Page 26 of Good Days Bad Days
It opened in May of last year, and the golf courses and women in bunny suits aren’t the only draw to the club. There are multiple bars, pools, and—once snow starts to fall—artificial ski hills. You can go toany show you want to if you have enough money to pay the 130 bucks for a three-day weekend.
And the Playboy Club key, well that’s the modern myth of the lunchrooms and watercoolers in most of the offices within a one-hundred-mile radius of this hotel. In order to get into the club, a key is required. As exclusive as it sounds, Mark says it’s only a twenty-five-dollar-a-year membership fee. Some guys get the key just so they can say they have one, but I doubt Don Hollinger is one of those kinds of men.
When Hollinger spread the word about the overnight business trip to the Playboy Club-Hotel in Lake Geneva, it was supposed to be hush-hush. Each producer and advertiser got the invitation directly from Mr. Hollinger, bypassing secretaries, assistants, wives, and any other potential sources of gossip. EBN is supposedly a family-centered place with wholesome traditional values. So, spending twenty-four hours at a resort named after a pornographic magazine featuring scantily clad women dressed as bunnies seemed a little out of character.
“It’s all look but don’t touch,” he explained in a closed meeting with the production team. “Plus, this isn’t for us—it’s for our sponsors, andClassy Homemakeris going to be an important part of this weekend. We get more sponsorship dollars from that half hour than any other show currently running on WQRX. Oil that locked jaw of yours, Tin Man.”
I hate theWizard of Ozreference he uses for me lately: Tin Man. I see why he chose it. It’s clearly obvious how awkward I am in my body, gangly and stumbling and stiff. I have too many emotions and too little gumption. But when he says it in front of everyone else on the production board, including Martha, I wish I could melt away like the cackling green witch from that same film.
“I don’t know about this,” Martha said. Hollinger tried to keep Martha out of the clandestine meeting, inviting only me. But I knew it wasn’t right. Martha produces two WQRX shows, and one of them is the admitted cash cow of the station. I told Mark I’d only go if Martha was invited, too. He looked at me with some pride at my flash of courageand said, “Message received. I’ll pass it on.” A few hours later, Martha received the go-ahead, unaware that she had almost been excluded.
“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” Hollinger said, almost too quickly, clearly eager to keep Martha home, where I’m sure he believes she belongs. “Greg can step up for you. Might make everybody more comfortable anyway.”
“I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean,” she said, a number two pencil clutched in her fist.
“Yeah, neither do I,” Hollinger replied with a rude chuckle and an edge to his voice. “Listen, one of you needs to be there. I don’t care who.”
Martha insisted we both go, and I didn’t want to let down Martha so—that was that.
As Mark and I follow Highway 50 into Lake Geneva, the distance between the houses begins to shrink. It truly is beautiful here. Rolling hills that lend their stature to the ski area during the winter. Clean, spring-fed lake that provides entertainment and excitement for the summer months. And now the Playboy Club-Hotel, a 320-room resort set a mile off the main road, with its own airfield where the likes of Frank Sinatra and Bob Hope arrive weekly to perform on the cabaret stage.
“Here it is!” Mark says like he’s bringing me home to meet his family. Though Mark has never been to the club, he’s well known around Lake Geneva. As a thirtysomething single man, he comes down here every few weeks to enjoy the nightlife, bars, and on some very lonely nights, the strip clubs. Perhaps that’s why he’s so interested in the Playboy Club. It’s not a strip club, though. In fact, as we pull up under the covered entrance, I notice a family with two school-aged kids retrieving matching hardside suitcases from the back of their wood-paneled station wagon. There’s something classy about this place, and in Mark’s mind, far more respectable than his regular strip joint. And now he gets to go into the inner sanctum of “the club.” We both do.
And I’m dreading it.
A valet stands behind a podium at the apex of the curved driveway. Mark passes his keys over like he’s a millionaire who’s done this countless times throughout his fancy life. He’s wearing a black suit with a white button-up shirt underneath and a thin black tie. His shoes are polished, and though I know they’re the same ones he wears nearly every single day to work, they look brand new.
As he rips off his sunglasses, envy rises inside me. Mark knows how to fit in. He looks like he belongs here. Six foot one, tall, but not too tall, his appendages slender but with enough muscle to give him some definition. As I slink out of the car, unfolding my lanky limbs like an accordion being unstretched, I’m like an oddity from the circus sideshow. My button-up shirt is crumpled around the waist, and the fabric of my tweed jacket looks like it’s been brushed one too many times.
Buy a new suit,I think to myself. My new position came with a raise. So far, I’ve put the excess in my savings account, but I could afford a hundred smackers to look presentable at meetings like this.
“Hurry up, slowpoke!” Mark says like a kid anxiously awaiting the opening of a toy store. I’m glad I’m the only one with him. It’s a little embarrassing.
As we walk through the glass entryway, I spot Kev and Darryl, the producers of the nightly news. There’s Don, of course, and our anchor Larry, and a few other familiar faces. Then, interspersed, a few unfamiliar faces, four in total, all wearing some variation of gray or black business suits.
One of the men has his back to me, leaning against the lobby bar, but when he shifts to one side, I can see who he’s been talking to. Martha. She’s dressed in a formfitting green cocktail dress with thick straps that cover most of her shoulders and a straight knee-length skirt. A string of dainty pearls circles her neck, and a glittering gold watch glints on her right wrist. Her hair, unlike every other day I’ve seen her, has been tamed, curled, and sprayed into a stylish bouffant. It’s modern,chic. She looks beautiful, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. Mark elbows me in the ribs.
“Well, who would’ve ever guessed that?” he asks, running his eyes up and down Martha’s newly revealed figure in a way that makes me cringe.
“Knock it off,” I say under my breath. Instead of waiting for her to join me and Mark and Mark’s hungry eyes, I meet her at the step that elevates the bar, bringing Martha nearly to my same height.
“I’m so glad you’re here. I would’ve died if you didn’t show up.”
“Did you really think I’d abandon you?”
“Not abandon me, but find some good reason to not show up? Yes. I definitely worried about that. Promise me you’ll stay close tonight. OK?” she asks, making me feel needed and useful.
“Of course. We’re a team.”
“Yes, we’re a team,” she says, and I notice her eyes, framed by mascara and eyeliner, are the same green as her dress. “These are the guys from Parker Pen, and over there are the guys from GM.”
Her transition into work talk is a good reminder. Unlike Mark, we’re not here for a fancy night out in nice clothes. Martha and I are here to get sponsors for our two shows—one that is thriving and one on the verge of cancellation. I’m not sure if we can saveJanesville Presents..., but I’m determined to try.
“Listen, I need to go powder my nose and you need to check into your room. Dinner reservation is in fifteen minutes or so. If you’re not back, I’ll save you a seat.”
I agree, straightening the overnight bag slung over my shoulder. She sways up the main staircase toward her room, and Mark comes up from behind with a giant growl that makes me jump.
“Hey, I got us checked in. Here’s your key. I don’t mind sharing, but if I need the room tonight, you’re gonna have to make yourself scarce, if you know what I mean.”
