Coping With Bastard Joe, Part One

Coping With Bastard Joe
by Rick Baber

"Unbelievable", he whispered to himself as the dancer strutted in her
high heels across the runway, just inches from his face.

He was a small town boy. And in his nineteen years he'd never seen
anything like this first-hand. It was at just about that point in time
that he began to consider that maybe - just maybe - this "business
trip" with his boss wasn't going to be as bad as he had feared.

Joe was a bastard. There was no getting around that. His crudeness
seemed to be exceeded only by his arrogance. But he knew how to
schmooze. He could show the company's best customers a good time. That,
Chris reasoned, was how he got, and managed to hang on to the job of
store manager. Surely, nobody hired this obnoxious, beer-guzzling,
belching, farting, lame excuse for humanity for his charm.

Chris was a shipping/receiving clerk in the company's "management
trainee" program. Joe understood that to mean that he was his personal
valet. As a matter of fact, on many occasions, Joe was heard to refer
to Chris as his "boy".

As such, Chris did occasionally draw "special jobs". On Friday
afternoons, for example, while everybody else in the warehouse was
unloading 40 ft. trailers full of plumbing and electrical supplies,
Chris would be back in the corner, by the wire spools, setting up the
8mm projector for the weekly silent porno-fest. Icing down beer.
Running to the store for peanuts and snack trays for the anticipated
hoard of plumbers, electricians, and building contractors.

He was young, intelligent, good-looking, cool, and broke. Everything
that Joe was not. Which was why Joe so enjoyed wearing him around like
a badge, showing people how close to all those things he was himself.
Except for "broke". Joe would never be that. Not as long as he had an
expense account, and a company to steal from.

After a relatively enjoyable day at the horse races with The Bastard
and three clients, and over Chris' silent objections, they ended up
here, at a Hot Springs strip club. Chris had no moral objections, as
such, to this type of entertainment, but he'd been married less than a
year and would really rather have been with his bride. Knowing Joe like
he did, he suspected things were going to get worse before the night
was over. He was right. Designated drivers - especially indentured ones
- don't tend to have as much fun as their charges.

Cool for the moment, though. This dancer was playing him like a Martin
guitar. Winking and smiling at him every time she passed. Unlike his
redneck companions, snorting and shouting obscenities, he tried to be
cool and act as if this wasn't one of the most exciting events of his
life.

As The Bastard had his fill and whistled for his "boy" to go, Chris
spun around on the barstool, taking one last drink of his 7-Up. At
least it LOOKED like a drink. When he stood up the girl grabbed him by
the hair, pulled him over backwards onto the runway, and kissed him
softly.

"Will you be back?" she whispered. Her electric blue eyes were burning
a hole into his brain.

The Bastard and the others were screaming and honking like a gaggle of
geese.

"I don't think so", he said, smiling. Amazed.

"Shame", she said, still holding him by the hair. Then she kissed him
again, and released him.

The drunks continued to harass him as they loaded up into the lawn
chairs in the back of the cargo van. But he didn't mind. At least he
had a nice private memory he could take home and never tell the little
woman about. Ever. Except they weren't going home yet. Joe the bastard
had other plans.