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
24
It was quitting time the Friday
before the wedding, and Lola McIntyre haunted the Billing Department doorway.
“Got any plans for the weekend?” Mimosa Liang, the co-worker with the long black hair, stopped
to point a finger. “You’re going to the wedding, you had your hair done and
you’ve been telling me all week.” She stalked past. “I can’t wait till it’s
over!”
Lola patted her hair and the charms on her bracelet jingled.
“Everybody knows,” she thought and went looking for Mailroom Joe and Stockroom
Bob, but their workplaces were empty.
Determined to savor the last hours of anticipation, she journeyed up to
Executive Reception and found Betsy Murray who was behind the curved counter at
C-suite gathering her belongings.
“See you at the wedding tomorrow!” Lola chortled. The petite secretary eyed the gossip warily
and opened her purse. “I have an invitation…” She waved an ivory envelope. “I
probably won’t go.”
Rocked back on her heels, Lola reached out. “Let me
have it!” Betsy pulled it back. “Then
again, I might. Surely you have one, since you’re going.”
“I was thinking of a friend.”
“It’s plus one. You can bring your friend.”
“I was thinking of another one.”
“Too bad.” Lola retreated from the know-it-all smile, thinking “Plan B.”
“Too bad.” Lola retreated from the know-it-all smile, thinking “Plan B.”
-ii-
Early the next day, Joe and Bob
approached the gates of the Pacific Palisades mansion, where a line of modest
cars queued before a uniformed guard. A lingering marine layer kept the gray morning cool before the forecast warm summer day.
They had awoken no earlier than any other workday and were
silent during the hour-long drive. Joe, with white ear buds plugged in beneath
stringy black hair, had closed his eyes, while Bob was lively, tapping the
steering wheel to the beat of classic rock, his aqua Corolla as neat
as his stockroom.
They passed through the gates, then followed the road to the
designated parking lot, catching a glimpse of the peach-colored mansion that
glowed like neon under the soft light. Behind a copse of trees adjacent to the
tennis courts were the lot and a van waiting to carry them the rest of the way.
The mansion’s central two-story
structure rose like a cresting wave and then descended into single-story wings
on either side. Arched double doors between marble columns and beneath a
bas-relief frieze depicting leaping dolphins formed the portico, and conveyed a
sense of noble completion; which contrasted with the scene on the ocean side: on the green sloping lawn assorted metal rods, tent pegs, rope and white
canvas were scattered like an obstacle course. Farthest from the mansion, a
ten-foot metal arbor stood like a denuded tree behind a wooden dais that
fronted an area where stacks of folding chairs were ready to be deployed.
A lean man with leathery skin called them. “Gather round.
There’s plenty of work for you all.” Wearing jeans, boots and an untucked shirt
that fluttered in the breeze, he surveyed the crew from beneath bushy white
eyebrows: men, large and small, in work clothes of various description. He
counted off five and pointed to his left. “Over to that tent. Go!” They jogged
away to where a supervisor waited. He counted another group and sent them to
their work. He was in rhythm, about thirty laborers in, when he reached Joe and
Bob. He scrutinized their neat jeans and t-shirts unstained by toil then
gestured behind him. “Help set up the chairs, and don’t get hurt.” A chorus of
laughter pursued them down the slope.
-iii-
Lola’s jaw dropped
when Atom Green strode out of his condo. “You look too good! You’re supposed to
look like me.” She indicated her black
pants, and matching long-sleeved shirt and comfortable shoes. “There’s no way
you’ll pass. You’d know if you’d been in service.” His lips formed a silent retort.
“No blazer. No tie. Don’t you have a
light jacket to wear, a black one? The slacks are okay, but those shoes. Too
expensive! Here,
put this on, and wear it low.” He found a suitable jacket in his wardrobe and
carried the blazer like a parcel with tie in pocket, but kept the shoes. The ball cap emblazoned
with “LA,” fit snuggly over his personality.
They made it through the mansion gates
and boarded the van. No one paid them any mind as their group was shepherded
inside through a service entrance. Atom managed to slip away.
Lola
was satisfied that she’d done her part and now could relish the luxurious
setting that had sparkled in her imagination for so long. They stood in a large
foyer with a floor-to-ceiling window facing the Pacific. The headman, an
Englishman named Gerard, was making assignments and directed her to set up the
champagne.
Unable to contain herself, she ran to the
window and saw tents like white mushrooms populating the green lawn. She
imagined a big red ball rolling past them and splashing into the blue sea. “Hoy! Set up these tables!” She hustled
to her station, the golden charms on her bracelet jingling, then lost herself
in the romance of sun-rimmed flutes and sparkly bubbles.
The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.
