Chapter Thirty Two
At the far end of the sixth floor, near Doug’s office, sat the Board Room. Unlike the majority of the rooms in the building, the Board Room was tasteful, ridiculously expensive, and of exceptional caliber. In the room’s center was a large conference table; an exquisite piece of art honed from a single Redwood tree felled in the eighteenth century, recovered from the bottom of a river at great peril, then kiln dried and hand crafted to serve as altar for G.O.D.’s annual Board Meeting. The shareholders paid well into the six figures for this masterpiece that comfortably sat fifty in the stately Eames armchairs that surrounded it. On the room’s north side was a podium and projection screen, and on the south side a kitchen and fully stocked bar. A large counter of imported Italian marble, decorated with ornate relief carvings, separated the food and drink from the meeting area. Rhythmically spaced on the walls surrounding the table were hand blown glass sconces. The sconces threw a soft, diffuse light that was, by design, exceptionally kind to the liver spotted, wrinkled skin of The Board.
Around the table for the meeting sat The Board. Their hands folded as if in prayer, their shoulders hunched, and eyes blood shot. From beneath the suits that contained their crozzled hearts their bony shoulders poked. Most had tumblers of hard liquor in front of them and many held unlit cigarettes. Crotchety and sullen, they flavored the room with bad temper, naïve to the miracle of their consciousness and the statistical improbability of having lived this long. Their lifetimes of SPF free sun, three martini lunches, incessant smoking, and red meat, should have put them in the grave long ago. Miracles aside, they were collectively angry at the world given the possibility of a decrease in their personal wealth. With the stock in free fall since they’d last met (over two years since Alan’s death resulted in the cancellation of the 2006 Board Meeting) none expect good news at today’s meeting. At this point in their lives little upside existed.
At the head of the table, and opposite the podium, sat The Chairman. Dressed for the occasion, he wore a powder blue tuxedo with satin lapels, mint green vest, bow tie, and ruffle front tuxedo shirt. Resting against the table next to him was his rare and distinguished walking stick, with cobra shaped handle of twenty four carat gold. As always his afro reached skyward. With his head backlit by the sconces, and bathed in heavenly light, he appeared like a solar corona.
The Chairman’s frown made it clear that he was angered by what he read in the newspaper he held. Reflected from his sunglasses was the cause of his consternation, The Chicago Tribune’s November 30, 2007 headline: G.O.D. What Is Going On? Beneath the headline was a motif of pictures. The first was Alan falling from the 6th floor, taken from a security camera that inadvertently captured the event. Immediately below was a picture of a handful of firefighters, dressed in biohazard suits, dragging Evil Kitty from the building by a long rope. Next was a grainy black and white photo from a police surveillance camera of Shap’s car adorned with a ManBoyLoveAssociation sticker. Lastly, there was a photo of Doug sitting on the tenement housings basketball court with a 40oz can of King Cobra malt liquor in his right hand while he held court over a rough looking mob of urban youth.
The Chairman folded the newspaper, tossed it in down in disgust, and rapped his walking stick loudly on the table signaling he was ready for the meeting to begin. It was fifteen minutes after the meetings scheduled start time and with Doug nowhere to be found The Chairman had grown tired of waiting. As he pounded the table all seats, save four, were taken. Pissed off that he would have to run the meeting, he ordered the barkeep to switch the chair nearest him for the circular waste basket.
As the barkeep swapped out the chair, Cuddy, Mike, and Mary, stood in a single file line in the doorway, nervously waiting admission by invitation. With Cuddy at the head of the line, Mike and Mary could not be seen from the room. As the three were about to enter Doug turned the corner at the end of the hall sprinting for the Board Room. He wore a bright blue Adidas track suit, and white terry cloth sweatbands on his head and wrists. Around his neck was a thick gold necklace. He’d forgotten today’s meeting until Wilma called him at the basketball courts.
Doug pushed the three aside without paying them any attention, and ran to claim the seat nearest The Chairman. Offered no alternative, he sat in the wastebasket with his chin inches above the table. As he fought to keep from sliding to the bottom of the receptacle, The Chairman angrily tossed the newspaper at him.
Doug had not seen the article, and struggled to determine whether it was a good thing, or it was a bad thing, he was on the Tribune’s front page. To answer the question he surreptitiously shook the Magic 8 Ball and learned it was a bad thing, a very bad thing. He slid deeper into the trash vessel.
Doug’s situation went from bad to worse when several advertising circulars slipped from the newspaper. Before him now lay ads for Wal-Mart, Costco, and BestBuy. Doug flashed back to the IRS agent’s threat, nearly a year and a half ago, “One slip up and that melon will be tattooed with the logo of the highest paying big box retailer.” Doug’s mood soured perceptibly when he considered the possibility, “Always Low Prices,” might be with him forever and he barked at the three still waiting in the doorway, “Find a seat.” Having paid them no notice when he ran into the room, he was not prepared for the parade that lay ahead.
To Doug’s dismay, Cuddy entered in a kilt with his inflatable tartan hemorrhoid donut strapped to the back. He’d embraced his Scottish heritage and dressed for St. Andrew’s Day, November 30, which coincided with today’s Board Meeting. From the t-shirt Cuddy wore beneath his white dress shirt, the words SPAM bled. As Cuddy waddled to his seat he found the passageway too narrow to accommodate, and his donut alternately bounced off the backs of the heads of those seated and the wall. Disrupting everyone in his path Cuddy explained in his big Nebraska voice his predicament, as he slowly made his way, “Gift of life is the curse of a scratchy bung hole.”
Staring blankly into space, and no longer hidden behind Cuddy, Mike bounced a pink spongy ball off a paddle in rote repetition. He counted aloud, “Sixty, sixty one.” Cuddy’s entrance jarred him to the present, and caused him to miss. To manage the butterflies growing in his stomach as the day of reckoning approached he’d recently started playing paddle ball. The simplistic and mindless nature of the game suited his personality as he memorized the conjugation of French verbs, alone and in his office. Unprepared for Cuddy’s sudden departure, Mike fumbled to hide the paddle ball in his front left pocket as he walked into the room.
Alone now in the hallway, Mary allowed the necessary amount of time to create the tension for a dramatic entrance. Uncertain what to wear, and concerned Cuddy would be the center of attention with his tartan donut, Mary had spent the week consulting Sue. Finally, she and Sue agreed on the outfit that most effectively demonstrated her team spirit, yet allowed her opportunity to show off her corporate assets. To that end, Mary wore her high school cheerleading outfit and highest heels. Her chest stretched the white sweater tight, upon which the team’s mascot, Cougars, was written in red cursive letters. Her skirt barely covered her ass.
Doug scanned the room for his consultants, but, like Jesus abandoned by his disciples in his time of need, found only unfriendly faces. With the consultants nowhere to be found, he spoke as Cuddy, Mike, and Mary, clumsily settled in, “Last time we met I gave you specific assignments. To my right sits your termination letter, and to my left sits your bonus check. You’re getting one or the other.”
Mike was confused. The only thing sitting in front of Doug was the newspaper The Chairman had angrily pitched at him. Mike figured he must be talking metaphorically, but decided to withhold his clarifying question. As Mike pondered the differences in metaphorical, rhetorical, and literal his presence in the room startled the wizened racist seated mid-table who feared all change.
As if awoken from a deep sleep, the hateful old man sat up straight, and pointed at Mike. “Who the fuck a
re you? What happened to the little CFO? The mean little asshole that proclaimed himself exalted? He’s the only one that understood me.” As he shouted, his bald pate, with tufts of overgrown hair on the sides of his head and bushy moustache, created the illusion of an angry Koala bear.
Doug raised his hand, signaling he’d take this one, “You mean Alan. Alan wasn’t exalted. At least I don't think he was; I didn't go to the funeral. Anyway, the evil dwarf jumped and Mike’s his replacement.” Doug appreciated a question to which he knew the answer, and his mood brightened. Later questions might require an understanding of the inner machinations of the company and prove impossible to answer. Doug knew it was always best to establish credibility as quickly as possible and when opportunity allowed, even if you were sitting in a trash can.
“Mike?” The Racist pointed at Mike while speaking to Doug, “He looks Greek. Greeks are a dirty people that discount the benefits of daily bathing.” The old man turned in his seat to face Mike, and challenged, “Are you Greek?”
“Greek! Greek! Greek!” Mike’s situational echolalia answered for him as he fought to gain control and provide the correct answer, “No, I’m Irish.” Mike imagined The Racist wearing an early nineteenth century German Imperial Prussian military hat with a spike sticking from its top and a Nazi pin on his jacket’s lapel. Mike was certain The Racists declarations would have sounded better in German.
“Christ,” The Racist slapped the table in frustration “The Irish are a race prone to drunkenness. At least Napoleon was financially minded. Why can’t you find one from the continent?” He lashed out at Doug. “Island people inbreed. It’s not their fault, it’s the island. It’s a matter of supply and demand.” Rambling he continued, “I’ll take Irish over English any day. What’s so difficult about oral hygiene?” The Racist seemed convinced England was a breeding ground for halitosis. His xenophobic hate appeared boundless and to include many topics.
Mary nodded overenthusiastically at the mention of the importance of oral hygiene, hoping to build allies in her relentless battle against ugly and its many forms.
Mike discretely cupped his hands in front of his face and checked his breath.
As The Racist changed course and attacked Polish cuisine, Wayne entered, uninvited, and gave Cuddy what looked like a handful of dirty napkins. Wayne and Cuddy conspired, whispering back and forth. As Wayne shook his head no, and righted himself to exit, Cuddy shoved the papers into the back pocket of his kilt.
“Who the hell are you?” demanded The Racist, alarmed for a second time by an unfamiliar person.
“Wayne. I run Facilities, and I’m the volunteer Fire Marshal.”
“Wayne? Jesus F Christ, that’s the most common name of serial killers. Are you a serial killer?”
Wayne looked nervous, “No sir, never convicted.”
“Huh.” A lengthy pause as The Racist processed Wayne’s response.
Wayne, excited at being spoken to by someone other than Cuddy, and well aware today was the Day of Atonement, spoke before The Racist could continue his line of questioning. "How much do you hope that godforsaken system project is finished? You take it up the ass twice and piss away a hundred million you better learn to keep it clean. It ain't done you might consider installing bidets."
The Racist grew excited by the hateful talk and leaned forward. “Don’t forget The Debacle." As he spoke, he pounded the table with his fist.
Wayne pointed at Doug, "He screwed the pooch and played catcher in that disaster too."
Doug's eyes widened with fear. Even the Volunteer Fire Marshall knew the extent of his leadership mishaps.
Cuddy grew concerned Wayne might outshine him and broke into the conversation, “We wuz in France and Irene asked about experiencing the bidet. Man at the front desk told her best thing might be if she did a hand stand in the shower. My Irene doing a hand stand, you imagine that?” Cuddy stroked his chin as he pondered the merits, and considerable risks, of inverting Irene in the shower. “France, them’s a sexually liberated people?” he asked the room at large.
"They are a people prone to perversions and deviant sexual behavior," answered The Racist.
“You really are a useless piece of shit,” attacked The Racists neighbor, another old man previously unheard from and tethered to an oxygen tank. His outburst left him gasping for air, and he worked to control his breathing.
“Useless piece of shit? You know nothing of the value I bring,” The Racist challenged. He pointed antagonistically at his nemesis with gout stricken, palsied fingers, “Nothing, you little turd.”
“You’re a hateful little coward.”
As the exchange escalated The Racist fumbled blindly with his left hand under the table. He searched for the green oxygen canister that kept his rival alive. Upon locating the canister, he gave the valve atop a quick twist to the right and slowed the flow of its life giving oxygen. The old man’s face took on a blue pallor, and he sucked loudly on his dentures as he struggled for air.
Doug nodded in approval. It was in his best interest The Board not form alliances given they often culminate in leadership changes. He then interrupted the escalating argument, to get the meeting back on track. “Cuddy you were given responsibility for improving employee productivity. What do you have?”
As Doug worked to refocus the meeting the old men gave each other the finger and stared angrily. They mumbled and plotted.
The Racist loudly called out, “Idiot,” as he considered the merits of closing the valve entirely.
The old man wheezed, “Moron,” in response. His eyelids fluttered as he fought for consciousness, and his breath whistled over his dentures.
Cuddy fought to stand. His tartan, hemorrhoid donut was wedged deep into the seat, and extraction was noisy and with effort. Once he’d freed himself he walked to the front of the room to address the group. The donut rubbed the wall loudly as he went, and passing the old man tethered to the oxygen tank Cuddy forcibly knocked the back of his chair.
Jarred at the unexpected, and with half the oxygen he required to remain conscious, the old man tipped face first onto the table. His forehead clunked loudly on impact, and as he lay motionless with his nose squashed flat, a pool of drool began to form. All seated ignored his lifeless form. They were anxious to avoid any further delays in knowing the impact today’s meeting would have on their net worth.
At the podium Cuddy began without establishing any context or restatement of the goal he’d been assigned, “Doug, I’m driving employee productivity by forcing office supplies on them. Productive employees generate important documents, and if you produce important documents the inescapable truth is you need binder clips. Staples are directionally correct, but binder clips is so much more informative.”
The Racist nodded his concurrence, “Makes perfect sense.”
Encouraged by The Racist, Cuddy elaborated, “Thick documents cannot be stapled, and unproductive employees simply don’t consume office supplies. You print orders you burn through print toner.”
The other members of The Board angrily looked at Doug for explanation on why the little time they had left in life was being wasted by the fat man’s cryptic and nonsensical speech. Doug buried his face in his left hand and angrily asked, “Cuddy, do you have a presentation?”
From his back pocket Cuddy produced the stack of wadded sheets, with hand written numbers scribbled incomprehensibly across the back, that Wayne handed him minutes ago. The papers were marred by ketchup, coffee, and mustard stains. Cuddy stepped forward, and Doug instinctively drew his hand away from the packet Cuddy tried to foist onto him.
Doug grew frustrated, “What did you base this on?”
“Pig farming. It’s what I know.”
“Are you mentally retarded?”
“Me? Retarded? Ha! That’s a good one. No, I’m high functioning. Way high functioning.” Cuddy stuck his hand far above his head, marking the imaginary line of his test results.
“I was tested a lot as a kid.” With that declaration Cuddy reached deep into the front of his kilt and withdrew the papers Mungo, his father, had given him long ago that proved he was absent retardation. He held the thick and tattered mess out for anyone that was so inclined to take and read. Cuddy’s offer was met with a response common to the homeless and mentally ill as those nearest Cuddy stared vacantly at the ground, or fumbled with their Blackberries and smart phones. The remaining Board members continued to glare angrily at Doug.
“What the hell likens pig farming to running a specialty pharmacy?”
A small spot appeared on the front of Cuddy’s kilt, contrasting mightily with the red pattern. As a bully Cuddy didn’t fare well under cross examination. Cuddy’s porcine stare meant none of this was processing, and he covered the expanding pee spot, Adam and Eve style, with the soiled papers as he hopped anxiously in place. His rear end began to itch.
“Your Chief Operating Officer appears to have peed himself.” The Chairman commented loudly, rapping the table with his walking stick for emphasis and pointing the stick at Cuddy’s crotch.
Unable to contain himself any longer, Cuddy gave into the curse and shoved his right arm inside the back of his kilt. He scratched mightily, his face going slack in ecstasy as he violently clawed at his rear end and the source of his misery.
Doug shifted his focus. “Mary, what have you got?” His voice edged toward hysteria, “Cuddy sit down!”
In an attempt to save face Cuddy asked, “You don’t want to discuss my ideas for operant conditioning?” The ferociousness of Cuddy’s scratching had abated, but his hand was still inside the back of his kilt and he still pawed at himself.
“Sit down!”
The Racist looked up, clearly intrigued. If it wasn’t for Doug screaming, he’d welcome a candid discourse on the financial merits of operant conditioning. Not willing to be silenced without his say, he spoke his mind, “You need to consider proven ideas.”
Doug yelled a third time for Cuddy to sit. The Racist let it go and made a note in his portfolio to reconvene the topic in twelve months. Moments later, having pondered Cuddy’s idea, The Racist added a second note: Calculate the value of water boarding hourly employees. Begin with a small pilot project to prove the concept.
Mary waited until Cuddy passed and she could safely move to the front of the room without risk of bumping his donut. As Cuddy flopped down loudly, Mary stood and walked to the podium. As she crossed the room, The Racist elbowed his neighbor, a previously unheard from board member, and while pointing at Mary’s ass commented loudly, “That’s what I’m talking about.”
Inspired by the sexual harassment, and hoping to recapture whatever attention Cuddy might have stolen by wetting himself, Mary intentionally dropped the remote that controlled the projector. Facing The Board she dropped down until she sat atop her heels with her legs splayed open. As she coyly covered her fish whistle with her presentation, she retrieved the remote. The stripper 101 move worked as intended and The Board cheered wildly.
“Damn that’s a foxy mama! Weren’t we going to install a fitness pole?” The Racist asked the group, concerned a project so germane to the Board’s welfare could have gone unfinished. He rubbed his chin as he tried to remember to whom that job had been assigned.
Basking in The Board’s attention, with her palms flat on the floor, Mary straightened her legs until she was bent fully at the waist and tossed her hair. The Board cheered. Nodding demurely in appreciation of The Board’s recognition, she ran her hands up the inside of her legs and returned to a standing position.
A boisterous round of applause followed as The Board slapped the table, hooting and hollering. The Board fumbled in their wallets for dollar bills, unsure how far this might go but prepared nonetheless. As an encore Mary skillfully connected her laptop to the projector, and voila, her presentation appeared on the giant screen. The Board again clapped raucously in appreciation. To the last man at the table, none were able to work the fancy controls that projected computers onto the screen, dimmed the lights, or lowered the window shades.
To clarify the directives he’d given Mary, and avoid a repeat of Cuddy’s performance, Doug clarified the goal he’d given her, “Mary, I wanted the IT project completed.” Doug sat nervously, expecting his second face in hands situation to unfold at any moment.
Mary nodded to confirm she understood, and began her presentation. Her first slide outlined the objectives she was given, the back story on the IT project, and the effort to complete. Mary summarized succinctly, “Finish the IT project. Cuddy couldn’t do it. Alan couldn’t do it.” She spoke in short and declarative sentences, the majority of her mental capacity focused on keeping the F-bomb from her report.
“Doug the computer system is in production. We’ve completed that goal.” Her second slide was a sole word: DONE. Below the word ‘DONE’ were photo-shopped pictures of Cuddy, the old CIO, Srini, Alan, Shap, and Mike. Each of them wore identical t-shirts with the words, I Suck. Above them was a picture of Mary, in a bikini, holding a sign: I Win. I Win.
“None of the computers are plugged in. How the hell is the system in production?” the Chairman challenged menacingly. He sipped at his tumbler of scotch and blew a large cloud of smoke as he waited an answer. His spies, which operated deep in the organization, were his only source of truth to G.O.D.’s doings and he was well aware of the project’s status.
“It is in production, I mean loaded on the production server so that if the employees wanted to use computers they could. Cuddy signed off.” Mary pointed accusingly at Cuddy.
“But no one is using it?” Doug asked incredulously, his voice rising. He wasn’t aware G.O.D. didn’t run on computers. Long ago he’d given up checking the stock price.
“No. Ironically, we are a lot more efficient without computers. The computer system was an impediment to progress. It took more time for screens to load and navigate than it did to work the orders manually. We’re doing better off the punch cards and typewriters. Everyone is assigned a set of patients, the work is organized based on the follow up date, and the reps only worry about the information they need to get the job done. They’re free to go when the day’s orders are shipped, which means most of them are out of here by three pm.” Mary read verbatim from the index card Shap had given her which explained why G.O.D. didn’t need computers. Then in the interests of full disclosure Mary hurriedly added, “Ohh, and I accidentally tore the plug from the power cord so we can’t plug the server in, or turn it on. But, Shap’s going to fix that.” Mary curtsied awkwardly and moved to her final slide.
On her last slide Mary expected to find a picture of her sitting in Doug’s office, as G.O.D.’s new CEO. Mary pressed the page down button, and as the second slide dissolved to the third a giant penis appeared on the screen. The penis was smashed flat on the copier glass from which the slide was taken, and, unlike noted celebrities, the penis bore no distinguishing marks, and, therefore, no way to know its provenance.
The chain of custody for Mary’s presentation was too convoluted to identify the perpetrator. Mary had written the slides out, given them to Shap, then to Wilma, and finally to Doug. There was always a question of Romulus’ motivations, and she had noticed a $5 bill on his dresser. All involved had reason to sabotage her presentation. Mary’s only certainty was that it wasn’t her penis boldly displayed in the Board Room.
The board howled in appreciation, several standing as they clapped.
Cuddy scrambled to stand, but became stuck in a quasi seated position. His donut held him fast. He pointed at the screen. “I knew it. She’s a hoochie mama!” He pointed at Mike, accusingly, “I told you boy we should have castrated her.”
Much of The Board nodded in agreement. It had long been suspected Mary had the biggest balls in the company.
The Racist stood awkwardly, like a vintage steam shovel raising its rusty boom, and announced, “Now excuse me wh
ile I whip this out.” He was ready to verify his worth on The Board by showing the size of his penis. If she wanted a sword fight, by God he’d give her a sword fight. This wouldn’t be the first time he unzipped in the Board Room to prove he belonged.
As The Racist fumbled with his pants, ready to prove his penis Board Room worthy, Doug appealed to whatever shred of humanity his heart might contain, “Stop! I beg of you!” Sitting in the trash can put Doug at eye level with The Racist’s crotch, and Doug hoped to avoid the embarrassment of the old man’s shriveled manhood dangling in his face.
With his belt undone and knobby fingers working to undo the top and hardest button to unbutton, The Chairman rapped The Racist in the head with a hard, swift blow from his walking stick. “Sit down you old fool, and button your pants. I don’t know why I suffer your sorry ass. Love your brother. That’s what I preach.”
The Racist did as he was told, rubbing the knobby bump that rose up on his scalp.
Mary looked at the giant penis, glowered, and pointed at Cuddy. Her eyes narrowed and her chest heaved as the hate within her welled up. “You motherfucker the truce is off. It was you that pissed during my All Hands Call! I’m going to fucking kill you!” Mary raised her hands in front of her, prepared to strangle the pig man and complete what she’d hoped to accomplish on the golf course a half year ago.
“Bring it you hoochie mama.” Cuddy brandished the rolled up papers that proved he was absent retardation as if they were a sword. He swiped wildly at the air, slashing back and forth. “Bring it!”
Mary leapt, hands outstretched. She soared over the table, hoping to strangle her nemesis.
As she flew, Cuddy drew his paper sword back, ready to strike.
Before Cuddy could deal what he hoped would be the fatal blow, or Mary could strangle Cuddy and eradicate ugly at its source, The Chairman smote them both with his walking stick. He swung with conviction and smacked Cuddy in the forehead, then, off the rebound, he knocked Mary.
Cuddy slumped back in his chair semiconscious.
Mary flew into her chair in a similar state, albeit upside down, with her panties where her head should have been. Mary’s legs were now bent over the back of the chair, her knees pressed against her ears, and her stomach covered by her skirt. Had she been fully conscious she would have wished for her old office chair, and the chance to slide off, fall to the ground, and remove the vessel of her femininity from the Board Room.
“Ahh!“Doug moaned, a subconscious declaration all control had now been lost. His certainty he was soon to have Wal-Mart tattooed on his head triggered a kamikaze move sure to end the meeting, and his career. “Mike, did we meet our financial projections?”
The Board leaned in, hungrily waiting the answer to Doug’s question. The Chairman anxiously palmed the cobra’s head in anticipation. The Racist rubbed the knot on his head. Cuddy and Mary moaned. Doug bowed his head and prayed for salvation.
Seeing all those that stood and spoke struck down by The Chairman, Mike placed his paddleboard atop his head and fastened it in place. He used the elastic string as a chin strap. It would be his only defense against the cobra handled walking stick. The pink rubber ball dangled inches in front of him, bumping his nose as he walked to the front of the room. At the podium he switched Mary’s laptop for his own. Again, The Board murmured appreciatively at the demonstration of technical savvy.
“Did we meet our financial goals!” Mike parroted back, terrified as he stood flat footed before The Board. “Did we meet our financial goals!” On the screen a simple chart. The x axis measured time, and the y axis measured dollars. Three lines were plotted; revenue, cost, and profit. Unbelievably, the slope of all three lines was positive. Sales and profits were up.
“We’re up 35%?” Doug asked, seeking confirmation he’d correctly read the profit line on the chart.
“We’re up 35%!”
“I swear to God I will strap a parachute on you and throw you from the window if you’re lying. “You’re certain we’re up 35%.”
The Chairman drew back his stick, ready to strike should the ninth commandment be broken.
“We’re up 35%!” Mike repeated catatonically. He tilted his head, hoping to absorb as much of The Chairman’s blow as possible, should it come, with the paddleboard.
Doug adjusted himself to keep from falling to the bottom of the trash can, very pleased with himself, and spoke declaratively, “My prayers have been answered! That’s how I roll, bitches.”
“That’s how I roll, bitches!” Mike echoed.
The Chairman eased back into his chair and smiled. G.O.D. was back in the money. With pride, gluttony and wrath struck down, at least temporarily, greed sitting in the wastebasket, sloth cowering, envy buried in his un-deployed executive parachute, and lust sharing his bed, his work here was done. “Amen,” he said quietly, “seven out of seven, that ain’t bad, and that’s how I roll, bitches.”
Cries of, “good job,” “well done,” and “well played,” came forth.
Mike stood as dumb as a statue before The Board; his only testament to consciousness was his blinking eyes. Had he been able to address the crowd he might have shared how unlikely it was a business without computers, run by a CEO who doesn’t speak to his staff and whose CFO jumped to his death while the COO and VP of Sales live in an open state of war, would exceed expectations. He also might have explained that had Doug not misheard the consultant and confused, “patient pet,” with, “patient debt,” G.O.D.’s computer system would have been done a long time ago. Not that G.O.D. needed a new computer system.
It is unlikely he would have explained that it was Rico and Nels that made G.O.D. profitable. Like Jesus feeding the multitudes with seven fish and two loaves, Rico and Nels sold the office supplies Cuddy inundated them with from a white tent in the parking lot. The money they made was used to help the less fortunate pay the co-pays for their medications. The first beneficiary had been Helen, her $12,000 bill paid long ago. That they’d robbed Peter to pay Paul didn’t matter, for The Board could once again revel in their declaration to Wall Street: They’d reduced bad debt.
It is certain Mike would not have shared details on the Stoners & Boners incentive plan, or that Nels had successfully drained his trust and moved to Sun Valley, Idaho where he currently dated an A-list actress while he planned the Occupy Chicago movement.
Now that the good news had been shared, lighters and matches went to work lighting the cigarettes that had been held in check for the last half hour. Smiles all around as the mood in the Board Room brightened and the room filled with smoke. The Chairman looked back at the wait staff watching in shock, held his right hand up, twirled his index finger high in the air, and called forth another round. “Pour em long,” he ordered, jubilant in his increased wealth. Disco music pulsed from the ceilings speakers.
“What’s going on with spending? Why are we spending so much on office supplies? We’re out of control on spending?” Doug demanded of anyone willing to listen as he tried to absorb the information on Mike’s slide, and show his worth as CEO. It didn’t make any sense they were spending hundreds of thousands of dollars a month on office supplies, and Doug didn’t connect Cuddy’s earlier comments to the chart in front of him.
“We’re out of control on spending!” Mike was locked into robotic responses. As he stood in front of the room a waiter approached him and pressed a tumbler of single malt scotch into his right hand.
The Chairman nodded in approval at the good tidings Mike had brought, “Drink up. I want you start parking in the executive lot. Park next him, park in the spot.” He poked Doug in the shoulder with his storied stick.
“The spot!” Mike answered.
Cuddy, now fully conscious, responded before Doug could continue his line of questioning, “I’m bringing the hammer down.” Cuddy pointed his index finger emphatically at the ground. “Zero is how much we’re spending on office supplies starting no
w! Zero!”
Triggered by the downward movement as he violently pointed at the ground, Cuddy’s hemorrhoid donut began to leak. The air exited, as if from a whoopee cushion. A deafening, “phhhattt,” sound filled the room, drowning out the disco music which still played. This went on for several minutes, during which time no one dared speak. In the process, as the donut deflated, Cuddy sank four inches.
While Doug stared blankly at Cuddy, The Chairman leaned in and sternly ordered Doug to, “Make it stop.”
When it looked like the air had run out, Doug resumed, “I want to thank you for your significant contributions.” Cuddy’s donut wasn’t done yet, a small vestige remained, the release of which echoed off the walls. Doug told Cuddy to make sure the donut was dead.
Cuddy wiggled his fanny to make sure, and nodded that all was as it should be.
Doug began again, “You’ll receive your bonus checks and I want to congratulate you on a job well done. It’s your teamwork that makes this possible. Teamwork is everything; teamwork and professionalism. Try to use the computer system. We spent over $100 million on it. Oh, and Cuddy, quit pissing away money on office supplies.”
Unprompted, The Board broke into a rousing chorus of, For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow. At the end of the first chorus, Doug, heady, overconfident, and very pleased with himself, cried out for all to hear, “Let’s buy a competitor!” A rowdy and positive response as drinks spilled and The Board congratulated one another, and gurgled in ecstasy at all the money they made off G.O.D.
Awakened by the air that blew in her face from Cuddy’s donut, Mary twisted and returned to a more traditional seated position. Overhearing The Chairman’s mandate that Mike now park in the spot, her eyes rolled back in her head, and with the whites of her eyes showing she began to chant demonically, “I want tribute, pay me tribute you motherfuckers.” She rubbed the knot on her head as she repeated her new catch phrase.
With Mary chanting, The Board quietly began to excuse themselves to go to the bathroom. As they fled they clutched their Blackberries and smart phones in their sweaty palms. From the bathroom stalls, cryptic texts of, “Buy, buy, buy,” were placed to distant in laws.
Left at the table, and with the room cleared of all except Mary, the unconscious old man, still face down on the table, began to blow baby-like bubbles into the puddle of drool within which he lay.
Epilogue
Mike
Several weeks after the Board Meeting, Mike walked through his parents’ front door and found his father sitting in the large recliner in the living room reading Tortilla Flat, a bottle of beer at his side. Thumb tacked to the basement door leading down to Mike’s room was a thin envelope, on G.O.D.’s letterhead, addressed to Mike. Mike walked to the door, and as he worked to remove the thumbtack and free the letter his father spoke what both were thinking, “Looks like you got fired, again.” History had shown the family that mailings, in which the envelope outweighed its contents, were bad news.
Letter in hand, Mike sat down on the couch and responded to his father’s comment, “You have got to be kidding me.” Mike tore the letter open and it appeared his father was correct. The first words on the page stung, “We regret to inform you.” Without reading further he dropped the letter to his side. Mike could not believe it. Fired? How could they fire him? He was the darling of the Board Meeting? His father extended his hand, and Mike crossed the room to give him the letter. Returning to the couch, Mike slouched low in defeat.
Scanning the letter quickly, his father shook his head in disbelief, and said, “Impossible.” He tossed the letter back to Mike.
Absent any aerodynamics, the letter fluttered in the air, widely missed its mark, and landed behind the couch. Mike exhaled loudly in anticipation of the effort needed to retrieve the letter, and with exaggerated effort stood. Facing backwards as he kneeled on the cushions, Mike pawed at the ground behind the couch. Mike’s fingertips were barely able to reach the letter and with repeated attempts he was able to spin it to a position in which he could make out what was written. With his head pressed painfully against the wall, and looking sideways to see through the gap between the wall and the back of the couch, Mike read G.O.D.’s letter with one eye.
Dear Mike:
We regret to inform you,
you have been incorrectly compensated.
Your change in job grade from ANALSYT to EXALTED CHIEF FINANCIAL OFFICER makes your annual salary $485,000, plus annual bonus of $350,000 and stock options to be determined.
You will see the aforementioned amount deposited in your bank account on your regularly scheduled pay cycle.
Sincerely,
G.O.D.
Today was payday. Mike feverishly worked a small calculator that sat on a table near the couch. If Mike’s estimates were correct, he would have about $625,000 in his checking account, or $624,000 more than he expected twenty minutes ago.
Turning around, Mike found his father engrossed in Steinbeck. A single sentence escaped his father’s lips as he prepared to turn the page, “I’m changing the locks.” Mike’s father then set the novel down, and took out the phone book whose yellow pages sat opened to the Locksmith section in anticipation of this day. Mike’s dad found the same locksmith Nel’s parents used, and was happy to learn the Slacker Offspring Special had been extended due to its popularity.
With the change in pay Mike assumed he’d see a like change in vacation time, and immediately called Wilma. “Wilma, how much vacation do I get?”
“Well Mike, I am not certain, but it’s of paramount importance the executive mind is well rested and ready for deep thought when it is called upon. Most of the execs get fourteen weeks paid time off, plus the holidays.”
Mike jumped up and down in excitement. “Excellent. This is most excellent. I’ll be resting my exceptional, executive mind for several weeks.”
The next forty eight hours were a blur. First, Mike drove the Yugo to the local Toyota dealer and bought a 4-Runner. He was done driving the smallest, slowest, and most dangerous car in the Midwest. In the negotiations the salesman laughed hard enough to spit coffee from his nose when Mike mentioned trade in value. Insult turned to injury when the Yugo wouldn’t start and the dealer tacked on a $250 littering fee.
Behind the wheel of his new truck, Mike returned home and found his father true to his word. Mike’s house key no longer opened the front door. Neatly piled on the front porch, and caringly covered with an old blanket, were Mike’s belongings. Next to his belongings his dogs waited patiently. Mike shoved everything in the back of the 4 Runner, except the dogs which be put in the back seat, and decided to drive to Colorado. He figured he’d ski out the tail end of the season while he prepared his executive mind to be called on later in the year. Most people incorrectly assumed the big powder days hit in mid-winter. They were wrong, the big storms hit in the spring.
Mike drove seventeen hours straight through, including and without realization within a hundred miles of Cuddy’s childhood home. As he pulled off I-70, and onto I-40 where he would cross Berthoud Pass, the snow started in earnest. As he crossed the divide the falling snow rendered the mountain pass nearly invisible. Ninety minutes, and twenty miles, later he took a left at the first light in town, and pulled into the parking lot of the Swedish Lodge. As he unloaded his truck the temperatures continued to drop, and the snow fell harder. The skiing would be incredible in the morning.
Waking the next day, Mike grabbed a quick breakfast and cup of coffee and headed to the hill. He wasn’t early enough for first tracks, and the ski patrol poached those anyway, but he’d get sloppy seconds. After a few runs and late in the morning, with his appetite for untracked snow whetted but not satisfied, Mike decided to leave the resort and ski down the side-country to the highway. At the highway’s edge he would hitchhike back to the resort. It was commonly done, but not without risk.
Mike exited the boundary gate on the side of the hill and l
eft the ski area. He moved quickly through the steep terrain. As he came upon the first glade of trees he scrubbed his speed, and began picking his way carefully between the lodge pole pines. The trick was to focus on the openings, not the trees. As humans we tend to go where we look. As the terrain steepened, and trees tightened, Mike caught the outside edge of his ski, fell, and slid head first down the hill.
The slide ended with Mike upside down in a tree well; a nearly inescapable trap formed around the base of evergreen trees in areas of prodigious snow. As Mike floundered, upside down in the unconsolidated snow, his airways became blocked and he lost consciousness. In the time it would take to drown in a pond, Mike was dead. His last words echoed in the empty forest, “Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me?”
Doug
Doug sat in his office secretly dribbling a basketball under his desk with one hand while he worked the Magic 8 Ball with the other. With his options back in the money, and the window during which insiders are legally permitted to trade about to open, he sought guidance on whether he should cash out, and go full time on the public basketball courts, or ride out his proclamation that G.O.D. should buy a competitor. More and more, he was becoming increasingly convinced he could become one of the better hoops players in the tenement housing system if he had more time to practice. The kids he played against were unemployed and spent the entire day shooting hoops. It really wasn’t fair he had to work. It gave the kids had an unfair advantage.
As he wrestled with his decision, hoping for guidance from the Magic 8 Ball, Wilma knocked lightly on his door, stuck her head in his office, and cheerily announced, “Mike’s dead. Do you want lunch brought in?” Doug looked up and smiled broadly, it was obvious at the end of the Board Meeting Mike was soon to replace him. The Board was still taking about Mike’s sublime presentation. Doug let her know with that kernel of knowledge he wasn’t on planning to stick around for lunch.
While Doug struggled with how to replace Mike, with someone just a little less perfect, he stood and headed to his elevator. Leaving his office, he grabbed the Wall Street Journal on the corner of his desk, and jammed the Magic 8 Ball in his pocket. He hated to be caught near his employees without a ready distraction to ward off unwanted conversation, or his proven management tool.
Just like Doug feared, a group of employees had formed by the elevator banks waiting to go to lunch. As Doug approached he raised the newspaper, held it fully apart with both hands, and buried his head to the crease. Only the most obtuse employee would interrupt a man so deeply focused on important business matters. Walking forward, blind to the situation at hand, Doug approached his private elevator. Doug then readied to step around what he thought was the velvet rope that cordoned off his private means of escape from the unwashed masses.
The employees cried out, “Mr. Doug! Mr. Doug!”
“Assholes,” he mumbled in reply.
The shouts grew increasingly frantic, “Mr. Doug! Mr. Doug!”
In response, Doug forced his head deeper into the newspaper, took a final step, and inadvertently fell down the elevator shaft to his death. The employees were shouting to warn him of the caution tape that was intended to prevent entrance to the elevator, which stood with its doors opened and shaft exposed.
Gravity is a cruel mistress, and the much taller Doug reached the first floor in the same amount of time it took the much smaller Alan to reach the parking lot. Absent vagaries in wind resistance, mass falls at 9.8 meters per second squared. Doug’s fall formally ended his reign of terror, and the G.O.D. Helps Those Who Help Themselves program was quietly discontinued.
From The Board’s perspective, the biggest issue the company faced with Doug’s death was the cancellation of the corporate insurance policy. As they would learn, all the large insurers had a, ‘two and out,’ policy regarding executive death by rapid deceleration trauma. G.O.D. now needed to relocate to a one story or below ground operation. The Board also needed to deal with filling the now vacant CEO position, as well as the CFO position. Unfortunately, Mike, the obvious choice as CEO, wasn’t available.
The Chairman called Shap, told him to run The Hand Job, and identify the new CEO and CFO. Shap promised to get back to him by day’s end.
Mary
Inspired by the vintage black and white picture of Phyllis Gordon window shopping in downtown London in the nineteen sixties that she held in her hand, Mary felt compelled to recreate the scene’s grandeur. In the photo, the leggy model wore a cheetah fur coat while she walked her pet cheetah on a leash.
More and more, Mary’s bengal, a domesticated house cat bred to look exotic, was falling short in the glamour department. The cat was afflicted with insufferable hair balls, and spent the days hiding under the furniture from Romulus. On the leash, the animal fought mightily until it lost consciousness and fell to the ground with its tongue sticking out. Then, twitching as the sympathetic muscles re-engaged and breathing resumed, it woke to fight the leash once again and cough forth another hairball. Mary decided bigger and more exotic was better. It was her destiny to walk down Michigan Avenue’s magnificent mile with a true wild cat in tow.
With the HR organization now under her control, Mary orchestrated the trade of a handful of her sales team to an unscrupulous regional circus looking to grow its sideshows. The circus happened to have an extra cheetah. The animal was large, by cheetah standards, and weighed almost one hundred fifty pounds. Captured in adolescence the animal had not taken to captivity or people. On the day of the trade Mary loaded a handful of the promised fuglies into the corporate van and drove to an empty parking lot on the outskirts of Gary, Indiana. The swap was made.
With the transaction completed, and with the brace of fuglies now employed by the circus, Mary raced for downtown Chicago and a chance to parade along its central boulevard before the shops closed. An omen ignored, the cheetah bounced like a racquetball off the walls and ceiling of the van while Mary sped along.
Mary pulled off the highway, and worked her way across town and to the shopping district. With an easy fifteen minutes of driving left, she looked at her watch and realized there wouldn’t be time to find parking before the shops closed for the evening. Rather than park in the self-pay garage she decided to abandon the van on Michigan Avenue, in front of the NBC auxiliary studio. Mary was certain she’d make the news.
Stepping from the van she ran to the cargo doors at the back and pulled them open. In the far corner sat her kitty. Mary reached in, grabbed the leash, and hauled the animal from the van. From her experience a cat on a leash choked itself until it became manageable. As Mary began to drag the cheetah down the sidewalk a large crowd immediately formed. The cheetah didn’t take to the leash, and dug in to keep from being pulled. Mary’s plan to window shop immediately turned into a tug of war, and battle of wills with the cat.
From within the news studio a couple of news anchors looked out, saw the sidewalks blocked with people, and hurriedly sent forth a couple of cameramen to film what they instinctively knew to be the news story of the night they could see the headline: Cougar and Cheetah on the Prowl. Meow! The anchors were also very confident that if things went as they expected they would soon be witnessing the next viral YouTube video.
Basking in the attention, Mary played to the crowd and spontaneously named her new pet Freckles.
Terrified in the urban setting, and tethered to its tormenter, the cat stood with its hackles raised, ears pinned back, and teeth exposed. A final warning, the cat swiped wildly at the air as it hissed.
When one of the hundreds of people watching loudly commented it looked like the animal didn’t like what was going on, Mary answered, “Freckles loves me, everyone does.” To show her love, Mary tugged on the leash.
The cheetah leaped onto Mary’s face and in an instant irreversibly disfigured her. With her nose, ears, and scalp ripped off, Mary looked like a jack-o-lantern.
A couple of
months later, after Mary’s release from the hospital, Adonus’ parents passed. Adonus furtively deposited the estate check in a secret Swiss account, filed for divorce, and quietly disappeared. He also went back to using his Christian name, Philbert.
Out of money and looks, and absent a husband to pay the bills, the now unemployed Mary reached out to the man that had given her the cheetah seeking employment as a circus freak. Today, Mary sits in front of a large burlap tent as, “The Terrifying Pumpkin Lady,” selling tickets to the freak show emporium that serves to employ nearly all her former sales team.
Romulus’ whereabouts is unknown.
Shappa
Officer Nonutz patiently sat and read the Chicago Tribune. Mary’s story had made the headlines. The man Nonutz hunted was a sustained plague on America’s liberties and the good people of this Chicago suburb. He knew this foreign scum to be a crafty and deviant adversary, who was not afraid to broadcast his allegiance to terror, hatred of law enforcement, and sexual appetite for boys. To date, Nonutz’s efforts were of mixed success. He’d successfully shot the scumbag with a Taser, but six times missed the shifty bastard with his sidearm. The latter resulted in an Internal Affairs investigation, which ended with his requisite attendance at three months of marksmanship training. It had been months since he’d seen his quarry, during which time he’d met the court ordered firearm requirements by honing his skills on vaguely ethnic, black and white, silhouettes.
Sitting in his squad car, slightly below the crest in the road and on the right shoulder so as to be hidden from view, Nonutz heard what he thought to be a military jet approaching. The noise grew to an ear splitting volume. Terrified, Nonutz looked left and right, up and down, to find its source. Nonutz caught the first glimpse of the airborne missile through the squad car’s passenger side mirror. From behind him, and over the top of the small rise in the road, came the sonic fuck you.
Barely six inches to Nonutz’s left flew Shap, airborne in his new Porsche. The Porsche’s wheels chirped noisily on re-entry, and left thick tire marks on the tarmac. Nonutz didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. The car racing away reminded him of his wife; it was wider in the hips than it was tall.
A half mile up, on the next rise, Shap stopped and stepped from the car to taunt the officer. Standing in the middle of the road, Shap looked directly at Nonutz and gave him the finger with both hands; the old school double barrel.
Nonutz began to perspire as he fumbled to free his pistol from its holster. In the middle of Shap’s forehead gleamed the target that haunted Nonutz’s dreams. Shaking and sweating, straightening his leg and pushing off the floorboard to improve his leverage, he tugged to free his gun before the perp disappeared and with him the opportunity for justice. Since his initial encounter with Shap, Nonutz had replaced his six shot revolver with a modern, large capacity Glock semi-automatic; the first choice of law enforcement, drug dealers, and sociopaths, the world over. In hindsight, Nonutz realized he might not be in this position if he’d unleashed a dozen more rounds. The gun wouldn’t budge, and he cursed loudly. His marksmanship training presumed he could unholster his sidearm.
As he jerked the gun frantically up and down and side to side, with both hands, the gun unexpectedly discharged. The bullet disappeared into the dashboard and pinged off the engine. As the cabin filled with the acrid scent of cordite, sparks flew from the radio and set fire to the passenger seat. The fire grew quickly. Soon the seat was engulfed in flames and visibility in the cabin reduced to zero. Nonutz, fearing for his life, threw his door open to escape.
The motion of opening the door popped the gun from his holster, where it disappeared into the now raging fire. Alive, but unarmed, Nonutz ran across the road to hide in the ditch. The fire triggered the remaining bullets from the gun. Eighteen shots later Nonutz looked up to see his squad car burnt to the ground, and Shap shaking his head in disgust.
Shap hopped back in his car and took off. Proudly displayed below the rear spoiler of Shap’s new red Porsche, and the GTS letters proclaiming 500 hp, was the vanity plate: COPSSUCK.
Life wasn’t bad as G.O.D.’s new CEO.
Cuddy
So much good news had Cuddy giddy. He cheered when he heard Mike had died. It was clear at the end of the last Board Meeting that Mike stood on the precipice of being the next CEO. He entered a state of extended exuberance when he learned Doug too had died. Finally, when he learned of Mary’s tragedy, the emotions became so overwhelming he publicly wet himself, again.
Certain he’d be the next president, Cuddy had been sitting at his desk impatiently waiting for the phone to ring. Just when he was about to give up hope, he spied an exotic sports car entering the executive parking lot. “Could it be a key member of The Board had been dispatched to announce his promotion?” he wondered. As he pondered the significance of the red sports car his phone rang. Wilma informed he was being summoned to Doug’s old office. “Hallelujah!” he declared as he grabbed his clothes off The Chubby. He’d worked out earlier in the day, and hastily fumbled to put his pants back on.
Running down the hall, his body like two pounds of jelly in a one pound bag, he burst into Doug’s office without knocking. His momentum carried him further than anticipated and he came to a stop with his belly bumping the desk. From behind Doug’s old desk sat Shap, the keys to his Porsche casually tossed on the desk, but manipulated so the word Porsche was visible from the hallway.
Cuddy was dumbfounded, but before he could ask what was going on Shap pulled open the top drawer of his new desk and removed a small plastic dart gun.
In a seamless motion, Shap jumped into a wide stance, and, holding the gun with both hands, skillfully shot Cuddy in the middle of the forehead. Thwack!
Shap hopped on the top of the desk, ripped the dart from Cuddy’s fat bald head, and screamed, “You work for me Piggie.” Shap laughed maniacally at his change in fortune, “Mwahhaha mwahhaha.”
Cuddy ran from the office and drove straight home. On the drive he was met with more bad news. A giant billboard proclaimed: Hot Dogs Cause Butt Cancer. The end of the world was at hand. He drove faster.
Walking in his house in the middle of the afternoon Cuddy found Irene sprawled on the couch watching daytime soap operas. A mostly eaten box of chocolates lay on her belly, and dozens of foil wrappers littered the surrounding area with several caught in the waist band of her elasticized pants. Irene looked up, and immediately understand the implications of Cuddy’s branding, “Oh my God, the purple circle of shame! No! Is this the end of our dream? Will we never get to Houston?” She bowed her head and cried at the thought of never returning to Texas, where she and Cuddy would be surrounded with a world of like sized people, and the most chain restaurants per capita anywhere in the world.
Cuddy’s chivalry kicked in, “No, we’re going to redeem ourselves. Mungo went home, our dream lives, and tonight we are born again. We’re heading downtown. We’re gonna win us the Lobster Jaw.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks, as Irene answered Cuddy’s challenge, “We can do it. The manager told me once, isn’t nobody more deserving of the Lobster Jaw than me ‘n you.” Cuddy nodded enthusiastically for the manager had told him the same thing.
Cuddy and Irene piled into Cuddy’s Escalade and headed to their old stomping ground, hoping to regain their last shred of dignity. As they drove Cher’s, If I Could Turn Back Time, blared from the loudspeakers. Cuddy and Irene sang along, hoping to make it so.
Hours later, trophies in hand after a hard night of drinking and eating in which they’d laid siege to the appetizer bar with a fury that required the manager to warn the other patrons repeatedly, “Keep your hands and feet away from all moving parts,” the couple stood at the El stop for the train that would take them uptown for more.
While they waited for the train, an immediate and incontestable need to piss hit Cuddy. Standing on the platform, blind drunk, Cuddy unzipped his pants. With his hand
s in his pockets and spine bent in a pronounced, ‘S’, Cuddy blissfully voided his bladder and sent a golden stream arcing skyward. Cuddy fell into such rapture at the relief, that he became unaware he was about to pee on the electrified third rail. The instant Cuddy’s urine struck the rail he was electrocuted. The electricity fused Cuddy into an exact, life sized replica of The Chubby.
Irene bent at the waist and vomited.
As steam rose from Cuddy’s fedora, and the smells of bacon and vomit permeated the air, the rats, which hid in the platforms furthest recesses, hungrily smacked their jaws.
The Chairman
The Chairman sat in front of the oversized fireplace in the library of his lakeshore mansion late in the evening. A small wood fire burned. Throughout the room were some of the world’s rarest and most expensive antiquities. On the ceiling overhead was an exact replica of the Sistine Chapel’s creation of Adam. The fresco’s artists were flown from Italy, and housed for the three years it took to complete. On the library’s walls were hundreds of photos of The Chairman with heads of state. In the photos, Nixon through Obama, Khrushchev through Putin, The Chairman never seemed to age and always favored the outlandish dress of the 1970s. The only indication of time passing was the evolution of the afro. Every year it gained an inch.
Over the fireplace’s mantle ran a series of pictures of The Chairman clowning with the Pope. In some pictures The Chairman wore the Pope’s hat, both laughing and holding large steins of beer in their hands. In others, they pretended to sword fight. The Chairman brandished his walking stick while his Holiness parried with his staff. In the picture farthest to the right, they fished for bass from a small rowboat. While they tended their fishing poles, half eaten Velveeta and Wonder Bread sandwiches rested on their laps. His appointment as Chairman of G.O.D. was a favor to his good friend, and G.O.D.’s biggest investor, The Pope.
The Chairman gazed in introspection at the fire, when the butler gently knocked on the library door and announced his entry. He presented The Chairman a red rotary phone nested on a silver platter, and stated the obvious, “Sir, you’re needed.”
The Chairman took the phone and dismissed the butler. Before taking the call he drank from the snifter of a rare brandy that sat to his side. The brandy melted like liquid caramel in his mouth, and he nodded his head in satisfaction. Then, phone to his ear, he announced himself, “Sup Fool?”
He listened without interrupting, then after a few minutes spoke, “I’m from Detroit. We all black and we can all dance. I’ll answer my country’s calling, Mr. President.” He hung up and patted his lap.
Sue rose from the couch upon which she reclined. A rare smile graced The Chairman’s lips as she crossed the room to sit on his lap. They both wore fur pajamas.
Twelve hours later The Chairman stood, dazzling and impressive, in front of a row of TV cameras and a large crowd. He wore a neon orange, double breasted suit, custom tailored by Dege and Skinner in central London’s Savile Row. Prices at this storied and venerable establishment were only given upon request. Here, Kings and Sultans shopped by royal appointment. Below the suit he wore a like colored silk shirt and tie. In his right hand he held his Cobra walking stick. As always, his afro reached skyward, perfect in its symmetry.
The TV crew counted him in, “Three, two, one, and we are live!” The director quickly stepped to the side, the camera operators zoomed in, and the action cut to The Chairman.
“Whose name should you know?” The Chairman asked in his melodious voice, and then answered his own question, “The Chairman.” A pregnant pause followed. “Welcome to Soul Train, where you can bet your last money it’s gonna be a stone, gas honey.” He pointed his walking stick at the camera. “It’s the hippest trip in America, and I’m your new host.”
Perfectly timed to start at the end of his opening comments, James Brown’s, “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag,” rang from the speakers. With the music blasting, Wilma and Sue, previously unseen, emerged from behind The Chairman; Sue to the right and Wilma, G.O.D.’s new CFO, to the left. They danced the, “shopping cart,” imaginary items tossed in the imaginary cart they pushed before them. Behind each of them followed a long line of Soul Train dancers.
In the gulf between the now stopped dancers, The Chairman stood on the side farthest the camera. He placed his right hand behind the back of his neck, and then, elbow bent, emulated the impact arm of an irrigation sprinkler. His left hand pointed in the direction the water traveled. As he sprinkled, the crowd cheered wildly.
Rico
After Helen’s passing, Rico travelled to California to attend her memorial service. It was a terribly sad affair, at which he played several of the songs he’d written about her. Helen had asked him to do this as a special favor, and he kept his promise. Later that day, he, and a small group of her friends and family hiked to the top of a small mountain where they scattered Helen’s ashes. He thought that might see the magical owl on the summit, but he did not. Afterwards, drained of emotion, he and Helen’s father flew back to Chicago.
In Chicago, they spent the week donating Helen’s possessions to the charities she specified. They gave everything away; clothes, furniture, art, dishes. At week’s end, the home was nearly vacant. All that remained was a bed in the guest bedroom, a chest of drawers, and a couch. It was hard work and the physical labor and long days helped dull the pain. Rico took the motorcycle for one last sentimental ride, and then listed it on e-Bay where it quickly sold.
With the house empty Helen’s father readied to fly home, but before he left for the airport he made one final ask of Rico. “Helen told me you’re pretty good. At the guitar, I mean.”
“That’s kind of you to say.”
“I liked what you played at her service. You got a few extra CDs that I could take with me? I’m making no promises. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve been in the game, but I’ve still got some friends in pretty high places.”
Rico thanked him, told him whatever help he could offer he’d surely take, and gave him a handful of CDs. The CDs contained demos from Rico’s first album, written entirely during the time he was with Helen. At the door, with the cab waiting anxiously in the drive, Helen’s father offered Rico his hand. Rico hugged him instead, and Helen’s father returned the hug. Her father smiled sadly, “I’m not sure if we’ll see each other again.”
“Who knows? I’ll think of your daughter every day, the rest of my life.”
“Me too,” said Helen’s father, and he turned and walked to the cab.
Finding fatigue his only anesthetic, Rico then readied the house for sale. Helen hadn’t asked him to do this, nor had her father, but he struggled to fill the vacuum that came when he was no longer Helen’s partner and caregiver. As his new tonic he mowed the lawn, cleaned the windows, repainted the house, and cleaned the carpets. The real estate agent placed a For Sale sign in the front yard. With the home void of Helen and her possessions, Rico no longer stayed there, and took to sleeping in his van or crashing on friend’s couches. Several weeks later the house sold, and formally closed a chapter in his life.
Rico hadn’t been at work much since Helen’s passing, and his resignation was no surprise. The day after the house sold Rico walked from G.O.D., cardboard box in hand. Inside the box were his personal effects; a picture of Helen and him on the motorcycle, a stack of CDs, and a book on cooking waterfowl that he’d received as a joke. Rico wasn’t sure how this was going end, but, for now, he had a slew of shows lined up, and a little money saved. He was determined to pursue his musical career full time until he either quit the dream, or made it. “Toad Suck Daze, here I come,” he thought.
Pulling from the parking lot Rico flipped on the radio, and for the first time in his life heard his music. It was the song from his eponymously named debut, the same song he’d started writing the first night he met Helen, and one of the songs he played at her service. It was also on the CD he gave her fa
ther. Driving into the sunset he thought of what a kick Helen would have gotten out of hearing their song, or seeing herself laughing on her motorcycle on the album’s cover.
Wayne
It turned out the old racist was right about one thing. Chicago’s finest charged Wayne with a series of grisly murders when they found dismembered body parts scattered throughout the backyard, and buried deep in the crawl space, of his small Schaumburg home.
Wayne currently sits in the Cook County jail awaiting trial; where all suspects are presumed innocent until proven guilty.
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