Gentleman’s Night Out

 

Back when I was still trying to figure out what to do with an undergraduate degree in 16th Century British Literature, I sold jewelry.  I was an assistant manager, complete with an assistant manager’s mustache, for a place called Mission Jewelers, which was a division of the Zale Corp.  We specialized in first time buyers... meaning low end.  We sold a lot of $199 trio sets.  Her engagement ring and both bands.  Sizing was extra.

 

This was before I had realized that jewelry was something that nobody needed.  Not really.  Even if you could make an argument for a watch, how much watch do you need?  A Timex and a Seiko are the same.  All you’re really paying more for is the name.  Still, it took me a bit more than a year to figure that out.  But that was long enough to know who the big diamond guys were in town.  And there was none bigger than Woody Justice.  You want to give your wife a nice ring, maybe spend a grand, tops, go to Zales.  If you want to tack a few more zeros onto that and get an extremely nice ring, you go see Woody.  You go to Justice Jewelers.  Woody was the guy.

 

Long after I left the jewelry world far behind and was now spending my days teaching teenagers to conjugate verbs, I got invited to Gentleman’s Night Out.  Gentleman’s Night Out was a marketing ploy dreamed up by Woody Justice, or somebody that he paid, and probably paid well, for getting all of the high rollers in the area together for one night, just before Christmas. 

And I got invited.  Not because I was a high roller.  Definitely not.  And not because Woody knew me.  He didn’t.  Even though we had once met, back when I was selling jewelry, there wasn’t a chance he remembered me.

 

Who I knew was Ron Davis.  Ron was a reporter in town.  He worked at a local TV station.  Ron was very good at what he did.  He was good enough to win the Edward R. Murrow Award.  Look it up.  And Ron was given two passes, two tickets to get inside, for this prestigious event.  Maybe because Woody thought Ron was a high roller... he wasn’t.  Or, more than likely, because he was a name in that town, a name that could throw him some publicity.  Except Ron couldn’t make it.  So he gave those tickets to my buddy Dan, and Dan invited me to go with him to Gentleman’s Night Out.  And it was all free.

 

By the time we got there, fashionably late, there were Rolls-Royces in the parking lot.  And my Chevette.  We were each given a Cuban cigar when we walked through the door, and nobody expected us to go outside to smoke them.  Yeah.  Sure.  Cubans were illegal then.  Probably still are.  But I don’t think anybody there gave a damn.  And if there should be any questions of legality, there were plenty of lawyers, and – according to Dan – a few judges – who were already smoking theirs.  There were a lot of big names there that I didn’t know.  Dan would point out the guy that owned the trucking company over here, or the guy who built the office complex over there.  There were doctors and politicians and guys who nobody was sure where they got their money.  And I didn’t know any of them.  I didn’t even recognize Woody.  But he was there.  Shmoozing.  Subtly steering people toward the diamond cases.  Offering to show them whatever they wanted to see.

 

You can tell when people have money.  You can tell a very nice suit from a pair of worn khakis.  You can tell an expensive haircut from a discount barber.  Italian shoes from Hush Puppies  A Rolex from a Timex.  These were men who could buy any of the very nice pieces of jewelry that Woody was featuring for the evening without checking their bank accounts first.  I don’t think anything there was truly “on sale.”  I don’t think it mattered.

 

Hell, even the Santa Claus that was walking around was wearing some very nice gold chains.  Along with Santa there were several Christmas trees featuring diamond earring ornaments.  There were garland and tinsel, and “Deck the Halls” was playing from the sound system.  It was just like an old fashioned Christmas, the kind with Beluga Caviar.  Not “beluga grade” caviar.  This was the real stuff.  Imported.  The stuff runs about $500 an ounce.  About $500 a serving.  And it was worth it, especially because it was free.  If you’ve ever had caviar and didn’t like it, then you’ve probably never had Beluga.  It was so good.  Incredibly good.  So good that it made me sad because I knew, deep down, that I would never have it again.  I thought about going back for seconds, but it would just make it worse.  Besides, I was trying to act like none of this was a big deal.  I smoke Cuban cigars, eat Beluga Caviar, and take shots from a thousand dollar bottle of whiskey all the time.  And that was one of the cheaper bottles of whiskey.

 

As it happened, I actually knew the liquor steward.  Anywhere else he would’ve been a bartender.  But not here.  Here, he was a steward.  I got to know Dave at the local liquor store where he worked.  I knew his name, and he knew mine.  I would ask him to recommend wines and whiskeys, and.. well... anything.  And he never let me down.  So I introduced Dan to Dave.  They immediately hit it off.

 

“Do you have a good whiskey?” asked Dan.  Ever hopeful.

“Most definitely,” said Dave, and he poured us two drinks from a bottle that I couldn’t afford the deposit on. 

 

And it was good.  It was incredibly good.  And, after we had thoroughly enjoyed every drop of that wonderful whiskey, Dan said, “That was really nice, but do you have anything that’s better?”  And Dave did.  This was seriously a $1000 dollar bottle of whiskey.  Maybe more.  We weren’t buying any, so the price really didn’t matter.  Trust me on this:  It’s like Beluga.  If you’ve never liked whiskey, it’s probably because you were still drinking the stuff you could afford in high school.

 

We were tempted to stay right there with the liquor for the rest of the night, but we didn’t want to seem too pedestrian.  Besides, I needed to be able to drive home, which really good whiskey can come in the way of.  So we decided to make our way back over to the hors d'oeuvre table and see if they had anymore of the stuffed mushrooms or the escargot in the unbelievable butter-garlic sauce.  And maybe, just maybe, there was some more of that caviar.  And that’s when the lingerie models made their entrance.

 

There were about a dozen or so very attractive, very shapely women in very elegant nightgowns.  Designer nightgowns.  Designed to leave no doubt just how shapely that woman really was.  If you wanted to see how lovely that emerald necklace would look around somebody’s lovely neck, they were glad to do it.  If you wanted to buy that lovely nightgown, they were glad to sell it.  They were more than happy to let those old men feel how soft that silk really was.  And all those old men were more than happy to feel it.

 

And that’s when one of these lovely young women came running up to me and excitedly said, “Mr. Soetaert!  Do you remember me?”  I did.  It was Crystal, one of my former students.  Wearing a very shear low cut night gown that rose up high on the sides and cascaded ever so gently in the back.  Sure, she was now probably 20, 21, but she was still one of my former students.  She was a child.  And then she asked, “Have you seen Katrina?  You remember Katrina?”  I did.  She was there, too.  Another one of my students.  Katrina had gotten Crystal the gig for the evening.  I have no idea what company she worked for that arranged such things.

 

Crystal wanted to visit.  After all, she said, I’d been her favourite teacher.  But she had to get back to work.  Maybe we could talk later on.  She was sure Katrina would want to see me, too.  And she went off to twirl in front of well dressed gentlemen. 

 

And I had to go.  After all, it was a Tuesday night, and I had to work in the morning.  And if my Chevette got too cold, it might never start again.

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