My Best Man by Andy Schell (unputdownable books .txt) 📗

He’s standing with two other guys. I stop to answer. They all hold beer bottles while I clutch Amity’ schampagne glass. “Yeah, we’ve been dating for a few months,” I say with a confessional grin. “We live together.”

“You live together?” He wriggles uncomfortably, as if he’s just shit in his tuxedo.

“Well … yeah,” I say, a questioning smile on my face.

One of his buddies speaks up. “Old Perry here went out with your girl.”

I’m not defensive. Broaden my smile. “Hey, we’re casual. I mean, I don’t blame you. she’s a beautiful girl.”

“How long have you two been living together?” he asks. “Since January,” I tell him.

I watch him do the math in his head, and I know he’s slept with

her since then, because he looks a little red in the face. He takes a sip of his drink. His buddies laugh, shift their feet in their uncomfortable shoes.

“It’s no big deal. We’ve only started really dating in the last couple months,” I assure him.

He relaxes. Frees up. “Man, she’s pretty fine, huh?”

“She sure is.”

“I’ve never known any girl like that,” he says. His friends laugh again.

I know that he’ sreferring to her blow jobs and that he’ sen lightened his buddies. I let my face tell him I know what he’s talking about. “Me either. She’s incredible.”

“Hey,” the guy who has yet to speak blurts out, “you know who I think is hot? That Jennifer Beals. Man, I’d do her in a minute.”

Please. That horrible perm?

“No shit,” Perry says. “And the way she can move. you could bend her over from the front and do her in the back.”

It was a stunt double! She can’t bend like that or even act.

“Did you see the porno version?” one guy asks. “No shit. There’s a porno movie out called Flashpuss.”

Oh those poor women in porno. White legs and bruises. Plastic high heels. Blue eye shadow. They should unionize.

Perry’s buddies howl and give each other high fives. He turns to me and raises his hand. I raise my free hand to high-five him. And miss. And fall into him and spill Amity’s champagne on his tux. He backs off. “Shit!”

One of his buddies: “Whoa!”

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry.” I set the champagne glass down on the nearest table and grab a napkin. Without thinking, I start wiping him off.

He backs off as if I’m some kind of faggy flight attendant. I’ll do it,” he says, trying to be polite in his disgust.

His friends look at me differently. Chuckle. Strike two. It’s a lousy baseball season.

Reunited in another part of the ballroom, I hand Amity the glass of champagne. Since the spill, there’s half a swallow left in the bottom of the glass.

She looks at the paltry amount. “This pathetic airline.” Airlawn. “This is just typical of their idea for a free employee drink.”

“I’ll get you another one,” I say, feeling like an idiot for not replacing it already. I just want to get out of this place.

“Don’t worry, babe. We’re about to eat. There’s supposed to be red wine with dinner.”

“I wonder what church they stole it from.”

“The Catholics, I hope. They always have the best booze.” We turn and practically bump into Eva Catrell and her boyfriend. He is a shit kicker. His hair is combed straight forward, and the knot of his tie is thick. His hands are as rough as Eva’s voice, and he’s drinking beer from a bottle. He didn’t even try to put on clean cowboy boots. No doubt he drives a pickup with a rifle hanging in the back.

Amity turns on her smile, full bright, and looks at Eva in that Southern way that says, “Sorry, darling’. I win.”

I’m uncomfortable, but I smile, and Eva smiles and we all kind of say hi for one second before Eva raises an ann of her beaded dress and pushes her boyfriend on. He has no idea.

For a moment we stand and watch the women some in ball gowns, others in thousand-dollar cocktail dresses lead their uncomfortable dates, imprisoned in their tuxes and dark suits from table to table. Taped orchestra music is playing, and slide shots of airline workers are being flashed up on a big screen. We watch the screen to see a shot of a fat guy throwing luggage into the cargo bin of a DC-10, then scan the party crowd to see him now wearing a ridiculous light blue tux with ruffled lapels, his buddies slapping him on the back.

The ten-foot-tall picture of the mousy ticket agent, with greasy straight hair, hoisting a piece of luggage onto a scale, belies the glamorous girl in the indigo, off-the-shoulder, beaded gown, her hair now swept up into a French twist. Every once in a while there’s a random shot of our passengers, who, for this presentation, are solely aristocratic families and high-powered business travelers rather than our usual cargo.

After gristly prime rib, the awards begin. The CEO and President, Mr. Gherkin, the religious zealot who measures about five feet tall in his lifts, takes the stage. He stands behind a podium, pulls the microphone down to his mouth, and unconsciously adjusts his toupee. The parade of aviation heroes begins.

Best Voice, Reservations Agent Category. Most Permanent Smile, Flight Attendant. Best Landings, Pilot. Most Christian Bag gage Handler. Most Pleasing Secretary. Best Groomed, Janitorial Staff. Most Optimistic Mechanic. And on it goes until we’re drowning in a sea of hugs and kisses, and the acceptance speeches are waxing gushier and more illiterate with each new award. Amity and I are kicking each other under the table, laughing into our wineglasses as if they’re spit cups at the dentist, using our napkins to cover our hyena mouths. And then … “For her ability to keep everyone happy, passengers and fellow employees alike, for always maintaining her poise and charm, and for always offering an encouraging word and kind compliment to anyone and everyone she meets, the award for