The District Manager (8 page)

“Biggest power plant and power distributor anywhere in or near House District 100.”

“Really, I knew they were big, but the biggest?”

“Yeah, and right here in Wagoneer County. AUE is also one of the only companies that both generates and distributes electricity. With this new addition—I give it a year at most—they’ll be one of the most profitable electric companies in the state.”

“Why, because of this carbon sequestration thing?”

“Precisely. With the new EPA regulations coming into effect soon, this project will put them ahead of the game.”

“What the hell does ‘Carbon Sequestration’ mean anyway?” “I’m not sure. All I know is that when they get it operational, they’ll be pumping the shit underground instead of into the atmosphere.”

“Fascinating. Too bad it’s a foreign company.”

“With all the goddamned regs coming from the Feds, it’s amazing that there are any power plants at all in this country!”

I’m sitting in my boss’ office in downtown Wagoneer, going over the schedule for the next few weeks. Luckily, it’s not too packed and still reasonable to handle. But this won’t last. August is the last stop before the fall campaign season kicks in. And even though my boss is an incumbent and not in any danger, since he started entertaining this ‘Congressman’ fantasy, he’s convinced that “we” need to attend every political event within a hundred-mile radius.

“I’ve got a table at this thing down in Bowers. I need you to go,” he orders.

“Umm…”

“What? What is it?” he asks me both concerned and irritated. But before I can reply he adds, “You look like shit, Mason. What the hell have you been doing? Up all night partying?”

He’s pretty much hit the nail on the head, I’m thinking:

A few days ago, Keith and I sat up all night drinking and smoking weed. I’d never been much of a stoner, in fact the first night I partook of his sizeable stash, I felt really weird. I started getting super fucking paranoid, thinking about and over analyzing everything: From my boss, to Brandy, to Keith, back to Brandy, then Jules and his wife, that whole situation,…and, when I arrived at Ann (which I somehow concealed from him), I honestly thought I was having a heart attack. Keith, to his credit, kept me calm, talking me down and feeding me shots of Jack, which took the edge off the weed; that and the thought of Brenna. When I finally laid down to sleep, I’m was so tanked I passed out.

Then last night, Keith and I hung out listening to his record collection, which is badass. Keith is about ten years my elder, around forty-five. He grew up in the eighties and has some killer albums. His preference back then was what was called “cowpunk.” Cowpunk was the predecessor to alt. country, and was flanked by loose affiliates who enhanced it. Truth be told, after listening to Keith’s records, alt. country as a whole pales in comparison. With bands like the Long Ryders, Jason and the Scorchers, Blasters, Blood on the Saddle, Rank and File, and Keith’s favorite album of all time: REM’s Fables of the Reconstruction, the 1990s could be construed as a footnote. I set to burning them immediately so I could listen to them in the Expedition…

“Hey, what the hell are you doing…daydreaming or something?” my boss chides me.

“Oh, sorry, yeah, I was up last night with some stomach issues. I wasn’t drinking though. Sorry.”

“It’s alright, Mason. For a minute I thought we lost you,” he says with his plastic politician’s grin.

“Yes, I can be there. But I have one suggestion; a request of sorts.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” he asks as if I’ve breeched some protocol. This has been his tone of late. I’m the servant and he’s the master.

“Nothing major, just a few questions first.”

“What questions?”

“Who else are you inviting to sit with us?”

“Oh,” he says relieved. It’s like he thought I was gonna ask to sleep with Brandy or something. “Well, the Wagoneer District Attorney, the sheriff…”

“The Wagoneer Sheriff?” I break in.

“Yes, the Wagoneer Sheriff. I know you don’t like either one of them.”

“For good reason.”

“I’m not arguing that, Mason… I’m telling you the damn guest list.”

“Continue, please.”

“Well, that’s it, other than you and Brandy and somebody from the county judge’s office over in Fort Bryan.”

“What do you mean?”
I already know The Judge will be out of town. The boss’ secretary told me the other day when I was inquiring about our political schedule.

“Well, I invited him but I think he’ll be out of town. I thought about inviting someone else, but I really need to keep him in my camp.”

“I think that’s a great idea, sir, with the possible congressional race out there.”

“Yes, I’m glad you can see my logic, Mason.”

“How about his assistant?”

“Yes, his assistant. Do I know her?”

“Yes, sir, you’ve met her on numerous occasions…her name is Brenna.”

“Okay.”

“I want to sit next to her.”

“Ahhh, now I get it…your request,” his grin is broken by laughter.

“Yes, sir.”

“Consider it done. If she’s available.”

“She’ll be available.”

This could not have worked out any better,
I’m thinking as I pull out of the office complex and head towards Houston.

Life rarely affords one a second chance in anything, no matter what it is. Except in politics. Politics is like a cat, if one sticks it out, one is confronted with nine lives. People have short memories. People who work in politics have even shorter memories. Good politicians know this and plot accordingly. Where do you think the term, “Politics makes for strange bedfellows,” came from?

I fucked it up once with my ill-advised, gruesome narrative. I won’t make this mistake twice.

But my natural high is short-lived. When I return to the apartment, there is some bad news waiting in my mailbox. It’s a letter from my lawyer who represents me in the case regarding Ann. I’m scanning down through all the legal nonsense looking for…

As my eyes race the consecutive columns of, to me, crimes against humanity, I’m devastated. But cops can get away with almost anything, especially in shitkicker Texas. In shitkicker Texas, county judges play golf or go hunting with sheriff ’s, D.A.’s, …and district judges. And they are never responsible for any mistake, whether by accident or deliberate. Thus, rendering justice a thing only afforded to the connected. But I was connected, in a way. My attorney was recommended by my boss. Before I go inside, I stuff the letter in a book about the Civil War, which I’ve been carrying around in my briefcase.

It’s hard, but I have to keep my shit together as Keith still knows nothing of the truth of this situation. And like all half lies, I can’t remember what is truth and what is fiction. Obviously, his condition is improving with the weed. I’m about to find out exactly how much…

When I walk through the door, Keith is out of his wheelchair. He’s sitting on one of the kitchen table’s cheap aluminum chairs, his Butterscotch Strat resting on his rail-thin thigh.

“Holy shit!” I exclaim, dropping my tattered briefcase. “What the hell are you doing?” I demand; not in a scolding way, but as one who, having found their friend having suddenly sprouted wings and hovering the ceiling, is both cautiously alarmed, but genuinely amazed. He can’t hear me as he has headphones on and is strumming away at whatever it is on the turntable that I can’t hear.

Keith’s eyes are closed and his head is bobbing up and down to the music. He doesn’t see me. I stand frozen for a moment. I can’t contain my happiness, when, what is obviously the solo section of the song, he rips into a fit of picking-fret board madness. I’m feeling tears. They struggle to breach their sockets.

“Oh, hey Mason!” Having looked up at last, he shouts as the music is still blaring in the headphones. He then starts singing to the song in his ear, which is “Hot Nights in Georgia” by Jason and the Scorchers.

“Tear it up, bro!”

“Take it away, Mason, you know the words!” Keith jerks the headphone jack out of the turntable and the music hits the air with the force of a burning cotton field.

Keith and I end up staying up all night getting high and jamming on guitars. He convinces me to bust out my acoustic, which is really out of tune and takes some time to tweak. I haven’t played since Ann died. I would have left it back at the cabin if it weren’t so expensive.

Keith and I met nearly twenty years ago when I was still a pup in high school. We kicked around in a band for a while, with him on lead and me on rhythm and vocals. We played all originals. I think we had maybe five songs. It never went anywhere and he moved on to other things and I, well, I kind of gave it up. Ever since college, Ann had always pushed me to start a country band, and from time to time, I would look for pickers. But nothing ever came of it, and life took over as it has a way of doing. Keith and I kept in touch through the years and when he found himself homeless, Ann and I took him in and helped him get back on his feet. When he got sent to prison, there was no question that I would look after his things until he got out. He’s a wholesale fuck up, but he’s a good friend.

And…he’s feeling much better now, and off the pain meds. He did not ask about Ann tonight. Soon his mind will clear and he will sense something’s out of place.

Bowers Power Plant is situated in one of the more beautiful pockets of the Texas coastal plains. Down a serpentine road that winds its way through and under colossal live oaks, one would expect to arrive at some Old South manor at the conclusion of this picturesque journey. Instead, the only columns one discovers are of those piping tufts of steam into the gathering twilight.

The dinner in question is being held in a large, enclosed, outside tent, complete with air-conditioning! The tent is situated between the power plant, to the right, and Lake Bowers, a rather large, man-made body of water created by diverting waters from the Brazos River, to the left. It is a lot to take in, and is rather impressive.

I check in at the security gate and park. I’m looking sharp tonight, as I’ve got on a vintage tan Circle S western coat; from back when they were tailored in Dallas, not De Nang. I haven’t touched a drop thus far tonight, and plan on keeping it to a minimum so as to keep my head clear.

These people are not fucking around, there is security everywhere. Once inside the tent, which is black from floor to top, I find our table, which is up front near the presentation stage. The Wagoneer County officials are loitering around the table with Brandy and have yet to take a seat. I do not see Brenna. My instinctual fatalism is kicking in and I wonder if she had to cancel for some reason.
Maybe she just doesn’t want to see me after that night at Zoo Ranchero?
The bar starts to look inviting.

My head is turning, searching.

Now I see her! She’s talking to some rich folks at one of the many tables crammed into the tent. She’s dressed quite elegantly…again. Her black hair is up in a bun, with several well-positioned strands dangling down to her naked ivory shoulders. The dress she has on is light green and hangs just above her knees. They’re a bit knobby, but their imperfection makes her only more beautiful…to me.

The bar is looking even more inviting…

I discover that our table is being seated, while standing in line. And it appears that Brandy has positioned herself to obstruct my sitting beside Brenna, as the D.A. is to her left and my knobby-kneed, county judge’s assistant, is to her right, with my boss to her right.
Has she deliberately not sat down next to Crane…because of me? Of course he’d want to sit next to Brenna and not the self-righteous district attorney.

Pissed, I go and take my seat at the table, next to the boss.

Dinner is served while we listen to several Mexican businessmen talk about how innovative the new addition to the plant will be. How it has taken three years to complete and how it is a portent of the future. After they complete their pitch, several students are introduced as recipients of the AUE’s numerous scholarship funds.