“Hello, Handsome.”
Mack turned, almost colliding with a fortyish, rather striking blonde. She wore a silver lamé dress, tightly fitted. Too tight. And she stood close. Too close. It took a moment for adjustment. “Oh, Catherine,” Mack said. “You look… nice.”
“Nice? You’re a poet. Is that the best you can do?” She took a swig of champagne, her eyes never leaving his.
“At the moment.”
“Give it time.” She placed a short-fingered, jeweled hand on his wrist. “It will come to you.”
They stood at the elevated bar in the Ninety Nine Club, reserved in its entirety by MN News. Not really an exclusive event, the party still included a select crowd of movers and shakers, including the Lieutenant Governor, several CEOs, a TV anchor, and a boisterous contingent of Minnesota Vikings. Tracy and Dixie were there, two bulldogs who were newsroom mascots. Wearing ribbons and bows, they wandered about scarfing up the odd stuffed mushroom and shrimp tail that might fall their way. Both would be in bed soon, sleeping it off behind coat racks.
Catherine gave his wrist a squeeze. “So, Mack.” she said. “I hear you want to be a reporter.”
“Yes.”
“You’re in the right place.”
“I hope so.”
“Maybe a little push is in order,” she said. “You know how these nonprofits always need money.”
Catherine Baker owned Center Appliance. She no longer received a paycheck. It mattered little. She was probably worth $50 million. When she leaned close and said she could get him noticed, the implication was clear. You rub my back, I’ll…
“Mack!” Walt O’Conner shouted.
Catherine frowned. “Someone’s always disturbing us.” She took her hand away.
Walt approached, beaming. “What a party! Isn’t this wonderful?” He seemed a little drunk. This was unlikely. But he had gotten a bit punchy since the birth of his son, with a distracted, goofy grin that hadn’t worn off. “Finally a real get-together after all the isolation.”
The party theme, “Vax to the Max”, went for everyone. In order to attend, you had to show a COVID vaccination, booster, and negative test. One need not be a Democrat. And hatred of Donald Trump was optional. Actually it wasn’t. One of the games involved throwing darts at a six-by-six picture of Trump wearing a red clown nose. Hitting the nose won a shot of Goldschläger.
“I’m going to dance with Reba,” Catherine announced. She beckoned the bartender, who poured her glass full. Pulling Mack close, she said, “Don’t be a stranger. Not at midnight. You know what happens at midnight, don’t you?” Her wink was slow and lascivious.
The men watched her wobble off in high heels, showing plenty of swing.
“What do you make of that?” Walt asked.
“Might be a new year,” Mack said. “But some things never change.”
“She doesn’t care that you’re married?”
“No.”
Just then Li-Li Feng appeared, looking vexed. “Mack, I’m glad I found you. Could I sort of stand here?”
“Why?”
“John Schatz is after me.”
Li-Li was Reba’s young assistant. Schatz had been warned about bothering her. Of course, Schatz had been warned about a lot of things.
“There he is,” Walt said, pointing. They could see him dancing with the aromatherapist, Colleen Gaddis. For an older man, Schatz could shake it. Word had it Colleen Gaddis cast a spell over men. But on meeting Schatz, the spell was cast on her.
“You’re probably safe,” Mack said to Li-Li.
“You think so?”
“I’m guessing she’s more his type. No offense.”
“None taken.”
A great cheer went up. Someone hit the Trump portrait on the nose. Mack looked closer. The lucky winner was Brad Pennock, a senior editor. Lars Abernathy, Mack’s reporter friend, stood next to him. Already pretty looped, Pennock tossed back a shot as Lars cheered.
“I’m heading down,” Mack said. “I throw a pretty good dart.”
Walt O’Conner glanced at him. “Really? I didn’t know you hated Trump.”
“I don’t. But there’s a couple people I want to impress. And a shot of Goldschläger can’t hurt.”
It was the New Year. In the old year Mack had seen plenty of reporters get ahead, while he stood waiting. What he needed was a break. If hitting a clown in the nose was what it took, it seemed a very small price.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com