Out Of Place - Chapter 3

The third chapter of eighteen… Chapter 3

Paul squared his shoulders in the full-length mirror and then began a slow scan of his appearance. Zeroing in on a flaw, he reached up and gently teased a slight wrinkle out of the knot in his red Valentino tie. He scanned his image again. Satisfied, he fastened the middle button of his dark blue, Armani suit jacket. Letting his hands drop to his sides, he stood very still, gazing up and down at his reflection for a few more seconds before lightly pressing down his side pocket flaps. He turned slowly, checking his profile, the break in his pants and then the shine on his black, Kenneth Cole loafers. Bending down he picked up his Zero, brushed aluminum briefcase and turned full face again. He practiced his grin and then his smile. He gave himself a wink, a thumbs up and then headed downstairs.

It felt both odd and constraining to be all suited up on a Monday morning. It made him feel out of place, like he was a regular wage slave heading off to some boring job, rather than the independent real estate broker he had become over the past four years. But then, if he had learned anything in this business, it was that one meets with clients whenever they decide, even if it is at 9 AM on a Monday morning. He checked his watch. As expected, he was right on time.

He set the home alarm then walked out to the garage. Carefully placing his briefcase on the trunk of his silver BMW, he clicked it open. Methodically, he began double-checking

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all of documents he had prepared for this morning’s meeting with his new prospect, a Mrs. Gleason. First, he pulled out and quickly scanned the standard real estate broker/client agreement contract to ensure he had filled in all the pertinent details. When he was satisfied, he set it aside and pulled out a blank offer sheet. He ran his hands lovingly over the pristine, printed surface. It tingled with possibilities. He shut his eyes and began imagining one house in particular. The one he was sure she would bite on. Impulsively, he lifted the offer sheet to his lips visualizing it all filled in with her offer to buy it for the $1.5 million asking price.

“Please dear God, let this one go through.” He whispered as he carefully, slipped both papers back inside their folder and snapped the briefcase shut.

He moved around to the passenger’s side and placed his jacket and briefcase carefully on the seat and then went around to the driver’s side where he slid in behind the steering wheel. After pressing the automatic garage opener, he flipped down the visor mirror for a last grooming assessment.

He was pleased by the shiny fullness of his black hair... that new dye was working out well. He was tempted to tease out the front locks a little more, but he was afraid he might mess it all up. Turning slowly from side to side, he thoroughly inspected his face looking for any stray nose hairs or clumps of unshaven beard. Satisfied that all his exposed body hair was either clipped or coiffed, he moved on to his teeth. Grimacing in

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the mirror, he checked for any minute bits of food that might be trapped. Looking good baby, he winked at his image snapping the mirror back into place.

He had one more inspection ritual before he could be on his way. It was the one he dreaded most because there was nothing much he do about it. After all, after five years of hard use, a car started to show its age. He tried not to look at the wrinkled, stretchedout leather seats, the dull chrome, or the peppering of dark stains in the carpet he had tried but could not get out.

“I have got to get a new car,” he shouted out to no one in particular as he backed out onto the street. He knew such an outburst was breaking his own ironclad rule about maintaining a totally positive mind-set whenever heading out on a business call, but today he just couldn’t stop it. Every time he headed out to try and sell or list a house, the condition of his car gnawed at him just a little bit more. As he headed down the narrow, tree-lined roads toward the central freeway, he couldn’t stop imagining what his millionaire clients must think when he showed up to ferry them around Marin’s exclusive neighborhoods. He was sure it was costing him sales.

His frustration and annoyance about being forced to appear less than successful was directed at Eric, whose pig-headed refusal to see that a new car was a business investment, not a luxury, was the reason he was still driving this old clunker. No matter how many times Paul had tried to explain to him that even one additional sale a year would more than pay for a new Lexus GS, Eric would always come back with the same

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old argument: The BMW 520 is paid for and still in excellent mechanical condition. It will be another year before the Jeep Grand Cherokee is free and clear and we need to stick to our agreement to have only one car payment at a time. Blah! Blah! Blah! Then, he would always wrap up his moralistic diatribe, by asking: So when did having a classic, mid-priced BMW become an image negative; and who the hell buys a house based on the car the agent drives?

Paul slapped the steering wheel hard, dumb-founded that anyone who made his living selling product images could be so amazingly obtuse and unsupportive of his obvious need to project an aura of success.

Caught at yet another red light, he glanced nervously at his watch; he was starting to slip behind schedule. Why was it that whenever he had something important to do that everything got in his way? If this keeps up... But, then, he stopped himself short. I absolutely need to quit building up this negative mind-set! Worry and anger are barriers to a successful outcome.

Looking to reset his mind into a positive framework, he took a deep breath and turned his attention to the mental script he had been developing for Mrs. Gleason. First, he would open the double front door and walk her into the glistening tan marble foyer. He would take a moment there to point out the sumptuous powder room off to the right and the large closet on the left. He would then guide her into the spacious formal living room highlighting its hardwood floors, large fireplace and stunning views of Mt. Tam through

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cut glass French doors. He would open those doors and lead her out onto to the flagstone patio, lawn, and pool area. Then he would reenter the house through the formal dining room pointing up to the coved ceiling and illuminating the crystal chandelier. Next would be the gourmet kitchen, highlighting the granite counters, Wolf Range, Subzero refrigerator, large family eating area and cozy family room with the second of three working fireplaces. Then up the curved staircase to the four large bedrooms, two ensuite, marble throughout the Master Bath; then back down to the pool and cabana to look once more at the view as the conversation turns to the excellent schools available for her teenage son. The tour ends with her telling him she loves it and putting in an offer. He took a moment to infuse that final image with lots of positive energy. The light changed to green and he gunned his car toward the freeway onramp.

Although Paul’s list of clients was still painful small, most of those on it were millionaires. He loved being around millionaires. He too would be one some day, of that fact, he was absolutely certain. He just hoped it would happen sooner rather later. I mean, who wants to work until they are seventy? But even though he knew in his heart of hearts that he would eventually attain the life style he visualized, the timing of its arrival was illusive. The key was to never give up despite the disappointments.

He slipped onto the freeway just as another silver BMW the same year and model as his, zoomed by. BMW: Basic Marin Wheels, he muttered under his breath as he made a quick move over into the fast lane. Keeping an eye out for cops, he pressed down on the gas. He was determined to make it to his meeting on time.

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Paul knew that real estate was not a well thought of profession; most people ranked it down there with personal injury lawyers; just glorified sales clerks who made huge commissions for doing very little. He understood that attitude. He used to believe it himself, until he got into the business and learned very quickly how much he had to know, how hard he had to work, and how high-risk it really was. He only made money when a house actually sold and he like most agents hadn’t sold many. But Paul was determined he to be in the top five percent of agents, amongst those who made real money. His only regret now was that he hadn’t started out earlier.

It had taken time for him to work his way around to Eric’s vision of doing something more risky and rewarding than decorating department store windows. After all his stalwart Mexican-American parents had spent a lifetime drumming into him the supreme value of a reliable union job with a steady paycheck; the best hedge against the inevitable bad times and specter of lingering racism. The idea that he should quit and take a risk on something with no guarantees was terrifying. But ultimately, with Eric to back him up, the lure of a higher income and the chance to be his own boss won the day and he defied his upbringing. But he was now in his fourth year and he absolutely needed to succeed, not just for himself, but also for Eric, who had always believed, supported, and encouraged him. Besides he could never go back to his old job of dressing mannequins and trimming department store windows. He had closed that chapter in his life for good; especially after the show he made of leaving.

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“Bye bitches, I leave you to this tacky place.” He had laughed, as he swung out of the employee’s door, too drunk on champagne to realize what an arrogant asshole he sounded like. “I’ll invite you all to Aspen when Eric and I build our ‘cabin’ there.” He still shuddered every time he thought of it.

Cresting the last freeway hill before the southern Mill Valley exit he was shocked to see a red wall of backed up traffic. He glanced at his watch. It was 8:45 and he still had a couple of miles to go. Fucking commute traffic, it should be gone by now. Unconsciously, he started gnawing on his fingernails. Was Mrs. Gleason one of those anally punctual types?

They had only spoken by phone so he hadn’t really had much opportunity to size her up. But she was a friend of Martha Watson and Martha was one of those old-style rich people who are never happy with the price of anything. Nearly every time he saw her she would work into the conversation how cheaply he had sold her last house, or that he could have bargained harder for her new one. But she had been nearly two-thirds of his income last year and now she had given him a referral. But please dear God; don’t let Mrs. Gleason be another complainer.

His cell phone was ringing. Stupidly, he had left it in his briefcase. Scared that it might be Mrs. Gleason wondering where he was, or worse yet, canceling their meeting, he spun the case around. Then again, maybe it was Miles, his bike-riding friend, calling to set-up another “riding” session. Damn, that guy is such a horn dog, Paul grinned, and I’ll be

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more than ready for him after a morning with a proper old bag like Mrs. Gleason. He tried to keep his eyes on the road as he fumbled with the clasps. It was so great having a married man on the side. No chance of their recreational sex getting messy because Miles had a lot more to lose then he did. Besides, married men are always so desperate and grateful to find a discrete lover. He snapped open the case and grabbed the phone. He quickly checked the caller ID. It was Eric. What does he want? He thought, a bit annoyed by the distraction. He popped his headset on and answered.

“Hey man what’s up?”

“Not much, just got to work and was thinking of you. What are you up to today?”

“Busy, busy, busy,” he replied, deftly maneuvering into a lane that appeared to be moving faster. “On my way to show that new client houses in Mill Valley. Remember, I told you all of this yesterday. If this one goes through, I am definitely buying a new car!”

“Yeah right,” Eric laughed. “So what outrageous price are they asking for this one?”

“A mere $1.5 million and worth every penny.”

“I remember when Mill Valley was full of hippies.”

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“Rich hippies maybe, but no more. Mrs. Gleason is a lawyer and her husband is an investment banker.”

“Are those, like, the only two professions left… besides geek and sales clerk? I mean remember when everyone’s Dad was an engineer. You know, back when America actually made things.”

“Oh, and being a creative services director at a software company is a highly necessary and extremely uncommon job here in the Bay Area in the Nineties?”

“Bitch!” Eric laughed easily.

“Yes?” cooed Paul. “Listen, got to run, love you. I can see her silver Mercedes, at least I hope that big hunk of steel is hers, bye.”

As the phone line went dead, Eric’s loneliness crept back over him. Slowly, he put the receiver back into its cradle. He should stop looking for distractions and just call Maria and drag out of her any dirt she had. Most likely it was nothing, just her opinion based on a very limited view of what was going on in the company. Whatever the case though, it wouldn’t hurt to put a lot more focus on the European offices, even if it meant going back to working late nights and weekends.

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With a renewed sense of determination to end his cycle of worry, he lifted up the phone; she should be home by now. Better to call her there than at the office. But then he got nervous and put the receiver back. Best to let it go for another hour or so; those Spanish eat dinner so late.

The phone rang and he jumped. Recovering quickly he picked it up. It was his administrative assistant calling to remind him of his weekly staff meeting with Neil. Damn, he had forgotten again, it was like he was having a mental block; a block that had arisen when Neil moved the required weekly meeting from a comfortable Tuesday afternoon timeslot to a brutal first thing Monday morning.

Eric grabbed his laptop and raced through the warren of cubicles to the marketing conference room. Upon arriving at the door he put on his stressed face just in case he was the last to arrive. But since everyone always sat in the same place around the light wood conference table, it was easy to see that Mark, the Technical Marketing Director, was late as usual and that Neil hadn’t yet come in. He was safe.

He smiled at those who bothered to look up at him as he hurried down the table to his seat at the far end; the primo spot in the large drab conference room. Not only was it a comfortable distance from Neil, but it afforded a nice view out the window as well.

He placed his coffee on the left, a notepad on the right and then opened his laptop. He kept the screen straight up so he could slouch behind it if need be. He always set-up this

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way; it was part of his ritual. Having a ritual made it easier for him to get into the meeting zone and he needed to be in the meeting zone.

Alma, who was the Advertising Director, as well as the Grand Dame of the Marketing Department, was busy at the front of the room frantically shuffling ad slicks between easels. The two lumpy mailroom guys, whom she had apparently commandeered to help her, were looking at their watches and inching toward the door. Alma’s head was jerking back her head sending her blunt cut, coal black hair flying as she tried to keep her eye on them as well as everything else. Her dazed, pink-haired assistant stood next to her cradling two ads slicks in her arms, glancing from easel to easel trying to figure out in what order they fit.

Just at that moment, Neil stepped through the door and Alma dropped everything and turned on the charm. The mailroom guys took their opportunity and slipped out the door. A moment later Mark came in lugging his laptop and an arm full of documents. He was mumbling something under his breath, probably trying to give out the impression to those who were either bored enough or polite enough to listen, that he had been dealing with the most horrendous problem.

Eric was delighted. This was definitely going to be an easy meeting for staying in the zone. A presentation of new ad copy always got everyone riled. Since our society is drenched in print ads, nearly everyone assumes a degree of expertise regarding them.

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This was especially true of his peers, all of whom were thoroughly convinced that his or her own opinion was as important and insightful as the New York Times Art Critic.

Eric’s plan was to slouch behind his computer screen and spend the hour catching up on his own work. He was still amazed that the rest of his colleagues hadn’t already learned there was no point in fighting like a pack of dogs over a leg bone, because Alma would just smile, take notes and then she go back to her office, bitch about everybody who made negative comments, and do exactly what she wanted.

The meeting proceeded just as he had predicted. It was lively and inane enough that he could work away. He only got caught up in it once. That was when Mark, displaying that goofy grin he always gets when he thinks he has caught someone in a technical error, launched an attack on some nit-picking detail in Alma’s ad copy. Eric, who not only genuinely liked Alma, but also knew it was important to always be on her good side, rose to her defense by pointing out that the product specs Mark was quoting from were for an update that was not scheduled to be released until two months after the ad was run. And, given the track record of that product group, in all likelihood, it would be six months. The other directors chuckled at that, but Mark was not deterred. He simply shifted gears and tried to make the meeting about how they should time their ads more closely with product updates.

Alma who was standing at the front of the room, shot Eric a quick, thank you glance, before rolling her eyes and cutting Mark off. Mark just shrugged like nothing had

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happened and went back to editing the documents he had brought with him. A few minutes later, Alma ended the presentation by thanking everyone, including Mark, for his or her input. Alma’s assistant, who appeared to be taking notes, got a startled look on her face when Alma sat down. A moment later she was up yanking the ad slicks down while the rest of the room broke into idle chatter.

It took Neil three, clearly articulated and escalating throat clearings to get the group to settle back down and continue the meeting. When he had their attention he quickly ran through a list of outstanding issues. It was all deadly dull stuff after the ad battle and since everyone seemed to be fresh out of brilliantly insightful comments, the meeting moved very quickly to its uninspired conclusion.

As the meeting was breaking up, Eric suddenly realized that Alma was the person he needed to talk to about Maria’s insinuations. But, by the time he got his laptop powered down and in its case, she had already left the room. Disappointed, he trudged back to his cubicle. He checked his phone messages but there was nothing important. He decided he had nothing to lose and went ahead and dialed Maria’s number. She answered on the second ring. She sounded very tired.

“Oops, sorry, is this too late to call?”

“No, not at all, it’s just been a long day… and I still have a bit of jet-lag.” She paused and then continued, her voice brightening, “How are you?”

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“Mostly I am good. Same old… same old.”

There was silence on the other end as she waited for him to tell her why he had called.

Eric took a deep breath. “To be honest, Maria, you have got me worried. I am not sure what I am doing to piss everyone off.”

As the silence stretched out Eric’s ears started to burn with embarrassment. Finally she spoke. “Oh that, don’t take it so seriously,” she sighed. “You know the politics of marketing. One day you are up, the next you are down.”

“I know them very well. It’s just that I haven’t seen the down cycle for a while. So, are you saying that I am now on the down cycle?” His own bluntness startled him. He must be more scared than he realized.

Again there was a long pause; Eric was beginning to wonder if she were attending to something else or had completely forgotten about him when her voice broke across the line.

Her tone was flat, the cadence slow and measured as if she were parsing each word. “You are seen by some… as defending the status quo. But mostly… I think… it you who are not happy.” Eric didn’t know how to respond. She went on, her voice firming with

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conviction. “Europe is changing. We don’t want to be an American colony anymore. We contribute almost as much to the company’s revenue stream as the US does, and a lot more than Asia or Latin America. Most of us think that that increase in revenue earns us the right to have more say in the marketing.”

“And people there see me as part of the problem?” Eric asked, choosing to ignore her comment about his level of contentment. “They’re saying that I don’t want to let them in… that I don’t listen… or what?”

“A bit of all of it. I don’t know, some of it might be that you are an easy target for our general frustration with corporate.”

Eric’ face went flush. He was an easy target? An easy target! The words reverberated inside his head like a dull ache. He was too old. He didn’t have an MBA. He had been there too long. He wasn’t hip enough to spot the new in trends. He was too grumpy. He was hopelessly American centric. He just wasn’t any good.

“I mean… Nobody likes Neil.”

“And?”

“Well, some people think you defend his policies too readily.”

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Eric sat back in his chair. This conversation was veering off into the surreal. He never defended Neil. What, if anything, he defended was Corporate Marketing.

“Some have said that you… that you are becoming too much like him. That you are his man.”

Eric started to laugh. “His man? His man? What about Mark and Alma and all the others that kiss his ass on a daily basis?”

“I don’t know Eric, I am just trying to be your friend and tell you what people are saying. I think it has to do with what I mentioned earlier. You don’t have the passion you once did. You seem like you are going through the motions, much the way Neil is. Mark is a jerk, but everyone respects his passion.”

Eric grew very still. Becoming as dull as Neil? His whole body shook with revulsion at the thought. No way! He was hardly a one trick pony like him. He had a list of project successes a mile long. Ones that he himself had managed; not ones he had lucked into. What ungrateful bastards people can be. Just because that now, at fifty, he was no longer getting all red-faced and twitchy over every new marketing initiative, they decided he lacked passion? What they didn’t seem to get was that most things that looked innovative and hip to them, were, in fact, just the same old pigs gussied up in a new party dress.

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“So… so what do you suggest I do to win back their favor? How do I show my passion?”

“Well you can start by not humbling guys like Carlos. He complains that you treat him like a child. He is now more pissed off at you than he was before we had our meeting and believe me he talks.”

He is a child, Eric thought. The surreal quality was edging back in. So what she was saying was that he needed to not only kiss guys like Neil’s asses, but punks like Carlos as well?

He could feel the fire in his cheeks rising. Sharp retorts started gathering like heat lightening in the back of his brain, just waiting for the right amount of emotional tension to strike out. Then he froze. He had to end this conversation now, or he would lose it. Maybe even, really lose it.

“Oh crap, I just realized I got to run to another meeting,” he sputtered. “Thanks for the scoop. Chat again real soon. And you get some rest. Don’t worry; I will set it all right.”

“Ok… Ciao”

Eric put down the phone. He had no idea what he was going to do to make it right with Europe. He couldn’t bear the thought of smiling appreciatively at every idiotic idea they

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came up with. But was there another choice if he wanted to keep his job? He came around to the cynical realization that he best scrap his idea of focusing more of his creative energy on helping Europe sell more products because, heaven forbid, if they did that, it would create even more of a power struggle. Better he turn his attention to the politics of saving his job. Get all hot and bothered by every trite marketing gimmick some junior marketing geek came up with for a while. God, how he hated that idea. He really didn’t want to become one of those people.

A minute later the phone rang again. It was one of his staff who wanted his approval on a video they were editing. He told them he would be right there. He hung up and turned to look out the window trying to regain the measure of calm he would need to be objective.

Outside his tinted window a gusty wind was blowing. Bits of paper and other debris were swirling up the narrow alleyway between his building and the one on just across the way. On the corner, a tall sapling that was being tossed about in the onslaught; its scrawny branches whipping about in all directions. Yet, the instant the wind let up, even if it was just for a second, the tree regained its composure, and spread its branches back out to capture the nourishing sunlight. He began wondering how old the tree was and how long it had been there; had it grown in the two years since he moved into his present cube? He was pretty sure it had. But watching it bend nearly double once again as the gusty winds bulled the streets he grew amazed that it had been able to survive in such a hostile environment. It got him to thinking about the Buddhist proverb of the oak and the

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bamboo: The strong, but rigid oak stands mighty against the wind, but eventually a wind too strong comes along and it cracks. The gentle bamboo accepts the power of the wind and just bends with it and thus flourishes no matter what is thrown at it. A smile came to his lips, maybe; just maybe, the universe had served him up the needed wisdom to handle his situation.

By the time that long day had faded into evening, he was beginning to feel centered again. People’s emotions and negative opinions periodically flare up but will die back if banked properly. And if he had to kiss a little ass along the way… well, that’s just the way things are done in the corporate world; a time-honored tradition no matter how high up the food chain one climbs. Doing a little of it didn’t mean he had to give up his integrity forever. He would fix this “perception” problem by honoring it and bending to it and then he could bounce back into his creative groove. It was simply a matter of playing the game of perception.

He didn’t bother fighting the traffic on his way home. Instead he took the time to notice how lovely the Golden Gate Bridge glowed when bathed in the embers of sunset. Driving up the narrow roads to his house under the streetlights, he savored the anticipation of hugging Paul and relaxing with a good meal. But when he got there the house was dark. Disappointed, he picked up his cell to call Paul, but then decided against it. He would be back soon enough.

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When he unlocked the front door, an orange and white streak raced out past him. Startled, Eric jumped and then laughed. Lucifer, their cat was already half way across the front deck before thinking better of it and skidding to a stop. He stood there for a moment, importantly sniffing the evening air and then nonchalantly he strutted back to rub against Eric’s legs, meowing his frustration at the top of his lungs.

Eric leaned down and rubbed his head. “Sorry you got locked in all day, buddy.” Lucifer, sensing he had made his point, calmed down and looked up at Eric with that cute, little cat smile of his. Eric laughed, lifted him up and carried him inside.

“You always let me what you think don’t you, Luci.” Luci responded by tapping him on the nose with his paw. Eric turned on the light in the kitchen and opened a can of cat food and placed it in his dish. Lucifer hunched close to his dish gulping down his dinner purring his contentment.

Eric climbed slowly up the stairs, switching on lights as he went. The house felt chilly, but it was too early in the season to turn on the heater so he decided on a deliciously hot shower. Stepping into the walk-in closet he began stripping off his clothes. Naked, he turned to put his work clothes in the hamper, suddenly he was stunned by the image of doughy soft skin and burgeoning love handles reflected back by the mirror on the back of the closet door. Equally horrified and fascinated by the sight of his aging body, he found himself unable to move. God I truly hate being fifty. A moment later, he laughed, what a

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cliché; everybody hates the idea of being fifty, unless of course they are sixty. He quickly moved to open the closet door and head for the shower.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> The sun was hot on his back but Eric barely noticed. She lifted the thin, paisley bedspread and invited him into her naked, dappled world He snuggled inside. It was stuffy with heat and the smell of desire.

“You are so beautiful, or, should I say handsome.” She giggled stroking the beach sand from his hairless chest. His pectorals and tiny nipples tingled and swelled in response. Her demeanor was so calm and gently forward that he knew she had done this before. He prayed she wouldn’t notice he hadn’t.

He slipped his hand through the shadows to touch her breasts, cupping his hand around the right one. It was firm; yet so soft and supple it made him feel a little clumsy and rough. But she responded to his touch, sighing and arching her back to press more deeply into his palm. He looked up to her face; her almond shaped eyes were now half-closed. She licked her lips and then rose up to taste his. Eric could hear the waves crashing off in the distance. He was erect and very proud of his cock. He wanted her to touch it, to admire it. But he dared not ask or guide her hand to it. She fell back against the sand, the white of her hips luminous in the darkness. She began to softly sway, beckoning him to enter her.

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He felt dizzy in the heat. He could smell the sharp citrus of her sweat. He wondered if strangers on the beach would wander by and catch them. He worried that he might not please her. He slowly moved his fingers through the air twitching, probing until they finally touched the soft down of her sex. He teased tentatively, not sure how it felt to her. She giggled and then gasped. She turned toward him, her breath moist and strong; the sweetness of the gum she held in her mouth masking the sourness of the beer they had been drinking all afternoon. He gently pressed his fingers deeper in. She was so slick, so heavy, so warm, so deep. His head was spinning. He wanted to reach down and pull on himself, to make sure he was rigid; but he was too shy to show her what he did every night. She would not wait any longer and pressed against him, guiding him in. Her hands… so soft… she was so deep. The rush of masculinity from his groin overwhelmed his thoughts. He was powerful. She whispered she loved him. The words hammered him. He was being pulled in over his head. What more would she expect from him? After all, he was only seventeen. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

When Eric, wrapped in his blue terry cloth robe, started down the stairs, the warm smell of food rose up to greet him. Smiling he stepped into the kitchen, but Paul barely looked up; intent as he was on the pile of food on his plate. Surrounding him on the breakfast table were little white boxes of Chinese food all opened. Eric kissed him on the forehead and slid in. He grabbed a pair of wooden chopsticks and started rubbing them together as he inspected what was in the boxes. Paul continued jabbing at the food he had gathered

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on his plate, chewing it in silence. Eric didn’t ask anything about his day. It was all too obvious that he hadn’t sold a house to Mrs. What’s-her-name. Filling his plate, he too ate silently, while trying to come up with something they could talk about that might distract Paul. But when out of desperation he cheerfully asked about a TV show, Paul just shrugged and continued shoving bits of food in his mouth.

Paul finished first and leaving the boxes for Eric to clean up, headed upstairs to change. When Eric was full, he scoured the boxes, pulled out a few choice pieces of chicken for the grateful Luci and dumped the rest in the garbage. He then wandered into the living room, flopped down on the couch and turned on the TV. A few minutes later Paul joined him. Eric handed him the remote and then put his arm around Paul’s shoulder pulling him closer. He smelled fresh and sexy from his shower. He gave him a peck on the cheek and Paul’s dour demeanor lightened just a little. It was enough. Eric turned to watch as his lover flipped from show to show.

Eric awoke, the next morning, troubled by a vague sense of anxiety. He turned over on his back, trying to will the mood away. But instead of evaporating, as wake-up moods often do once exposed to the light of day, this one gripped him even tighter. Frustrated, Eric flung off the comforter and sat up, rubbing his eyes. He hated waking up in a bad temper. That was the problem with sleep. Going into it you never know what you are going to feel like coming out.

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But he had no time to mull his mood; he had to get going. He took a perfunctory shower and dressed quickly. As he left their bedroom he looked over at Paul who was still asleep, his mouth hanging open. Must have taken a pill, Eric surmised, as he headed downstairs to eat a quick breakfast. With nothing or no one to guide his thoughts along a different channel, Eric’s anxiety continued to percolate. Did he have a bad dream? He couldn’t remember.

Grabbing his laptop, he headed off to work; no longer feeling convinced that he had his “perception” situation all dialed in. As he drove, he tried to come up with a reason for his souring mood but could come up with nothing tangible. He really hated worrying about his future. It was such a bleak exercise since everything ahead was just a phantom. But here it was again. No matter what he did, his life always seemed to cycle back to this helpless, impotent feeling about where he was headed. The more life he lived, the less convinced he became that he had any real influence over the direction it took. It all seemed pretty much the same experiences, just dressed up a little differently. He supposed it was done that way so he could fool himself into believing he was experiencing something new. He turned on the radio.

A very earnest sounding, pop psychologist was on a talk program promoting her latest book. She was telling listeners, many of whom had apparently tried visualization without much success, that one’s future is not molded passively, by mere wishful thinking. New, elavated life situations, as she called them, were created dynamically through concrete

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action. That just hoping and dreaming for the best, without developing some well defined, action steps, would pretty much assure failure.

Well, duh! He thought impatiently, reaching for the dial. He fiddled around with a few music stations, but she had caught his mind. Who knows, he rationalized, turning back to her, maybe this was just the kind of pep talk I need. I’ll give her five more minutes.

He was still listening to her five minutes after he had parked his car in the lot. He sat slumped down in his seat, drinking in her positive, no BS attitude and advice until her segment ended and the station went on to city politics. He turned off the radio and walked briskly into his building.

He decided that the first ‘to do’ on his action list (the one she recommended that everyone make) would be to have a sit down with Alma about what Maria had said. If anyone had the scoop and would enjoy spilling it, it was she. He just had to be cagey enough to first figure out if she could be trusted not to start a rumor about him based solely on what he told her about Europe.

He greeted Judy, the receptionist, with a big smile, but didn’t stay to chat. He flipped on his computer and hung up his coat. But it didn’t take long for his mood to begin to flag; scanning through his list of emails it quickly became apparent he was in for one crappy day. Maybe those dark feelings he had upon awakening had been intuitive, after all. But then he brushed those thoughts away. He could do this. He grabbed his phone and

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punched in Alma’s number, his simmering anxiety ratcheting up a notch with each unanswered ring. When her voice mail chimed in, he hung up. The fact that he hadn’t connected with her set him on edge. It was hard to stay positive about a new program when, right out of the gate, it meets with failure. But rather than succumbing to the nattering of worry or navel gazing on whether or not this was a sign, he plunged into work. It was going on 8PM when he finally left the office.

The following day was a grinding continuation of the one before. Frustrated, he spent his evening drive home trying to formulate a plan of action. He vacillated between being direct: Go into her office, shut the door, sit down and ask her point blank. Or, indirect: invite her out to coffee and begin gossiping about other people in the hope she might spill what others were saying about him? But neither one felt right. The first approach had the danger of introducing her to the idea that he was in trouble, while the second one left him feeling creepy and underhanded.

Then again, maybe he should just forget about it

entirely. If nothing was up, his probing would only make him appear insecure and paranoid and that was the last thing he needed at this juncture in his career. Maybe he was just blowing the whole thing way out of proportion?

Following that logic, he spent the next two days carefully avoiding Alma. Maybe not connecting with her had been a good thing. But the fear implanted in him by Maria’s allusion to a cancerous conspiracy would not leave him alone. It’s tendrils would jabbing at him the middle of a boring meeting; or seize his brain as he lay down to sleep, robbing him of rest.

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Finally, at the end of the long torturous week, he just picked up the phone and asked her out to lunch. He was delighted and a little scared when she agreed to see him that very day. Was there something she wanted to get from him as well; or maybe tell him?

Eric told her to pick the place and she quickly named a semi-swank Mandarin restaurant. It was a bit pricey, but it was far enough away from the office that they would probably not run into anyone they knew. She suggested they go in separate cars as she had a meeting in another part of town afterwards.

Eric arrived first and upon seeing she wasn’t there, stood nervously in the foyer wondering if he should get a table or just wait. The hot, greasy smells from the kitchen and the frenetic pace of the dour-looking wait staff did little to settle the butterflies in his stomach. Finally, he sank down on a small mahogany bench behind a dusty, fake palm. He shut his eyes to calm his nerves.

Alma pushed through the front door of the restaurant with the friendly determination of a modern Katherine Hepburn. She stood in the center of the foyer and faced the busy restaurant, slowly surveying its occupants. When Eric opened his eyes, her back was to him. He watched as she checked her watch and then pulled off her black coat. The faint scent of expensive perfume drifted over him. A waiter rushed over with a stack of menus and held up one finger.

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Embarrassed, Eric stood up and greeted her. She turned, smiled and kissed him on the cheek asking pleasantly if he had been waiting long. Eric blushed and replied he hadn’t. The waiter seemed to know Alma and escorted them over to a well-placed table, situated behind a row of dropping plants. They scanned their tall, red vinyl menus, while chatting amiably about the drive over and the weather. After a minute, Alma looked up and asked what he dishes he wanted. He pointed out a few. She complimented him on his choices and then added few of her own favorites.

She signaled for the waiter and he slouched over to their table. She ordered with the quick assurance of one who eats out often. She waited until he had finished writing it all down, then gave final instructions that she wanted green, not black tea and no ice in her water. When he repeated her order correctly, she handed him her menu.

The black tea that had been slapped down on the table when they arrived was quickly replaced with a pot of green. She continued chatting away as it steeped. When she judged it done, she lifted the teapot and asked for his cup. He noticed her hands shook a little as she poured. He wondered if he should offer to help her, but quickly decided against it. He was certain she had nearly ten years on him and probably didn’t want her infirmities pointed out.

“You should drink more of this,” she declared. “It helps prevent prostate cancer.”

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Eric looked down, trying to hide the smile that had popped across his face. But he wasn’t quick enough and he was sure she noticed.

She shifted in her chair and then continued on, her tone a bit caustic. “You do know that Japanese monks have extremely low rates of prostate cancer.” She stopped and took a sip, her long red nails clicking against her cup. “Scientists and nutritionists attribute this to the large quantities of green tea they drink.”

Eric’s grin faded and he nodded like a very polite little boy. Her comment had brought to mind what his doctor had told him on his last visit. That, due to his age, it was time to have the dreaded prostate exam. Yet, another thing to add to his: “Now that you are over fifty”, worry list. It seemed that ever since his birthday had crossed that most ominous dateline, all he heard from his doctor, the drug industry and the media was that his body was a cesspool of danger. That, at any moment now, his body would go berserk; bludgeoning him with cancer, a heart attack, or a stroke. And even if he were lucky enough to escape those killers, there were always chronic problems like diabetes, high blood pressure or maybe his dick would just go limp. It was a very weird attitude adjustment for him to suddenly become suspicious of his body. It felt creepy, like a cop telling you that your lover is probably a serial killer.

“So, how is the wonderfully wacky world of advertising these days?” Eric piped up needing to get off the subject of his prostrate health and on to office politics. “Are they

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giving you any grief about not being ‘global’ enough?” He added with a sly grin and a roll of his eyes.

Alma, whose attention had wandered off into checking out the other diners, didn’t answer right away. He thought she may have stiffened a bit, but with her, it was hard to tell.

She took her time setting down her cup and patting her lips with a paper napkin. When she looked up, she smoothed her shoulder length hair away from her face and turned on a charming smile. “Things are fine… wacky as ever… just the normal interdepartmental catfights over next year’s ad campaign. There never is a lack of ad critics.” She gave a small smirk and then went on. “But, over the years I have grown mellow and philosophical. The way I have come to see it is this; as long as people get all worked up over ads, I have a job. It is so much easier for techie people like Mark and maybe even you, now with all the new media you have to master.”

When Eric looked at her quizzically, she went on. “I mean, the more technical things are the less they are understood. It makes people a bit shy about blathering on about their opinions. They certainly wouldn’t want to trip up and expose the fact they aren’t hip to the latest tech innovation or in any way seem: Out of the loop. Heaven forbid! So they just look at your stuff with a smile and nod.”

“Mark, of course relishes the thought that most of us have no idea what he is saying half the time. Which leads me to wonder if most of his technical tirades are just gibberish.”

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She smiled broadly and picked up her teacup. “Do you suppose he goes home at night and laughs at us all?”

Eric chuckled. “In his dreams. I am afraid he fancies himself as that rare person who is both highly creative and highly technical… just slightly less luminary than da Vinci. But I don’t think he has much of a clue about either. His only real creative talent lies in his undisputed ability to BS about technology. But hey, he has Neil fooled, so more power to him.”

“I think of him more as an oracle,” continued Alma waving her hands dramatically. “Most of the time he does just speak gibberish. But once in a great while he comes forth with a truly mind-boggling insight and for that divine gift I am humbly grateful.”

Eric laughed. “I wondered why you were always bringing him muffins. I just thought you were worried he was too skinny.”

Their food arrived at that moment and they turned their attention to scooping up spoonfuls of the various dishes and ladling them over plates of steaming white rice.

“So you think most people find what I do… inaccessible, hard to understand? Is that a problem? ” Interjected Eric trying to sound off-hand.

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“People generally think you understand all the new technology and, frankly, are glad they don’t have to think about it. They trust you get it… partly because they always think men understand new techie things, while women are relegated back to the old tried and true, like print advertising.”

Eric laughed and almost lifted up an air violin, but then thought better of it. “Yeah, well, I get my grief don’t you worry; especially from the Europeans. They don’t seem to have the same faith in me you do.”

She looked puzzled for a moment and then looked away silently arranging the various dishes on her plate. Eric started to feel a wave of panic. Had he said too much? He was about ready to chime in with something about the last staff meeting to distract her thoughts, when she pointed to up to the cheaply framed poster of a bucolic Chinese countryside on the wall above the table.

“Have you been to China?”

Eric followed her gaze and then shook his head, no.

“Well I have and it sure as hell doesn’t look like that.” She laughed. “The people in the cities and surrounding areas are mostly poor and mostly nasty to each other. I attribute their horrible treatment of each other to thousands years of overpopulation, which I guess, is something we all have to look forward to in the coming millennium. Anyway,

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we Westerners are still viewed there as the round-eyed devils who tricked and humiliated them; another enduring attitude we can thank the Brits for.”

“God knows, as a native New Yorker, I certainly don’t expect politeness from strangers; but I don’t expect outright hostility either. But apparently, in the Chinese world-view, if you aren’t presently in the act of buying something from them, or aren’t a member of their family, or some powerful government official, then you are simply in the way.”

“Believe me, I absolutely hated the place for about three days… couldn’t believe I had actually paid good money to be treated like dirt. But then I said screw this; I can be a bitch if I need to be. So I began to treat them with a haughty politeness that bordered on disdain. Well that changed everything. It was an attitude they were able to relate to. From then on I had a damn good time. I came to realize they are simply New Yorkers on steroids; they see no reason for unnecessary niceness and are mistrustful of people who are. Makes them suspicious, like you are setting them up.”

“In the end, it turned out to be one of my favorite vacations ever. I left with a feeling of respect for those goddamn people; they put up with a hell of a lot.”

“You know, it’s really the same story whenever you go some place new. Hell, moving here to: ‘Have a nice day’ California was almost as painful. You people have no idea how annoying you can be with all that optimistic crap. But, over time, I have learned the

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art of expressing an equal level of delight about everything and nothing and so I get along with you all just fine.”

The waiter came by and slapped down their check and started to remove the dishes.

“I am not finished.” Alma smiled, her voice as firm as a rock.

The waiter shrugged, put down the dishes and walked away.

Eric wiped his mouth and continued to look up at the picture. He had no idea whether she knew exactly what he was trying to ask and had answered him; or, if she hadn’t a clue and the universe was simply using her to send him a deeper message.

He turned back to her and lifted up his cup of green tea. “To my prostrate.”

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