A Wingman's Justification

Why did Chance Ransom betray his secret society? What would make a decorated and storied Wingman go public? All great stories have an end, and this tale is the lighting of the fuse...

Unless you've been living under a rock or the past few months, you already know who I am. For those of you that don't get out much – or should I say get out so much that you don't have time for the tellie – I'm the one who blew the cover off of wingmen the world over and confirmed our existence to the world.

 

I thought it was a good idea when I wrote "The Wingman Story." I thought people would want to hear about what a wingman does, how we work. I thought it was time for people to hear our story. I probably should have conferred with my colleagues first.

 

You all know me as Chance Ransom – The Greatest Wingman that ever lived. I am neither. If I had disclosed my real name, I would be washed up in the Wingman business. I'm a very competent wingman, but not the greatest in the world. No one really knows who the best is, but I'd stake money on being in the top 1%. For now Chance Ransom is my moniker and you can refer to me by any variation the two names.

 

OK…why am I writing today? After all the media stories, witch hunts and what is now being referred to in my business as The Silk Scare (Wingmen are supposed to be as smooth as silk. These guys never get over themselves), why would Ransom author another story? Justification. I need to justify myself to my readers and my colleagues.

 

It wasn't long after the Marc incident in the club that I had a night off. Marc was in Amsterdam, and wasn't in need of my services for a week. I had some down time to install that garage door opener, cut the grass, and catch up on my reading…Hah! Not a chance. A wingman has to stay sharp. That means hitting the town. Not just clubs either. This isn't the f*****g 1970's. Grocery stores, malls, bookstores, coffee shops, book stores with coffee shops, bagel places…Um ok, that does follow kind of a theme, but you get my point. Research! What are women into these days? What's in? What's out? What are they looking for in a man? I need to know all of this so that I can deliver it in the form of my principal. I don't close…I make closers, and then they close a lot.

 

Well it gets exhausting and there is very little in terms of short term payoffs. Being a wingman is as much about discipline as it is about craft. So at the end of the day, we need a place to go. Somewhere where we can belt down a few tumblers of Scotch with our mates…trade war stories…vent…whatever we need. Have you ever read Ernest Hemingway's A Clean Well Lit Place? If the answer is "no," then good for you. It bored the hell out of me. This is nothing like that.

 

I can't mention the town for obvious reasons, but the bar we go to is called Clipped (as in "clipped wings"). It's stupid, I know, but I needed to make up a name for you. It is in the old section of a very old town in the continental US. The buildings in the area are all red brick or stone. Clipped is in the basement of a stone building. The stairs leading down are on the side of the building. They are grey and sometimes covered with lichen. There is a very old metal sign with the universal sign for fallout shelter. I guess we're safe if the Commies decide to nuke us. The interior is unusual. It is more of an arch shaped room with a curved roof, like we are inside the top half of a giant pipe. It is spacious enough to seat about 50 comfortably. The bar is against the back wall – one of the two non-curved ends. There is a pool table, a dart board and a unisex bathroom. There is also one of the finest stocked bars that you will find anywhere in the city. On any given night, you'll find 10-12 wingmen sitting around drinking.

 

You will not see women in this bar. Don't get me wrong. We have plenty of non-wingmen and even an occasional woman come into the bar. It is out of the way, but it's not a secret lair. If you are a male and not a wingman, you will find the service very slow. If you are a woman, the experience is a bit more unusual. Wingmen are used to charming the unpleasant, embracing the ugly, hugging the morbidly obese, but we aren't closers. When a woman walks into our bar, more than likely she will get a couple of wingmen trying to set her up with the other guy. Conversations will go something like this:

 

Me: Have you met my friend: Jackson?

 

Jackson: How rude of me for not introducing Chance.

 

Bewildered Female: It's nice to meet you both.

 

Me: Let me go get the two of you a drink.

 

Jackson: He's always putting others before himself.

 

Bewildered Female: I'll have a Bombay Sapphire martini.

 

Me: That's what Jackson drinks too.

 

Jackson: Let me get the two of you a drink…

 

It just doesn't play out well. We aren't trained to close.

 

On this particular night, there were no outsiders. Just us wingmen. I threw my coat and hat on one of the hooks along the wall. I saw a grey column of smoke coming from an expected corner of the bar. Edgar's corner. Edgar was a Frenchman and a legend in the business, but he was going down and fast. It happens to wingmen. It happens in all high stress professions. I am one of Edgar's only friends. Not because I was quite in his league, but because he had been my trainer. Because of that I naturally feel loyalty to Edgar. Well…as much loyalty as our profession allows. Are primary loyalty is to our closers.

 

"Good Evening, Edgar."

 

"If you say so." The words are slurred and laden with a heavier accent than when he is sober.

 

I order two Laphroaig's straight up and lit a cigarette for myself. Edgar got me hooked on it during the instruction phase of my training. A good wingman is either a smoker or a non-smoker depending on the situation. You smoke no?

 

I hold up my drink: "God, Country and the Corp"

 

"Ahhh, let us just drink, mon ami."

 

"You will not join the toast, Edgar?"

 

"I can not. I do not belong to this country. I do not even know why our Corp exists and as for God…" He trails off.

 

"Yes?" I ask with sincere interest.

 

"I hate God and he hates me. It is the arrangement that we have."

 

We sling back our scotch and I order two more.

 

"Edgar, they need us. We are needed."

 

"We are not even men. We are basset hounds, fetching food for our masters."

 

"Well…" He makes a good point really.

 

Edgar tries to stand, but falls smashing the wooden chair. A look of embarrassment and rage flashes across his face. "You think you are needed? What would happen if you did not go to work? The world will die off for all of the virgins? Wake up, Chance. We are meaningless."

 

His eyes fill with tears. He gathers himself up and walks to the bathroom. I began to clean up the broken chair. The conversation with the Frenchman wasn't new, but it kept getting angrier and louder with each passing event. He was just saying things that we all feel. I keep it together by not thinking about it, but I think about it. I train in Krav Maga, box and see a therapist three times a week. He couldn't cope anymore. One too many times being the distracter. One too many times being number two (ironic isn't it).

 

I was starting to piece it together, when I heard the report from the bathroom. The sound was sharp and loud and it was quick and cold and it cut through my spine. I wasn't surprised though. I just didn't think he would do it at the bar.

 

I got up slowly and let the chair pieces fall back to the wooden floor. I was the last one to reach the door of the bathroom. A few of them looked at me. The Frenchman and I were friends.

 

Edgar had a wife and kids. He was a s**t father and husband doing a s**t job. Let me rephrase that: He did a s**t job like Mozart would play a piano bar. A master of "game" and "sub-game."

 

For insurance reasons we had to make it look like an accident. His family needed the money. Maybe that's why he offed himself at Clipped. He figured we would know what to do. The best that we could come up with was picking up the pieces of his head and dumping his body on the train tracks (we also aren't mobsters). The slug had passed through and landed in the wall of the only bathroom in our bar. I use the alley upstairs now.

The insurance company asked a few questions to make it look good, but in the end we paid. Half of the claims adjusters in the outfit had wingmen upon which they relied...and everyone knew Edgar. 

 

I wrote my story two weeks later. When I walked into Clipped after it came out, I scanned the room for a place to sit. A lot of the wingmen suspected that it was me. They were all in attendance so the bar was packed. The only place in the bar that was open was Edgar's corner. It was too soon for that. It wasn't my time for bar corners...so, I grabbed my coat and hat and faded into the night.

 

Piece of advice, be careful blowing in your secret organization. People get all weird about it. In retrospect, this story may have been a bad idea, as well.

 

Rest in peace Edgar the Frenchman…

 

 

http://www.myspace.com/chanceransom 

 

Author's Note

This was actually the first one that I wrote. I wrote the death of Chance's friend first and then looked back to the events leading to it. Also, this may or may not be an early draft, so please let me know of issues.

Reviews

[Yvonne Heidt]

"Have you ever read Ernest Hemingway's A Clean Well Lit Place? If the answer is "no," then good for you. It bored the hell out of me. This is nothing like that."

LOL!

I have a very short attention span but this held up well. Your dialog was snappy and moved the story as it should. I also like the whole secret organization. This is original and creative.

I am liking your series very much.

I am looking forward to reading more.

[Blackbirdsong]

What a wonderful read. I guess I'm reading these out of out of order, but it works with what I read yesterday. I love what you're doing with this story and look forward to reading more.

[Dawnkain]

I agree, this story may have been a bad idea. That comes with telling most stories, as we find in the press everyday. I am glad you told the story however, It was a good read.

[None]

Excellent story. Bombay Saphire...reminds me of a Stevie Nicks song. I want to hear more stories. More! More, if you please.

[Charlotte Marie]

Great piece! Very interesting! Really well written! Thanks for sharing! ~Charley~

[Holly Marsh]

I liked this piece--very original. Loved the bit between the two wingmen trying to be wingmen for each other. Can't wait to see what else you'll write! :)