Bulleit Proof. Tom Bulleit
look at each other. I grin at the spokesman.
“Well, yes,” I say, “but you guys seem to have this under control.”
“Listen,” the spokesman says, ignoring me. “I want you all to go down there and tell those truckers we’re not giving them any more damn money. Not a penny more. You go down there and tell them.”
“Let me get this straight,” Shelby says. “These truckers have set a pile of tires on fire, they’re blocking the road, they’re drinking, they’re shooting into burning tires, and you want us to tell them you’re not giving them any more money?”
“Yep.”
“Let’s go with Plan B.”
I don’t want to crack up in front of our agitated clients, but I can’t help myself. I smother my laugh with a fake coughing fit and a fist over my mouth.
“What’s Plan B?” the spokesman yells at our backs as Shelby steers me toward the door.
“Working on it,” Shelby says.
Shelby devises Plan B on the way back to the office. He drops me off and goes into Federal Court, where he gets an injunction against the truckers because they are blocking the highway. Highway Patrol shows up, waves the court document, and eventually, the truckers move off the road.
I didn’t put this in the Bulleit Points, but I should have.
Always have a Plan B.
Especially when Plan A involves a raging fire, firearms, and alcohol.
5 My Old Soldier
I SIT IN THE far corner of Dudley’s Restaurant, facing the front door so I’ll be able to see her walk in. I chose this place because it’s clubby, convenient, classy, and quiet. They serve excellent food and pour generous, tasty cocktails. I’ve heard they have a good wine list, too, but I’ll take any Kentucky bourbon over even a high-end Napa red any day. Nothing against Napa or red wine. Just not my style, not my taste. I’m a whiskey drinker and remain a bourbon distiller dreamer. Yes, still carrying that with me. I’ve recently turned 43 and have not acted on that dream. Yet.
I crane my neck, peer through the dining room’s hazy atmospheric light, making sure I haven’t missed her entrance. I’m early. I’m always early. That’s another of the Bulleit Points I live by, but this one I consider a command, not a suggestion. Be on time. Which to me means arrive at least 10 minutes early. Being late is both rude and disrespectful. Speaks volumes about a person’s character. Or lack of it.
So, I’m early. Twelve minutes by my Rolex, to be exact. My Rolex is both distinctive and an extravagance, to be sure, but in my current state of mind—confused—and in the current state of my life—tumultuous—I need something I can rely on, a reminder that life can be ordered, simple, and beautiful to look at, even during the most disordered, complex, and unpleasant times. Thus, my Rolex. (Thirty-two years later, I still have it, still wear it.)
I sigh, absently adjust the silverware and cloth napkins, more to occupy my hands than out of any sort of compulsive disorder that impels me to be continually arranging and rearranging things. But I do like things in their proper place, and in their correct order. And I do believe that appearance matters. Consider my choice of attire for tonight.
I have on a single-breasted grey suit from Brooks Brothers, shading more to light grey than edging toward black, the top two buttons clasped. Some may think I’m overdressed for a first date, but I would respectfully disagree. A suit equals credibility, and I’ve noticed that women prefer men in a suit. An observation. I’ve also been told that women find a man in a suit sexy. I would call that anecdotal evidence at the moment, having done no actual research in the field to back that up. I haven’t been on a date since Stephanie and I became a couple 17 years ago. With our divorce order pending, the state of our union can no longer be considered a union, of any sort, by any stretch of the imagination.
We’ve separated, our marriage collapsing due to five years of escalating incompatibility and a legal pad full of other reasons, all boiling down to one—we can no longer be married to one another. At present, we remain frustratingly deadlocked over the custody of Hollis, who lives with me. Hollis turned 13 a few months ago and has shown brilliance in the classroom and superior ability as a competitive swimmer, setting state records, all while displaying the typical irreverence of a preteen. Make no mistake, I will fight for custody, normally a long shot for the dad. But I believe Hollis should live with me and I’m willing to go to court if I have to.
I take another look toward the door of the restaurant, then check my watch again, confirming I’m officially 10 minutes early, or as I say, right on time. I sigh softly and consider the rest of my outfit. A soft blue Brooks Brother’s shirt, no tie. Too formal, too rigid, a turnoff. Again, that’s based on hearsay, not experience. For about 10 seconds, I toyed with wearing a turtleneck, but I didn’t want to look like an egghead, a folk singer, or a phony. Now, shoes. Black wingtips. Comfortable, classy, shined to a high gloss, the color a perfect contrast to the dark grey suit. Final touch. Cufflinks. I couldn’t decide between the Marine Corps or the Georgetown, so I went with one of each. An uncharacteristically non-uniform approach, I admit, but for some reason, I have a feeling that the mismatched pair may bring me luck. More than midway through this decade, I’d call the Eighties a bumpy ride, personally. I could use a bit of luck. We’ll see how this date goes.
Yes, date.
Feels strange even identifying this as such, but I guess that’s what it is. Forty-three years old, at the end of my marriage, and I’m on a date. Or about to be. When I think about it, if I am to be brutally honest, my marriage ended long ago. We’ve been separated now for some time, possibly close to two years, time having a way of simply disappearing when life dissolves into turmoil. I have stayed in the marriage because of Hollis, wanting at all costs to avoid disruption, determined to keep her in the home she’s known for almost her entire life, believing that children need security, stability, normalcy, even if the parents have lost that loving feeling and are flailing all around them.
I surprised myself, calling Betsy, asking her out for a drink. I was even more surprised when she accepted. Of course, we’re not total strangers. Even though she’s quite a bit younger than I am, we’ve known each other for years. We’ve traveled in the same social circles and actually work in the same building, she on the first floor, where she works as a stockbroker, and I upstairs, on the top two floors, in our law office, so admittedly we don’t see each other that much. We have something beyond a nodding acquaintance, slightly. I’ll also admit that Betsy, or Elizabeth Callaway Brooks, related to Colonel Richard Callaway, a famed frontiersman, and being a descendent of Daniel Boone, is in every sense a purebred. In other words, she’s way out of my league.
I start to second-guess this whole thing. I poke around with the silverware again, realizing that I’m feeling uncharacteristically nervous. I glance at my Rolex, now registering five minutes before our designated meeting time. I begin to fidget, wondering if she will actually show up and debating whether I have enough time to duck out for a smoke.
Then a rustling at the front door, some voices, low laughter, and a kind of warm wave vibrates through the room rolling toward me. I stand up, as if launched from an ejector seat. I see Betsy searching the room, the host pointing in my direction, and I wave, dumbly, suddenly feeling a momentary sense of panic, followed by my own voice echoing inside my head, “What the hell are you doing? What made you think this was a good idea? Make a run for it.”
Before I know it, someone pulls a chair out for Betsy—it might even be me, but I’m so flustered I have no memory of making that gallant a move—and Betsy and I are sitting across from each other.
“You’re right on time,” I say, a brilliant