That sliver of over-the-counter adhesive is treacherous. A tiny, sticky tipping point that I will not let sway me.
Hector squishes his nose and crosses his eyes, trying to see if he’s placed the strip in the right place without the aid of a mirror, and I remain firm. Even if I’m the only witness to his soft brown skin creasing in so many weird and wonderful ways, I stop myself before I become play dough.
I’m sitting on my bunk, laptop plugged into the Ethernet cable after Hector’s expert help, waiting to give a presentation on my gala theme idea, and he’s making it impossible. In plaid fleece pajama pants and a washed-too-many-times Havensmith College T-shirt, he’s a hunk of the month in a Christmas Cuties calendar, if people still owned calendars and I cared about Christmas.
Or him being a cutie.
Which I most resolutely do not.
“Yes, you look incredibly stupid. Can we get to my presentation now?”
He scoffs in defeat and sidles over to the rocking chair, slumping, still trying to keep the strip from pulling on his thin under-eye skin. “The floor is yours.”
I flip the screen around to face him. The scheme for the slides is black-and-white, suave and elegant. A soft piano melody, reminiscent of something you’d hear in the lobby of a fancy New York City hotel, plays underneath. “Imagine for a moment the luxury and opulence of Manhattan in the middle of Wind River.”
Hector snorts, breaking me from my concentration. At first, I think it’s a side effect of the breathing strip, but nope. He’s openly mocking my presentation.
“Listen, Hector, if you’re not going to take this seriously, you might as well just quit now.” I glare at him, which I’ve learned is a futile gesture, but I can’t help it. It’s my resting reaction face.
“No, no. Go on.”
“Thank you,” I huff. “After you asked if I was expecting the Plaza, I got to thinking: if I can’t be back in New York, maybe I can bring New York here.” I tap the right arrow and up pops my moodboard. “The tables will each be named after different New York City landmarks like the Empire State Building, Central Park, the Statue of Liberty, etc. Food will be cuisine inspired by famous New York City chefs.” I’ve pasted in a picture of a famous, out-gay chef wearing only an apron, giving bedroom eyes over a sizzling pan of peppers.
“Seriously? You think some Netflix reality-show star is going to come here?”
Despite our cookie win and Hector’s kindness today, I’m still not sure Hector’s up to the challenge of my perfectionism. His growing scowl concerns me even more. “He’s a…friend.” Not sure how I can describe to Hector that my exes and I once had a foursome with him after the launch event for hisNew York Timesbestselling cookbook.
“I’m not an expert on this stuff, but what you’re showing me are just colors and loosely related images. What do they even mean?” I hate that he’s acting like this is rocket science. “Crystal snowflakes? Maroon?”
“That’s vermilion!” His inability to identify basic colors is appalling, but I proceed. “May I continue? For entertainment, after careful contemplation, I’ve decided we have to go for classic crooning and BBE—bigbandenergy.” My joke jolts us back on track. I like when he laughs at me for being purposefully funny and not for being ridiculous.
“Okay. So, like, a local swing band?” he asks, engaging now. “I think the postal workers in town have one.”
“Oh, Jesus, no. That sounds tragic.” I cue up a jumpy clip of “Jingle Bells.” “Let’s think bigger. Nothing gets a party swingin’ like the King of Christmas himself, Michael Bublé.”
Hector’s expression dims. “I’m pretty sure Santa is the King of Christmas.”
“Agree to disagree,” I mumble. “My friend’s cousin is Mr. Bublé’s manager. I can reach out about his rates and availability. My friend owes me big time after I bailed him out of jail for urinating on a national monument in Prague. I’m sure we can make it work.” Hector’s dubious expression gives me pause. “What’s with that face? You think we should try for a Bing Crosby hologram? I know he’s moreclassicChristmas, but the technology is confusing, the setup is probably a headache, and the licensing is a nightmare. Plus it’s just sodated. I’m going for modern, not nostalgic…”
Hector shakes his head. “No, I don’t think we should get holograms or famous singers at all. Everything you’re saying sounds very expensive and over the top.”
“Okay, well,somebodydidn’t share the budget breakdown with me, andsomebodyis making it seem like wanting to class up the place is an affront,” I say, noting his sudden grumpiness.
“Maybe it is an affront, Matthew,” he barks, but then walks it back. “Sorry, it’s just… Not everything needs to be New York, all right?”
“I’m trying to make that abysmal Great Hall into something that doesn’t completely suck. Something that’s actually spectacular that people can get excited about, but go off, I guess…” Not like I spent hours putting this together only for him to dismiss it in a few sentences.
“Would it kill you to think for a second about the Wind River way? You should be planning for what the citizens of this town want. Not what you think theyshouldwant.” His voice has a sharp edge.
“What theme did you have in mind, then?” I ask, giving it right back.
Collaboration is not my strong suit.
“Oh, I’m only theaction guy. Action guys don’t come up with themes. However…” He pulls open his Notes app. “Here, I made a list of vendors, community groups, and businesses we probably need to hit to get everything in order in arealisticway.”
I moan, his words biting into me. “What? Ugh. I didn’t know helpingpeoplewould require interacting with so many…people.”
Most of my event planning before this consisted of doodling and delegating. Back home, I’d hand over my sketchbook to a friend of mine who works in Broadway theater design, allocate a budget, and check back in on progress periodically. I’d give notes as needed. Everything would be as I envisioned it, and I wouldn’t break a sweat.
