In gratitude, she named her first-born daughter after the hospital, forever after saddling her beloved daughter with the name Mercy McGee. The tradition among friends and co-workers alike was to refer to her either by her first or last name, depending on one’s level of familiarity. Anyone who called her both was treated with a death stare that could drop a rhino.
“What can I get ya?” Lara inquired.
“Guinness,” I said, sticking to the theme.
“Vodka on ice,” Mercy said, with a wink.
“Right,” Lara said, with the most subtle and friendly roll of her pretty blue eyes.
“Bitch,” I teased, when Lara was out of earshot.
“And you love it,” Mercy retorted.
“Touché.”
Both drinks came, free of spite spit, and Mercy paid with a fresh twenty from a thick wad, not actually believing in wallets. She knew they existed. Mercy wasn’t that kind of crazy. Although she did question their efficacy, especially when coupled with a purse, which she saw as just more for someone to steal. Her way, someone would have to get their hand inside her jacket. Something that lead to an elbow in the throat when done without permission.
“Pay day?” I asked her.
“Damn right. I fucking hate my job, but it does have its advantages.”
“Like a living wage?”
“Among others. You should ditch the goon squad and come work with me. With your sweet tones, you’d get lots of work,” she advised me.
“I don’t know,” I said, feeling the warmth as crimson touched my cheeks.
“It’s not that bad. Just a bit of banter. Beats the hell out of stripping, I can tell you that much.”
“Yeah, but aren’t the guys, you know, creepy?” I inquired.
“Some. Mostly they’re just lonely and a bit pathetic. If I had normal, human emotions, I might feel sorry for them.”
“That’s not fair,” I objected.
“I know, but it feels like it sometimes.”
“You’ve always been a sweetheart to me,” I said, it being mostly true.
“That reminds me,” Mercy said, getting a wicked grin.
The last time I saw her grin like that, we both ended up on a bus in Hoboken wearing nothing but our unmentionables.
“Uh oh,” I muttered.
“Have you heard of Second Chance Bachelorette?”
“The online avatar game that was crazy popular for five minutes until people started mistaking it for real life?” I asked, mentally running through my memory file once again.
“No, that was Second Life; I mean the new online reality show.”
“I can’t say I’m familiar,” I confessed.
I was a traditionalist, using my computer mostly for music and videogames.
“It’s an interesting idea, really. They choose one lucky old hag, give her a make-over to make the poor wretch look presentable, and send them on a series of dates with handsome young men until they find true love.”
“Sounds great,” I snaked.
“Great. I’m glad you think so. Because I signed you up.”
“You did what?!”
“It was an online application. Easy as pie.”
“But all those things you just said about an old hag, a poor wretch… Is that what you think of me?”
“Oh, no, not at all!” she quickly reassured me. “That’s why I’m sure they’ll pick you; you’re nothing like the stereotype of a middle-aged woman. You are still smokin’ hot, and a lot of guys are really into the single mom thing. That’s the cunning part. You barely meet the minimum age requirement and there’s no way you can lose, especially considering I used the bikini shot from vacation last year as your profile picture for the application. I know no other candidate could compete with you. It would be like challenging a fish to a footrace.”
“Thanks?”
“You’re welcome. But you haven’t heard the best part yet.”
“What’s that?”
“In addition to true love, in addition to hot sex with an athletic, muscular hottie, there is also a significant cash payout.”
“How significant?”
Rather than saying it out loud, Mercy opted for the super spy approach of whispering the figure into my ear. I damn near fell off my stool.
This whole idea sounded like it could only lead to mortifying embarrassment. I didn’t want to be paraded around as one pathetic candidate out of many on some reality TV show for other people to point and laugh at and talk about as they gathered around the water coolers at work.
And yet, for that kind of price tag, I would gladly sell my dignity. I wouldn’t need it once my child and I were set for life financially.
Sign me up, I thought to myself, and then I remembered Mercy already had.
I guess my best friend really did know how to look out for me.
Chapter Two - Tobias
It was almost a meditative experience. The rumble of the engine, the warm sun on my face, the dulcet tones of Delirium emanating from both the front and back speakers, enveloping my mortal form in a veritable bath of sound.
The honk came sharp and loud. Slowly opening my eyes, I noticed that the car in front of me had moved another ten feet. The red-faced gent behind me was desperate for even the most incidental amount of advancement.
It was like World War I all over again. He was even using quite colorful German swear words, shouting out his window, to express his deep discontent. Perhaps it was my Union Jack bumper-striker, accessorized with the phrase ‘Rule Britannia’ that set him off. Neither Germany nor America had the best of histories with Old Blighty.
There was no real cause for worry. It was not as if they could start without me and I was as invincible as it was possible to be in terms of job security.
Still, I was not the only one in the world, so I tried to make an effort. For the sake of others if nothing else. People really weren’t that bad, all in all. Just scared and a bit short-sighted.
“Good morning, James,” I said to the valet.
“Mr. Ford.”
“Please, we’ve been over this, it’s Tobias. Mr. Ford was my father.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. - Tobias.”
“Much better.”
Surrendering my vehicle to his able hands, I made my way through the sliding glass doors to the white marble lobby of the studio building. The whole thing wasn’t ours, of course. The building had over thirty floors. One would need to be a trillionaire to afford such extravagance, and Jeff Bezos and I fell out some time ago.
The studio only took up the first ten floors.
“Good morning, Tobias,” Mike said, keeping his military bearing behind the security desk as I signed in.
“Good morning, Michael,” I replied cordially.
The competition for elevators was stiff with only two to go around and all. That was a clear oversight by the architect.
“Thank you kindly, Adam,” I said, as he held the elevator for me.
“Not a problem, Tobias.”
“Good morning, Tobias,” Eva said, from right behind me, her tone one of milk and honey.
“Good morning, Eva,” I replied, keeping things professional.
My office was on the sixth floor, right above the actual studio where we filmed most of the interior shots. More and more, the board wanted things “out in the world.” It was something I could really do without, despite perfectly understanding it from an entertainment perspective.