Fucking Sam Preston

Posted on October 13 2014 in The Writings

cocktail-Wallpaper 1032x338On some level I knew it was going to happen from the first evening I met Sam. It was the night of our annual Gala, and Sam had been in the hotel gift shop, pretending to peruse the postcards.  What he was really doing was scoping every women that entered the lobby, finding his mark for the evening.  He had situated himself in the perfect spot: able to get a good, long look as each woman glided across the foyer in their evening gowns and then judge the quality of their asses as they walked up the wide, marble staircase to the Gala, all the while appearing to be innocently choosing a card to send to the family back home.

We had never met before, although I owed my job to him. In his position as the Community Investment Officer at a huge multi-national corporation, it had been his decision to award my non-profit the grant that paid my salary.   As I walked through the revolving glass doors into the polished mahogany lobby of the hotel, running the words of my speech through my mind one last time, the feeling of being stared at made me turn my head.  In my distraction, I automatically tossed a “What the fuck are you looking at?” glare at the letch before I headed up the staircase. I had climbed two, at most three, steps before I realized what I had done.  Shit.  It had to be him.  My Development Director, Amanda, had told me he was movie-star handsome but had forgotten to mention the predatory part.  Actually, I believe the word she used was “charming.”  Come to think of it, she probably did equate predatory with charming. In her style of extracting money from people, Amanda was a master of flirting with male donors and wasn’t, I was convinced, above a roll in the hay if it helped meet her performance goals.

There was definitely something cinematic about his broad shoulders, his tan face setting off his sleeked back, salt and pepper hair and green eyes  An athlete and outdoorsman in a tuxedo; it was a great combination. He was handsome, no arguing about that, he just had a little too much ego and testosterone for my taste. You could smell it, even at a distance.

Well, there was nothing to be done about it.  Best thing was to keep walking up the stairs and pretend it never happened.  I could tell by the hairs on the back of my neck that my look hadn’t dissuaded him from continuing his anatomical evaluation.  I could almost see him shaking his head in appreciation and hear him saying to himself, “She’ll be fun to tame.”

As soon as I entered the party, an endless round of small-talk, handshakes, and cheek kisses began. Amanda was constantly at my side, whispering the names and backgrounds of the people to whom I was introduced.  It was her job to make sure that I met and ingratiated myself with the most important people in the room, without whose money we could not do our work of providing music education to the poorest schools in the county.  It wasn’t long into the cocktail hour when Amanda pulled me away from a chat with a lovely elderly couple to introduce me to Sam.

“Sam, where have you been?” She rushed over and gave him a hug with a too-lingering cling at the end that made me wonder what, exactly, she had done to get him to give us the largest grant our organization’s history. “We’ve been waiting for you – the man of the evening!  Let the party begin!”

“Amanda, you look gorgeous in that dress.”

“Stop, you’ll embarrass me!  I want to introduce you to our new Executive Director, best your money could buy.  Sam this is Deb Stanton.  Deb, I’d like to introduce our hero, Sam Preston.”

I watched the astonishment cross his face, saw the hesitation before he shook my outstretched hand.  Clearly he hadn’t realized who I was.  There was a moment when our eyes met, acknowledged our encounter and agreed not to mention it.

“Sam.  It is so nice to finally meet you,” I said, feigning non-recognition.  “So glad you could join us tonight. Your support has made all the difference.  We have reached twice the number of students this year because of you, and are on target to double the number of students again next year.”

“I’m very impressed with the job you’re doing.  I want you to apply for support again this year.  Actually, get a grant request to me early, say before December 1.”  Something flashed bright across his eyes, tipped up the end of his eyebrow.  “We don’t normally give grants two years in a row, but I’m sure I can shepherd it through personally.”

Oh, so I was right, Amanda had teased this money out of him, set his expectation for more to come.  “Oh, Sam, that is fabulous news!  What will we ever do to repay you?” Amanda gushed.  Acceptance of his unstated requirement flashed back at him, but Sam was still looking at me.  What good was having millions of dollars to dole out to desperate charities, if he couldn’t use it to get a little bonus on the side, possibly multiple bonuses?

What else was there for me to do?

“We’ll be very grateful for your help,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. “I’ll be sure to get the grant request to you by December.”   We made polite small talk until the Chairman of the Board came over to say “Hello” to Sam, and I was freed to continue mingling throughout the crowd.

At dinner, Sam was seated at my right side, of course. He was the guest of honor to whom I was to pay tribute in my after dinner speech. We were seated at a large, round table for eight, but the tall flower arrangement of roses and chrysanthemums in the center made it impossible to engage the folks across the table in any conversation, and the chatter of the 150 guests at the surrounding tables made it difficult to carry on much of a conversation even with the folks seated on either side of us.  So I was left alone with Sam behind a wall of wine bottles.

Sam had ordered our server to leave a bottle of each type of the wine being poured, all five of them – three reds and two whites – so he could fill his glass and mine at will, pronouncing which was good, telling me which I should like.  Our dinner conversation went surprisingly smoothly, however. I asked how long he’d been with his corporation, what did he like most about his job, where had he had always wanted to travel.  The usual drill.  I even asked about his family and got a refreshingly candid picture of his pride in his son and daughter.  Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.

I was feeling comfortable enough about him to give my speech asserting what a great guy he was and how happy we were to be receiving the support of an environmentally destructive, child labor exploiting, union busting corporation with some believable level of sincerity. Then I invited him to come up to the stage so he could meet a few of the kids he had helped. Sam was so inspired, or maybe just so drunk, that he took the podium from me and launched into how proud he was to be part of our organization, how glad to invest their company profits into the community, blah blah blah.  It all seemed to be going fine until he turned and took a step toward me, poked me in the chest and declared for all to hear “I like you.” I know it was my imagination, but I swear at that moment he was standing in a loin cloth, his other hand dragging a club, the perfect cartoon Neanderthal.  Then he declared it again.  This time, his finger remained pressed to my chest.

I stood there, a smile frozen on my face. I fought the urge to shove his hand away.  Instead, I took a step back, which only gave him the opportunity to let his finger slide over my breast as he lowered his hand.  At a loss at how to rescue the situation, I glanced out at the audience, trying to locate Amanda for help. The look on her face snapped me out of my stupor: jealousy and competitiveness in equal measure.  If you want him you can have him, girl, just get him the hell off of me, was my look back to her.  And she did.  She grabbed the photographer and hurriedly arranged some shots of Sam with the kids, then shepherded him back to the table, sat down in my seat next to him and poured some more wine, while I somehow finished my remarks.

What a night.  What a disaster.  Over the next few months, I tried to forget it, to keep my mind on doing my job.  I submitted the grant on time as he requested, but Sam wanted to meet to discuss some of the details.  At my hesitation to meet over dinner, he included Amanda in the invitation. We met at a steakhouse, expensive, with white linens, candles, full bar, huge wine list. He had reserved a corner booth, just big enough for a friendly three.

Amanda was in her element.  She snuggled up to Sam, reading the menu over his shoulder.

“These portions are just too big for a girl like me to eat! Oh, Sam, you just simply have to share with me!”

“Anything to help you keep that figure, Amanda.”

When the waiter came, Sam ordered prime rib, sautéed mushrooms and mashed potatoes, and Amanda declined anything. “No need to bring an extra plate. I’ll just nibble off of Sam’s,” Amanda clarified.

As we ate, I tried not to stare as Sam fed dainty pieces of prime rib to Amanda in between taking manly bites for himself. At least they drank out of separate wine glasses.

“Tell me, Sam,” Amanda asked as she leaned against him to spear a mushroom on the far side of their plate.  “Who do you think is sexier, Carmen Diaz or Penelope Cruz?”  People were always telling Amanda she looked like Carmen Diaz.

“That’s a no win question, Amanda.  I’ll not fall into that trap,” Sam replied and glanced amusedly over at me.  “What do you think, Deb?”

“I think Amanda’s one of a kind,” I replied, trying, unsuccessfully, to keep the disgust out of my voice. My irritation got a guffaw out of Sam. I had his attention for the first time all evening, so I thought I’d try to bring the conversation back to business.

“So, Sam.  What did you want to talk over about our grant request?”

He seemed to gather his thoughts for a second. Then he put his wine glass down, turned his whole body to me, knees touching mine, and gave me the once over.  “You are really looking good these days, Deb.”

“Thank you, Sam. How are your son and daughter doing?  Wasn’t Marie supposed to start college this fall?”

“Marie’s working hard but is happy. It’s great to see her doing so well.”  He paused.  He placed his hand on my thigh. “You know, Deb, I can’t believe you’ve never had children.  When I, uh…. make love to a sexy woman like you, I want to make them pregnant. What’s that man of yours thinking?”  The Neanderthal was back, and I was trapped in a booth with him, held in place by my need to not offend the man who was paying the bills.

There was a glint in Amanda’s eye as she caught mine.  Her look was reminding me that it wasn’t just my job that was on the line if I didn’t play along.  Remember the school kids, it said. Remember her bonus.

I was completely at a loss for a response that didn’t begin and end with “Mind your own goddamned business.” The seconds dragged while my mind struggled. My silence did nothing but make Sam press his hand down harder.

“Don’t.”

I heard Amanda catch her breath. After a moment, she placed a light hand on Sam’s other arm. “Deb’s trying to adopt a baby, didn’t you know Sam?  She’s had such a hard time conceiving, finally applied to an agency.  What’s the latest news, Deb?”

“I’m sure Sam’s got more interesting things he’d like to talk about.”

“Don’t be silly, Deb.”

“Tell me about it, Deb.”  This from Sam, as if it were an order.

“No.”

Our eyes met. My refusal was final; he could see it. The game was over. He turned back to Amanda, taking his hand with him.

“Well, truly, Amanda, I think you are sexier than either Carmen or Penelope.”

He only had eyes and repartee for Amanda as they shared a warm caramel tart and sipped glasses of cognac. When we finally left the restaurant, Sam let me put on my own coat as he helped Amanda into hers, gave me a handshake as I got into my cab.  Our hopes for another grant were over, and I was out of a job, no matter what Amanda did later that night.

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