I Hate Everyone, Except You(33)

I once asked a marketing executive how Philip Morris acquired all these names and addresses. She told me, more churlishly than I would have preferred, “A great many people express an interest in Marlboro-branded merchandise.” Marlboro-branded merchandise? This information blew my mind. How much does someone need a Marlboro beer koozie that they’re willing to tell the tobacco company where they live?

I could probably report the story and write it all in one day, Kevin said; it was just one thousand words for which he would pay me three thousand dollars. At that point in my life, with credit-card and student-loan debt slowly crushing my soul like an empty milk carton, I would have done a lot worse for a lot less. I had heard the indoor rock wall at Chelsea Piers, a high-end sports complex on Manhattan’s West Side, was the best in the city, so I called and asked to speak to someone in their marketing department. The phone rang and a male voice answered.

“This is Damon,” the male voice said.

I explained that I was writing a freelance article that would be seen by a lot of people for a magazine he had most certainly never heard of and asked if I could use the wall for a photo shoot and one of the instructors as a source. With a little professional persuasion he agreed, so the next week I took a morning off of work. I figured I would report the story in half a day and write it in one evening.

I wasn’t expecting to be so flustered when we met in person. In his white polo shirt and blue chinos, standing in the middle of the weight-training floor, he looked less like a marketing exec than the sexy phys ed teacher I had always wished for in high school.

“Have you ever worked out here?” Damon asked as he escorted me to the climbing area.

“Yeah, just once,” I said.

“Why just once?”

“I took a group fitness class,” I said. “I forget the name. Extreme Turbo Power or some shit like that. Everyone in it was ridiculously in-shape.”

“You look like you’re in pretty good shape,” he said.

“Thanks, I’ve been working out. But this was nuts. Everyone in the place was ripped. And the class was all running and jumping and free weights. It was too much. I totally barfed.”

He opened his eyes wide and I noticed they were green. “You barfed in the class?”

“No, thank God. I had to run to the bathroom in the middle of it. I puked, washed my face, and walked right out the door. Never came back.”

He laughed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Maybe you should try another class, on the house.”

“Oh, hell no. Still too embarrassed. I’m only here for the money.”

When we reached the climbing wall, the photographer was setting up his equipment, which left Damon and me standing there with nothing to do. He asked me how I became a writer, and I told him I got a master’s degree in journalism because I thought it would pay the bills. I asked him how he got into marketing for a sports complex, and he told me he had always been an athlete so it seemed a natural fit. At one point, he told me he rowed at Brown and I, completely confused, asked, “Rode what?”

He looked at me as if my head had suddenly turned into a canned ham. “A boat.”

“You rode a boat?”

“Yeah. As in crew.”

“Oh, rowed!” I said. “I thought you meant you rode—R-O-D-E—like horses or a bicycle or something. Not R-O-W-E-D.” I realized that the more I kept talking the more insane I sounded.

As if to save me from further embarrassment, Damon said, “Look, I think you’re all set up here. I have to go back to my office, but send me a copy of the story when it’s printed.” He handed me his business card.

I looked down at it. “Will do, Damon Bayles.”

He looked shocked. “You pronounced my name right.”

“Damon is a pretty easy name.”

“No, Bayles. Most people say Bails. But you said Bay-liss.”

“Oh, I didn’t even think to pronounce it any other way,” I said. “When I was growing up, I used to work at a restaurant called Danfords Inn, and it was on Bayles Dock.”

“In Port Jefferson,” he said. “Out on Long Island.”

“Yeah, that’s where I grew up. Do you know it?”

Smiling, he said, “Well, yeah, that’s my family’s dock. Well, it was. In the 1800s they used to build ships there.”

“Get out!”

“I swear.” He seemed very serious all of a sudden.

“I worked there all through high school as a busboy,” I said, “and as a waiter during summer breaks in college. There was this yacht the restaurant would charter, usually for corporate groups, and I’d have to lug all this food and ice and alcohol across that dock when it was ninety degrees outside. Man, it sucked. How crazy is that? I toiled away for years, sweating my ass off, on your family’s dock.”

“That is pretty wild,” he admitted. “I’ve been meaning to go out there some time.”

“You should,” I said. “I could meet you out there for lunch or something.”

He smiled a polite smile. “That would be lovely,” he said. “Anyway, it seems like you’ve got everything you need here. I’m going to head back to my desk.”

“Gotcha,” I said. “Thanks for helping me out with this.”