SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER, 2015.
Hello: It’s hard to believe that I started this blog six years ago.
Since then I’ve posted several dozen stories, and many more people have started
reading them. For their benefit, I'm re-running several of the fiction pieces
that readers seem to have liked most in the first couple of years. So here’s the second story – “A TASTE OF SHERRI.” You’ll find the first one, “Let’s Do Lunch,” at the end of this story.
Send me feedback at jonfer1@aol.com
John Birch
LET’S DO LUNCH
She was
reading a book when Frank came in.
“Who was
it?” she asked, without looking up. “I didn’t recognize his voice.”
“Vogel.”
She made a
face. “Burt Vogel? That crook? You haven’t heard from him for years, what did
he say?”
“Wants me
to go in to New York and have lunch with him next Tuesday. He’s got a problem,
needs advice.”
“What sort
of advice?”
“He didn’t
say.”
“You
should’ve asked him,” she said.” And why are you grinning? What’s so damn
funny?”
“Well,
don’t you think it’s weird? He could hardly wait to see me out the door on my
sixty-fifth birthday, and now he wants my advice!”
“And
you’re going, I suppose,” she said.
“Sure I
am. Why not?”
“Because
the man’s a user, that’s why. You owe him squat.”
She’d been
like this for quite a while, with her snarky put-downs, like a big sister to a
kid brother. Lately she’d actually seemed to dislike him, and it made him
uneasy. Frank didn’t tell her he was flattered by the invitation. Nor did he
say that for years he’d felt ignored and shut out by Vogel, who’d never once
called or written since he retired. This trip back to the office might be a
chance to re-connect, to make up. Reconcile, was that the right word?
“I only
want to see how much the place has changed, see a few friendly faces maybe,
have a free lunch with Vogel’s new colleagues.”
She raised
one eyebrow in that way she did. “Come on, there’s no such thing as a free
lunch, remember? You’ve forgotten what the guy’s like. He wants something –
want to bet?”
“Well, I’m
going anyway.”
She seemed
not to have heard him, with her head back in her book. She’d always been a big
reader. In the last few months she’d been reading two or three books a week
from the library in Ossining. Frank wasn’t much of a reader himself, though
before he retired he’d told everyone he couldn’t wait to catch up with his
reading. But somehow he’d never got around to it. One day he would.
She
snapped her book shut and frowned up at him. “You’ll have to wear a suit and
tie, you know. You haven’t done that for years, not since your mom’s funeral.”
“They
don’t dress up these days,” Frank said. “Not unless they’re meeting a client.
But you could be right; he has visitors all the time. Maybe I should dress up a
bit.”
“I can’t
believe this,” she said. “You’ve been out of that place for ages. You always said
you hated it . . . couldn’t wait to retire. You know what? I think you’re still
scared of that jerk.”
Frank had
been in his workshop in the basement when Vogel called, making a love seat for
the yard. He spent more and more time down there on projects for the
grandchildren, a rocking horse, a see-saw, a couple of doll-houses, a dog
kennel. He was most at ease here. He could do what he wanted, when he wanted,
the way he wanted. His wife knew nothing about woodwork, so she didn’t
criticize him.
He always
ignored the phone when it rang on his downstairs, but she’d yelled down to him.
“Pick it
up will you?”
Vogel’s
voice was friendly, almost affectionate. He said something about staffing
problems. Could it possibly be that he wanted him to come back? Had he realized
over the years what a contribution his older, more experienced colleague had
made . . . could still make? If that was it, he’d do it like a shot.
She was
wrong about his hating the place. Maybe he’d complained sometimes, but over the
past few years he’d yearned for the familiar routine, the challenges, the
friendships. He’d even enjoyed the daily commute in the train, when he could
read the paper or take a nap if he liked. True, he’d be seventy-four in a
couple of months, but he had experience, more than the lot of them put
together. He’d be back in the swing of it in no time.
When Frank
dressed in his room on Tuesday morning his collar was a little tight, and so
was the waistband of his pants. But then he put on his red suspenders and the
jacket of his charcoal suit and made a rare trip into his wife’s bedroom,
standing for a full minute in front of the mirror. He smiled to himself. Not
bad.
Nowadays,
on the few occasions when they went to the city, they drove, parking the car in
a fenced lot in the mid-50s, off the West Side Highway. But today he took the
train from Croton-Harmon, fearful that there might be some traffic delay.
He left
home a few minutes later than he’d planned, and it wasn’t until he came off
Route 9 and was approaching the permit-holders’ lot that it struck him – he
didn’t have a permit anymore. Hadn’t done for years. He searched for a meter,
and glanced at his watch while he circled the adjacent lot. He had about four
minutes, and there were no empty spaces. Soon he was driving farther and farther
away from the stairway up to the station until he found a vacant meter on the
farthest edge of the park. To pay, he’d have to run a good hundred yards back
to the attendant’s hut, and another couple of hundred from there to the steps.
He locked
the car, started to jog toward the hut and was already out of breath by the
time he reached it. He almost threw the bills at the attendant and turned to
lollop down the paved road past the taxi rank toward the station. Panting, with
his mouth hanging open, he labored up the steep staircase. At the top he leaned
against the window by the ticket booth only to see that the 10:06 was
approaching Platform 2. He snatched his ticket from the agent and, wheezing
now, stumbled down the other stairway to the platform, steadying himself on the
hand-rail, and with a final effort leaped into the car only seconds before the
doors closed. He heaved in great gulps of air and flopped back in his seat, his
head lolling.
Through
the window to his right the Hudson glided by. He’d brought the Times from home,
but was too tense and unsettled to read. His mind was a blank while he
recovered his breath and composure. He gazed out at the passing jumble of sheds
and warehouses, rusting, neglected machinery, and then the Tappan Zee Bridge
and later, as the line drew farther away from the river, dense trees and sudden
glimpses of tidy villages with half-empty streets.
The train
stopped only at 125th Street. After that it was minutes before it
rumbled through the shadowy underground passages on the last few hundred yards
of track outside Grand Central, the lights in the car flashing on and off.
People were already standing up, reaching for their coats. When the train drew
into the platform a sudden attack of fear gripped him in the chest. This wasn’t
going to work. He couldn’t possibly go back to that place. He’d be an
anachronism, a dinosaur. Vogel was nearly thirty years his junior, while most
of the staff would be less than half his age. The daily routines had changed
since he was in business. Communications were hugely more electronic. He’d
never used a cell phone and knew nothing about things like hand-held computers,
networking and video conferencing that his young neighbors talked about
incessantly. There’d be new buzzwords, unfamiliar jargon. How could he hope to
catch up?
But after
he walked up the slope through the archway and came out into the airy concourse
he felt much better. He gazed up into the renovated galaxy in the ceiling, awed
by the transfiguration that had taken place since he was last here. It was
almost like a spiritual awakening. Now, in contrast with the clutter of
scaffolding he remembered, the ear-shattering machine-gun fire of jackhammers
and pneumatic drills, it seemed in a way like some consecrated place, with its
polished marble walls and lofty majestic windows. A cathedral, even.
He was in
perfect time. More relaxed now, he emerged from the station onto the wet
sidewalk of 42nd Street under a black, overcast sky, heading up to
Madison Avenue and down the few blocks to the office. There were new faces
behind the security desk in the echoing entrance hall. Half a dozen years ago
they hailed him by name with a grin of recognition. Today there was only a
mumbled request to sign the register.
Alone in
the elevator he smoothed his hair and straightened his tie. Things had changed
on the 46th floor. Gone was the Regency wallpaper he’d chosen, in
harmony with a reproduction Louis XVI reception desk with its matching chairs.
The style was now minimalist. A young woman seated behind a cantilevered steel
and glass table smiled up at him. A tiny black bud microphone like an
astronaut’s seemed to hover near her lips.
She beamed
at him. “You’ll be Mr. Bradford, right?”
He nodded.
“Yes. I’m seeing Mr. Vogel at eleven.”
“He’s
expecting you.” She touched a button.
“Mr. Bradford’s here to see Burt . . .”
The
receptionist seemed to be listening for a few seconds and then turned to him.
“He’ll be
a minute or two.”
The minute
or two passed and the young woman turned to him again and smiled. “I’m afraid
Burt’s, like, behind schedule. His assistant axed me if you’d mind waiting for
a few moments. Would you like a cup of coffee or something?”
He thanked
her, but declined. These days he was careful not to drink much coffee or tea,
since he tended to have problems finding a bathroom when he was away from home.
He’d be embarrassed if he had to leave the room while he was talking to Burt
Vogel.
There were
papers and magazines on the coffee table, but he was still too much on edge to
read them. Instead, he stood up, hands in pockets, and paced about the
reception area.
Frank
looked up at eight spotlight clocks on the wall, marked New York, Chicago, Los
Angeles, London, Buenos Aires, Frankfurt, Hong Kong and Sydney. They hadn’t
been there in his day. It had always been Burt’s ambition to have a network of
wholly owned offices, and it looked as though he was getting there. When Frank
retired, the name of the firm had been Focus Public Relations, but now it was
Focus Worldwide in ultramarine neon. On another wall were framed awards and, in
showcases, Oscar-like trophies, including a cluster of Silver Anvils and some
awards he didn’t recognize.
Presently
a handsome gray-haired woman in a black pants suit appeared through a glass
door and shook his hand, introducing herself as Suzanne, Vogel’s assistant.
“I’m
really sorry for the delay, Mr. Bradford. Burt’s been having a bad day, but
he’ll be out very soon.”
He sat
down again. The clock marked New York said twenty after eleven. The
receptionist caught his eye and smiled at him reassuringly, showing faultless,
seemingly incandescent teeth.
“What
happened to Alisha Brown?” he asked her.
“Alisha?
Oh, she left way back. She’s had three babies . . . brought them all in here a
few days ago. Cute kids.”
“So you
took her place?”
The young
woman laughed. “No way! There were two
other girls after her. I’ve only been here a few months.”
“Like it?”
he asked.
She
shrugged. “Sure, like, it’s a job. Know what I’m saying?”
Frank sat
down again, and waited.
What the
hell was Vogel up to? A few more minutes passed, and then the glass doors burst
open. Burt Vogel stood, his arms raised in greeting.
“Frank
Bradford, you old bastard! Good to see ya’!”
Vogel
hadn’t changed much. The crew cut, the shifty eyes, the oddly pointy face. No
wonder the staff called him ‘The Ferret.’ He wore what Frank’s younger
neighbors in Westchester would have called casual chic – an open neck under a
Polo sweater, tailored chinos and loafers. He bounded forward and grasped Frank
firmly by both shoulders, and Frank couldn’t help wondering whether Vogel was
about to kiss him.
“Dunno
what you’re doin’ to keep so trim, Frankie, but keep doin’ it. You're’ lookin'
great! Come on in.”
They
settled in armchairs, facing each other in a corner of Vogel’s office.
“So how’s
business?” Frank asked.
“Pretty
damn good. Mind you, it’s very different now.”
“How
come?”
“We, like,
changed course a couple of times. No more of that consumer crap. Not much
corporate, neither. We’re really into healthcare and pharma these days. A lot
of product and issue-oriented public affairs stuff.”
There it
was, the jargon. Well, he could cope with that.
“We – that
is, you – were moving into hi-tech,” Frank said, “What happened to all that? It
was big.”
Did he
imagine it, or did Vogel flinch?
“Most of
that went down the drain last year. All those freakin’ dot-coms. Yeah, that hit
us pretty hard. We had to let quite a few people go. You probably heard about
that.”
Frank said
no, he hadn’t heard.
“Bad
scene,” Vogel said.
Frank
wondered when he’d get to the point. But then Vogel changed the subject. “It’s
a long time,” he said. “Remind me. How long is it since you retired?”
“Nearly
nine years.”
Vogel
whistled. “Enjoyin’ it?”
“Most of
the time, I guess.”
“What
about the rest of the time?”
Frank had
decided he wouldn’t tell Vogel he'd give anything to be back at his desk. Not
yet, anyway. He’d mind what he said, with no hint of the aimlessness of his
life at home, his wife’s abusiveness, his bad back, the prostate thing, memory
lapses.
“Well, I confess
I get a little bit restless up there,” he said. “I don’t get quite enough to
keep my mind active and, well, I do rather miss the old days at Focus.”
“Don’t
think we haven’t missed you too, Frankie,” Vogel said. “They don’t make ‘em
like you anymore, ol’ pal.” He paused, leaned forward and patted Frank on the
knee. “I’ll be honest, if we have a problem here it’s finding senior people
with the skills you brought to the place – energy, creativity, loyalty,
integrity. Trouble is, everyone’s been promoted too goddamn fast. It’s the
Peter Principle run amok. They’ve no real experience, you see. No precedents to
apply to other clients’ problems. What we need is more experienced people.”
“Is that
what you wanted to talk about?”
Vogel’s
face brightened. “Yeah, kind of. You guessed it. I was broodin’ over this at
home last week and I had an idea. In fact I nearly called you.”
He was
sure of it. Burt Vogel was going to ask him for help. Maybe full-time, or as a
consultant. Frank’s tension of the last hour or two had dissolved and given way
to a surge of self-assurance.
“Tell me
more about your idea.”
Vogel
leaned back in his chair. “Ok, listen. I’ll cut the bullshit. Fact is, we’ve
lost a whole bunch of good people. A lot of them have done well and moved up
the totem pole. Here’s the idea – how about we hatch a plan to win ‘em back?”
“How?”
Frank asked.
“Good
question. S’pose we had a party,” Vogel said, “in a cool night spot we’d take
over for the night. We’d ask the lot of ‘em, knowing the ones who hate our guts
wouldn’t turn up anyway.”
“I get
it,” Frank said, “you’d finish up with Focus alumni at every level who still
had a residual good feeling about us.”
“Right!”
Vogel said. “There’ll be a few who are just plain curious, but what the hell?
We’ll give ‘em all a great time, lots to eat and drink, disco and stuff. Hey,
we could screen some great nostalgic video, too!”
“And then,
I guess, you’ll say a few well-chosen words.”
Vogel
shook his head. “Nah! They’ll see what we’re up to – I’ll just make it a
quickie. The real recruiting bit comes after everyone’s gone home, see? We’ll make our people really work the room,
sure. But, a few days after the party’s over we’ll sit round the table and
compare notes. Then we can draw up a list of people and approach ‘em one-on-one.
Slowly, slowly, catchee monkey. Geddit?”
“Sounds
great,” Frank said. “So what’s the next
step?”
Vogel
grinned. “Aha! This is where you come in.”
“Me?”
“Yeah.
Think about it, old buddy. Who knows more than you about the history of this
outfit?”
Wasn’t it
a certainty by now? In a minute or two Vogel was going to invite him to run his
recruiting beano. Wasn’t planning and running events one of his
specialties? It would be worth a few
grand. And, as well as that, he’d get a foot back in the door at Focus. Why
didn’t Vogel just come out with it and pop the question?
“Ok, Burt,
tell me what you want me to do?”
Vogel was
talking faster. “You were here for nearly 30 years, and you’re a good judge of
character. I bet you could put together a list of workmates as long as your
arm,” he said, “and what I’d really like is a list like that, underlining the
names of the ones you personally think were hot operators, real pro’s. Would
you do that for me?”
Was this
all? Just making a measly list of names of former employees to ask to a damn
party? Couldn’t he have asked for this in a five-minute phone call, instead of
dragging him all the way into New York?
He wanted
to say ‘No! Stick it, I owe you nothing. Find some other poor stiff you’ve
unloaded a few days after his sixty-fifth birthday.’
But he
didn’t. He said, “Glad to,” and hated himself for it.
“Jeez,
you're a real pal,” Vogel said, “I knew you’d do it!” Then he added, “When would be a good time of
the year to do it?”
“To do
what?”
“The
party, of course.”
“Let me
think about that,” Frank said.
Vogel’s
secretary stood in the doorway and caught her boss’s eye.
“What's
up, Suze?” Vogel asked.
Suzanne
made a barely perceptible hitch of her head that said, ‘can we talk?’
Vogel
excused himself and joined her in the doorway. A whispered conversation
followed, at the end of which Frank distinctly heard Vogel say "No
problem, tell ‘em I'll be there.”
Vogel sat
down again.
“Shit!
Gotta problem, Frankie . . . client in real trouble . . . wants me right now in
his office on Fifth. Some kind of flap at the FDA.”
He patted
Frank’s knee again. “I’m real sorry, I hoped we could have a good lunch at
Giovanni’s. Just you and me together, so we could catch up a bit.”
He snapped
his fingers. “Hey, tell you what, let's do lunch some other time. Give Suze a
call and she'll fix it up. Ok?”
Vogel was
pulling on his raincoat and heading for the door, calling instructions to
Suzanne. His mind was clearly somewhere else. Seconds later he was gone,
leaving Frank stunned, standing in the middle of the room.
He didn’t
fix the lunch date with Suzanne, who was all over him with apologies. Instead
he nodded a friendly enough goodbye and sat down for a minute or two in the
reception area, where the nice young woman had gone to lunch and been replaced
by someone else. He had to admit it; he’d been a ninny. It was all a big
mistake. His wife had been right about Vogel, he was a user and a jerk, and of
course Frank had always known that stuff about free lunches.
But what
to do now? He weighed his options. The
first was to have a bite at Grand Central and go home to face a battery of
monologues peppered with sneery questions like ‘well, what did I tell you?’ –
or ‘why don’t you listen to me?’ But when the second option slipped into his
mind he couldn’t suppress a little chuckle, though the stand-in receptionist
didn’t seem to notice. He’d play hooky – have a few hours on the loose in
Manhattan! There might be no free lunches but there were certainly free
afternoons. Hell, he was retired wasn’t he? He’d go to a movie at two o’clock
in the afternoon – take in one of the great independent pictures they never
showed at their glitzy, plastic MovieMax at home.
Frank
opened his newspaper and searched the listings in the Arts section. This was
going to be fun! He’d buy himself a damn great bag of popcorn drenched in
butter without her nagging him about cholesterol. Why hadn’t he treated himself
to a day in the city before, letting his hair down, meeting old pals? A whole
new way of life was opening up to him.
Sure, he’d
dredge up some names of former colleagues for Vogel’s dumb list. But it would
also be a great way to start checking out a list of long lost buddies.
With his
umbrella ready, he pushed through the glass doors onto 40th Street,
but when he stood on the sidewalk he peered up into the afternoon sky.
The clouds
were clearing, and the sun was coming out.
oo0oo
