Chapter 11: Pools

MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,

a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,

 a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence

 and the woman important to each 

                                                                             11

 

      Rhea Slade lay on turquoise water and gazed into the deep azure sky. In the surrounding distance, the sun burned summer grasses brown between trees that offered sacred shade. The sandstone mansion that was the Slade vacation estate blended columned porticos into the austere landscape, and the poolside luxury put her on top of the world, far from working-class Kansas whose memories lingered despite living three-quarters of a life as corporate spouse. Petite and pewter-haired in a modest one-piece bathing suit, she splashed about the water.
     “What you doing, Grandma?” shouted Gerald.
     “Cooling off,” answered his matter-of-fact brother, Malcolm.

     Paddling the air mattress around, she brought them into view.  The thirteen-year-old hung onto the rim, blond hair flat across his head, looking down after his older sibling who sank to the bottom then propelled himself upwards to breach the surface. Hovering nearby, Delfina sighed, grateful for another tragedy-averting experience. Graham sheltered under an umbrella reading the paper. The monotonous disembodied voice coming from the terrace belonged to Stephen, whose telecom link encroached on the family retreat.
     Drifting to the rim, she splashed a volley that splattered against Graham’s paper. “Ha, ha,” he deadpanned. “Ever a girl at heart.”
     “A girl!” mocked Gerald.

     “Your grandfather’s silly.”
     “She called you silly!”
     Malcolm pounced on his brother and pushed him under. Delfina cried out. When they resurfaced, she cried again on her own behalf as they blitzed her and dragged her in. Rhea paddled to center pool but to no avail; the underwater boys pursued. Water sloshed, the air mattress slipped away and they held her down. Delfina shouted without effect. Graham’s stern “Stop it now!” rescued her. Reaching for his hand, Rhea forgave the boys for not knowing how fragile a grandmother could be, and Delfina for being ineffectual, but not Stephen, who should have been there.
     Inside, the boys donned t-shirts and flip-flops while the women changed into white robes that skirted marble floors, transforming them into temple priestesses. All bore traces of water, except the men. Graham’s gray crew cut was spiky sharp and the imprint of a fine comb lined Stephen’s dark hair. They wore khaki shorts, collared shirts and loafers without socks.
     Around the table they helped themselves to sandwiches, cold pasta and lemonade. Delfina and the boys sat at one end, Rhea at the other with Graham to her right. When Stephen entered, he paused a moment before sliding into the vacant seat beside his father.
     “Stephen, I wish you’d get into the vacation spirit.”

     “You shoulda seen, Dad. We dunked mom, then grandma!”

     “THAT was not a highlight, Gerald,” said his mother. “You should know better. Both of you.”

     “You’re still breathing,” retorted Malcolm.

     “Your attitude, young man,” said Graham. “You don’t roughhouse with them like you do your friends.”
     “Different pools,” said Stephen, surprising them, “would keep the sharks apart.”

     “I’m a shark!” gloated Gerald.

     Rhea shook her head. “Separation?”

    “If you can take it, get in. Everyone should know what to expect.”

    The boys raised hands like dorsal fins, then clashed. “Not at the table, “ Delfina pleaded.
Graham whispered into his son’s ear. “You don’t hide it well, you know. Your game of ‘Keep away, it’s mine’. Quite a performance before the board. They might be intimidated, but I’m not. Devour everything in your pool, then you’ll want to jump into another. Beware bigger and meaner sharks!”

     Stephen’s eyes glazed over. Aware that the table had gone quiet, he pointed at his sons. “Respect your elders. Someday you’ll demand the same.” He grabbed a sandwich and spooned some pasta onto his plate.
     “I think,” said Rhea, “we should be happy together as one like at the wedding which is a celebration of coming together for two people and, in the larger sense, everybody. All of us, together, at Dave Forester’s.”
     “Were you counting on going?”

     “If it concerns Slade Insurance, we are,” Graham said.

     “It’ll be sales and the management team.”

     “And other interests?”

     “Possibly.”

      Delfina cleared her throat. “The Palisades mansion must be beautiful.”

      “I bet there’s a pool!”

      “Sharks!”

      Stephen set down his fork. “It’s primarily business, but as long as everyone knows what to expect.”
     Back outside, the boys splashed as their mother watched. Graham and Rhea sat beneath the umbrella and Stephen was back on the telephone. “Childhood is so simple,” she thought gazing into the gem-like water and then into the infinite sky. She closed her eyes.

                      

     

              

The next chapter will be posted by December 28. 
 The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

Chapter 10: Hands Up

MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,

a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,

 a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence

 and the woman important to each 

                                                        

                                                          10

At just past the hour, the board of directors sat around the oblong table waiting for the chairman to call the meeting to order. The CEO was not present despite their invitation, and his absence made them uneasy. Graham Slade, chairman, company founder and former CEO, had dominated for nearly thirty years when no differences separated guiding and operating principles. The board rubber-stamped his wishes and the company prospered. But when Stephen Slade became CEO, it faced a new reality –conflict-- and found trying to satisfy both like bending backwards till shoulders touched the ground then springing into forward somersaults.

Jeff Simmons, managing partner of a law firm, had boyish charm which had encouraged strangers to ruffle his hair and, later, colleagues to beam favorably. Now his hair was lacquered black but that charm still showed through. He avoided declaring the absence a slight without further evidence and tried to mollify the chairman with conversation about his grand kids.

Peter Morgan, owner of a string of banks, was the oldest member and started life with a different name. His manner suggested an Old World background, often alluded to but without details. “Past is past,” he liked to say, which was a nod to the prosperous present that afforded rich suits to clothe his expansive figure. His mane of silvery hair and self-satisfied demeanor suggested everything would work out.     

Life insurance was Joseph Parker’s business and his faith in actuarial tables the foundation of a backslapping nature: the tables delivered the hard news, allowing him to focus on the sunny side. Height and weight corresponding to recommended guidelines, he believed he’d age the prescribed 82.57 years. Only infrequently did worry fret a chevron between his brows.

Mark Storts, the newest member, was the younger Slade’s college buddy and an ally in wanting to take the company public, which he sought to underwrite. Stephen’s failure at communication concerned him, as he believed perfect information best served the marketplace.  He checked his watch and at fifteen after punched a number on his cell --voice mail. When he stood, his dark, curly hair was a statement in the room. “I’ll see what’s keeping him.”

He made his way through the C-suite hallway to executive reception, where Betsy Murray greeted him professionally then frowned at his request. “He went up this morning and hasn’t been down since.”  She pantomimed summoning the elevator: the button refused to light. She pushed the intercom button on the phone, which did light and flash until pushed again. He returned to the meeting where they listened to his report. Simmons said, “I don’t like the idea of locking it from upstairs. What if he’s injured?”

“The code requires another exit.” piped up Parker who, on considering the CEO’s age and good health, reasoned it wasn’t time. “He must have gone another way.”

“Of course, he’s okay,” said Morgan, waving a sagacious hand.

Irritation tweaked the chairman’s granite face. “Let’s get started. Mark Pointer is the company’s long-time claims manager, and I’m advised that his impending retirement is not entirely voluntary. Assertions have been made of unsatisfactory performance, and the inability of adjusters to handle the volume of claims. At the same time, his requests to expand staffing have been denied. I’ve known Mark a long time. He gets the job done, if allowed to. Slade Insurance will suffer for losing him.”

The room lapsed into silence, until Storts spoke up. “According to the numbers, Slade would be better off.”

“Numbers?” The chairman glared.

“Mister chairman, certainly the claims manager is worthy of your support, and I don’t argue against him as a person but as a kind: a high-salaried manager. Through retirement and other means we can reduce expenses and increase our profit margin.”

“Have you talked to him about Mark Pointer?”

                 “Not in particular, but he endorses the strategy.”         

 “Strategy requires vision, and I don’t see it. Mark is a leader who has nurtured many fine claims adjusters who interface with our customers and contribute to a robust company. Financial statements don’t capture the whole picture.”

“Wall Street doesn’t care about that.”

“Good reason, then, to avoid it.”

Around the table gasps and body language urged restraint.

“If you’re not in the market, you’re not anywhere. It’s just the way things are. Slade’s value will increase on the exchange, which we can maximize by getting our financials into shape.”

The chairman looked ahead at no one in particular.  “Thank you for your insight. I only wish Stephen had the grace to argue for himself. His absence, I think, supports my position that figures on a page are well and good, but don’t compel like a flesh-and-blood leader. I’m not convinced about ending Mark’s career.”

“That’s not on us. He can go someplace else!”

The chairman raised his hand. “Enough. I move that we re-issue our request to the CEO.”

“I second that,” said Simmons.

“In favor?” Hands shot up as the door opened. “The motion is carried--“

“Unanimously.” Stephen Slade stood within the door frame and watched the raised hands fall. He took a seat at the farthest end from the chairman. His dark gray suit enveloped him neatly and the satin blue of his tie reflected off a pale neck. Smooth dark hair and narrow-set eyes contrasted with the chairman’s crew cut and visionary gaze. “Here I am.”

At one end, Simmons sat to the right of the chairman who had Morgan on his left, and then Parker. Storts was on the other side between Simmons and the CEO. They waited for someone to reset the meeting. 

“Thank you for attending,” said Simmons. “We had just finished discussing Mark Pointer’s situation. The chairman expressed that he contributes necessary leadership, which would be missed and impact customer service. Director Storts pointed out that high-salaried managers inflate expenses and reduce profits. The board desires your input.”

“That’s a fair recap,” said the banker with a salute to the attorney.

“Thank you,” said the CEO.  “Mark Pointer has served Slade long and well, but salaries like his are a burden. Human Resources has identified areas of high cost where the company can seek advantage through attrition.”

“Mark Pointer doesn’t want to retire,” growled the chairman.

“At my direction, HR has presented available options to certain managers. Retirement would be their choice. If enough accept, we won’t have to take other measures.”

“If this is about expenses,” the chairman said, “I don’t see how it squares with those in other areas, such as the private elevator, the limousine and the chauffeur.” The chairman leaned forward. The CEO did not blink.

“I hope you will grant that the company is well run and profitable. Pay attention to the numbers that matter, and you will see the proof. It’s easy and tempting to grasp at the odd figure or expense and make of it something more than it is. Easy and hurtful. I am hurt at the lack of trust. I seek to make of Slade something more. The chairman founded and made a success of the company that provides for his retirement. If Slade is to grow and provide for others, changes must be made.

“Since the company’s founding, jet travel for business and pleasure became the norm, the Concorde came and went, and hijacked jets brought down the Twin Towers. Does it make sense that Slade should remain static while the world shifts?

“If I aim higher and step quicker, it’s because I want Slade to succeed. Everything I do benefits the company. See it in the results.

“The board owes me the same trust and support it gave my predecessor. Don’t fracture or snipe. Stand united. If you do, the sky’s the limit.”

 Without awaiting a response, he stood and vanished as suddenly as he had appeared, having silenced them though the chairman still glowered and the directors still yearned for consensus. Once again, the meeting needed resetting.

“He did show up,” said Simmons. Parker added, “I knew he was okay.”

“A flesh-and-blood statement,” chuckled Morgan.

“Leading where?” asked the chairman.
                  Nothing remained but to schedule the next meeting and close. The board went through the motions, the while aware of the quirk in its DNA: impotence against an aggressive CEO.  

The next chapter will be posted by October 26. 
 The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

Chapter Nine: Conquest

       

MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,

a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,

 a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence

 and the woman important to each 

                                                        

                                                          9

      Basking in the glow of conquest, Atom walked arm in arm with Helen down the Manhattan Beach pier. The day was bright, and the air rich with the delighted cries of sun worshippers and volleyball players, which overlay their quiet satisfaction as between them smoldered the passion of the night before. After much persistence she had yielded fully, so much so his intuition gave pause to consider who was the winner and whom the won over before sinking into lovemaking’s sensory overload. On waking they fell onto each other before dozing to wake again to growling stomachs. They dressed quickly: he in shorts, polo shirt and sneakers, while she was compelled to re-wear her sleeveless burgundy dress with sandals and his oversized windbreaker.

     Once hunger was satisfied, Atom played the guide, pointing out the stately pier with globe lights atop concrete stanchions every 12 paces, and the Spanish tile roof of the bulky Aquarium & Café near the end, and the hill that hunched like a wrong-way wave where the main street and overbuilt neighborhoods ran laterally. “The town’s a mix of older homeowners and younger condo-dwellers,” he said. “None of whom I have time to meet.”

     He turned to kiss her and a strand of hair flicked his eyelash, causing him to draw back. She brushed it away then he tried again, eliciting her deep-throated laugh. Believing Helen had greater meaning than just the physical, he wanted to possess her completely, and had no doubt he would since he had overcome her resistance to a date.
     With Lola’s help, he happened on her in break room, at lunch in nearby restaurants and in the underground garage, where always she declined his invitations, until the last one. Their date was Saturday, when at twilight they met at her apartment in Palms and then drove to a restaurant for dinner and, after, dancing.

     Wearing ivory-colored slacks, azure blue shirt and tan sports coat, his gestures had crackled with intensity of wooing. Her auburn hair fell onto the shoulders of the burgundy dress, which matched her high heels. A delicate gold chain accentuated her thin wrists.  Throughout the evening, each echoed the other’s appreciation of venue, food and entertainment, as their wariness gave way to heightened anticipation. He noted that a new gravity weighed on her youthful enthusiasm to pleasing effect.

     He did not know about the break up with her boyfriend, or the investor parties that had made her the center of attention in men’s eyes, exciting Slade’s possessive nature. She would have had difficulty describing the experience since her role seemed more to do with what she was instead of who.

     Rolling waves beneath the pier rocked the pilings, gusts delivered salty spray and the high sun whitewashed their features. Going round the Café, they were for the moment separate and alone, where westward was the open sea, and to the north and south the purple hills stretched out. A tanker crossed their view cruising to the refinery with the orange-striped smokestack. They leaned against the railing.

      “Slade’s lucky he’s got you.”
     “I wouldn’t put it like that.”
     “I’d hate to think he is a barrier, for us.”

     "Hoo, hoo! Ha, ha!” The girlish laughter pierced him and he twisted a painful smile, and then from nowhere a sense-defying fog blanked out the sun, the sea and every sound except her laughter. He snaked an arm around her waist, but she pulled away, and they stood silent and apart until he felt compelled to fill in the white nothingness.
     “You know, I envy Slade’s relationship with his father; things passing from father to son. It’s like someone saving your place in line, giving a foothold in life. Things are different then.”
     “What about yours?”

     “Divorced before I was five. I have some pictures, and don’t miss him, because how could I when I never had it? Only when I see others with theirs do I wonder.”

     “Mine is big on sports and fishing. When I think of him I think of fishing. Sorry.”
     “Sorry for laughing?”

     “Don’t take it personal, but men always make more of something than it is.”

      “Slade?”

     “I’m not talking about him--”

     “I’ll protect you, if you let me.” His resolute face was blurred in the mist.
     “You just proved my point and I’m trying not to laugh. He doesn’t affect what I do. I wouldn’t want to cross him, though. He likes fresh starts, clean sweeps and loyalty, and has a different take on the father thing. The condo’s about sweeping him away.”
     He pulled at her again and she relented. He nuzzled her marble cheek and held her as if clutching a world he would scale and occupy.

                                                                           * * *

      The idea of Helen and Slade festered in Atom's mind. She wouldn't admit him to the condo saying, "Stephen wouldn't like it," the first name familiarity salting the wound. Meanwhile, the CEO's arrangement had repercussions within and without the company.

  
The next chapter will be posted by August 17. 
 The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

Chapter Eight: Fear of Zero

                                   

MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,

a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,

 a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence

 and the woman important to each

                                                               

                                                           8

     Atom Green won last quarter but the new one meant starting equal in the race for numbers sprinkled with enriching commas. He overcame a momentary catch in the throat on the first call --paralysis through fear of zero-- before charm and technique powered him to a close. A carryover though was the parking spot labeled  “Salesman of the Quarter” in the underground garage. He parked his leased champagne-colored Mercedes coupe near the CEO’s limousine, which sat like an unused accessory. Unavoidable on the way to the elevator, he gave the fender a kick.
     He’d gotten into the habit of stopping in before his first call so as to become acquainted with staff outside of sales and learn what they knew. The best place was where the smokers congregated, out of doors in the wind tunnel between tall buildings. After squinty-eyed assessment, a chatty someone typically came forth to reveal much about the company in bullet-points -- due to standing, the wind or the smoker rhythm -- even before lighting up, which was fine since he didn’t smoke. He met Lola McIntyre there, but that morning found her in the break room.
     As he passed through the door, her eyes lit up beneath corkscrews twisted in her hair. She nudged a chair toward him and a playful tune jangled from the charms on her bracelet. “Sorry, no time.”
     “That’s not very friendly,” she teased, the words dripping like syrup from a greedy mouth as she ogled him in his sharp gray suit with royal blue tie. “I was going to tell you about the CEO’s condo and what he keeps there.”
     “Got a cigarette?”
     “A new hire in my department a month ago. The first day, he’s on her like that.” She snapped her fingers. “The company bought the condo. He transfers her there…working…for him…alone.”

     Regardless of snaps and pauses, he had an interest in the doings of Stephen Slade. Desire and dread jumbled his heart: if he were in that position, would he so casually alter people’s lives? “Pretty bold having the company pay.”
     “It’s for business, though I can’t say other things don’t go on.”
     “Monkey business. Tell me about her.”

     ”Young and pretty.”

      Women at work, women at home, women wherever the wealthy man goes, like flags staking out territory. Whether fun and flighty, sexy seducer or old-fashioned gold digger, men put women in a box then join them inside. He wanted to see and judge. Coming out of his thoughts, he noticed intensity in Lola’s eyes. “Helen Roy.”

                                                                 -ii-

     Soon after, Atom met Helen over lunch at Rico’s, with Lola making introductions. He pegged her age as half Slade’s and, dressed in designer jeans and sweater, more college student than executive assistant, or seducer. Her voice conveyed youthful enthusiasm.
     “’Atom’, like in physics? That’s funny.”

     “There’s a story behind it, and one day I’ll tell you.”

     “Tell us now!” They demanded. He feigned reluctance then complied.
     “My mother’s from Columbia, and my father was a contractor who’s away a lot, all over the world. That’s how they met. Well, he’s in Africa when she’s ready to deliver. She’s alone, without any family nearby, and gets herself to the hospital. Everything works out. When they ask my name for the birth certificate, she says ‘Neil Adam Green’. But she speaks with an accent and they write A-T-O-M.”
     “They should have known,” protested Lola.

     “By herself? The poor woman,” said Helen. “I would have been terrified. Why didn’t your parents correct it?”

     “Never got around to it, and I suffered. At the start of a new year, the teachers read the rolls and did double takes to confirm I was a little boy and not some science experiment. The kids called me ‘Atom Bomb’.”

     “Why didn’t you change it later?”
     “I got used to it, and it’s unique. Have you ever met an Atom?”

     “None I wasn’t attracted to.”
     “Are you positive?”

     They giggled; Lola looked confused. He thought Helen was friendly and pretty and interesting, but as lunch went on he grew angry at Slade’s audacity and, without telling scars, his imagination went wild; such power made him lightheaded and nauseous.
     “Don’t you find it odd isolated in a condo working for an insurance company?”
     She shrugged. “It’s not what I expected, though I like being creative. Maybe that doesn’t go with insurance either. I really don’t know”

     “Must be nice at the top.”
     “There’s a great view of the city.”
     “I’d like to see,” interjected Lola.

     Helen hesitated. “Stephen wouldn’t care for that. He doesn’t say ‘Don’t bring anyone up’ but… I…it just wouldn’t feel right.”
     “Does he take you out?” said Lola.
     “No”
     “Not yet,” said Lola under her breath.
     The tops of Helen’s ears turned red and she stared daggers at the older woman. “I said 'No.'”
     Atom felt bad and wanted to get past the sticky moment. He grandly slapped his credit card to the check and pushed it to the table’s edge, but Helen snatched up the ticket, calculated her share and added a twenty. Lola fumbled in her purse then followed suit.
     Afterwards, Helen led the way to the lobby of the Wayfare Hotel. Atom caught up to her as she was pushing the button for the elevator. "Maybe we can do this again.”
     The bell sounded, the doors opened and she went inside. On turning around, despite pursed lips and knitted brows, Atom thought she exuded a beautiful radiance. The doors closed as Lola came up. “Too bad.”
     Undeterred, he spoke through the doors, “If not today, tomorrow then.”

 

The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

Chapter Seven: Reward

MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,

a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,

 a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence

 and the woman important to each 

                                                            7

      Neil Atom Green left the sales manager’s office reeling. The celebration for rising to the top of the sales chart should have been full-throated ecstasy but he felt hollow. Jeremy Port had framed his top salesmen within his arms, presenting them for praise. Instead of congratulations, Slade snubbed him and told Dave Forester to get back to Number One. They laughed but the CEO did not join in.
     Fortunately, Port and Forester insulated him with their good will while he hid his anguish and tried to understand whether the slight was unintended and forgettable or intended and therefore malign. Demanding recognition was a sign of weakness so he would wait, like a doctor confronting an unknown disease looks toward the next death in order to comprehend.
     Tall and swarthy, Atom had dark hair parted down the middle that quivered as with electricity, and a manufactured polish reflecting his best profile. His energy and talent demanded immediate release and on encountering obstacles skirted around or rose above to fill in the present.
     The sales team trooped across the street to the bar at the Wayfare Hotel. Rico’s was spacious and spare, with gray carpet and muted lighting that accentuated the stylish smear of orange pastel on the wall. A long liquid mirror behind the bar reflected passersby of the business class headed to the dining area.
     “Tequila shots,” ordered Atom for the ritual taking place every quarter when results posted, and the bartender arrayed ten shot glasses filled with silver agave juice. The salesmen eyed their reward for being defeated, and his penalty for conquering. “To Number One,” they toasted then left, their embarrassed ambition kept them from sticking around when they should be out selling.
     Port took the stool to his right and Forester stood on his other side. The white-haired sales manager had been his advocate, while Forester had been a friendly adversary, and he was closer to them than anyone else at Slade. He ordered more drinks.
     Forester had sandy brown hair, high forehead, and perpetual tan from golf and tennis. His generous smile softened a cool manner. “Come over for barbecue Sunday. Mona would want you both,” he said referring to his fiancé. Though a likable fellow, Atom could dislike him if he dwelt on their differences. He was the son of a banking executive, whose background mirrored Slade’s.
     By contrast, his career began in the kitchen of a chain restaurant. He had become the assistant manager before realizing he was settling for second best. Determined to make the highest leap possible, he took business classes at the community college and studied corporate leaders. Afterwards, he took sales jobs at a string of companies that refined his perspective. Touchable products were inferior to the untouchable, so financial instruments were best where the sky was the limit in terms of value.  Small companies had a strong sense of mission but lacked diversity and scale, while large ones had plenty of both at the risk of bureaucratic mindset. He stayed long enough to learn what was worthwhile before moving on and landing at Slade Insurance.
     Along the way, he discovered the past was a clingy thing. When asked where he came from and what he’d been doing, he noticed the cooling effect the words “kitchen” and “restaurant” had on his peers, so he began talking about the hospitality industry, marketing and client delivery until establishing a sales record.
     But the past resided inside, too, and he always took notice of the help. At Rico’s the busboy darted between tables collecting used glasses and plates. Thin and dark, with a wave of black hair cresting his brow, his lowered eyes avoided the clientele. Atom knew he had an apology ready if he did encounter them, such deference aiding the objective of getting orders to the tables then clearing them. The bartender had a different attitude. Wearing white shirt and striped tie under green apron, he presented as if minding the bar was a lark between business meetings. He introduced himself as Ross, and was ready, it seemed, to bargain with captains of industry.
     Atom waited till Ross was at the other end of the bar then said “Maybe he’ll say something when I’m Number One again next quarter.”
     “Don’t let him see you sweat,” said Forester, ignoring the embedded challenge. “You’ll be alright. He must have been thinking about the wedding, and how to introduce his ‘Number Two salesman’. Sounds odd. What do you think, Jeremy?”
     “No thinking while drinking,” Port quipped and gulped his vodka rocks and the salesmen followed suit. Atom stirred his drink with a little black straw and listened to the clinking ice. The wedding added to his discontent, because no amount of sales could top having the CEO sponsor your union at a Palisades mansion. The inner circle was exclusive, tight and hard to penetrate.
     “He’s got a lot on his mind, what with changes he’s pushing,” Port said.
     “Like what?”
     “Get used to sending your own follow-up letters when the administrative assistants go.”
     Forester grimaced. “They’re overpaid for what they do, though I don’t like the idea of wasting time on minutiae. Focus on the bright and shiny, right Atom?”
     “Don’t let it get you down,” counseled the sales manager.
     Their concern tugged loose a smile.  Optimism, especially on a bad day, was the salesman’s utmost tool. He swallowed his drink and ordered another round and watched Ross work. He wouldn’t let it get to him, but he was impatient for signs of success.
     Then, a brilliant gleam alerted his nervous system. Before the reasoning mind and her gelling image gave shape to the impulse, he was on his feet with extended hand for the universal pitch. Her hands were manicured and soft, and her perfume summoned dreams of hot nights, full moons and victory feasts. She would serve until the real thing.

 The next chapter will be posted by June 1st.. Already posted.

The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

Chapter Six: Morning Break

MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,

a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,

 a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence

 and the woman important to each 

 6

     Nine-fifteen meant morning break. Lola McIntyre pushed through the doors of the lunchroom to take her place at the table near the wall and watch everyone coming in. Wearing snug brown skirt and carmine red blouse, her sandy blonde hair was clipped short over yearning brown eyes. A charm bracelet jangled on her right wrist.
     Employed at Slade for ten years, the staff was the subject of her gossip that ranged over absences and work habits, marriages and affairs, waistlines and diets, conflicts and complaints. New people added to her amusement but also contributed to anxiety.
     She was invested in routine. Her job as billing consultant engaged the mind just enough without hurting, and lent self-esteem when explaining ins-and-outs of premium billing to baffled clients. Difficult calls could be passed on to a supervisor, thereby sustaining her good spirits. But someone new might be her replacement, so she listened for the slightest sound of ground giving way, easy in the lunchroom’s bright lights where conversations bounced off the yellow walls of the L-shaped room with twenty tables and a bank of vending machines.
     Shy when by herself, she counted on a coalition of willing tablemates. Stockroom Bob arrived next. In his thirties with muscular arms covered in tight blond curls and hair cropped close to the ears, he wore cotton trousers, steel-toed shoes and red-and-blue checkered shirt. As he sat, he scraped a crumb from the table. “Morning, Lola.”
     Next came lanky Mailroom Joe, whose ubiquitous earphones were like life support. Wearing jeans, black t-shirt and backwards cap trapping stringy hair, he stepped just inside the swinging door, then stopped to gaze into his handheld. When the door tapped his bottom, he expressed surprise – then moved the rest of the way inside. He sat wordlessly, his greetings assumed. Lola by then was squirming like a schoolgirl.
     Instead, Betsy Murray came in. The petite executive secretary, who was about Bob’s age, fed quarters that ka-plunked into the coffee machine’s register. Lola called, “Come sit,” and she was going over when Bill kicked through the door.  Tossing his cap on the table, he turned a chair backwards to sit then craned his shaved head, looking each of them in the eye. Betsy inched her chair away. Lola tried to calm herself.
     Before her was a measure of the company. Stockroom Bob, for one, had a part in uncovering the supply cabinet overstocked with Wite-Out. Rank and file of nail-polish-sized bottles in colors of pink, blue, yellow and white were on hand despite the advent of the digital age. The Underwriting secretary derived comfort from placing orders and wouldn’t acknowledge the waste. Bob brought it to management’s attention. The secretary departed not long afterward. And Mailroom Joe, who could match mail to people sending or receiving non-work-related items, provided material for endless speculation: credit card bills, scented purple envelopes with no return address and magazines in brown wrappers. What did such routing conceal? She had always to coax him for information, but the effort worthwhile. That morning she started with Betsy. “So what’s going on upstairs?”
     The secretary cupped hands around her coffee and cast eyes to the ceiling. “The execs are always coming and going. I see Stephen the least, in the mornings usually. Sometimes I don’t see him the rest of the day. The others think I’m busy with him and don’t ask. I feel useless.”
     “Trade you,” Lola quipped, eliciting laughter. She turned to the chauffeur. “Is he on his Blackberry when you’re driving in?” He shrugged. “I keep my eyes on the road.”

     “What else, Betsy?”
     “We hired some mucky-muck consultants who are planning to upgrade our systems. ‘For the new century’, they say. Their presentation’s like geometry.”
     “Was Stephen there?”
     “Oh, yes. They make nice in front of Stephen, but think he’s hiding something. They’re afraid of being left out.” She stood. “My relief’s probably pulling out her hair.” She stepped away through the room now busy with people and conversation.
     A goofy grin spread across Bill’s face. “You’re all going to be replaced ---with robots. Nobody’s going to have a job. Then you can stay home and watch soap operas. The plans were in the back seat. Circles and lines and dollar signs. No people.”
     Lola gave him a sour look. “No drivers, either.”
     “Good! Then I can get out of this monkey suit.” He beamed like a precocious child, causing her to laugh and blush. Though married with a teenage son in the suburbs, she nurtured a crush for the big man, who seemed like the spicy reward for long commutes. The thought of the flirtation upending her life was part of the thrill, with every gesture fraught with the question --How far will I go?
     They would meet in the limousine parked in the underground garage, which occupied an outlined spot near the elevator. Foot traffic was minimal after early arrivers filled the first level, but every car had to pass going to the lower ones. Roaring engines in the low-ceiled chamber made her skittish, as did the windows lowered a crack to let the heat escape. In semi-privacy, she explored a fantasy: gazing into his eyes, she saw reflections of the young offenders on the TV news, something wild though cleaned up and in uniform.
     The first time she felt like a teenager gone to a forbidden liaison, with the sound of echoing heels her trailing conscience. Seeing cigarette smoke escaping the window, she nearly turned back, but he flung open the door. Inside, her brassy persona vanished and she sat tongue-tied with knees pressed together.  He laughed, reaching a meaty paw to pull her over. She turned to jelly. They pressed close, but a passing car made her pull away. “Too hot,” she said. “Somewhere else maybe, not here.” He grunted and lit another cigarette, as possibility hung in the air with no place to land. They continued to meet without advancing the relationship, but on learning about the condo, she grafted onto that. Now face-to-face in the lunchroom, she asked again, “When?” 
     “What?”
     “You know.”
     “Then you know the answer.”
     She squalled at his putting her off, while the others watched, thinking they knew what was at stake but not sure. “She’s there all the time, almost like she lives there. Sometimes when Mr. Slade goes up, he doesn’t ask me to wait.”
     “Well, I’ll tell you something for free. He’s not the only one she spends time with.”
     “Who?”
     “Take me and I’ll tell.”
     “Unless,” he slapped the table, “I figure it out myself.” Bob jumped up, saying he had to get back, and Joe slinked off behind him. The consultant and the chauffeur rose, her face angling toward his. But as her eyes closed, she became aware of a gathering stillness: the chatter had stopped. With eyes closed, no one could see, but that was fantasy. Instead, she patted his chest and made for the door, propelled by a press of eyeballs. Break time was over.

           

The next chapter will be posted by June 1st April 13th.. Already posted.

The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

Chapter Five: Snake

MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,

a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,

 a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence

 and the woman important to each 
 

5

     “Snake,” hissed Helen, pausing at the condo window to look westward to the proximate location of the apartment she shared until that very morning with her boyfriend.
     They made the trip to Los Angeles on a vision Kelly had painted: “Your face could be famous, and I could broker some deals and make loads of money.” Though she would have been content in the Midwest, he was thinking on a larger canvas, with fame the tempting apple. She bit freely, and they set out. He landed a job at a bank, and she the one at Slade Insurance. While she settled into a routine, he wouldn’t, his entrepreneurial sense excited by lines of people leading to pots of gold, he was convinced. He struck out to sample each one, and their schedules drifted apart.
     His manner and appearance changed from clean-cut business student to long-haired hipster contemptuous of her success. He abetted her distrust of Stephen, but when she grew to admire him, the while broadcasting a litany of perks, he needled her. “You’ll pay in the end.”
     She had had enough and was stuffing her carry on when he walked in. “Laundry? Now? We’re going to brunch.”
     “Do what you want. I’m leaving.”
     He grabbed the handle and flung it into the wall.  “We have a lease.” She retrieved the carry on and continued to pack. He pushed her clothes onto the floor. “Did you hear me?”
     “Leave me alone!” He was taken aback and stared sullenly until she finished. “So the bill’s come due.” She wheeled the bag through the door. “I’ll come for the rest later.”
     She would stay at the condo. Stephen had never said one way or the other, but she felt she could burrow neatly within the clean lines without attracting attention. Moving from the window, she went into the bedroom to unpack and afterwards called the cleaning service to schedule three days instead of one.
     Next morning, she heard the knob rattle and the sound of a fist slamming the front door. Serenely, she rose from the bedroom computer to disengage the bolt and find Bill the chauffeur.
     He was a large man, over six feet, whose bulk was barely contained within the black outfit with Gothic flying shoulders and button-up tunic. A black cap was pushed back on his shaved head where bushy eyebrows sheltered lethal narrow set eyes. Frustration contorted his face.  “What are you doing here so early?”
     “Computer work. Do you have something for me?” Reminded of the manila envelope he carried, he gave it up reluctantly. “I usually put it in the safe.” She deadpanned, “And I usually take it out.”
     Her humor seemed to take the edge off, though his eyes still flitted suspiciously beyond her. She pushed open the door. “Want to come in?”  He peered inside. “No. That’s alright.”
     Back in the bedroom she knelt beside the floor safe, twirling the dial then swinging open its door. She extracted the passbook and the tally and then unfastened the clip on the envelope. Fanning five checks like a poker hand, she calculated their worth: short of a million. A shadow of disappointment crossed her brow, which vanished with a giggle. Once, they totaled over a million, and ever since she played the expectations game. It thrilled her to be so close to streaming capital –Stephen’s phrase. Surely this was where she should be. Every addition told her so, bringing his dream closer to realization. She would aid his effort, and the proof of success would tell in his attitude.

                                                                          -ii-

      He couldn’t have known, though he acted as if he did. After the party, instead of going with the investors to the club, Stephen had Bill ferry them away, leaving them alone. Rustling in stiff silk and bare shoulders, Helen peered out the window at the twinkling lights. If he meant to stay, she had no choice but to nestle in the warmth of the successful night and out-wait him.

     “I’m calling for something to eat,” he said. “What do you want?”

     They sat on a banquette with the lights low and cool Brazilian playing on the sound system. Still corporate in suit jacket, he obsessed over plans. “At Forester’s wedding, I’ll hold the greatest-of-the-great investor parties with the Palisades mansion as loan and leverage, in rooms away from the ceremonies where they won’t interfere. I’ll show the old man. I treat my people well, though he complains about his favorites. He can’t see reality: the capital flowing in to flush him out. He has no idea.”

     “Can you keep him from knowing?”
     “When it happens he’ll know.”

     “At the wedding, I mean.”
     "The fool’s so intent on harmony, he’ll lap it up. The mansion has two wings and a central area. The investors will be in the east wing. I’ll say a few words to get things started then come back. Funny really. He takes pride in overseeing things, but doesn’t see it’s passed him by."
     Room service was a white-coated waiter, whom Helen directed in unloading a cart bearing plates beneath silver domes. When with servile bows the waiter retreated, Stephen took his place at the table while she went to freshen up. When she returned her auburn hair was fluffed and her eyes glistened. Strategic applications of perfume competed with aromas rising from the plates. They chewed with mouths but devoured with their eyes, until he breached the silence.
     “I depend on your loyalty. Every man tries to corner and win you over. I see them talking, some of it I hear and the rest I can imagine. Don’t believe them. They want someone inside feeding them information. Don’t let them steer you wrong.”
     Her words were lighter than air. “Rely on me.” He tossed down his napkin and extended his hand. Later, she begged modesty allow her leave last, and so he left her in place.

  The next chapter will be posted by March 9th.. Already posted.

The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

Chapter Four: Pull the Cord

MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,

a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,

 a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence

 and the woman important to each 

4

     Her heart in mouth, Rhea Slade tried spotting the plane at 10,000 feet. Grandsons, Malcolm and Gerald, shared the watch and directed barbs at their mother, Delfina, who was content watching only them.
     The sky in the high desert was windless and clear, and bright sun glinted off windows, mirrors and the outsized sunglasses dominating Rhea's face. On hearing the intermittent buzz of a single engine craft, she pointed to the pinprick holding her life, husband Graham. “There they are!”
     The sighting prompted another round of sulk. “Aw, I wanted to go,” moaned Malcolm. “Me, too,” said Gerald who, at thirteen, was two years the younger. His mother tugged at the collar of his jacket without fueling the argument. “Put on your jacket, Malcolm.”
     “Aw, mom. It’s warm!”  They were an obvious family, wearing dark blue jeans and red jackets. The sons had already sprouted taller than their mother. The elder was dark and serious, the younger, blond and carefree.  A wave of hair crested each brow, which demanded regular flicks of the head to clear the eyes.
     The family matriarch appeared elfish old beside them: petite with helmet of pewter-colored hair and dressed in stylish woolen slacks and puffy blue jacket.  Glancing at them, she bemoaned her son’s absence. Despite her pleas, Stephen wouldn’t budge. “I’ve got a company to run,” he told her. The attitude displeased her because it diminished the family and supported Graham’s belief he was running things into the ground.
     “Have you decided what to wear to the wedding?”
     The question surprised Delfina out of her thoughts. “Wedding? Oh, Dave Forester’s.” Her mouth fell open in advance of a trickle of rote words.  “It’s just business; company people, investors, his family. I'm not going.”
     “Stephen's family! We’re going, and I’d like to see you there too. Tell him.”
     Her daughter-in-law's meekness infuriated her. When Graham was CEO, she’d stood beside him at routine and not-so-routine occasions at the company: birthdays, anniversaries, commemorations, promotions and deaths, which were milestones in her love and devotion. She feared for Stephen and Delfina. Sources had informed on his time spent at the condo, the parties and the young woman too. She had hoped she would assert herself; instead she established a defensive barrier around her sons. She would have to intervene. “I’ll talk to him.”
     Gerald screamed, “They’re falling!” Rhea nearly fainted, but on observing an orderly extraction, corrected him. “Jumping, Gerald. They’re jumping.”
     Mere dots to the eye but to imagination daredevils spilling from the platform plane, free fall was the most disturbing time. At that distance, she’d no way of knowing which was her husband; presumably, the first. He had always been first.
     They’d met in New York City after the Second War. He went to Yale and she was working retail. The match was improbable but provident, and after getting past being “the poor girl from Kansas” she married into a family that had sired a line of corporate CEOs, who started in manufacturing then progressed into finance, changing as the country changed. Graham trained in family businesses before starting Slade Insurance in the 60's. Meanwhile, they had Stephen, Diana and Gerald, and lived a happy, prosperous life. In the past year, he retained the role of chairman of the board, while Stephen became the CEO.
     Today, she was angry-proud at his throwing seventy-year old bones from a plane on his birthday. Stuff happens, but daring it to was pure Graham. She clutched Malcolm and squeezed, expressing her fears till one…two…three…then four white parachutes blossomed in the sky. “Hurray!”
    They watched their languid descent, ending in landfall about a mile away. A pickup went to gather them for the reunion, sending up a dust trail. When it returned, Graham wheeled his legs over the truck bed and jumped out to stride toward them in green jump suit and boots. Lean and leathery, he had a gray crew cut over electric blue eyes. The boys surrounded and praised him as he continued his progress to Rhea who stood like an attractive magnet.
     On contact they locked into an embrace. Then she hit him with the heel of her palm on his chest, on his hip and on his thigh, testing for fatigue and releasing her anxiety. She clutched him tightly.
     "I had an insight," he said. "Up there so high, beyond the mountains are blue horizons, and farms are crazy geometric patterns, and the desert a moonscape of peaks and depressions. Spinning like a seed and carried by the wind, gravity pulls you down. Between life and being splat on the desert floor are the pull cord and the parachute. Fail to execute and you’re a goner. I can pull the company out of its free fall. I’m the parachute, the chairman of the board.”
     The unexpected burble of words delivered from on high gave her pause. “He doesn’t see that private elevators, chauffeurs and parties are distractions. He’s forgetting about the cord. I’ve got to save him.”
     She led him to their car for the drive to a restaurant for a celebratory meal. She understood that the ascendant CEO had to create things anew and develop loyalty within subordinates, but clear-cutting old-line managers wasn’t going down well, and his apparent goal of disassociating Graham from the company was an affront to him, to her and to the family. Graham was right: someone had to pull the cord.

The next chapter will be posted by February 16. Already posted. Navigate to Chapter Five.

The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.