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I smile at him thankfully. “I’d like that.” After a beat, I add, “But let’s see how today goes.”
“It’s going to be great,” Chance proclaims as if he can make it so by simply stating it into existence. “Anthony should already be setting up the room for you.”
“Part of his penance?” I assume, and when Chance flinches, I know I’m correct. “Does his parole also include getting me a Sprite? I’m afraid I’ll lose my voice talking for a whole hour, and the bubbles would probably be good for my nervous belly.”
“I’ll get you one,” Evan assures me.
Up ahead, I see an older man, his belly slightly stretching out the front of his gray polo shirt above his black pants and leather belt.
“This is Jim Delaney, our head of security,” Chance says, waving the man over. “Jim, our new part-time mentor, Samantha Redding.”
“Hmph, head of security? I’m the head, body, and legs of it. A one-man show, if ya will,” Jim says, his voice gruff and low, but he’s smiling welcomingly. “G’ta-meet-cha.” His words all run together as he extends his hand, but I get that he’s happy to meet me and smile back as we shake. “But I’mma hopin’ you got some thick skin to deal with these boys and a maybe a wooden spoon to beat ‘em upside the head. If not, you call Ol’ Jim and I’ll sort ‘em for ya. Already off to a bad start today.”
“What happened?” I ask, worry blooming and a fresh round of bubbles gurgling in my stomach.
Jim grumbles. “Oh, nothing too serious, just boys being dumbasses. If someone would’a shown these pups the power of belts to asses back when they actually were pups, it wouldn’t even be a problem. I might not’a be able to do it ma’self these days—laws and all—but I can show ‘em that they ain’t all that, no matter what their daddies tell ’em.”
I can’t help but giggle at the idea of Ol’ Jim fighting Anthony to teach him a lesson for his behavior. Violence might not be right, but Ol’ Jim might have a point that if Anthony ever had someone more powerful than him put him in his place, he might not be such a bullying ass.
But Jim’s not done. “In my day, we had real men. Not a bunch of boys who can’t change a tire on their electric car without complaining about getting a blister on their pinky fingers -” He holds up a gnarled hand, pinkie extended and wiggling, “or a lil dirt on their uncreased tenny shoes.” He huffs, rolling his eyes. I can’t help but look down at his well-worn, but painstakingly polished, black leather shoes. They’re honest to God work shoes, not Doc Martens or anything like that... but they look like they’ve seen a thousand miles and could go a thousand more.
Jim Delaney is a man of another generation, and I’m a bit surprised that Chance and Evan hired him. He seems so diametrically old-school compared to everything they’re preaching.
“Jim, you could certainly teach them a few things,” Chance offers, sounding like this a repeat conversation. “Maybe we can put you down for a Saturday car maintenance class?”
Jim grumbles, “Nah, I ain’t teaching these young’uns that shit. Waste of my damn time, they’ll end up paying someone to do it anyways. Even though they could do it themselves if’n they gave half-a-shit.”
“Mm-hmm.” Chance doesn’t agree or disagree, and I’d bet my left ovary that he’s never changed a tire in his life. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know. But we’ve got to finish the tour and get Samantha set up.”
“Yeah, yeah. Like I said, welcome,” Jim says, waving us off like he’s dismissing us from his presence rather than the other way around.
We get to the end of the hallway, where Chance opens the door with a flourish. “And here’s where the magic happens,” he says proudly.
Inside is a media setup with tables, chairs, and a whole lot of electronics. Judging by the microphones, I say, “This is where you do the podcast?”
“Yes,” Chance answers. “Have you listened?”
I cringe. “Not yet. I was a little nervous about what I’d hear,” I admit and then reluctantly add, “Men’s podcasts aren’t exactly known for being female listener friendly.”
Chance looks hurt, which wasn’t my intention, and I have to fight myself from taking his hand to apologize.
“That’s okay. You can tune into the next one.” Evan’s acceptance of my lack of engagement with the podcast is much easier won, but I make myself a mental note to go back and listen to several episodes to see what they’re like. It should be quick. I’ve become an expert at listening to videos at 1.25 speed in order to study more in less time.
Because if I’m working with them now, and if I’m associating with The Gentlemen’s Club, I should know what Chance and Evan are putting out there, not only what they say and think they are. After all, there are plenty of toxic assholes with a microphone who think they’re God’s second coming, but they’re actually the devil in the barest of disguises.
We leave the podcast room and go down the hall, around a couple of corners, Chance speaking the whole time. “There’s one last room, where we have our group meetings,” he says. “This is where we’ve arranged for your class today.”
“I’m okay with that,” I reply, and Evan snickers. “What?”
“You say that now,” Evan says as he opens the door for me. “Let’s see how you feel in an hour.”
Inside, the meeting room is large and open, probably used frequently for its flexibility. The floor is hardwood that looks original to the older building, with wear and tear obvious under a gleaming fresh coat of polyurethane. Along one wall are high stacks of chairs, and at the front there’s a podium standing ominously alone.
There are roughly thirty guys seated in rows, most of them slightly younger than me, I’d guess.
“Gentlemen,” Chance says as he comfortably takes the podium, and I can see the displeasure in his eyes at the casual appearance of a few of the guys who are in sweats, socks with slides, or are sprawled out in their chairs like we interrupted their naptime. On the front row, I can see that one of them is Anthony Cordram, looking annoyed and angry that he’s here. “Let me introduce Samantha Redding. She’s graciously agreed to hold a class for us today, highlighting things from the female perspective. Normally, I wouldn’t feel the need to remind you of this, but given recent circumstances, remember your manners when you speak to her. She’s Miss Redding, understood?”
“Yeah,” one of the boys says. “MissRedding.”
