It was the third time he pushed on me that almost drove me over the edge. I briefly considered how easily the steak knife in front of me could slip into one of his still smirking eyes. I kept my cool though under the belief that this fucker will one day get what's coming to him.
At 5:30 Il Duce and I arrived at The Capital Grill steakhouse. We were there to meet two representatives of a very large North Carolina based bank that wanted to expand its reach into our arena of apartment development. I've been to these dinners before and they boil down to Il Duce making outrageous statements and the jimmies who want our business reciprocating with verbal blowjobs. I just sit back, listen, and watch amusedly. I may not like being there but at least I get a steak and some nice wine out of it.
We had arrived early, the jimmies weren't supposed to arrive until 6:30 but the extra hour would give us plenty of time to properly socially lubricate at the bar. 6:30 came and went and by 7:00 Il Duce was ready to go ahead and eat without the bankers. A gentleman always arrives on time, on time being defined as "never early and never more than 15 minutes late", obviously we weren't meeting with any gentlemen. Before Il Duce had a chance to tell the maitre'de we would be dining as two the jimmies stumbled into the restaurant. The alpha dog of the pair was a man in his late 40s who exuded the impression that while he was knowledgeable in his field he was probably lacking in all others, he was largely disinteresting and while I was introduced to him I quickly forgot his name. The alpha's counterpart was a jimmy I've seen before at some of our closings named Kramer. Kramer is younger, probably in his late 30s, single, and a self subscribed "player". Kramer arrived bearing gifts: two baseball caps adorned with the bank's insignia. I guess I appreciate the gift but what the fuck am I supposed to do with a bank hat? I
could wear it I suppose and look like a fucking joke but I think a more suitable place for the hat will be a trashcan. Anyway, after introductions were made and drinks were ordered Il Duce and the alpha jimmy excused themselves to use the restroom leaving me alone with Kramer. Kramer had initially tried to order a Red Bull and vodka but had to settle for a vodka tonic. I explained to him while we were standing together that none of the higher end steakhouses in the Big Funky carry Red Bull or any other energy drink at the bar because they believe it would bring in an undesirable crowd. I'm neutral on the whole idea since
"The Modern Gentleman A Guide to Essential Manners, Savvy & Vice" decrees that energy drinks should never be used as mixers which is obviously in favor of the steakhouses' decision, however, I rather enjoy breaking this rule from time to time and relishing a delicious Red Bull and vodka. Kramer, on the other hand, was in opposition to the steakhouses' decision explaining to me with the following testimonial: "Well, I like to drink an energy drink with my vodka so I don't get… how do you say it? Shit faced?" I smiled politely and gave a brief chuckle, he was trying to be funny and add a personal touch to our conversation but I wasn't biting. Frankly, I don't see how telling me you're afraid you won't be able to hold your liquor without the aid of an energy drink while at a business meeting where you're essentially trying to sell yourself and your product is in any way professional. Is getting housed really such a concern when you're trying to bargain your way into millions of dollars worth of business? Soon Il Duce and the alpha jimmy returned and we took our drinks to the maitre'de to be seated.
The meeting was going as anticipated, plenty of vocal copulation going around, and then Kramer pushed on me out of the blue. "So, [Johnny Deuce], I have to ask, how old are you?" My mind reeled. A gentleman
never asks anyone their age, something I've brought up
before, and up to this point I had never been put on the spot by a dude. I knew what was coming too which is what made my reply more dreadful. Kramer was already heavily sauced, I can only assume because he wasn't getting his regular dosage of B12, he thought I was in my thirties a veritable peer and when I told him I was 25 he was incapable of masking the shock registered on his face.
The evening wore on with Kramer becoming louder and increasingly bold with every glass of wine. Before our food had even arrived it was apparent that we (read: Il Duce) would not be doing any business with the bank any time soon since they were only interested in very conservative financial plans that Il Duce has long since foregone in favor of more lucrative and avant-garde methods. The bank, still trying to convince us that we should consider their options began asking questions about exactly how much more money we make with our methods as opposed to theirs. When Il Duce responded with a number Kramer asked, "a year?"
"No", replied Il Duce, "a month."
"A month!?" cried Kramer in disbelief. It was further apparent we wouldn't be doing any business with these people.
"Yes, a month. Ask [Johnny Deuce] he runs the numbers every month.", responded Il Duce.
Then came Kramer's egregious second push, "Yeah, but what does he know he's only 25!"
I was staring at Kramer as he said it, my peripheral vision spied the empty chair next to me and I went through the logistics of quickly grabbing it by the back and swinging the legs into the side of Kramer's head. I opted for another, less prosecution rich option and retorted venomously, "I may only be 25 but I can still fucking count!"
Il Duce bellowed raucously, the alpha jimmy chuckled nervously, Kramer shrugged his shoulders, and I threw back on my glass of wine keeping my eyes locked to Kramer's.
Later, after our food arrived and I could sense the evening would be drawing to a close before too long, the jimmies had pretty much resigned themselves to the fact that they wouldn't be getting any of our business. Kramer, three sheets to the wind, had given up on his initial plan of courting our business and was now blathering on about the successes other developers were having with similar financial methods as their own. Then came the aforementioned third push. Kramer was talking about historic interest rates and averages over time. Knowing full well that I couldn't possibly throw out statistical numbers on interest rates in the 80s since I was still a child during that time Kramer decided to crack wise and preface the conclusion to his argument by saying to me, "of course, [Johnny Deuce] correct me if I'm wrong on these numbers…" It was the kind of statement that would normally slip past as meaningless or even as a nod to my knowledge in the area but given Kramer's state and our previous exchange it was plain as scareball to everyone that he was pushing on me. In response, I guffawed loudly and said, "that's so funny!" while keeping the fury in my eyes.
Il Duce sniggered, the alpha jimmy quickly suggested we retire to the bar, Kramer shrugged his shoulders, and I smiled contentedly in knowing the alpha jimmy's hopes for the evening had been dashed by his drunken cohort.
At the bar Kramer asked everyone around if they had cigarettes, the bartender said he had a pack of Marlboro Lights and Kramer declined saying he only smokes American Spirits. Fucking idiot. Then, to my delight, Kramer asked where the closest convenience store was fully intent on making a greater ass of himself. The bartender told him there was a CVS just down the street. The "street" in question was Westheimer with eight lanes of swiftly moving traffic Kramer would have to traverse, not to mention that it was pouring rain outside and had been the entire day. I was almost in a state of disbelief when Kramer said he would be right back and wandered out the front door. Not really knowing what to say the three of us just stood around for a moment until a soaked Kramer dashed back inside. "It's pouring out there" he said when he saw us looking at him. Fucking idiot. Somehow sensing, even in his inebriated state, that he had just made an ass out of himself Kramer tried to save face by explaining that he hadn't gone to the store because he didn't want to "look like a junkie". Right… But no qualms about looking like a drunken, insult tossing, buffoon?
I've seriously never seen less professional shit in my life. I mean, at closing dinners things can get out of hand* but they're celebrations and this was supposed to be a business dinner where a bank pitched themselves for our business. I guess part of the bank's business model is insulting their potential clients? Even though I got a nice filet out of it and was able to toss one more mother fucker into my hatebox the evening was a massive waste of time. My time could have been better served at home listening to James St. James scream at NCAA Football 2005 than listening to that intoxicated asshole dig his own grave. Fucking idiot.
*visions of Mr. Pickles and I ordering round after round of hot, moist towels and stealing signs form the men's room dance in my head
