Free The Deal by Adam Gittlin

her guy.
    “I’ll tell you what,” I responded, pointing to some vacant space behind me, “Since it’s late and the place is clearing out, I’ll stand all the way over here and—”
    “They don’t want you smoking in here,” he interrupted. “Like I said, they have a limo out front. It’s the smoking section. I know because I come here, like, all the time.”
    It was a draw for what bothered me more about the guy. The fact he had cut me off or the reality he was the prototype poser.
    “Is that so?” I taunted. “You mean, like, all the time?”
    L couldn’t keep from laughing.
    “I said the establishment doesn’t—”
    “If the establishment wants the cigar out, then someone who works for the establishment can tell me so.”
    “Honey, let’s just—” Elizabeth tried to interject.
    “Actually,” he continued, “I’m telling you so.”
    Now I was pissed. Not just because this guy was killing my high but because Elizabeth’s happiness had only seconds earlier mattered to me.
    He took a step toward me. Enjoying the free fall of being both drunk and wired, and threatened just enough to want to teach this yutz a lesson, I drew a large mouthful of smoke and blew it toward him.
    “And who the fuck are you?” I asked.
    I actually used to look forward to moments like this. Instantly everything about me intensified. My posture, my vision, my purpose. I could feel everyone’s eyes reaching out for me, grabbing at me as if they were hands. This mattered to me, it invigorated me. This type of attention helped remind me I was alive, it helped me feel like more than just another pawn on the chessboard of life. It made me feel like the mighty king that stands head and shoulders above all the other pieces.
    Only now do I realize that’s what everyone, everything is. Just pieces.
    “Excuse me?”
    “You can’t hear or something?” I went on. “I asked who you are. Because if by chance you were actually someone, I’d maybe consider putting it out.”
    “Fuck you,” he said as he took another step toward me.
    “Sheldon!” Elizabeth tried again, this time reaching for him.
    I looked past my adversary’s left shoulder. Once he noticed my attention had shifted he turned to see why. My boys were now standing in the bar, and they were staring directly at him.
    He turned back to me, squinted, and spoke in a quiet, direct tone.
    “Who do you think you are?”
    In my little episode of narcissistic immaturity the answer to the question was an easy one. You see, a restaurant like davidburke and donatella loves a presence like mine. They love having people see me there, some guy who’s in articles for the deals he puts together. Some young hotshot who can eat wherever he wants but chooses to eat their salmon, tip their waiters, and drink their booze. Again, I didn’t respond. I had become so jaded, lost, that I simply felt no need to explain myself. I understand now that had I been sober, standing there with L in some kind of out-of-body experience, I would have been embarrassed to even know me.
    At that moment the manager, Luis, came over and immediately asked the other guy if perhaps he’d be more comfortable in another part of the restaurant. But at the same time the bartender let me know my ride home had arrived.
    “Don’t worry about it, Luis,” I said. “My car’s out front.”
    “Mr. Gray, I am sure it is no trouble at all for the gentleman.
He—”
    “Trouble for me?” a bewildered Sheldon blurted out.
    I cut him off.
    “Seriously, it’s no bother. It’s time for me to get out of here anyway.”
    I removed my wallet from my pants pocket. I pulled out my Amex Centurion Card, the quintessential symbol of a true money-man, then handed it to Luis along with a fifty and my business card.
    “I don’t feel like waiting. Messenger the card to my office tomorrow.”
    “Of course, sir. Very good.”
    I turned to L—
    “Tell everyone dinner’s on me.”
    — and then back to Sheldon.
    “You