Page 55 of Jonesing for a Spy

I won’t even get into the fight to the standards alongside our legislative partners. We’re not an advocacy group, but as professionals, we’re often on the forefront of decisions that are made at state or national levels that impact our business in a practical way. What makes sense theoretically doesn’t always make sense in the field. And things that would run us out of business if we followed the letter of the law need to be discussed practically as lobbyists do on the other side of the issue. We recommend political advocacy when it comes to our livelihoods and the safety of our crews.

When I think about it, I’m not seeing anything I joined the association for being addressed in our meetings. Several people take plenty of trips to play rounds of golf or to deep-sea fish, but they’re low-level bribes, not business meetings. I must have a target on my back because I don’t take the paid vacations. And I suck on a par three.

And the more I think on it, the less I want to be involved and the more it takes from me. Hell, the only thing it’s offered in the last half a dozen years is a trip to The Prestige where a gorgeous woman won me over with her freckles.

At our annual meeting last week, I was sworn in as vice president. I cannot handle another three years of this bullshit. And that’s what it would be — this year, next year as president, and the following as past president. Three years of effort, energy, and time that I don’t care to spend, with people I don’t want to be around.

It may be poor form, but I don’t care. I compose an email to the board and to the administrative team that runs the association, resigning by month’s end. No excuses. No explanations. Thanking them for their professionalism and their trust, I sign off.

That’s it.

On the path from good to great or from average to exceptional, I’ve taken the first step—no more bullshit drains on my time.

With that off my shoulders and the lens I’m viewing life through much clearer, I have clarity on next steps with O’Neill’s crew. It will probably be as popular as the email I just sent. Again, I don’t care.

By Thursday, when I still haven’t heard from Freckles, I hover somewhere between annoyed and pissed.

My message still shows delivered but not read. That’s the reason for leaning toward pissed. She knows I replied and has chosen—is actively choosing—not to read it.

Take whatever time you need. I’ll be here when you’re ready. And holding you was one of my top three favorite things from my extended vacation.

My thumbs hover, and I consider adding to it, but fuck if I’ll blow right past her boundary.

I grab my keys, check our software system to see where O’Neill’s crew is, in addition to two others, seeing as how it never happened on Monday. After filling a cooler with Gatorade and bottled water, I take off to the first of several job sites. It’s not the heat of summer. Dehydration isn’t my biggest concern, but giving a shit goes a long way.

This is also the way Dad pioneered this company and the way I’ve continued leading. On the ground, in the field, with the teams, pulling wire, talking through challenges, being present.

I spend six hours with employees. We talk about challenges, places they might see for improvement, those who want advancement and what that looks like.

Several I ask to meet with before the lunch potluck in a week. When it comes to O’Neill’s crew, I ask them all individually to meet after the meal.

I thank all of them, making sure they know how grateful we are, that my door is always open, and I head home.

Home is empty and lifeless. A good evening run does nothing to bolster my mood. Nor does the steak and broccoli I choke down after.

Shit feels mundane. Today feels like all my steps are in a rut of my own making.

I need a vacation—and I don’t mean to Colorado.

24

said dick

Mirren

“The forward door is now closed. Please ensure all electronics are in airplane mode for the duration of the flight.”

My exhale drives me deep into the wide first-class seat. I’m not yet free to drop the persona, but I am free enough to let go of the breath I’ve been holding for several days. I’m no longer on display, atop a stage as an actor, or under the microscope as a potential buyer.

Though there are so many things I’d rather do, I pull out my computer and begin making notes. Line by line, the text encrypts into what might as well be hieroglyphics. My spelling and grammar errors or duplicated details can be fixed later. Daxton will be—time zones permitting—reading in real time. Line after line, I dump any and every detail whether it seems pertinent or not into our system.

Every single piece of conversation I can remember. The glasses captured the layout in my two and a half days there. I hope the mic picked up everything else.

Regardless, I spend the better part of ninety minutes noting every name, all facial descriptions where they matter, and the social hierarchies. I even note the meal choices, since we dined together for everything but breakfast which I took in my room, still vegetarian to keep up the ruse. Blech.

With twelve hours left on my flight, I close my computer and ditch the glasses. Noise cancelling earbuds, an eye mask, and a couple of melatonin mean I get some decent sleep in mediocre conditions. Then again, after the Army, calling first class mediocre tells me how good I’ve actually got it.

Dallas to Pensacola is long but doable. The sun’s in the right place in the sky, I’ve left Tanzi in Dallas and reemerged as myself, including my original change of clothes. I wish I had my phone. I get why I don’t, but it would be great to catch up while I’m spending hours sitting in coach—with Tanzi’s persona gone, so is her budget. I need to get my cover straight for my brothers and know what the heck has happened in the world, especially where we were “camping” to make my story plausible.