A Conversation with Roger Feldwinn

"Well if it isn't the man himself. Come on, then. Sit with me."

"Michael Salem." he says, the syllables of my name rolling off his tongue like poetry too fine and cultured for the common man. " The one man from my past who I genuinely thought I might never see again."
"Nice to hear you say it like it's a good thing, Roger." I reply back. I don't quite carry his name with the same kind of eloquence that he does mine. Can't say I've ever been good at that. "It's been a long time."
He leans back in his expensive-looking chair, regarding me thoughtfully as he speaks. "Indeed it has. I had wondered if you were still living after all this time."
"I get that a lot."
"I'm sure you do. Good to see that you've kept yourself alive and ticking. It would be a waste for someone like you to have had their life cut short."
I might not wear glasses, but that last remark makes me peer in his direction like I'm looking at him over a pair. "You don't mean that."
"Of course I do." he says with a noncommittal wave of the hand. "You might not have led a life that I could agree with when we first met, but I know a good man when I see one. And I've seen far too many good men pass on before their time."
"Never too late for me to try." I say dryly.
He starts to laugh now. Full-throated chuckling, like I said something worthy of Richard Pryor. "Still as negative as I remember. And as honest. Refreshing, really...But let's not dwell. This reunion of ours is a good thing. Best not to spoil it musing about possible fates and turns of events that never came to be."
"Fair enough." He does have a point. Might as well play nice for as long as I'm here. "How's life in the upper class?"
"Oh, it's had the same ups and downs that it did before." he says, "But on the whole, not terrible. Certainly well enough that I've had no trouble appreciating the finer points."
Roger Feldwinn is, from my understanding, the COO of a large-scale alcohol distilling corporation that deals in shit too expensive for people like me to even look at. Or at least, that was what he was in the past. I met him when we were both at the lowest points in our lives; in his case, through circumstances he never wanted to talk about, he'd just lost his job and way of living and been left to deteriorate in a country where he had no connections to speak of. It was all your typical rich bastard's worst nightmares rolled into one oversized bundle of rock-bottom hell.
I haven't tried to guess what he's doing now that's gotten him back in the corporate bigwig saddle. I assume it's something along the same lines as before.
"You've aged much better than I would have expected." Roger says, jerking me out of my thoughts. "Quite amazing, given the...indulgences in which you partook when we met each other."
"Guess I was just born lucky." I respond, a little doggedly. "You haven't exactly fallen apart either, you know?"
"I suppose I haven't. Though I must say, I notice more gray hairs on my head than I do yours."
I'm not keen on letting him press that point. Which is why I'm thankful when the new person shows up shortly after he's done speaking. I don't recognize her one bit. She's a youngblood with round eyes and small features framed by short locks of brunette hair, wearing a maid's outfit that looks less like fetish fuel and more like something a rich man's hired help would want to be seen in. Have to commend Roger on his sense of tact, there. I imagine small considerations like that are what make the difference between a servant and a slave, at least from the woman's perspective.
"Would you and your guest like anything to drink?" she says, looking from Roger to me and back again. She sounds as young as she looks. Can't be older than college-age. I wonder if there's a story there.
"Well?" Roger says in my direction, "Last I recall, you were a whiskey type, yes?"
"Still am." I reply, "Not sure what you've got, but..."
He stops me with a polite hand. "Please. Allow me to choose something for you. I do have a background in such things, after all." His head turns back to the maid. "Fetch us the bottle of Redbreast Dream Cask from the top shelf of the alcohol cabinet. It's to the far right."
"I'll have that for you right away." the maid says, bowing slightly and then turning to leave. The more I watch her, the more I recognize how at-ease she is, even when she's taking orders. Part of me thinks Roger might be cultivating that within her on purpose, but another part of me can't help thinking there's more to the situation than that.
Oh well. Whatever the case is, it's between the two of them.
"You'll want to actually taste this whiskey we'll be drinking." Roger says, bringing me back to the present again. "Not guzzle it, the way you do with your Jack Daniels."
"Yeah, sure." I respond dully.
"I'm serious. You'll be missing out on most of the experience if you approach it like an everyday drink. Trust me, I know these things."
"Whatever you say, Roger. I'm not out to 'experience' every detail of my drink whenever I have one. It doesn't take that much to decide whether or not I like something."
"You said that about cigars until I taught you how to smoke one properly."
That one stops me for a bit. Loathe as I am to admit it, he isn't wrong. In the old days, I used to think of cigars as bigger, flashier cigarettes with more bite and fewer chemicals. It wasn't until Roger strongarmed me into smoking one his way that I realized there was more to them than that, and that I'd been approaching them wrong the whole time.
His point isn't lost on me. And judging from his expression, he knows it.
"Fine. I'll try it your way. Just don't expect me to come up with some thorough analysis of whatever special sauce I'm about to put down."
"I wouldn't expect any such thing from someone who considers the act of tasting to be a foreign concept." he says. I see a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as he speaks.
I start to smile too.
"You really haven't fucking changed, have you?"
"Not much, no."