of someone! Same dark hair and dark blue eyes. Dark hair and dark blue eyes with that pale complexion they both have... that's kind of a stunning 'look'. Ya don't expect the dark blue eyes with dark hair, not normally anyway. Finishing my beer I debate with myself about having another one but then drop ten-bucks on the bar and head up to my room. Waiting for the elevator I realize Tony and I never arranged for dinner tomorrow night and neither of us ever mentioned exchanging cellphone numbers. Huh, maybe I've seen the last of the Prime Minister. When I get in bed I don't go right to sleep because I'm thinking about Rob and me. It's like, even though this is just my second night here, because our sex lives have been so stellar lately, I feel a real need to share sex with him right now. Right this second I'm missing sex with him more than is probably reasonable after only two days. No, there's no 'probably' about it... it is definitely unreasonable. What, I can't go a couple of night without Robby and me having sex? That's sick! Yeah, well I miss being in bed with him too. Being with Rob makes me feel, um, safe. Yeah, that's how I always felt being with Chubby when we were growing up... safe. Wonder why I need to feel safe? Safe from what? Next morning I'm at the construction site before eight o'clock and the interviews go smoothly all day. Even smoother than yesterday because there's less dead-time in between the interviews. Even though there was an unfortunate, from my perspective anyway, hour and a half safety meeting when I got no interviews done, I still got twelve interviews completed including the one for Tyler Mack, the project manager, as well as Boo's interview, the handy man who ruined my loafers. His name is actually Paul Goast. The last name sounds like, 'ghost' which equals his nickname 'Boo'... I suppose. So that leaves only seven guys to interview Thursday, and it hits me that, fuck... I can go home a day early! Yeah, things have turned around for me for sure! Wow, Okay! Yeah, then Friday I'll go into the Framingham office to write-up all the final reports and summaries and I won't need to go to the office on Monday. Holy shit, my summer job will be over the day after tomorrow and I can finally concentrate on getting ready for my last year at college! Back at the hotel there's a message-light flashing on the telephone in my room. It's from Tony and he says, "Hey, stud, are you okay with having dinner together again tonight? Hope so. Leave me a text on my cellphone," and he gives his cellphone number. Huh! So what do I want to do? Just dinner, or dinner and side-sex, or no dinner and no side sex. Hmmm, I'll be checking-out of the hotel before going to the construction site tomorrow morning, so there'd be little chance of running into Tony should I decline dinner tonight. Let me think about this... During another long shower I try to think of the pros and cons of having dinner with Tony and decide I'm turning into a wimp for even needing to think about it. I never get to have side-sex anymore and this is like an open invitation for that and yet here I am trying to decide whether to do it or not. Get with it, Dylan... Christ! I mean, Tony's a good guy and he's, um, slim and not bad looking. Yeah, and Robby's having his dalliances with Danny for buddy-sex, although not frequently. Off topic, but omigod I wish I was having dalliances with Danny too! Heh heh, but that's an entirely different matter. Yeah it is, but I fantasize about Danny for a little bit just the same. His awesome brand of buddy-sex in many ways is similar to lover's sex and then later it's slightly similar to sub/dom sex as well. We do it the way he wants, that's for sure. It's not until afterward that Danny acts like we had buddy sex. Ha, it's so infrequent though I'm surprised I even remember how we do it. Oh fuck, that has very little to do with tonight though. As I'm rinsing off under this very good water flow in the shower I tell myself... yes, have dinner and side-sex. That's assuming he suggests it. I owe it to myself, plus it's probably unhealthy to have a drastic and abrupt change in my life's routine. I mean that's what giving up sex for five days would be like. I may still be young but I need to think of my health just the same. Plus, like I was thinking last night, Tony' appearance reminds me a little bit of Willie and... um, ya know... Yeah dammit, I'm calling Willie when I get home too. I miss him. Getting out of the shower, I'm like, 'Gee, it's good to be able to make a decision'. And it's actually kind of exciting too. I mean thinking about side-sex with someone I like okay, and it'll be a totally new sexual experience for me with Tony. Variety, ya know! Everyone has their little different techniques performing sex acts. Wait a second; what if he's a committed 'bottom'? Well, so what if he is? Topping is good to, although what I'd really like is a good hard fucking on my ass. Damn though, this is kinda fun to think about after all the time since, um, since the last time I had side-sex. This summer has been as barren as the Sahara Desert as far as side-sex goes, and buddy-sex hasn't been much better, or any better. Oh boy, but I gotta be cool about this with Tony. Act like it's no big deal, and it shouldn't be a big deal either, except it kind of is a big deal considering how long it's been since the last time for me. With a towel around my waist I text Tony, 'Yeah, dinner tonight sounds good. Six o'clock at the bar, if that works for you'. Now he has my cellphone number so if six o'clock doesn't work for him he can let me know. Looking at myself in the mirror that's on the back of the closet door I wonder if I should shave. Hmmm, Tony said I look young, so I won't shave. Ha, not that it's all that noticeable whether I do or not. Nothing I can do with my hair except comb it over in the front and purposely not look too closely at the rest of it. I don't hear back from Tony so at six o'clock, wearing jeans and a button-up-the-front-shirt, I go to the bar. He's not there yet so I order a beer from the bartender, Artie, who remembers me which means no 'ID' hassle this time. Tony shows-up in khakis and a light-weight sweatshirt ten-minutes later. We smack hands and then he does his usual pat on my shoulder giving me his big smile, and now I'm thinking he really does look like Willie. Yeah, now that it's in my head I see more similarities. Or at least I see the possibility that this is sort of what Willie will look like when he's older, like ten years from now. Tony gets a beer and asks, "How'd your day go?" I'm like, "Good, really good," and he's all smiles saying he had some very positive responses from his cold-calling. He's 'pumped and jacked' because he had success today, plus he still has a day-and-a-half to make his trip even more successful. He also made some significant inroads with that asshole hospital administrator, so yeah, Tony's in a very good mood. I'm in a good mood too, especially because my business trip will end tomorrow! Tony tells me that today he was working an area thirty-miles from Hartford in the city of 'Waterbury'. I never heard of the city before in my life, but mutter, "Oh, Waterbury, huh? What type of city is that?" He tells me its not much of a city but he has good customers there and goes on to tell me about specific experiences he encountered today. They all sound dreadful to me but he apparently sees things differently. We have a couple of beers that I pay for because he got the beers we had after dinner last night, and then we go to a cool restaurant that's only five minutes from the hotel. Actually it's more a huge 'bar' than a restaurant. I wondered if it was a gay bar at first, but quickly realize it's not. The restaurant is called, 'Frank's Roast Beef and Beer Joint', which doesn't sound anything like a gay bar, now that I think about it. This place is similar to the Beef compliments about how great they fuck. Not Tony, obviously. Drying his hands, he asks, "Would you be okay with rimming my ass next time? Ya know, getting your tongue way up my asshole. That's my number one turn-on... rimming." Of all the fucking nerve! I go, "No, I'm not okay with that!" He shrugs and mumbles, "Deep throating is awesome too. Hey, I can tell you're experienced, Dylan." Yeah, really? Shit, I'm used to hearing a little more enthusiasm from my sex-partners about my special rectum and what a great 'bottom' I am. Tony thinks it's all about him so no wonder he's had problems with the amount of sex he's been having. There's protocol involved, and when you... oh, forget it. As we're getting dressed Tony tells me a tale about something totally unrelated. He's very enthusiastic about his one time experience of going up in a fighter jet when he was a junior at college. It's a rambling story and I can't help but think he's the poster boy for side-sex. Once he's climaxed he's lost interest in it entirely, and he's off talking about, um, whatever. This fighter jet bull-shit is like the second or third topic he's mentioned since he blew his load in that one-dollar condom. At the bar we're both bitching about the band again. It's the same one that's been here all week. And then, for the first time I can remember I order a shot of bourbon. It just happened! I don't know why exactly but I ordered the shot with my second beer. Tony declines the offer to join me. I'm still curious about his sex life and ask, in a confidential manner that only Tony can hear, "So, what'd you say the frequency of sex you've been experiencing lately has been?" He doesn't hesitate to tell me pretty much what he told me earlier tonight. He does clarify that he's mostly a bottom, although he definitely prefers 'topping'. Chuckling, he goes, "I'm willing to go either way and since most of the gay guys I know insist on being a 'top', I'm like... `" Well then, I'm the bottom you've been looking for, dude'," and he laughs, adding, "Like I said, I'm always up for it either way." Yeah well, if he knew how much sex I was getting before this summer he wouldn't think he was getting 'above average sex'. But why am I even thinking that? This isn't a competition. In retrospect the sex was okay, oh hell... it was good. He had his way with me so it was even a tiny bit dominant of him, and his equipment's good. Not great, but good, and he fucked pretty good too. Huh, the fact is though, there were zero bells and whistles happened for me during our sex... that's my concern. Is it me? And that's the same thing I was missing with Marty too! Huh... that's concerning, but even without bells and whistles I fully admit all climaxes are super special, or fairly special anyway and this one was too. Mostly I'm feeling good about finally having a side-sex experience, so I don't know why I'm over-analyzing it. Glancing at Tony I'm seeing less of Willie in him after our sex. And, by the way, Willie can fuck circles around this guy! Tony is very effervescent and chatty though, obviously feeling good about himself. He's still likable but I'm noticing a subtle change in his demeanor. For lack of a better description I'll fall back on the 'confidence' word. He's more confident with our interaction, even here at the bar. As an example of that, after our second beer he pats my shoulder and says, "Hurry up and finish that beer, Dylan. It's time we get back to the room." Huh, really? Being the 'top', and then hearing no complaints from me, I guess Tony's adopting more of a 'take-charge' attitude. Yeah well normally I'd like that, but tonight I don't care for his attitude all that much. Where's the bells and whistles, Tony? I don't ask because that's not fair. Ya know though, I'd bet anything if we had a week together for sex he'd get really 'bossy'. Sorry to burst his bubble but, like I mentioned, I'm not 'feeling it' with him, so I say, "Nah, after I finish this beer I'm gonna have another one... or maybe two." That's all it took to put an end to Tony's temporary over-confidence. He hesitated and then mumbles, "Oh, um, sure. I'll have a couple more beers too then, no problem." I go, "Pass those nuts over here, if you don't mind," and I don't mean yours. Heh heh, I don't say that last part. As he slides the bowl of nuts over to me, he goes, "Yeah sure, um, you still want to do it again later though, right?" Yeah, I do even though Tony isn't gonna make my top-ten list of side-sex buddies. Just to break his balls a little bit more though, and to get even with him for pushing my face into that disgusting bedspread, I insist he have a shot of bourbon with me before I'll do 'it' with him again. He does the shot and almost hurls. Ha, he's a bigger pussy doing shots than I am! By now we're both feeling the booze we had earlier, and now these shots and beers. We go back to the room around eleven o'clock and fuck doggy style. Tony let himself go even wilder, and maybe he's even getting a little revenge for me making him do the shot of bourbon. I'm just drunk enough to enjoy his extra roughness though. Hell, I don't need to be drunk to enjoy rough sex. This time it's an even longer, harder fucking that eventually results in an even more intense climax than earlier, and it didn't happen as quick for me this time either. Tony of course takes longer to climax and when he finally does he gives my ass a few hard smacks, and says, "How about we go one more time? You're leaving tomorrows so we should go for it, huh?" My ass is definitely sore now so, as I get up, I mutter, "No more tonight, Tarzan." He chuckles, mumbling, "I get carried away, sorry." We never kiss or do any foreplay at all except the earlier oral sex. Overall though it's been an okay, and even a good experience. As soon as I've rejected his suggestion for 'thirds' though, he's ready to leave. We bump fists with him saying, "If you're ever in Hartford again, blah, blah, blah..." yeh sure, and that's that. After he leaves I'm thinking about how I'm gonna feel in the morning from over-drinking tonight so I find the bottle of Advil in my toiletry kit and take a couple with a half glass of water. It's late but I hop in the shower anyway. While drying off I throw the bedspread on the floor get in bed for a good night's sleep. In the morning my ass is still a little sore and of course I have a hangover. There's good reason for both ailments though; I drank too much last night and Tony was humping his boner up my ass for about forty-minutes if we take into account both times, so it's no wonder I'm a little sore. I take another shower with lots of hot water pouring on my back and ass and then, showered and dressed I go down to the breakfast cafe for a coffee and English muffin. As I take a sip of coffee I find I'm wishing last night was a bit more special. This morning I discover I'm basically ambivalent about last night's activities. I guess it was better than sex with Marty. Yeah it was good, so what the hell am I complaining about? I mean it was good discovering it's still possible for me to have side-sex. I've wondered about that more than a few times this summer. Huh, and I hate to think this, but maybe I haven't been missing all that much. Side-sex seemed a lot 'hotter' in my youth. Of course it could have something to do with my last couple of side-sex partners. That super intense albeit fleeting feeling of a thrilling super-Nova of a side-sex partner hasn't happened since... well, since I don't know when. I'd need to think more about that and I've got more pressing issues on my mind right now, like my last day of work here in Hartford. Back in my room I get my stuff put together and then, carrying my satchel and some clothes on hangers, I'm going down in the elevator telling myself that Tony was a nice guy but the truth is if I never see him again that'd be alright too. And I don't mean that as a 'put-down' of him, but it's just that I never felt any 'sexual heat' between us. Tony probably can say the same thing about me, except from his reaction during sex he may have heard a bell or a whistle, or maybe thirty... Checking out of the Holiday Inn makes me feel good! At the construction site the first five of the last seven interviews go fine but the last two are a problem. Two guys aren't at work today. They called in sick but when Mac realizes they are the only two who haven't heard the presentation, he calls them at their homes and bribes them to come in for the interview saying they'll get paid for the whole day. I guess, what does Mac care... it's not his money. Damn though, what a good guy being super considerate of my situation like that! He knew I'd need to stay another day or come back here some other time to do those last two interviews. Actually what I would have done is forge their signatures and that's what I would have preferred doing rating than stand around all afternoon waiting for thesis two guys to show up. Mac thought he was doing me a favor though so I don't say anything. Then the two guys show up after everyone else has left and neither of then looked very sick to me. They could at least have faked a cough or something. I do very fast interviews with them and that's that! Finally done with Hartford, I can't thank Mac enough. He just brushes it off saying he owed me a favor after my first day when Boo ruined my shoes. Mac is one of those rare really good guys even though his favor kept me around the job site an extra three hours. So I don't get on the road home until almost five o'clock but I'm smiling like crazy anyway because I'm going in the right direction now. Damn, so that's what a business trip is like, huh? Yeah well, I'll do very nicely the rest of my life without going on another one. I talked with Rob yesterday but didn't tell him I'm finishing the trip a day early. Heh heh, I'll surprise him by showing up way early. Maybe I should stop and eat something first though, ya know so I don't just walk in when they probably will still be eating dinner. Or no, I could call Mrs. D. to tell her I'll be home a little late for dinner, and ask her not to say anything to Rob so I can surprise him. Hmmm, that sounds a little too weird for me though; me and Rob's Mother having secrets. No, I'll see what time it is when I get near Framingham and maybe get something to eat at McDonalds or something. Damn though, I'm really, really glad my business trip is over! I can start full-time thinking about my last year at college now! Ha hah though, I can't wait to see the look on Rob's face when I walk in totally unexpected... to be continued... Donny Mumford thinat20@yahoo ast ================================================== ====== Hoping some readers may be interested, there are books of mine published and available on zon. Anyone who has Kindle can download them for next to nothing. The books are usually around ten dollars. They are about a 19 year old gay boy (Oliver) who has a far different life than Dylan's. And there is a new book, 'Mike, his Bike and Me'. Please at least check them out by typing my name on zon. Information about the story in the books can be found in some detail there. Thank you. Donny Mumford ================================================== ====== Hey guys, how about making a small (or large, go for it!) tax deductible donation to nonprofit Nifty. They could use your help covering the expenses inherent in maintaining a free story site this size. Easy directions about how to do that on their 'home page'. fty/donate.html