Countenance of Man

by Matthew Nuth

  In any case, it was good that it looked as if they would no longer have to deal with Phil Barton as part of the commission. His resignation had addressed a number of issues related to getting the project started, at least. Unfortunately, Barton had now become an even more significant impediment to the project, one that could likely kill the entire project.

  Upon resigning from the committee, Phil Barton had aggressively moved to acquire two buildings in the targeted redevelopment area, one on each side of the street. He had little trouble finding a couple of motivated sellers. Being unware of the potential redevelopment project, they were thrilled to dump their property. The acquisition gave Barton the opportunity, he hoped, to once again extort huge profits from PW Simmons, or the city. Quite frankly, he did not care where the money came from as long as it ended up in his pocket. The fact that he had effectively used insider knowledge to his benefit did not bother him in the least. Since he was no longer a member of the commission, he theoretically no longer had influence over the council, and any accusations of insider knowledge would be tough to prove. If it was not illegal, he did not give a shit if it was ethical or not.

  Barton intended to assert his power through extortion. He had filed a lawsuit against the city to prevent them from using eminent domain and to block the transfer of properties to PW Simmons. Lanny joked that, like a mad dog, Barton was pissing all over the place to mark his territory. Although it was doubtful the lawsuit would prevail on legal grounds, it was clear it could hold up the progress for the foreseeable future. The suit could take years to meander through the system. It was clear that Barton was either going to make a mountain of dough out of his investment or everyone was going to fail. He was confident the Simmons family and the city would not want the project to fail. There was too much good to gain, both in tax revenues and the life of downtown.

  PW Simmons now faced a dilemma. From one aspect, they were confident they could make the problem go away merely by offering to buy out Barton; however, this came with huge costs. Barton was going to likely require a massive premium for his properties. The premium would then likely re-establish the fair market values that would then be applied to the rest the properties as the city exercised eminent domain (a real problem). The second option was to let the suit run its course; letting the city deal with Barton and fund the battle. On the surface, this seemed to be the most prudent course of action; however, it came with a long leash that could leave PW Simmons obligated to move quickly with the redevelopment as soon as the suit was resolved. It could tie the hands of their company to a potential liability for years. This option was frightening in that it would effectively limit PW Simmons from alternative investments the entire time Barton’s suit weaved through the courts.

  Paul and William had holed up in their conference room all morning discussing how they should address Barton’s lawsuit. They needed to come up with a way to blunt the effect Barton was having on their business.

  Paul jokingly said, “You know it would be a hell of a lot easier if that son-of-bitch would just keel over from a heart attack.”

  William looked up from his notes without moving his head and responded “Well, we have had our experience with people dying over our company priorities before. Maybe he could just shoot himself, huh?”

  Paul cringed. “Not funny, William. I was just kidding on the heart attack. I don’t really wish the guy harm; well maybe a little, but not dying. Hell, a judge would end up feeling sorry for his family and they’d end up winning.”

  “Look, Paul, what would really be the problem if we just pulled back on owning all the properties anyway. We could still push the city to redo the street. We’d renegotiate the deal with the city and let the prick keep his two buildings. Sure, he will have won a small battle and he will make a bundle after the redevelopment starts, but at least we could still do some good for the city. I suspect we could still afford to buy a few of the most important buildings and renovate them.”

  “I doubt we could really afford much of anything. Interest rates are higher than we have ever seen and you know Barton is going to let it leak out about the development just to drive up the value of his buildings. So even though we should be able to go it alone, I just don’t see how it could work. Eventually those buildings are going to end up costing us a hell of a lot more. Worse, we could be faced with metering out the renovations over years, delaying the payback, if there is any left over. I am not sure how we can make it work financially.”

  “How about we sell the car dealership and plow all of that into buying as many buildings as possible and passing on the rest?”

  “William, you love that business and besides, we would not be selling at top dollar with this shitty economy. The car business pays a lot of bills. Yes, it’s a nice idea, but our biggest challenge right now is the property I bought years ago, in San Diego when I thought Cal might actually end up playing baseball down there.” Paul paused in silence, “ I don’t know what I was thinking back then. It seems like we are paying a small army to jump through hoops to get that housing project going and I don ‘t think it is going to get better anytime soon. God, if I could turn back the clock I would have never pushed us to get involved down there. I just seemed so good at the time.”

  William sat with his arms crossed across his chest. “I think it was a good idea then and I still think it will be a good investment for us; maybe our best investment. No, I would not sell that land now.”

  “Good thing, because I don’t think it is worth a nickel more than we paid for it right now. In fact, I doubt we could get what we owe out of it. We are in never-never land there - heavily invested in it, but still needing to invest more before it is of any value. Today, if we sold it, we’d be wasting our total investment. Plus, we would need to lay off people. That’s something we have never done before. I don’t want to start now.”

  William was silent, “Look I think I am going to want to retire in a few years, so selling the car dealership really makes sense, unless you want to still run it after I’m gone. I know it is doing well for us, but I’ll bet it is worth a hell of a lot more than we paid for it. It might buy us time to get this Linden Street thing off the ground and maybe even the San Diego tract, too.”

  “Well, maybe so, but it would be a hell of a lot easier to just cut our losses by pulling out of Linden Street. We could actually make Barton squirm. He’d be left with a couple of old buildings no one wants in a crappy section of town and a big mortgage.” Paul smiled to himself thinking about sticking it to Barton.

  William laughed. “Paul, you are so full of shit. As fun as it would be to hurt Barton, I know you want to do the Linden Street development. You need to do this; if not for the city, then for yourself. Let’s quit kidding ourselves and make it happen; even if it is on a smaller scale. Maybe we could back out if we had not already pulled in Lyle’s money, but now we have his legacy to remember. We owe it to him. We have to make it work. Hell, if we cash out of the car business, I can spend my last few years working managing the project. I can run the construction aspect of Linden Street and you handle the property management to make sure we actually have someone that is willing to put their businesses in the buildings once we’re complete. Otherwise, we are all going to be looking for new jobs soon.”

  * * *

  My freshman year in high school was not a fun time for me. It started out with my first day unwittingly making enemies of both teachers and the Barton kid and never seemed to get righted. I mean, I got great grades, never created trouble, but for some reason, teachers never seemed to like me. I was condoned, but never accepted. It sucked.

  To make it worse my best friend in the world, Johnny Jackson passed away just before Christmas that year. He had met me after school at our favorite café. We had agreed to meet over a couple slices of pie and coffee, Johnny was buying, to discuss what it was like for him to serve in the army during the Korean War, the current subject in my American his
tory course. I had made the mistake in class of bringing up the fact that my Dad and my best friend had both served in the war. The teacher latched onto this and decided to assign a new assignment for the class: interview someone that was directly affected by the war and write a paper of at least five hundred words about the impact to their life. It represented an additional class assignment and just before Christmas break. It served to make me even less popular with my classmates.

  Johnny and I had just finished up our pie and I had bent over to pull my notebook and pen out of my back pack. As I placed the notebook on the table, I looked up to notice something wrong with Johnny; his eyes were open and were staring at something across the room. Well, not really staring, all the life was drained from them. They were sightless. It is hard to imagine that with just a briefest of glances, I could tell that Johnny was no longer with me. I guess eyes really hadn’t changed much; still the same clear brown with just a hint of hazel, but the sparkle had disappeared. All the life had evaporated in a puff. I sat quietly, waiting for something, anything that could jump revived life into those eyes. It never happened and that is my last memory of being with Johnny: getting ready to fire some questions at him on a topic I suspect he never ever wanted to talk of.

  * * *

  Johnny’s funeral was a quiet, sober, and small event. We were his only family and Dad had him buried in our family plot. I think it only made sense. He had lived with us for almost five years and had become a part of our family that would be dearly missed.

  In retrospect, Johnny’s passing gave me a much-needed push to grow up and start making a path unique only to me, pulling out of my self-made wake of frustration of trying to live up to the standards set by my Dad and Cal. I had to set my own course and not look back. It’s not that I was not proud of my family, but I finally realized I needed to be my own person.

  For me the challenge meant stepping away from my temerity to stand for up for something, for myself. My first opportunity came the very first day after returning to school from Christmas break. Billy Barton and his group of goons had monopolized their normal lunch table just inside the entrance to our cafeteria. I call them goons now because to me they were nothing more than bullies and thugs; probably always had been and probably always would be. I suspect they laid claim to this location just inside the cafeteria to harass the other students as they arrived for lunch. I was one of this group’s normal targets and today would be no different, at least that is what Barton thought.

  Barton pushed himself out from the table, sliding his chair into me as I walked by. Laughing and looking to his buds he commented half to intimidate me, all to impress his friends, “So your brown-tard friend finally kicked the bucket?” Bill Barton laughed once again, self-impressed at his supposed witticism. “Rumor has it you bored him to death with your Korea . . .” I really do not recall specifically what happened next other than I tackled the jerk. Apparently, after landing a number of punches and a head-butt for good measure two teachers had pulled me off Bill Barton. Years later one of those same teachers confided in me that they actually let me pummel the Barton kid longer than they should have just because the bully had it coming. His friends had just sat in silence, not a one willing to stand up to help their friend and leader.

  I had the pleasure of sitting outside the principal’s office for the remainder of the day waiting for my Mom and Dad to arrive for a conference that would end-up including the Dean of Boys, the Principal, my Dad and Mom, and the two teachers that broke up the short fight. Time ticked by in slow motion. Two hours may as well have been two days. At 2:30, Mom and Dad walked into the school’s administration office. Dad’s eyes were piercing through me. It was the first time I had ever been in trouble and I could tell from his look, he intended it to be the last. There was no forgiveness there, just anger and the presumption of guilt. I looked to Mom to get some support. She just slowly shook her head as if to say, “Don’t say anything, yet.”

  My principal opened his door, noticing that my parents had arrived. “Mister and Missus Simmons, I am happy you could come on such short notice. We have to discuss a serious matter regarding Randall’s conduct today over lunch break.” He motioned us all to come into his office and shut the door after us.

  Dad started even before the principal could sit down. “I want you to know fighting is not something we condone in our household, and we will deal with Randall appropriately. You can be assured of that.” Then to me “Randall, I cannot believe you got into a fight and your principal tells me you started it. What were you thinking? I know; you weren’t.”

  The principal interrupted. “Mister Simmons, I think there might be some extenuating circumstances. After talking with you on the phone, I discussed the matter with the two teachers that stopped the fight, and apparently, Billy Barton may have started the whole thing by pushing his chair into Randall. Anyway, I thought we owed it to Randall to hear his side of the story before I determine what actions the school needs to take.”

  “Billy Barton?” Dad looked at me and I nodded. His whole demeanor changed in an instant. One moment bristling and dominant, the next, the anger deflated, and he was elated. He understood.

  After hearing me recount Billy’s “brown-tard” comment, the principal had his secretary call in the Dean of Boys and the two teachers that had rescued Billy. After confirming my story, I thought I was home free. I probably would have been, too, except for the fact that I had broken Billy’s nose. For me I would be suspended for three days from school. Billy would likewise be suspended and would be placed on probation; any more fighting or tormenting of me, and he would be expelled.

  The walk from the school office to Mom and Dad’s car was quiet, I could sense Dad wanted to say something but had decided it best to wait until we had the relative privacy of the car.

  Dad smiled as he lowered himself into the driver seat. He looked at me in the rear-view mirror and said “Damn, Randall, good job. I wished I’d had the nerve you had today. I know Johnny appreciated what you did.” He smiled again. Mom smiled and I smiled. High school was now fun.

  Chapter 32

  My run-in with Billy Barton changed my relation with Dad. Prior to Billy Barton, ours had been a weak association, marked not by animosity, but by indifference. My father never seemed able to bring himself to be close to me. After Barton, we had something in common with one another, and it was good. Instead of spending afternoons with Johnny, I now spent them with Dad and Uncle Bill at the office. I was learning the business and at the same time getting to know my Dad for the first time. I truly got to see him in action not more than a month after the Barton incident of Fort Collins High. Now I got a front seat at the second Barton act here in Dad’s office.

  * * *

  Watching through the glass wall of the conference room I could see Phil Barton, confidently sitting at one side of the long conference table; his feet crossed and propped up on the chair beside him. Dad sat at the end of the table facing him while Uncle Bill sat directly across the table from Barton. The conversation was to be the start of a negotiation for PW Simmons Corp to acquire Barton’s two buildings on Linden Street and to get Barton to cease his lawsuit that had thrown such a large wrench into the entire Linden Street redevelopment schedule.

  Dad had been avoiding this negotiation for weeks, but now was faced with either buying Barton’s properties for an unrealistically high price now or delay further and be faced with an even more insane asking price later. The only other likely alternative was to cancel the project with the city and move on to other investment opportunities. This later choice was particularly unpalatable in that it would waste more than a year of planning and approvals with the city.

  Barton rocked back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. “So, Simmons, I was going to be nice on this negotiation, but my price went up once your little dick of a son attacked my boy last year. My attorney tells me I probably would not be successful at suin
g your ass for breaking my kid’s nose, but I figure I’ll get my money out of you one way or another.”

  Dad and Uncle Bill sat quietly as Phil Barton attempted to set the stage for the negotiation, positioning himself as the man of power, holding all the cards, and being magnanimous in just showing up at the office to discuss the potential of him selling his buildings. Uncle Bill could tell from Dad’s fidgeting with his pen that he was having great difficulty in not jumping up to strangle the prick. He wondered how long it would be before Dad’s fidgeting would break the pen, spewing ink over the table.

  Uncle Bill interrupted Barton. “So, I get all your posturing, Phil, but let’s cut to the chase. Paul and I know what you have tied up in those two dilapidated buildings so do not push too hard. What are you looking to get for your investment?”

  Phil, smiled and pulled his brief case up to the table. He opened the case, but instead of pulling out his proposed price and terms, he pulled out a cigar and proceeded to light up in the closed conference room. Figuratively, he was using this opportunity to piss all over Dad’s and Uncle Bill’s turf. He then proceeded to throw out a number that was more than three times the amount for which had purchased the buildings not more than two months earlier. He puffed on his cigar a blew the smoke in Dad’s direction.

  Dad surprised everyone by starting to laugh. “Damn, Phil, that is stupid. I knew you had balls, but I hoped you also had brains. Now I realize you and your son have a lot in common: air between the ears. Here we were prepared to give you a generous offer for your properties.,” he motioned to three folders he had stacked in front of him on the table, “but, you just attacked my sensibilities with your comments and just pissed me off.”

  Dad rose from his seat, gathered the folders and dumped them in the trash can. “I can see we have no room to work. If I am forced to cancel the project, then so be it. William, let’s set up some time with the mayor to tell him what’s going on. I’m sure he will be disappointed, but in the same respect, he will be glad to be able to put Barton’s lawsuit to rest.” Then facing Barton, “Barton, you may as well pull your attorney off the lawsuit. There is not going to be any imminent domain issues anymore. Oh, and, by the way, enjoy owning those two pieces of shit you call buildings. I am sure you will enjoy owning them every month the mortgage comes due.” Dad turned to walk out of the conference room.