Friday, one p.m., room 1020 at the O'Hare Hilton. Fuck, I hope this isn't what I think it is. Appointments at airport hotels usually mean one thing and it's the one thing I almost never do. Maybe this one is different and she really does want an escort to an afternoon wedding.
I knock on the door and am greeted with a muffled, "Just a minute!" After several seconds of waiting, I start to think that maybe she's making herself presentable. But then the door opens and shit! she's wearing nothing but a thong. From my brief glimpse, she doesn't look bad for a middle-aged woman but that's not what I'm here for.
Keeping my eyes focused on her face, I state in a firm voice, "Ma'am, I'll wait for you downstairs in the bar while you get dressed." I turn and walk back towards the elevators. I hear her calling after me, "Wait! Don't you want to come in and relax for a while?"
"I'll be in the bar, ma'am," is my only reply, loud enough for her to hear. As I continue walking I listen for the click of the door lock and breathe a small sigh of relief when I hear it. I turn around to make sure she hasn't followed me in her state of undress and let go of another sigh when I see no one.
Downstairs in the bar, I sip my beer while I wait out the half hour I normally give the client after a situation like this. Half the time she'll show up properly dressed and we'll go to whatever function I was hired for, no further advances offered. The other times, I'll leave after the half hour is up (forty-five minutes if I'm feeling generous and have no other plans), then go back to the office where I'll make a note on the client's record to never accept an appointment from her again.
I always allow the half hour, though. I may have a comfortably elegant lifestyle but that doesn't mean I'll just walk away from ten thousand dollars; actually nine thousand, since I always insist on a nonrefundable one grand deposit.
While I wait I usually make bets with myself on whether or not she'll show up. I'll also speculate on what her story is. They all have one and they're almost always eager to share it, whether it's truth or fiction. It must be hard wired into that extra leg on the X chromosome. Sometimes I wonder if it would be easier just to give them what they really want and not have to endure all the endless blather.
The stories are all variations on a theme, the theme being loneliness. The neglected longstanding wife, the bored trophy wife, the powerful never-married executive, they all sing the same song and it's always in a minor key. So many times after an appointment, I've felt like the world's highest paid shrink.
On the other hand, I really don't have cause for complaint. The last couple years I've had a seven-figure income doing something that involves very little effort, although I should probably factor in the time and energy I spend in the gym.
I've mastered the art of nursing a beer so that by the time I've finished, the half hour is up; even though I have no other plans, I don't feel like giving her the extra fifteen minutes. She's a no show. I leave my tip and head to the garage for my car.
Driving home, I encounter one of the other reasons I dislike appointments outside of downtown: traffic. The Kennedy's bumper to bumper, making it an hour and a half before I walk into my Gold Coast penthouse.
I have some nervous energy and frustration to get rid of so I debate whether I want to work out here in my personal gym or go to the East Bank Club. Using my workout room here is quick and private. Going to EBC, I can take advantage of the spa facilities and maybe do a little networking, aka catching up on the latest gossip in the hopes that I'll get some more leads.
EBC wins out; I grab my gym bag and go downstairs to get a cab since I don't feel like taking the car out of the garage again. When I arrive at the club I check with the front desk to see if Julio's available for a boxing workout. He is and for a second I muse that this offsets the bad luck I had with my appointment today. Whatever it is, I go to the locker rooms to change and then head for the gym.
After the forty-five minute session my frustration level is way down so I'm off to the pool for some laps. An hour of that, a half hour massage, and I'm ready for dinner. While staying poolside and eating at the Sun Deck Café offers its advantages, I opt for the slightly more upscale feel of Maxwell's.
"Christian."
I'm enjoying my oyster appetizer when a soft voice interrupts my random thoughts. I know who it is without looking and when I turn, there she is, the beautiful Luba, all sixty-eight inches of her; for some strange reason this reminds me of an old joke - What's a sixty-eight? You do me and I owe you one.
My long-instilled manners automatically take over and I rise to do the cheek kiss thing. She's all soft blonde curls, Prada perfume, and expensive silk. "Lupcha," I say, using the endearment form of her name, "Would you care to join me?"
"Just for one drink. I'm having dinner later with the alderman and I have to be on my game." She sits down across from me and the waiter scurries over to take her order.
"Scotch rocks," she tells him and he scurries away to do her bidding. Typical Luba, making "one drink" a Scotch; she has the eastern European tolerance for hard liquor.
"So tell me, what makes you have dinner alone at the senior hour? You should be wining and dining some cute young thing later on."
"Horny cougar," I state simply and she makes a face.
"Ugh! So sorry. Was it a referral?"
I nod, "Yes, ma'am. Only way I work now."
The waiter brings her drink, "Here you go, miss. Would you like anything else?"
"No, thank you," she dismisses him politely and he turns toward me. "How about for you, sir?"
"Yes, I'll have the salmon with a side of zucchini."
"Very well, sir. Thank you." And he's off again.
"So who referred her? Was it one of mine?" When Luba ran the business she was very finicky about her referral sources. I'm still trying to hone my instincts to her level, although I do remember a couple of appointments back then that almost sent me running back to Seattle.
"No, this was a referral from another client. A client whom I will have words with next week."
"Nothing wrong with a little fun if you're discreet. Just have to be careful which inkwell you dip your pen into."
"This pen will be dipped into zero client inkwells. I don't need that rep and I don't want it." This was something Luba and I disagreed on frequently when I worked for her. It was a significant factor in my move to take over the business.
"From what I've heard, your pen isn't being dipped into any inkwells, client or otherwise. What's wrong, Christian? Chicago's full of smart, beautiful, young women in any flavor your little heart desires. With your face and physique, you could have your pick of any one of them. Or two. Or three."
"Luba, please." We've had this discussion so many times you'd think she'd have learned to back off by now. "I appreciate your concern but my social and sexual life are my own business. Please don't worry about me."
"I know, sweetie, but I hate to see someone like you so lonely. You're young, smart, handsome, well-mannered, and you know how to live the good life. It's such a waste! I've even wondered if you're gay but as far as I know, you're not walking on that side of the street either."
I chuckle. "And how would you know that, Luba? Don't tell me you bat from both sides of the plate!"
"Oy, Christian, one half of the human race is quite enough for me. Not that I haven't experimented but it's not my scene. No, I have friends in all sorts of places. I don't judge people by their bed partners which is why it wouldn't bother me if you were gay, as long as you had someone."
I have to get her off this topic; it's really starting to annoy me. "So what's the dinner with the alderman about? Opening a strip club in the ward?"
"Oh, please, you know I'd never do something so garish! No, I'm just keeping the wheels greased. In this town you never know when you'll need a favor and it helps to make your presence known every so often. I'll put in a good word for you."
"Thanks. I need all the good words I can get." She's finished her drink by now and stands up to leave. I follow suit and we do the cheek kiss thing again. She takes my hand and looks me square in the eye. "Just remember, Christian, it's not all about the work and the money. Find time to connect with someone."
"I'll think about it. Enjoy your dinner."
"Thanks. You, too," she smiles and leaves. I sit down just as the waiter brings my salmon.
Luba's the big sister I never had. She saved me from making some very bad mistakes and taught me all that she knew about the business I'm in. She brought me to Chicago and introduced me to most of her connections. I say most because I don't really know how many she has. Like me, Luba keeps parts of her life hidden; I only know about them from offhand remarks she's made over the years that I've known her.
Her biggest problem is that she gets bored easily. It's one of the reasons I was able to buy her out so cheaply. She was marrying husband number three who didn't approve of her line of work. She said she was getting tired of it anyway but I wonder if she really believed that. Be that as it may, I took over and continued developing what she'd built.
Husband number three got itchy feet and they divorced, leaving her with a very comfortable settlement. I have no doubt she's working on husband number four somewhere between maintaining her connections and dabbling in whatever project strikes her fancy.
Dinner's done and I decide to take in some live music at The Redhead Piano Bar. The weather's nice and it's not that far, so I opt for walking there.
I only stay for a couple of sets, though, since it seems like every Trixie from Lincoln Park is hanging out there. Worse yet, they keep hitting on me. If I thought it would mean some business leads, even if it's from one of their mothers, I'd play along but these chicks are broke and clueless.
Walking back to the penthouse, I pass other bars and clubs but they hold no appeal for me right now. Friday night on State Street is full of drunks and couples and drunken couples. I think back on Luba's words about connecting with someone. Why would I want to connect with anyone when they're all idiots?
Back at the penthouse I sit down at the piano and make my own music. I've been working on jazz improvisation and almost feel like I'm making progress. But after an hour of playing, it's not doing it for me. I close up the piano, get myself a glass of wine, and try to relax on the balcony.
Instead of relaxation, though, an ennui bordering on melancholy sets in. I replay the day's events – the horny cougar, Luba's words, the Trixies hitting on me at the bar. Everyone wants me to connect with someone. What they don't realize is that my ability to connect with anyone was broken a long time ago. And I will probably never be able to fix it.