Chapter 49: The Big Game

Thursday, November 28, 1985

Jas and I woke around seven-thirty, which felt a bit too early after last night. We needed the time, though, both for cooking and for talking.

Once we were both awake, we cuddled in bed, Jas in my arms. She said, “So ... it was a good date.”

“Really good,” I said, nodding. “And yours was, too?”

“It was great! Monique, so far, is ... we click a bit better than Katy and I did. Still not sure it’s anything more than a fling, but ... it’s a good fling.”

“I’m glad, honey,” I said.

“She’s ... oh, heck. I don’t know. She’s not going to be in the inner circle, or ‘family,’ but ... maybe she might stick, some? I mean, as a lover, not just a friend. I’m pretty sure Claire is going to be a long-time friend, but not a lover. Katy ... maybe neither. Monique ... who knows?”

“It still sounds encouraging.”

“It’s ... different. Mama and Papa have ... people they see sometimes. I think it’s not the same. It’s not like I know details ... or want them!”

She giggled and shivered a bit. I was pretty sure it was just for effect.

“Still,” she continued, “I’m pretty sure it’s more ... fuckbuddies. No real emotional ties. We might do that, but ... it doesn’t seem to be who we are, so far.”

“I agree, it doesn’t,” I said, nodding.

“It’s what I thought I wanted, long ago,” she said. “And it’s entirely possible that being with you is what changed it. You just don’t think that way. But ... I mean, it’s not like you asked me to change, it’s ... I just ... figured out that maybe I don’t think that way, either.”

“Whatever works for you,” I said. “I have no problem with the original rules we set way back when. New stuff is new, and it’s optional.”

“Yay!” she said, giggling, and kissed me. “I like that. It’s ... I also think maybe we both do better if it’s ‘This is what I want to do,’ not ‘This is a rule we made.’ We’re good with rules, but the rules we have are ones we would follow even if no one said they were a rule. On the other hand, saying they’re rules is good, just so we’re clear.”

“Definitely!”

“So ... back to dates,” she said, giggling, then making a show of sniffing at me. “You showered at her place. That must mean it was a good date. Medical restrictions lifted?”

I chuckled and said, “Medical restrictions in place. We even discussed them a bit, if slightly obliquely. She was happy with them, because ... well, if they hadn’t been there, and I hadn’t been restrained, she was nearly certain she would have said ‘yes.’ And she wasn’t sure if she should have been willing to say yes.”

“I would say ‘silly girl,’ but I understand. I really do. That’s not me, and it was never me, but there’s nothing wrong with seeing things that way.”

“Exactly.”

“So...?” she said.

“Um... ‘good girl’ got involved. Heck, ‘good little girl’ got involved.”

“That still feels new, and ... I like it. I mean, I might like it, but it’s more ... if she likes it, I like that you’re where that’s good for you.”

“She does. We agree: if I ever call her that in class, I get slapped and I deserve it.”

She giggled a lot at that.

“But, when it’s tomboy Darla and the Big Bad Wolf...”

“The Wolf wins, and she’s his good little girl.”

“Yeah. I don’t see anything ... off ... there, either. It’s just good dirty fun.”

Jas giggled some more, nodding.

“What next?”

“She talks, obliquely — very obliquely — to Clara. That, and ponders where she is. And maybe talks to you, or Angie, or ... whoever. In any case, I think a repeat of tonight is very likely. It was ... not a home run, but everything went really well.”

“Everything?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“The Big Bad Wolf was hungry. Once he was satisfied, it turned out Darla was hungry, too.”

Jas grinned and sang out, “Hungry like the wolf!” complete with a few of the moans.

“I might never hear that song quite the same way again.”

“Me, neither!”

Jas and I wound up being the first to get to the kitchen. We had coffee, eggs, and bacon ready for everyone by the time they showed up. ‘Everyone’ included Candice and Sherry, who came upstairs for brunch around nine-thirty.

They had been blown away by Bonfire. Certainly UH had nothing like it, but there were very few schools that did. A pre-game celebration that takes thousands of people months of effort and involves thousands of logs, plus aviation fuel? How common could that be?

I didn’t mention anything about the game at all. Even without my half-remembered optimism, though, most of the group believed A&M would win, and that it would be less close than the pundits were calling for. All of the Battalion writers had picked A&M, but the most optimistic pick was A&M by ten, and two of them had A&M by two. Our consensus was at least a two touchdown victory.

Last year’s 37-12 victory — one completely unexpected by nearly anyone other than me — probably figured into that. A&M had been unranked last year, while t.u. had been somewhere in the top 20. Both teams were ranked this year, but A&M was ranked higher, and it was a home game.

Of course, that might mean we were set up for an upset that would very much mirror last year’s game. No one actually believed that, though.

Well, a bunch of t.u. fans probably did. I had been one of those fans, though, and had been bitterly disappointed when A&M viciously crushed my hopes of going to the Cotton Bowl.

Ironically, this time I had no thought of attending the Cotton Bowl. The Rose Parade was much more important. Here was a chance to do something I’d missed in my first life, and I was simply passing it by.

On the other hand, I was passing it by to make a surprise proposal to my girlfriend in a very romantic setting, with both sets of parents (plus Angie, Paige, Tony, and Jean) there to witness it. That was something completely unimaginable in my first life, after all. Not to mention, I hadn’t been to the Rose Parade ever before, either.

The Cotton Bowl was, by comparison, merely a football game.

I wasn’t even sure if we would get to watch it on TV. With the two-hour time difference and the parade, it might simply be impossible.

Oh, well. There were newspapers. We could set a VCR to record it and then watch it later, too. But, since we would know who won, it might be anticlimactic.

After breakfast, we rolled right into cooking ‘Thanksgiving Light.’ We had a turkey breast and had made garlic mashed potatoes, Parmesan green beans, rolls, sweet potatoes, spinach casserole, cranberry chutney, and pumpkin pie.

Michael arrived slightly after noon, wearing a burnt orange sweatshirt he’d likely bought as a freshman. He’d brought a couple of bottles of wine — ones Jasmine approved of, too! I introduced him to Candice and Sherry. He already knew that they didn’t know about the investment and didn’t say anything to tip them off.

That made me rethink things a bit. At some point, and probably in the not too long future, I was going to have to rip the band-aid off and tell them a bit about it. There would start being times when I would have to run to Austin unexpectedly, missing classes, and they would need to have at least some idea of why.

And, if they were going to know, I probably needed to tell the parents something. Not the whole thing, not yet. Or ... probably not. Maybe? Certainly not anything about the odds of an IPO or serious money, but ... it was already serious money from Dad’s perspective. A liquidation of P.C.’s Limited right now would probably net us in the neighborhood of six million dollars, an amount that Dad would find (apologies to ‘The Princess Bride’) inconceivable.

Sharing big numbers like that wouldn’t be good. Not yet. Knowing we’d invested and things were looking very good would be good, though. And almost certainly necessary.

It was much like things with Jas at Northwestern. For a long time, I had imagined — been nearly certain! — I could put off telling her the full truth until a proposal or the like. Then, as they do, events sped along and changed things.

Telling her then had been a risk, but not telling her would have been wrong, simply put. Telling them about some of the financial stuff was likely the same: a risk now, but a bigger risk later, and probably wrong. There was a point to rolling out the information in little chunks roughly half a year apart. When big numbers appeared, it would be somewhat expected, not something out of the blue.

If I updated them now, it would also answer the question of whether I knew I was likely to be rich before I proposed to Jas. I really didn’t think that would matter to the parents, but it was a question. If I was rich, Jas would be rich. Did she know that? Could it be a factor?

Pretty clearly not, since none of them would imagine that Jas had any idea I might be rich way back when we started dating, or even in, say, 1984. They would never know about the conversation at Northwestern. Or, if they did, it would be years from now.

I might need to tell them about the money now. About the big stuff? Much later, or never.

I pulled Michael aside very briefly after lunch. He readily agreed that I should receive some of the weekly reports he received. Not all of them, but cash flow, sales, inventory, a summary of notable hires and departures, sales outlook (deals finalized, in the pipeline, new notable customers, etc), repair issues, and so forth. If I was going to really be a valuable not-so-silent partner, I needed that, and Michael agreed.

I think he was a bit relieved that I brought it up. This way, it was me essentially offering to be a more well-informed sounding board. He had certainly known I preferred the silent partner status I’d mostly had, but we were moving on to ‘godparent,’ which is a very different sort of role.

He planned to work with the team to start having reports mailed out. He could fax them, but it would be a lot of faxing and most of it wouldn’t be that time-critical. If there was something more timely, that could always be faxed or FedExed.

Once we had a fax machine, anyway. That was on the to-do list.

Michael was a charming guest, and I think Candice and Sherry had fun hanging out with all of us. He mentioned ‘work’ a few times, but he also mentioned ‘UT’, and one would have had to listen carefully to realize he never said he was a student, nor that he had a business. I think much of that was simply not wanting to brag, but it was also him being careful with who got access to information in deference to Angie, Paige, Jas, and me.

He left around three. Friends of his from t.u. — including employees of his, though you would have to read between the lines to know that — were coming to the game, and he was planning to meet them at the MSC, hang out a bit, and have dinner. I figured they, like Michael, would have some t.u. gear. That wouldn’t matter. A&M prized their reputation as gracious hosts, and anyone wearing t.u. gear would be welcomed with open arms — often literally.

The exception would be anyone who set foot on the MSC grass. They would be warned — politely, but warned — to get off of it. Now. Anyone who didn’t? They would get quite a bit of opprobrium. Whether you were an Aggie, tea-sip (a favorite Aggie name for t.u. students, hence ‘sips’ as a term of reference), or none of the above, it made no difference. The grass was sacred, and woe betide anyone who violated it. Little children would be forgiven, but their parents would not be if the situation was not remedied.

After Michael left, we made a bunch of Thanksgiving calls to friends. Some of them were unavailable, most likely out with parents or otherwise involved, and we didn’t even know where some of them were. Would the Boston-centered contingent have returned to Houston? Who knew? We couldn’t get any of them on the phone, anyway.

We got Jess on the phone, as well as Lizzie and Janet. Marshall was a no-show, but we talked to Curtis and Marsha, who said Gene and Sue were doing great and so was Marshall. They were expecting Marshall for Thanksgiving dinner in a few hours. He’d had a lunchtime Thanksgiving with his teammates.

We talked to all of the parents as well, along with Grandmother and Professor Berman. They’d had a turkey dinner in the cafeteria and were feeling good about it. Grandmother brought a tear to everyone’s eye by telling us — at some length — how happy she was that the four of us had found each other and how special we all were. Professor Berman echoed that, going on a bit about how much it meant to him to know his Texas grandchildren and their soon-to-be wives.

Crying is sometimes a part of Thanksgiving. Tears of happiness, but tears still.

Something the Rileys said apparently got Cammie teared up in a good way, too. Mel as well, but Cammie didn’t have parents who would go on about how much they loved her and how thankful they were that she was doing well. She had to count on the Rileys, and Professor Berman (who had mentioned her a few times), to cover for them.

It made me slightly angry, but much more simply sad. They had an amazing daughter who was already doing great things, and a wonderful daughter-in-law to be, and they were too blinded by their religion to see it. It was no less of a tragedy a year and a half later than it was at the time.

Cammie was doing much better, at least, and had so much love and support in her life. I’m sure she still missed them sometimes, though. But they had made their bed and had to lie in it.

We spent some time packing in the late afternoon, then headed over to the Commons. Everything was crowded, and it was obvious that only a relative handful of students had gone home instead of staying for the game. Many families’ Thanksgivings had been disrupted, but it was for a good cause.

There were plenty of parents here, too, though not nearly as many as during moving times or the like. Tickets were hard to get, but many parents had managed.

Our big group took over a few tables near each other and hung out until about an hour before kickoff.

Along the way, I got a bit of time apart with Darla.

She grinned, hugged me, and said, “Last night was ... magical.”

“It was. Mister Wolf is most thankful.”