For the first time in a long time, Ian woke up easily and fully rested. He rose from his bed, not too startled by his surroundings. It was beginning to feel like home, or what he thought a home should feel like if he ever had one.
He meandered to the mini fridge that he finally stocked with his favorite beverage, very sweet iced tea, poured himself a large glass, in one of the liquor glasses that were already there and enjoyed. After the first sip, he lit the first smoke of the day and clicked the button that opened the glass doors allowing the morning freshness in.
He stepped out onto the balcony taking in a deep breath. Sitting his cig in the ashtray nearby, he stretched and yawned, surveying the backyard at the same time. His eyes couldn’t help but wander over it all. It seemed to perfect, already laid out and ready to be lived.
It was the first time. Before, every breath he had taken had been determined, when to let it in, when to let it out. Not this time. This time he was in control. He would no longer cower in the corner, scampering about like a rat to do someone’s bidding and then scampering back in order to avoid a crushing blow. No longer would he live on crumbs he could scavenge.
This was his world. He was under no delusions, he finally had been dealt a winning hand, and he knew good and well that he could lose it all in the next round. He’d played it safe all his life, but this time every move was all his. He could do this. He really could.
A sharp slapping sound made him jump.
“Come on, I’ve got to go!”
He heard it again he darted back in the bedroom, shielding himself behind the flowing drapes, but peeked around to see if he could see anything.
The sound smacked a third time. “Ralphie! Damn it, Ralphie! Come on boy, I’m running late!” He heard a deep happy bark and then, “That’s a boy! Now in you go.”
Ian could hear a glass door slide and then a few muffled barks. Within seconds an engine cranked, started and then drifted away. He walked back out on to the balcony and looked over into the next yard. From the balcony he could only see the other balcony, large, but not as large as his. Instead of a glass wall, there were French doors.
As he turned to go in, something on that balcony in the next yard caught his eye. He had to shield his eyes, as the sun was reflecting on the glass doorway, but he could eventually see a beautiful red Irish setter on his haunches in what he assumed was the bedroom nestled behind those double doors. The dog seemed to be looking at him. He wagged his tail and silently barked.
Ian smiled and waved, “Hi…Ralphie!”
It was time to really start the day. He turned and headed toward the bathroom. He flipped on the faucets, tested the stream before he stepped in and then enjoyed the rush of electricity as the warm jets sprayed his body wet.
No matter how dirty he knew he might get, it was impossible to start any day without a shower and washing his hair. It was one of his quirks. Sex, of course, he could do first thing, but anything else, including eating breakfast, had to be preceded by soap and water.
First things first, he washed his hair. It wasn’t until then that his mind really felt clear. There was something about putting his head underwater that woke him up. After the rinse he reached for the cake of soap and smelled it. Clair used to make fun of him. She said it was “the ritual”.
She never would shower with him, there were lots of things she never would do, but she would always come in the bathroom in the morning, rip back the curtain and watch him shower as she brushed her teeth. And just like Lucy holding Charlie Brown’s football, she would always either flush the toilet or turn the taps on to scald him while laughing “Gotcha!”
It had ruined most mornings for him, but not this morning…and not any morning any more. He sighed contented at last. He looked at himself naked in the full-length mirror when he stepped out of the shower.
His body was ripped and tight. He had worked out at least every other day in the gym. He wasn’t olive skinned but he was naturally a little dark even when not in the sun. There was a nice smattering of black hair in all the right places, across his pecs and a little trail from his naval, but not a fur mat like his Uncle had been.
He thought his blue eyes were kind of pretty for a guy's eyes. His dark hair and long lashes set them off. Yeah, he was a pretty nice looking guy. He toweled dry and then was off to dress and start his day.
He looked around when he heard the little ping and saw the message “Morning.”
Leaning over quickly, he typed in “What time is it there?”
“Haven’t been to bed yet.”
“Getting the day started here.”
“Alone?”
He smiled. “Not yet.”
“Later?”
He heard steps coming toward him. He typed in “Half hour” as quickly as he could and hit send.
“Kyle?” His wife’s voice came from the hallway. The confirmation came quickly and he fumbled to turn it off. The screen had just gone dark when he felt her standing right behind him.
“What’cha doin’ honey?” She said so sweetly.
Kyle turned to her, almost knocking her down. “Aw, the boy left his computer on…again.”
He saw the sour look on her face. “No harm, Janie. Just wasted a little electricity that’s all.”
“I’m afraid it’ll catch on fire.” She turned and headed to the kitchen, him following.
“That’s just silly.” He said hungry and half ignoring her.
“I read on the cover of one of them magazines they have at the check out in Harris Teeter that a whole neighborhood somewhere burned to the ground ‘cause somebody left a computer on and it got too hot and caught fire.”
“Janie, you shouldn’t be a readin’ that trash.” He teased her.
“Well there ain’t nothing else to do while yer standin’ in line waitin’ while Emma Jean Castlewood bawls out the check out girl for her bread bein’ smashed again.” She opened the fridge and plucked up a carton of milk. “Can you get some bowls out the cabinet? ‘Sides I didn’t even pick it up I just looked at the covers and read the headlines, nothin’ sinful in that.” Janie plunked the carton on the little table and smoothed out her clean scrubs.
Kyle rattled around three bowls and arranged them on table. “Is that ol’ woman still alive?”
“Emma Jean? Probably not, but she’s sa mean her body don’t know it yet.” She picked up one of the bowls from the table. “I’m running late. I’ll just hafta snatch something off one of the trays at work.” She whined and returned it to its spot in the cupboard as the screen door screeched.
A little boy with a tee shirt full of fresh eggs grabbed their attention. “Gotta a jackpot this mornin’.” He beamed.
“Ronnie! Just look at that shirt!” She chided as she helped the boy put the eggs in a wire basket from the counter. “I have told you and told you to take the little basket with you when you gather.”
“What’s wrong with m’shirt?” He wondered out loud.
“It’s got chicken poop all over it.” She put her hands on her spreading hips. “Run go change it real quick.”
“It’s fine.” The boy insisted.
Kyle held his temper in check. He hated it when the boy argued. “You do as your told son.” He managed he thought sternly but not angrily.
“But why?” The child whined.
“We ain’t sending you ta school with chicken shit on yer clothes. We’re poor, but we ain’t redneck. Now git!”
The boy bit his lip and turned quickly almost hiding the nasty look on his face. “And you left the computer on again.” His mother added before he left the room.
“I did not!” Ronnie soared back before they heard his bedroom door slammed.
“Well, that’s just great.” Janie did little to hide the tension in her voice. “He’ll be in a mood all day now.” She handed her husband a Tupperware container of cereal.
“What the hell is this?” Kyle was no longer in a good mood either.
“It’s a cereal dispenser.” She frowned at him. “Just flip up the lid and pour it.”
“Janie, we barely make ends meet without you spendin’ money on fancy schamncy plastic crap.” He grabbed the fancy schmancy crap from her and struggled to open it.
“It was either that or keep havin’ a helpin of anty bugs with yer two scoops.” She snatched the container from him and easily poured the bran flakes into his bowl. “An I got it at the Dollar store. Nintey eight cents plus tax ain’t a steep price compared to havin’ to throw out half a box a cereal ever week.” She dumped milk on top of his flakes.
“I’m sorry, sugar.” Kyle dropped his head and picked up his spoon. “Got up on the wrong side of bed this morning.”
“It’s alright, Kyle.” She half smiled and ruffled the hair on the back of his head. “Times is hard, but we’ll make the most of it.” She sighed. “Ronnie, child, hurry up.” She tried to bellow sweetly down the hall.
“He ain’t gonna have time fer breakfast afore the bus comes.”
Janie opened a breadbox on the counter and split open a left over biscuit from last night’s dinner. “He’ll be pouty, but he’ll make it.”
Kyle ate his breakfast and watched intently as his wife wrapped the old bread in a paper towel, ran her hand under the tap and flicked water on the paper. “I hafta run to Bristol after work today so dinner will be late.” She put the wrapped biscuit in the microwave and punched a few buttons.
“Why for Bristol?” Kyle asked as he crunched.
“I’m gonna send that letter. Sparky said to bring it by the station.”
“Janie, I am telling you, do not send that letter. You’re just askin’ fer trouble if ya do”
“It’ll be fine, and Ronnie’s got his heart set on it.” She said firmly as she smeared jar jam on the now hot biscuit.
He knew there was no arguing with her, but he tried anyway. “You don’t know that.”
“He don’t know no better, Kyle.” She put the biscuit in a paper bag with a napkin followed by three quarters she pulled out of her pocket.
“But ya didn’t have ta put no pitchers in it. No sense in wastin’ time and gas to drive to Bristol. I’ll put it in the box m’self.”
She looked up at him from writing her son’s name across the paper bag with a pencil. “Sparky says she kin prob’ly find a address where it’ll get to him. It may bring some nice memories fer him. After what that man did fer us, God knows if we can give him some good memories after all he’s been through…”
“I’d say paying a hell of a lot more than this dump was worth is all the good memories he needs from us.” Kyle sniped almost swallowing a mouthful without chewing.
Janie slitted her eyes. “Ronald Maxwell Osbourne, you know good and well this prop’ty is worth ten times mor’n than what we paid fer it. If it weren’t for him and Daddy…”
Kyle threw up his hands in defeat. “Nough, woman, enough.” He watched his wife cross her arms and lean back on the counter in defiance. “Fine. Do whatever ya want. I just think he’ll throw it away, if you ever even get it to ‘im. An’ I don’t want to see the boy’s feelin’s hurt. Or yourn.”
“Sparky’s brother and Mr. Justyn is good friends. She promised she’d make sure he got it.” She turned her back on him to fold down the end of her son’s lunch so Kyle couldn’t see the smile on her face.
“Don’t call him that.”
“What?” Janie said as she turned around and placed the bag on the table where the boy’s empty bowl sat.
“Mister Justyn…he don’t shit strawberry ice cream, Janie. He’s just some hillbilly like the rest of us…”
“Some hillbilly that’s made somethin’ of hisself. Some hillbilly who deserves a li’l respect.”
“Shoot.” Kyle dumped the rest of his cereal in the sink and opened the tap. “If I was pretty I could read the news, too.”
“Well, yer pretty enough…” Janie patted her husband’s rump. “But’cha cain’t read for squat.” She turned her attention elsewhere, argument over. “Ronnie are ya changin’ shirts or knittin’ a pair of socks?” She shook her head and went after him.
Kyle watched after her and reached for the brown sack with his son’s name on it. He opened it as quietly as he could, taking out the three quarters and carefully folding the sack closed again. He slipped the change in his pocket and on second thought reached above the microwave and fished out a Twinkie. “That bus’ll be here any minute, Ronnie.” He said loudly as he placed the snack with the now hardening day old jelly biscuit back as close to its original position as possible.
He tried to look nonchalant as his wife and son reappeared in the kitchen. He picked up the poke and held it toward his boy. “Don’t forget this.”
Not looking him in the face, the child took the brown sack. “Thanks, Daddy.”
“Have a good day at school.”
The boy nodded as Janie grabbed her purse from the counter and slung it over her shoulder. She ushered him toward the back door. “Com’mon baby boy. I’ll drive ya to the end of the lane.” She bussed her husband’s cheek. “Have a good day. Maybe we’ll grill some hamburger helper for dinner.”
He smiled. “I think maybe I’ll go down to the creek and see if I can catch us some horny heads instead. Would you like that, son?”
Ronnie just slammed the door behind him without answering. Janie watched after her son a moment then looked back at her husband. “It was just a little thing Kyle, ya shouldn’t have lost yer temper.”
“I said I was sorry.”
She smiled weakly. “But ya didn’t say I’m sorry ta him.” She walked out the door.
Kyle waited until he heard her footsteps off the back porch before he picked up the wet breakfast bowl from the sink and threw it against the wall. The splattering of Corelle across the floor made him feel better. He liked the sound of the crunch it made on the bottom of his boots as he sauntered into the living room.
He opened the front screen door and watched his wife’s car raising dust clouds down the driveway. He waved in case either she or the boy looked back and noticed him, and then let the door slam as he re-entered the house.
It was going to be a hot one, too early for it to be this hot he thought. He pulled his shirt over his head, balled it up and wiped his armpits. He pressed the power button on the computer and headed for a beer while it whirred itself back on. The first sip tasted so good he sighed loudly at the refreshment.
He got down on his knees and opened the bottom drawer of the desk the computer was on. He pulled it most of the way out and reached back into the opening feeling around until he could grasp his fingers around what he was looking for. It was just a little doo dad he’d bought at the Walmart once when Janie wasn’t with him.
Kyle hooked everything up just right and then shut that bottom drawer with his foot. He checked his watch and smiled. He moved the rolling chair back to just the right spot and then put his password into the computer. He heard the familiar ding and he took a second drag of the beer.
He adjusted the eye of the little camera thingy just a little when the box popped up that said invitation. “Right on time.” Kyle said out loud, stood up and took off his pants before moving the mouse to click ‘accept’.
It had been two years since Ian had sent a letter to the network. It had just been something he dared himself to do, thinking it was a shot in the preverbal dark, but what the hell? He started at the ends of the earth thinking go for the impossible first and then reign it in, just because it was the last thing any one else from his small town would do.
Three weeks ago, the morning he had quietly packed his backpack to slip out of Billy’s apartment before they woke up, his cell phone rang. He had looked at the caller ID to make sure it wasn’t Clair.
At first he decided not to answer, since he didn’t recognize the number, but Billy’s daughter came out of the bedroom holding her dolly and looking at him with those trusting baby girl eyes. Embarrassed and not knowing what to say, Ian quickly flipped open the phone and started a fake “intense conversation” with the mystery number.
To Ian’s shock and pleasure, he found himself talking with Marty Kovak, head of human resources for the network. Mr. Kovak, explained they were looking for some new blood and wondered if he would be interested in hopping the next plane for a face to face interview. By 4 PM that evening he found himself in the human resources office having that face to face with Kovak and a man he didn’t know either by the name of Jack Tolan.
Knowing he had no chance at all, before he had even got off the plane, Ian decided there was no reason to be nervous. He would just enjoy being in an office of what once had been the most powerful entertainment force in the English-speaking world. He figured just hit them with whatever bubbled to the top, shake hands and thank them for the chance he knew good and well he’d never get.
Kovak had explained that they were looking for fresh ideas in the development division and liked the spin he had put on his local news format. Ian just assumed at best he would start at the bottom, if there was a chance in hell he would be starting at all. But starting at the bottom of HRT entertainment was a step way above and beyond being lead anchor slash producer for a 5 PM talk news program in a small Virginia market.
Kovak was in his early fifties and the other man, Tolan, a much quieter, older man. Ian did his best, spouting off his take on why the network was no longer number one, and how to get it out of the basement. He spewed forth series and format ideas, explaining, truthfully, that while the other kids were playing baseball and plowing fields, he was creating movies and series in his head and putting together network line ups as a game for fun.
When the quiet man finally spoke he asked Ian how he would approach things if out of the blue he were given a division at the network to run. Ian did not hesitate telling the man that since he was under thirty and unseasoned he knew that he’d have to assemble a team quickly, since everyone there would be putting their own balls in a vice along with his.
He told them he would like to come in incognito for a brief time to see how the people already in place communicated and functioned. He would then be able to quickly weed out who was essential, who had promise and who just needed to apply for work at McDonalds.
Kovak scoffed that the idea was ridiculous and a waste of time. Ian, already energized with fake power, had no problem immediately correcting him. “If that’s what you feel sir, that I suggest that maybe you should look into McDonalds.”
Tolan laughed and Kovak stood thanking him for his time. Ian shook his hand, thanked him and then repeated the procedure with Mr. Tolan.
Tolan refused to release his grip on Ian’s hand asking, “Would you care to explain, exactly why you would enter the network in such a manner?”
Ian smiled and took one last, but confident stab, knowing he had already nailed his coffin shut. “Sir, this is California, and this is the entertainment business. I’d need to quickly assemble a team with talent and hard core work ethics. By coming in as an underling, it would be easy to observe those who have both, which is what I would need to help the network succeed.”
Tolan dropped his hand and patted him on the shoulder. “Thank you, son”. He nodded at Kovak, told Ian it was a pleasure and left the room.
Kovak, too, thanked Ian and informed him that he felt he was a little green for the position, but to continue to work and maybe in the future something at one of the other networks might be more suitable to his ideas.
Ian just smiled and told him he wasn’t disappointed. He had enjoyed himself and appreciated getting to interview. He thanked him kindly and left the office feeling good about himself and his future even though he didn’t get a job he knew he didn’t have even before he was told he was too green.
As he stepped out of the elevator in into the lobby, a rather frazzled receptionist yelled behind him, “Mr. Justyn? Mr. Justyn?”
At first Ian didn’t realize that she was calling him, and then turned a quietly said, “Yes”, just in case she wasn’t.
“If you have a moment, Mr. Tolan would like to see you in his office.” He was given instructions on were to go and soon found himself inside a very plush office and seated directly across from Jack Tolan, whom Ian didn’t know was the entertainment division vice president until he read the title on the wall outside the office. Ian was still confused enough by the turn of events to not be nervous, or maybe he was just naive.
Tolan simply sat him down and started off the conversation with, “I have the gut feeling you aren’t full of crap, and if I let you walk out of here I’m slitting my own throat.” He explained that his job was on the line and he realized that some new energy and ideas from someone not already laden down with tired strategies and used ideas might be exactly what was needed.
He explained in detail how things worked, that there were five programming executives, each being a wolf fighting over a meager portion of schedule time, the hungrier wolf getting the bigger share. One of those executives had just run out of fight and he was staving off cutting him loose until the right alpha wandered into the pack. He wondered if Ian might be that wolf.
Ian jumped right in and told him all he needed was to fly back home pack a few things and tell his station so long, provided that they could help him out of his contractual obligations. He would be eager to start in any capacity.
Tolan already knew that his contract was with an affiliate of the network and would have no trouble buying out his contract. He made a couple of phone calls and informed Ian that the job was his if he didn’t mind “sharing his ball space in a mutual and very tenuous vice”.
Two Mondays ago, Ian walked into an office at HRT network allowing everyone to think he was the new man at the bottom of the totem pole. On the way to the office he felt bad about the ruse but with minutes of arriving realized that most of these arrogant hacks were the former wolf’s biggest problem and deserved whatever they were going to get. In fact, he had met few that he would spill any tears over.
He had come in for the first two weeks, allowed himself to be treated like a “Kmart inbred” as someone said not so quietly behind his back, and worked from 8 to 5 as a grunt. He allowed himself to be ordered around by everyone there, the worst offender being a woman named, of all things, Trish Apple who claimed to be the executive’s assistant. He got lots of coffee, got blamed for almost everything but maintained his mild mannered alter ego, even clocking out at five and leaving the building.
He would drive some where, have dinner then return to his desk in the main office and worked with Jack Tolan quickly learning what he needed to be doing and how to go about it, usually staying until ten or eleven. He would then come home, continue reading and researching, signing necessary paperwork and having it sent back to his office by messenger.
The staff had been informed the first day that a new division head had been hired just moments after being informed their former boss of who knows how long was no longer with the company. They were also told that the new man would not be in the office until he had completed intense meetings with the board, etc. etc. Everyone feigned disappointed, but as soon as the “suit” was out of the room the nasty rumors flew and ruthless plots to over throw the new boss began.
It was now Monday morning three weeks later. After a weekend both heavenly and hellish, he was entering his second purgatory. As usual, most of the team was standing around doing little more than detailing how they would do things when they ran the world.
A young woman named Daryn was being reamed out by Trish Apple for not doing something that the wicked witch of the West Coast hadn’t bothered to tell her she needed to do in the first place. Some effeminate guy with a really bad, supposedly stylish, haircut was busy filing his nails and listing off people, Daryn and Ian included, whose days were numbered. And there was this woman, who stuck out like a sore thumb, pushing the mail cart around observing everyone.
Ian made his way to the table in the corner he had been banished to, plopped his backpack down and took out a few scripts he had made notes on. Trish immediately swiped the small stack from his hand and grimaced at them.
“Did you really go through these or did you just scrawl S.O.S. on all of them to make me think you could read?”
Ian just smiled and ignored her.
“I am speaking to you, country boy!” she snapped from what seemed to be two flared nostrils.
“I know who you are speaking to; I’m just trying to break my answer down into small syllables that you’ll understand.” He said as he continued to rummage through his bag.
Her eyes narrowed, which actually wasn’t much of a change of expression for her. “You don’t seem to understand who you are talking to, Grayson.” That was the name he had given them when he was walked to the office that first day. “I can make or break you; a little respect may prolong your meager existence in this industry.”
Ian didn’t bother to wither any more. She stomped off with the pile of papers she had swiped from him, shouting orders to no else bothering to pay attention, as she went into the main office and slammed the door.
The woman with the mail cart rolled to him and smiled good morning. She shook her head and reached to fuss with his tie. “Who dresses you Grayson? They don’t do a very good job.”
The uber skinny woman at the desk beside them took out a yogurt and spooned in a taste as she worked. When the mail cart woman finished with his tie she asked him, “Have you had time for breakfast?”
Ian shook his head no. The woman pulled a crumbled bag from her cart, held it out to him and said loudly, “Cheeto?” Ian fell in love and helped himself.
“Don’t you worry,” she assured him. “I’ve been watching you. You’re different, young man. You’re gonna go far. Just learn when to be yourself and when to play the game. Okay?” She smiled and pinched his cheek.
“Thank you…” he squinted to read a name tag he couldn’t find.
“Manuela”, she offered.
“Oh, you’re Latin?” He said.
She giggled, “No, honey, I’m a big black woman named after a Mexican. My mama even spelled it wrong ‘M-A-N-W-E-L-L-A”. My friends call me Wella. You can call me that.”
Ian smiled, “Thank you, Wella. I’ll take your advice, and let you in on a little secret. I play the game a whole lot better than most think, and I’m being myself at the same time.”
She pushed his shoulder playfully, “Well good for you. Let ol’ Wella know if you ever need some help.”
Trish slammed open the office door and barged toward Ian, the slacker waters parted and she bombed his make shift desk top with a particular script. “How dare you reject this script. Your job is to yes anything I tell you to do and what I tell you to do is what Mr. Justyn has told me to do!”
Ian didn’t need to feign shock. “Mr. Justyn?”
“What part don’t you get seed cake? I am Mr. Justyn’s assistant. If I tell you to do something it comes directly from him!
“Excuse me, Miss Apple, but you get orders directly from Mr. Justyn? I didn’t think anyone had spoken with him yet.”
“Don’t be as stupid as you look. I am his assistant. He and I have power meetings every morning before you even pee and every night after you’ve put in what you claim is a hard eight hour day and he has green lighted this script!”
Ian blinked and looked her straight in the eyes. “He has?”
She leaned into his face and screamed, “He loves it! And he loves it because it’s brilliant. It’s going to take us back to the top!”
“Oh.”
She turned up half her mouth into a sneer, “And you’re the moron you writes with crayon…wait a minute…I want to quote this exactly….” She ripped a few pages over, cleared her throat to make sure she had everyone’s attention, “Poorly written garbage ripped off from rehashed ideas ripped off from mediocre drivel the public lost interest in in the forties.” She laughed in his face, and the rest of the office, with few exceptions began to join her.
The guy with the bad hair cut looked up from his nail file. “Day numbered today.”
“What do you have to say about that?” Trish bellowed in his face again.
“I’d say you really should brush your teeth once and a while and you don’t know what you are talking about.” Ian folded his arms and stood with her toe to toe. He swore he heard an “oooh” from the office and was ready for someone to scream “Fight! Fight!”
Trish’s face burned red. “How dare you speak to me like that! I am your superior! I would fire you right now, but I will wait until Mr. Justyn sees this and cuts off your tiny little pee pee himself!”
“Ian” he said.
“What?” She was dazed. “Who?”
“Ian.” He said calmly. “His name is Ian Justyn, and he prefers to be called Ian rather than Mr. Justyn.”
Trish looked like Cruella Deville without the smile and snapped, “Ian? What the hell would you know about it? I am the only one who has spoken with Mister Justyn. And like his name, this is just in; pack your desk because in a few minutes you are out!”
“No.”
“What?” She spit. “What did you say to me?”
“I said, ‘No’ or is that too complicated a word for you? And by the way, since you are constantly making the mistake, his surname is spelled with a “Y” not an “I”.
“I have seen his signature myself, boy, no body spells Justin with a “Y” except bad band rejects from ‘Star Search’.”
Suddenly the room started running in all directions, the mice skittering away trying to look like they weren’t playing. Trish took no notice and continued to bellow at Ian inches from his face. Jack Tolan had to call her name three times before she realized that the Vice President of the network was standing behind her.
When she shut up and froze, Tolan asked, “Is there a problem Trish?”
She became kittenish and apologized, “I am so sorry, Mr. Tolan, but this new man is just not working out.”
“Oh?” He said concerned. “Would you mind explaining? We had such high hopes.”
She smiled graciously. “Oh, I know, sir, but he is just too inexperienced and obviously has no idea of good television. Just this morning he turned in script notes rejecting a project that Mr. Justyn personally told me he was green lighting.”
“Ian.” Tolan interjected. Trish almost turned into a green apple. “He prefers that his staff call him Ian. He says it fosters more of a family and team effort, and we here at this network are all about family.” He looked at Ian, “Aren’t we son?”
Stupid Trish didn’t get the hint, only about a third of the staff did. She continued to make her point beside the point, “and his attitude is not team or family at all. In fact, he seems to be hostile to most of us and sluffs off direct orders to others he feels are beneath him.”
Tolan looked at Ian, “Do you do that, son?”
“Well, sir…” Ian stuck his hands in his pockets and drew on the carpet with the toe of one foot, “I don’t sluff off my work because I don’t feel anyone here is beneath me, but I have to admit that the environment here does lend itself precariously to hositilality.”
“Perhaps we should discuss this privately.” He suggested.
Trish crossed her arms and leaned back on her haunches. The “now you’re gonna get yours” grin easily reading to planes flying overhead.
“I believe that would be best sir.”
“Shall we step into your office?”
Trish’s face fell and couldn’t hold back an involuntary “Huh?”
Jack turned around to face the entire office. “Ladies and gentleman, while we apologize for the deception, if you haven’t understood...” he slipped a friendly arm around Ian’s shoulder. “I would like all of you to be formally introduced to the new program development exec for this team, Ian Grayson Justyn.”
As mouths, and one nail file, dropped to the floor, he added, “Please, call me Ian.” He turned in dead silence to Tolan, “Shall we talk in my office?”
“Of course, lead the way, Ian.” They walked to the main office, Trish following along silent yet wildly gesturing behind their back that everything was alright, she would take care of it.
Ian entered the office first, followed by Jack. As Jack got to the door he turned abruptly allowing Trish to walk into him. “What are you doing, Trish?”
“Oh, I’m the assistant. I just assumed you two would need me in the meeting.”
Ian popped his head out. “No Trish, you are not the assistant. You’ve never been the assistant. You are the secretary…for now. I expect you to sit down at the phone station in the hallway and answer the phones. Nothing more, nothing less, exactly what your job description says. Are we clear?”
“Uh, yes…” she wasn’t happy but feigned a smile, “Ian…”
Ian cocked an eyebrow boldly upward, “Uhm, sir?” She added.
Ian dropped the eyebrow. “Now, Trish.”
She barely said, “Yes sir” and she bolted for the desk in the hallway that she had left unmanned for three weeks.
Jack and Ian talked for less than an hour. The discussion was basically about Ian’s plans for reduction of monies wasted from over staffing. Jack agreed but was hesitant about the drastic reduction. He relented to the number Ian felt was needed, but insisted that Ian choose an assistant he trusted, which Ian didn’t want at all, and a personal secretary, which Ian thought was a total waste of time and money.
They haggled a bit longer and agreed on who stayed and who went, and who actually stayed with the company and who didn’t. All that was left was to open the office door and do it. Jack opened the door and allowed Ian to walk out first. Jack would make a general announcement. Ian would then call the staff in individually letting them know what decision has been made on their positions.
Jack was informally professional when he told an ashen staff that this leg of the division was being narrowed from fourteen to five. Most would be staying with the company, but going back to the mail room pool where they started. He ended with, “I leave you now in the very capable hands of your new boss.”
He turned to Ian and added for all to hear, “I expect that you will be able to give me the names of the people you choose for your assistant and personal secretary by this time tomorrow.”
“Yes, Jack. I’ll need to think about that though.”
“You can have anyone in the company that you trust. I’ll personally see to it.”
“Thank you, sir. That means a lot to me, and to the team.”
Tolan turned to go, “I’ll be expecting to hear from you soon.”
“Of course.” Ian shook Jack’s hand and turned to go into his office when he made a decision. He just needed one bit of information to finalize it.
Ian rushed to the doorway to catch Tolan before he made it much past a humiliated Trish pushing some flashing buttons on the phone. “Jack, just a minute.” Tolan turned to him. “You said I could have any one who works for the company that I trust?”
“Absolutely.” He affirmed.
“Since Kristin Chenowith isn’t under contract to us that makes the question of my assistant the easiest decision I’ve made so far.”
Trish perked up and the bad hair cut guy batted his eyes. Ian pointed to the squeaky mail cart being pushed by the chunky black woman with orange fingers. “Her.”
Jack Tolan looked at Wella and back to Ian. “Done”. With that Ian returned to his office, leaving the door open and the rest of the day went by in a blur.
The first few hours were quiet, until Wella entered his office with a smile on her face and two files full of paperwork. They shut the door and conversed, and then Wella called each member of the staff into the office for private conferences. Each was informed of the decision that had been made concerning their jobs. To no surprise, those who were being returned to the mail room were shocked; some upset, and those who were staying were excited to be a part of the team.
Only two were actually fired, the guy with the bad haircut and another man whose job had seemed to be to sit on the edge of a desk and adjust his crotch when any one walked by the door. The latter guy seemed to care less and the first was livid. He threatened lawsuits and various and sundry ways of getting even, before storming out the office door, oddly never missing a beat of filing whatever nails he might possibly have left.
Trish was the final person called in the office. She was the most shocked of all that Ian had decided to neither fire her nor demote her. He wanted her right where she was. While she bit her lip, she was told that she wasn’t worthy of even being fired. She would stay at the desk in the hallway and answer phones, nothing more and nothing less until she had had enough and then quit herself.
In fact, he gave her a copy of her resignation, lacking only the date and her signature to be official. Trish balked, but then Wella handed her the second folder of papers. It seems that not only was Miss Apple a liar, Miss Apple was also a forger. She had forged Ian’s name on several memos and documents, spelling the his name incorrectly of course, and put them on the mail cart, which Wella had conveniently not delivered and presented to Ian as her first official duty.
The new team had nailed her to the wall, informing her of the fact that if she even as much as hung up on someone accidentally or misspelled a word on a memo, she would be arrested and charged with forgery. Trish went back to her desk, tail between her legs.
The rest of the day was a flurry of activity. Ian gathered his new staff, including Daryn, the yogart girl and two he had asked for from the daytime division and began to have the first in what would become regular power meetings. Ian reveled in getting everyone together and throwing pasta against the wall.
He took it a step further, making everyone put into words reasons for what they liked or didn’t like. They talked about what they’d like to see, what was on the other networks, and what might be able to be developed to counter program. They laughed, they joked, they strategized. They put in more work in that one afternoon than they had the entire two weeks before.
By the end of the day Ian was beat, and it felt so good. All he could think about on the drive home was stripping off his pants and just enjoying a night’s rest. He hadn’t really minded the extra hours it took to sneak around, especially since it paid off. He was certainly glad that from now on when he put in the extra time it would produce more than just a small chance. He hoped it would be producing a dream, his and someone else’s.
He had stopped off and ordered Italian, quickly wolfing it down. Trash was tossed and all he could think of was finding a way to unwind. He hadn’t had the chance before, but tonight he was determined to sit on his balcony and watch the California sun go down. He stripped to his boxers, emptied the ashtray on the little table up there, poured himself a sweet iced tea, then sat and enjoyed.
The sky turned so many colors he couldn’t name them all. He loved watching the sun set in the mountains but this was something different, something spectacular. The dying light seemed to bounce back in the sky creating new colors that shimmered and danced in the fading light.
His first sunset in his new world. He wanted to do something to celebrate it and make it special. As the last of the day disappeared and the beginning of the new night became, he thought of exactly what he wanted to do.
He rummaged through the one box that he hadn’t opened yet. He had tucked it in the closet. It was a small box, a shoebox actually, not buried but tucked away neatly behind some, well, shoes. He grabbed it, walked back to the balcony, and placed the box on the table in front of him.
He opened the lid, getting a strong whiff of the past as he tossed the lid aside. It was mainly trinkets, things he had managed to save, odd mementos that meant nothing to any one but him. He picked up each one, every trinket bringing back a memory that made his heart smile or a twinkle he would never see flash across his deep blue eyes.
Wrapped in a square of newspaper and tied with kite string was what he was actually looking for. He put everything back in the box, shuffled the top back on and pushed it out of his way on the table. Like a child he tenderly unwrapped his gift, being careful to save the paper and the string, holding the contents high in the air letting the moon glow highlight the prize inside.
It was a locket, tarnished and old, but a locket that he had managed to save. His grandmother had died when he was still in grammar school. After the funeral, a man in a fancy suit came to the house and talked with his Uncle Nate. He didn’t hear the conversation, but he could tell that Uncle Nate wasn’t happy.
The strange man came over to Ian and handed him an envelope. He told him, “This is from your Grandmother. She wanted you to have it. Take care of it young man, and remember no matter what, she loved you with all her heart.”
Ian turned the envelope over and over in his hands. He recognized his Grandmother’s handwriting, but he was afraid to open it. He jumped when he heard the man shut the front door. Ian got down on his knees in the floor and tried to carefully open it.
He had barely peeled it half way open when Uncle Nate appeared out of nowhere and snatched it from his hands. “I’ll keep that for you”, he said, almost dared. Ian cringed back afraid that his uncle might kick him or strike him, as he was known to do, on too often an occasion.
Nate stuck his fingers in the small opening that Ian had made and splintered the envelope apart. He threw the envelope in the fireplace and moved his lips while he read whatever was written down inside. He crumpled the contents and jammed them in his pockets.
Nate began pacing and Ian heard something kick across the floor. He had seen it fall when the envelope was shredded, but dared not let on, just in case Uncle Nate left the room long enough for Ian to grab it and hide it, so he could see what it was later.
“This ain’t gonna happen you crazy ol’ woman. It ain’t gonna happen!” Uncle Nate headed straight for him. Ian got out of the way as quickly as he could, but not before his knee caught Ian in the eye. “Well, get outtuf the way you retarded little bastard!” He grabbed the truck keys hanging off the wall and stormed to the screen door. “Don’t move until I get back!”
Ian nodded dutifully but as soon as the old truck pulled out of the driveway, Ian put aside the throbbing in his eye and started searching the dirty floor for whatever had been kicked across it. He didn’t know how much time he had, but if he wasn’t almost exactly where he was when Uncle Nate left the house upon his returned, he knew good and well he’d have more than a black eye to make him cry.
He could feel the eye starting to swell, and Ian had to feel under the tables and chairs as quickly as he could. It wasn’t until he had almost given up; that he felt something under the old orange vinyl sofa that your butt stuck to when it got hot. Just as his fingers latched on to it, he heard the truck pulling back in the driveway.
Ian dashed back to about where he was and squatted back down on the floor. He shoved his prize down into his underwear, knowing good and well no matter what might happen, and anything could when Uncle Nate was mad, drunk and especially both, that it was probably safest there until he was alone.
Uncle Nate slammed back in the door and threw the keys over in the corner. He twisted the lid of the fresh bottle he’d procured and swallowed a good part of it before it slammed it down on a table. He put his hands on his hips and stared at Ian, nostrils flaring and puffing like he had just run up and back from the holler. “Did you move?”
Ian shook his head, “No, Uncle Nate, I didn’t”
Nate back handed him. “That’s for being a lair”, and then he back handed him in the other direction, “And that’s for speaking to me, when a nod would do, ya uppidy little bastard.”
Ian dared not cry. Nate smacked at him again. “Now git to bed and don’t let me see you until I want to! Git!”
Ian ran to the little room that was his. He shut the door and sat on his cot. He waited until he was sure that Uncle Nate was either passed out drunk or asleep before he reached down in his pants and found what had fallen from his Grandmother’s letter.
And now twenty years later, Ian held it high in the sky, not afraid that Uncle Nate would take it away or Clair would turn up her nose and throw it out. It was just a cheap dime store locket, dented shut from an absent minded kick, and tarnished by time.
He put it around his own neck and let the thumbnail sized heart fall against his chest and nestle in the soft black hair there. The past was now the past. There was nothing to hide and no drunken men or thoughtless women could make him cringe in the corner ever, ever again.
Ian stood up and put the box back in the walk in closet. As he turned off the light, on a second thought he did something else he hadn’t done in years, he grabbed a battered old guitar case and brought it to the balcony with him.
He sat down and ended the beginning of the night by strumming a few chords. The few chords become a few bars and the few bars became a few songs, losing the pain of the past and pulling Ian into the night by losing himself in music.
Ian slept soundly that night feeling freed from 29 years of hiding. Of course, it wasn’t until his Uncle Nate died a few years ago that he fully understood what the man had been so angry about. Ian’s Grandmother had left everything to him; the house, a fairly nice sized bank account and a bank box.
By the time Ian had discovered this, the house was so useless that the family he sold the property to were able to knock it down with a few swift kicks. The bank account had been drained or moved somewhere, and the bank box was empty, but Ian didn’t really care. He was just glad to finally be rid of the burden of the past.
The rest of the week flew by, gloriously exciting and deliciously dazzling. Every morning the staff met around nine, ate breakfast together and talked about who would do what that day. They made connections, held conferences and worked together to make what they wanted happen. The place was filled with laughter and the spirit of artists working, replacing the smug fog that had doomed the previous group.
Wella even hired the perfect personal secretary for Ian, a nice young man named Blake, fresh out of college with Harry Potter spectacles and an eager smile. By the end of the young man’s first day, he had not only made his place on the team, he had managed to consistently second guess Ian’s needs so eerily it almost made him feel that he had been watched for months before he had even thought about the possibilities of moving to California.
Even Trish seemed to fall in line. She sulked about for the first few days, and while not insulting to any one, she was still the chill on an otherwise busy and seemingly unstoppable ray of sunshine. By 5 PM on Friday, they had either gotten used to the frost or she had decided to just give up the attitude and at least attempted to be civil.
Nights at home had been quiet. He ate alone and played his guitar or watched TV until he fell asleep. Outside the office, his contact with the world included the person he left a tip for when he ordered food, and an occasional wave at the sour looking woman who threw the morning paper at the front door. Right now it was work that was important.
That was Ian’s mantra. This is what got him out and would keep him from ever having to go back.
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