“But I’m not your average client.”
“You aren’t an... asshole.” The word tastes strange on my lips. But not unpleasant. I wonder if I’ll hear about my language later. I turn to face you. “And I’m not sure what I’m meant to teach you. Unlike the rest of my clientele, I would not have you hide your true nature.”
You seem stunned. “You—you wouldn’t? Why the hell not?”
I shrug. “There is a refreshing quality to your brand of brutal honesty, George. And you don’t seem... entitled.”
“’Cause I ain’t. Daddy and I came from nothin’. I grew up in a hundred-and-ten-year-old two-room shack on damn near five hundred acres. I grew up riding on saddles older than me, driving beat-up old trucks older than me, wearing clothes that didn’t fit, eating beans and rice and nearly turned meat. We had acreage and a lotta head of horses and cattle, but that don’t really translate into cash income all that well. I remember that life, X. I remember having just about nothing, and I know I didn’t do dick-all to earn what we got. Daddy got lucky, yeah, but hebusted his ass to turn that little piece of luck into what it is today. So no. I ain’t entitled.”
“And that sets you apart, George. By quite a large margin.”
“I got a large margin for you, babe.” You smirk, and wink.
I suppose the conversation was turning a little too personal for you. “We return to the question at hand, then. What am I supposed to do with you?”
“Hell if I know. All’s I know is Daddy won’t be best pleased if I go back to Texas without having finished this. I promised him I would, so I’m going to. He lets me be who I am and don’t say nothin’ about it. He don’t ask any questions when I say I’ve got a date, as long as I keep my shit on the DL. And he don’t tolerate anybody in the office or who he does business with to talk shit about me either. He’s nixed deals because somebody got a case of loose lips about Mike Tompkins’s queer daughter. So I guess I owe him something in return.”
“I’m just not sure what—”
“Just pretend I’m a dude, X. Do what you do as if I’m just another client’s asshole kid.”
“But you’re not a straight male, or an asshole. And those are the kind at whom my methods are aimed.”
“Just... pretend, okay? Do what you do, the way you normally do it.”
I take a few steps toward you, pushing down my feelings, and drape my mantle of cold hostility over my features. “What I normally do is cut through falsity and pretense and attitude. If this is going to work, then you cannot question me.”
“Falsity? What the hell you talkin’ about, X?”
“First things first. Sit up straight. Quit slouching. And enough with the endearing Texas drawl. It’s too much.”
“What’s wrong with the way I talk?”
“It’s bourgeois, and makes you appear uneducated. If businessmen and -women are going to take you seriously, youmust present yourself as competent, educated, and smooth. A bit of a drawl is acceptable, and perhaps even will give you a slight advantage, but the foul language and the nearly unintelligible manner in which you speak identifies you as nothing but a slouching, slovenly, foul-mouthed bumpkin from the backwoods.” I ignore the angry gleam in your eyes. You want to play this game? Very well, then. Let us play. “Appearing as more than merely blue collar is about enacting a host of changes to your essential nature, Georgia. It’s not about the clothes you wear or the car you drive, or the house you live in. Anyone can find a bag of money and buy nicer things. It’s about learning to comport yourself with dignity and sophistication.”
“You think I sound like a bumpkin?” You sound almost hurt, George.
“I do.” I endeavor to slur, to drawl, to draw out my syllables and twist them, and to drop the ends of my words. “Y’all sound like this.” It comes out:yaaaaawl sownd laahk thyiiiis.
“Got news for ya, missy.” You stand up, pushing off the couch with violence. “I ain’t never gonna sound all hoity-toity like you.”
“Clearly. But is something approaching correct grammar too much to ask for?”
You pace, run a hand through your hair. “I won’t ever sound like you.” It comes out flat, unaccented but lifeless.
“Keep the drawl, but eradicate the poor grammar.”
“That ain’t—that won’t be easy.”
I nod. “Better. You’ll still sound like yourself, but more... acceptable in formal situations.” I wave a hand at the condo. “Situations such as this, for example. This is supposed to be a formal client/service-provider scenario. We are not friends, Georgia. We are business associates. And I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve used the F-word alone.”
“I told you, my name isGeorge.”
“To your friends, perhaps. To your dates. At home, or at the bar. But in the boardroom? Your name is Georgia.” My tone leaves no room for argument. “BeGeorgia. It will simplify things exponentially in professional situations.”
“You’re asking a lot, X.”
“Businessmen are an easily confused lot, Georgia. They understand numbers and money, P-and-L statements, stock assessments. They do not understand a businesswoman named George. They’ll spend the entire meeting trying to figure out what to think, how to talk to you. Are you a man? A woman? They won’t know. And that will detract from the point of the meeting.”
