Chapter 10
EDDIE
You’re probably asking yourself how we got here.
How I ended up making advances on a married woman.
Well, I guess I owe you an explanation. That doesn’t mean you’re going to like it. As you’ll come to learn, I’m not very likable.
Okay, here goes.
It all started when I was going to college at Cal State Northridge.
We had a local bar called The Fitz that we hit up every weekend. My friends and I were all poor college students, and The Fitz offered pitchers of beer for $8. You weren’t going to get drunk for any cheaper than that unless you drank at your friend’s apartments.
And that wasn’t me. I’d always been a social animal. I loved being out on the town, being the center of conversation. So I’d much rather pay for a pitcher of beer than drink Natural Light or Keystone at a fellow college kid’s apartment.
The Fitz wasn’t the most popular bar, but the owner offered me a job one day. His name was George Fitzpatrick.
“Eddie, you seem to know every girl who walks in here.”
“I know my fair share,” I said.
“Who would you say are the two most popular?”
It was a random question.
“Why?”
“Because sales at The Fitz have been down lately, and I was considering trying something new.”
“You’re going to have to be a little more specific,” I said.
“I want to hire a few female guest bartenders on Friday nights. They would drink for free and go behind the bar for a few hours to pour some drinks.”
“And they would invite all of their friends who would spend gobs of money?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Where do I come in?”
“If you convince two popular girls to do it, and help get the word out, I’ll give you a hundred dollars.”
A hundred dollars was a lot of money for twenty-two-year-old me, and I probably should have jumped at it, but I felt a bigger opportunity looming.
“How much do you make on average on a Friday night?”
He looked me over, not loving the question. “We usually gross about three thousand dollars. That may sound like a lot, but running a bar is not cheap. Trust me.”
“I trust you, George. So here’s what I have in mind.”
“Why do I now feel like you’re the one offering me something?”
I smiled. “This could be mutually beneficial.”
“I’m listening.”
“I will convince two girls to guest bartend on Friday, and I’ll tell everyone I know about it.
And as you are aware, I know many college students.
For that, I want $100 and 10% of everything over $3,000.
So if you make $5,000 the first night, I get the hundred dollars and then 10% of $2,000, which is $200.
So you’d owe me three hundred dollars total. ”
“You’re going to make a great businessman, Eddie.”
“Is that a yes?”
He shook his head. I’m not sure he liked how this went down, but he had to like the idea of making almost two thousand more dollars a night.
“It’s a yes. How about next Friday?”
“Perfect. The Fitz is going to be popping.”
That first Friday, The Fitz grossed $7,500.
I got my hundred plus 10% of $4,500, which was $450. I made $550. It felt like a million dollars to me.
George Fitzsimmons was over the moon, and we made a deal to do it every Friday for the rest of the school year.
I was a natural. Selling came easily to me. And no, maybe this wasn’t selling in the traditional sense, but I still had to sell the girls on guest bartending, and I had to sell my ever-expanding circle of friends on another night at The Fitz.
I was graduating that June and started looking for jobs, but none paid me as much as I was making. I felt like a hot commodity and wasn’t going to take a pay cut to sit in some run-down cubicle. That’s not what the world had in store for Eddie Sykes.
So instead of getting a 9-5 like 95% of my fellow graduates, I founded Eddie’s Party Planning.
It was over a decade before I’d meet April Devers, but we could both have used a public relations firm to help choose our business names.
April’s Coffee Shop and Eddie’s Party Planning hardly jumped off the page.
I was able to make decent money that first year, often going bar to bar and extolling my virtues to them.
Once I mentioned how I’d turned The Fitz around, most of them took an interest and gave me a try. I was twenty-three years old and owned my own business. Life was good.
The problem was that as a year and then two passed, most of my friends moved on. They graduated and moved out of Northridge. It wasn’t as easy to rile up fifty friends to hit up a local bar on a Saturday night.
Sure, I could get fifteen or twenty people in my sleep, but that’s not the increase that these bars were looking for. I also started to tire of it. Before I knew it, I was twenty-five and beginning to stand out like a sore thumb at these college bars.
Twenty-five may sound young, but when surrounded by twenty-one-year-olds, trust me, you look old. Four years make a big difference when you’re that age.
Not that I didn’t try taking home a co-ed every chance I got.
Unlike me, that wasn’t growing old.
By the time I was twenty-six, I needed a change.
I attempted to transition my business away from college bars.
I’d meet professional women and tell them if they ever wanted to host a happy hour with their colleagues, I could help set it up.
I once met a wedding planner at a random event, and she asked me to tag along for a few days to see if I’d enjoy the job. For the first time in my life, women were looking right through me. They needed a fellow woman for something as personal as a wedding.
I wasn’t someone who liked staying in my lane, but I knew I’d never make it as a wedding planner.
Fast-forward a few more years, and my business had successfully transitioned away from college bars.
I now help organize corporate events—albeit smaller ones. The days of trying to pack bars like The Fitz were over.
It was a good thing, because during this time I met Lucy Tanner and got married.
Don’t worry, we’ll get to her soon enough.
Both literally and figuratively.
This also brings us to how I met April Devers.
A woman named Andie Carter wanted to host a happy hour for young women entrepreneurs. I’d been recommended, and once we met in person, I turned on the charm, and I gave her some options.
She chose a bar called Auld Fella on Wilshire Boulevard.
I knew the owners, and they were always willing to host a private party if the numbers were correct. Andie Carter exuded money, and I had no doubt we’d be able to meet Auld Fella’s price.
If you don’t hate me already, you’re about to.
A few years back, I’d started leaving a recording device—or a bug, as they are called—somewhere at my event. These things are tiny these days, and if you hid them under a barstool or a booth, no one would be the wiser.
I can’t even remember the reason I started doing it, probably because I thrived on gossip. I liked hearing people talk shit about others. I liked feeling like I was in the loop, even if I’d come upon the information in the shadiest way possible.
If it were some riff-raff crew meeting up on a random Saturday night, I might not leave a bug. But for something like a young woman’s entrepreneur happy hour, you’re damn right I would.
I wanted to know what the “rich and famous” of Los Angeles were doing.
I’d heard quite a few interesting things over the years. One woman was so adamant that a particular stock was going to skyrocket that I invested three grand in it. The stock tripled over the next six months. Unfortunately, I couldn’t exactly thank the woman who gave me the tip.
Another time, I heard that a very prominent local politician was having sex with his secretary. Sure enough, the news broke a few weeks later. I felt like I was in the cool club, knowing before most everyone else.
I’d always wanted to be amongst the rich and famous, and while this was the most ignominious way possible, I still got my kicks out of it.
And I was excited to see what I’d learn at a happy hour of all-female entrepreneurs.
While doing the walk-through with Andie, I was followed by an employee from Auld Fella, and didn’t have the chance to leave the bug anywhere. I was fine with that.
An amateur might think you should leave the bug right next to the bar, but I knew better. For one thing, it can be loud near the bar, and you might not pick up all of the audio. More importantly, no one dishes the dirt where everyone else is assembled.
If you’re hoping to hear the juicy stuff, you plant the bug in the far corner of the bar.
Or better yet, outside in a smoking area.
I don’t know what it is, but once women have a drag or two of a cigarette, they’ll talk about anything.
I swear that cigarettes loosen lips just as much as a few drinks.
So, I left my bug on the outdoor patio, placing it up against a potted plant. It was a smoking patio, but it also looked out onto Wilshire Avenue, and I had no doubt people would flood the patio during the course of the happy hour.
I heard back from Andie the day after the happy hour. She said it was a huge success and thanked me repeatedly. I went into Auld Fella later that morning to grab some things I’d used to set up the event. And while outside, I grabbed the bug that I’d attached to the potted plant.
As I drove home, I listened to it, and boy, did I strike gold.
I’d found my real-life Doppelg?nger: April Devers.
A huge smile spread across my face as I listened to April’s conversation. She was talking to a friend named Margie, and April didn’t hold back.
She was in an unhappy marriage. Her husband was rich, but he wasn’t sharing the money. Her sex life was average at best. She even cussed like a sailor.
She was the female equivalent of me.
And there was genuine vitriol toward her husband, someone named David.
And then the kicker.
When Margie went inside, and April was seemingly out there by herself, she muttered.
“Fuck, I really do wish he were dead.”
Bingo!
I looked at the guest list for the happy hour. There was only one April on the list. April Devers.
It was time to do some research on her. David Devers, too.
Let’s hope he made as much money as April seemed to think.
When I went home that night, Lucy had prepared us a nice dinner.
I was thankful and said all the right things, but my mind was elsewhere.
Lucy didn’t seem to notice.
She was still in love with me.
As was her family.
Shit, everyone loved me.