by W.H. Harrod
I sat alone at one of the rear tables the following afternoon watching Dr. Sayah and Chief Barley leave the diner following a short meeting during which they gave me another negative update on Junior Junior’s progress. I experienced a sudden feeling of futility. There is no way in hell I’m going to be able to keep on juggling all these balls I have in the air. I felt besieged from all sides. Common sense told me I still stood to win or lose less than any other living person within fifty miles. I could get up from where I sat and walk out the door never looking back and not legally be held accountable for anything. Nothing! The insane thing, though, was it did not stand a chance of happening. I chuckled at this well-recognized bit of insanity. For reasons differing from day to day, I intended to stay.
Having resigned myself to my self-appointed fate, I looked around to get an idea of where I needed to go so I could once more become a working part of the diner’s small, but now efficient work force. A late arriving lunch crowd occupied only a few tables. Both Flo and Mary June busied themselves tending to matters relating to the counter area: collecting money, stocking the food bar, and so forth. My efforts looked to be most needed, as usual, for busing tables, so that’s where I decided to start.
I didn’t mind the table busing because it required practically zero brain cells to complete the job satisfactorily. I could use the time to make plans, evaluate ongoing strategies, and, in general, lose myself for brief periods amidst the minutia of my existence. In short, people who get paid to go around picking up and washing piles of dirty dishes didn’t generally worry about other people asking for their opinions or expertise. Except perhaps in Jonesboro, Kansas.
I started busing a table full of plates displaying the remnants of Swiss steak with gravy blue-plate specials when two gentlemen entered the diner and violated the general rule by heading straight to where I stood holding a nearly full tub of dirty dishes. I recognized one of the two as the plant superintendent, Jack Fletcher. The grey haired, late sixtyish, slump shouldered, wrinkled suit clad gentleman with him, I did not. Not put off by the tub of messy dishes I now held in anticipation of delivering them to the kitchen sinks, they both walked directly to where I stood.
“Afternoon, Will. This is Mr. Olson. He’s the President and majority stockholder of Olson Brothers’ Manufacturing, Inc. I told him as much about your idea as I could, and he suggested we come over so he could meet you and find out about your idea first hand. Do you have a few minutes?” Mr. Olson’s semi-condescending facial expression gave me the impression he most probably came to get a look at the local fry cook/financial consultant first hand. So far, he didn’t look impressed.
I might as well get this over with. “Yeah. Sure. Just give me a minute to take this stuff to the kitchen.” I turned and headed for the sinks without waiting for a reply.
Still carrying a hand towel I’d used to dry the dishwater from my hands, I motioned towards a table farthest away from the customers, “Okay! Why don’t we sit over here?”
Soon as we sat down, the plant owner started in. “Okay, Will. What’s all this nonsense about a fry cook in Jonesboro having some smart ideas about how I should sell my business? Sorry to be so forward, but that’s the way I operate.”
The plant superintendent kept his mouth shut, but rolled his eyes following the owner’s rude remark. I wasn’t at all put off by the owner’s abrupt manner. I would have been disappointed if he hadn’t said something. Fry cooks as a rule don’t get involved in multi-million dollar financial transactions.
I had to smile as I responded, “Mr. Olson, I hope you will believe me when I tell you I asked myself that very same question and not because I lack the expertise, mind you. I once managed production facilities a hell of a lot larger than yours. A long time ago I got tired of having to deal mostly with a bunch of self-absorbed ass holes. I told myself I never wanted to deal with those people again. Most of them knew very little about production methods or managing employees. What they did know was how to derive short-term profits at the expense of the long-term viability of the entire manufacturing enterprise. I tired of helping a bunch of takeover specialists destroy the livelihoods of dedicated American workers. From what I hear about your proposed deal so far, it looks as if you might be thinking of selling out to some of the same kind of people. Anything else you want to know about me?”
The owner looked dead at me before responding. “Okay,” he began, having ignored my intended insult, “you know something about business or maybe you’ve read a few headlines— tell me what kind of accounting system you employed within those manufacturing environments?”
He asked a good question. If a person claimed to be proficient in manufacturing processes, they should know the answer. I smiled, kind of like the guy who sat with a hand full of aces after having his bet raised. “I’m not sure what they are using now, but back when I ran the show, we employed what is generally referred to as a Full Absorption Accounting System. Are you familiar with it?”
The owner’s face softened somewhat, “Well, it looks as if you do have some manufacturing background, but how does that translate to being an expert regarding the sale of a manufacturing corporation’s assets?”
Another very appropriate question and I answered him by putting forward questions of my own.
“Perhaps,” I began, “I can best answer this by stating to you that I am not a real estate expert, but I am intimately aware of various methods of transferring ownership in manufacturing businesses which can result in maximum benefit to all parties involved. For instance, as opposed to simply selling the company ownership or stock to the highest bidder, and then immediately dealing with the very serious tax implications of having received your selling price straight out, you might consider an alternative. Are you familiar with the term Employee Stock Ownership Plan?”
The owner did not answer outright, but merely moved his head side-to-side indicating he wasn’t aware of such plans. His furrowed brow obviated his sudden change of attitude. The man now gave me his full attention.
“No? Well, that’s not unusual. You may want to look into it because, assuming your business is profitable, there is a distinct possibility both you and your employees can benefit by working together to keep the plant functioning right where it is. An ESOP, as they are generally called, can benefit both the current owners as well as the employees who would otherwise lose their jobs. Are you interested in hearing more?”
My listeners nodded their heads in the affirmative.
“Okay, then without getting too technical about it, I will describe a potential transaction. If the employees are serious about keeping their jobs, they can use part of the considerable dollars in their existing 401k funds to purchase shares in a newly formed ESOP. The ESOP would then purchase the company lock, stock, and barrel. ESOP stock certificates are then issued in the individual names of each employee making an investment. An established financial consulting firm would act as trustee and custodian for the future benefit of the new employee/stockholder owners of the company. The tax consequence relating to employees using the cash from their 401k’s is nil. Plus, the usually onerous tax consequences incurred by the sellers are deferred, and ultimately, generally reduced by somewhere in the range of fifty percent.”
I sat back to observe my listeners’ reaction to my down and dirty description of a very involved financial stratagem. The plant superintendent’s eyes opened wider than silver dollars. The owner’s eyes did just the opposite. What started out as a half opened glare now looked to be barely a squint. I wasn’t at all sure what this indicated. Did the owner give any credence to my idea, or did he intend to jump up and run out the door in hopes of escaping more of what he considered nonsense from a deranged local diner manager/dishwasher/financial consultant?
I looked at my watch and saw that I needed to get back to work. “Sorry guys, but I got to get to work. If you have any interest in pursuing this idea further give me a call. I can put you in touch with professionals who can give you more details. Or, you personall
y might consult one of the more established financial consulting firms in Topeka or Wichita to get more information. This is a commonly used and successful stratagem which I’m surprised you’re not familiar with, Mr. Olson.”
I got up from the table and my two guests did likewise. Only when they started to move towards the front door did the plant owner respond. “You’re an interesting individual, Mr. Clayton. Maybe we’ll be meeting again. Good day.”
I soon stood before the altar of dirty pots, pans, and dishes preparing to do penance for my sins. I suspected a lifetime of mostly selfish and self-centered behavior brought me to this most exalted position of chief dishwasher at the Going Down Fast Café, located in Where In The Hell Is That, Kansas! But I didn’t really believe in all that ultimate retribution crap. The only reason I was here is because I’d gotten slow of foot and mind. The solution to my problem came to me from out of the blue. If I ever got out of this mess, I would immediately go deep into a forest and live high in the top of a very tall tree where no one could find me. It was that was simple. Now, all I had to do was survive this temporary crisis of conscience blip presently interfering with my customary I don’t give a big rat’s ass state of mind, and things would return to normal. I would once more become Lonesome Will, the invisible man.
But right at the present time, there were several loose threads dangling. I intended to get them tied off as soon as possible, beginning with returning the Mayor’s two previous phone calls. I knew what he wanted. He wanted to know everything. What about UB2? Has anyone at the plant contacted me? If so, what happened? Has Big Bob been around? If so, did he say anything or do anything threatening? I dare say I would hate to witness the man’s actions if something like a tornado ever came close to his town. I fully expected the surviving locals might end up having to use a net on him.
All of this serious business and government work needed, of course, to await my required attention to the dirty dishes at hand. Once the dishwashing and other management chores were finished, I then could take the time to save the world. Also, my two associates for some reason maintained a respectful distance for most of the day, and this started to concern me. If they weren’t noisy, then I naturally figured they were up to something. Call me misogynistic if you insist. Although, I didn’t loose my testicles in the war, my ex-wife had temporarily confiscated them once we settled into our neat, upper middle class lifestyle. That’s when she started displaying more attitude and initiative. Like: when and what color to paint the house, whether we got a dog or a cat, when it would be appropriate for me to play golf with the guys. Little things like that. So it wasn’t far fetched for me to wonder if a mutiny was in the offing. Now that the diner operated like a finely tuned engine was there a need for the Alpha male? The answer was no. Most of the stuff I dealt with now had nothing to do with the diner. What they may be surprised to learn, though, was that a number of times throughout my average, chaotic day, they would be more than welcomed to it.
Not long after I’d finished with the dishwashing and stifling my paranoia, I walked out to the front register and espied a pickup truck at the gas pumps. The odd thing was the driver just sat in place, when usually only the old and frail waited for assistance. I decided to take a stroll out front to check things out. Whether it was an oldster or a younger person waiting, it made no difference to me. If they wanted someone else to do the gas pumping that presented no problem.
Arriving at the driver side window, I asked the occupant how I could be of service. The driver looked up to acknowledge my presence. I recoiled at finding myself staring into the cold, hard eyes of the you looking at me Judge. I’d overheard a few of the regulars make mention that he had not stopped by in the last several days. Now I could report to them their nemesis still roamed at large.
“Yes, you can,” he responded. “You can fill up my tank with regular, and while the tank is filling, I have something to say to you.”
I must have hesitated, wondering what in the heck he could possibly have to say to me about anything. I hadn’t broken any laws, nor had I ever been caught looking in his direction for more than the usually allowed two seconds after which the offender got the dreaded you looking at me response.
So it was with much trepidation that I returned to the driver’s window after placing the gas nozzle into the tank opening. As soon as I arrived back at the window, he began to talk, “My brother, Dom, asked me to relay a message. He’s requesting that you meet with us at his home south of town this evening at 9 p.m. I believe you know the reason. Can I relay to him that you will be available?”
Dazed. Shocked. Stunned. Mortified. These words might best be used to express my sorely abused brain’s reaction to another unexpected revelation. I stood speechless, lacking the ability to make my lips move. The Judge waited for my response. Still, nothing came out of my mouth.
“Do you not understand what I am saying to you? Is something wrong?” he finally asked. By the time the Judge finished his questions, his menacing little eyes, the result, undoubtedly, of having to impart the fear of societal retribution into a multitude of hardened criminals, had me on the verge of pleading to the court for a lighter sentence.
“Yes! No! I mean, yes, I understand. And, no, nothing is wrong. I’ll be there. Nine tonight.”
The Judge merely nodded his head in agreement, and asked me how much he owed for the gas.
“Twenty-one even,” I told him after having secured the gas tank lid and replacing the nozzle to its rightful place.
“Thanks,” was his terse comment to me as he handed me the twenty-one dollars in cash and calmly drove away in the direction of the county seat.
“Probably has a private hanging to attend,” I said aloud as I dejectedly walked back inside the diner where I stood dumbfounded before the register. My thoughts focused on the sheer number of odd characters I’d come into contact with of late. There was: the love’em or beat’em up Preacher Roy; the paranoid Mayor/realtor/insurance salesman; UB2; Big Bob (apparently dumb as a stick) Buford; Flo, the man hunter/waitress; the arrogant and possibly uncaring plant owner; the heartbroken Junior Junior; Jasper, the forgetful gunslinger; and now, the most frighteningly self-conscious judge I had ever met. In essence, I somehow managed to drift into an American version of a Fellini movie where absurdist humor, eccentric characters, and surreal dream imagery coalesced to form a mind blowing idiosyncratic vision of society.
“Holy crap. Boy, am I screwed. I am living in Nutville central.”
“What’s that you’re saying?” asked Flo as she quietly came up behind me. “Did I hear you mumble something about somebody getting screwed?”
The sound of the avowed man hunter’s voice brought me back to reality. “Merely a figure of speech madam, I assure you,” I said to my workmate who by the time I looked around stood right next to me.
“Really?” replied Flo in an incredulous voice. “Well, let me straighten you out real quick buster. If it’s done right, it ain’t never about talking, and it’s never about figuring out a speech either. Boy, you have been out of the saddle a long time.”
As she moved on past me towards the front door, I experienced an almost profound sense of relief. The last thing I wanted to do was engage Flo in any conversation dealing with reproductive organs. Not monkeys, not cows, and, especially, not human reproductive organs. I’d rather talk to her about psoriasis, phlegm, photosynthesis, or any of those ugly P words that are so hard to work into conversations.
“See you guys tomorrow,” announced Flo as she exited the diner heading for her car.
“Close one, huh?” said Mary June suddenly announcing her presence.
I turned to greet the one single individual in the entire town whom I considered even partially sane. That simple acknowledgement regarding her sanity spawned an idea. I realized I needed help. I needed a sounding board. Someone not nearly so, how can I best say it, nuts! I stood up to my eyeballs in the criminally humorous, yet sad, affairs of a community straight out of the pages o
f a Mark Twain novel, or better yet, George Orwell’s, “Animal Farm,” where, ultimately, the leader of the revolting farm animals is purged by those who succumb to the temptation of power, and change the “all animals are equal” commandment to “all animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.” If we succeeded in wresting control over the jobs and finances from the crooked politicians and job outsourcers in Jones County would that eventually happen to me? Will Flo and Mary June end up throwing me out of the diner after all that I have done? And the Mayor, along with the plant employees, will they simply push me aside after I figure out a way to save their potentially ungrateful asses? Who cares? I’m leaving anyway, I reminded myself.
“Do you have a minute?” I asked Mary June in the most supplicating tone of voice I could have ever imagined.
She looked at me as if she were in total agreement with my own unflattering assessment regarding my sudden extreme deference towards the use of her personal time.
“Well…sure, what’s going on?” Her demeanor was one you’d more often expect from a person anticipating being hit up for a loan.
I had no idea how best to proceed, so I decided to wing it. “I’d like to talk to you about something. I promise it won’t take more than a few minutes.” As I finished my opening statement, I gestured towards the closest table. She acquiesced and took a seat without asking any further questions. I took a seat across from her.
“Boy, is Flo something, or what? Ha! Ha! I mean she is some crazy lady! Ha! Ha!” I blathered on like a teenager asking a girl out on a first date.
“Will, is something wrong? What’s going on? You’re acting very strange today. I think there is something you want to tell me. So what is it?”
Actually, I was relieved she put an end to my stalling. I needed help, and she existed as the only marginally sane person around.
“I think I need some help, but I’m reluctant to ask for it because there might be some danger involved. I mean real danger.” I sat back, relieved to have revealed my fears to someone else.
Mary June’s frown obviated her confusion. “You mean somebody is opposed to your helping to keep the plant here?” she asked.
“This doesn’t involve the plant. It’s something else entirely.”
“Does it have anything to do with all those secret meetings you’re having with the Mayor?” This question surprised me although it shouldn’t have. I knew down deep there were few secrets in this town.
I decided to go all in. “Yes, it does, and I would like to think there is another sane human being available to use as a sounding board, but I’m reluctant to involve anyone else because, eventually, there could be real danger. So before I go on, I would ask you to think about it. If it makes you uncomfortable, you should get up immediately, and I won’t ever bother you again with issues that are beginning to dominate so much of my time.”
She looked puzzled. I expected she had long ago grown accustomed to the community’s eccentricities, but I doubt she ever imagined real danger lurking nearby. I decided to do as most successful salesmen do after having made their pitch, which is to shut completely up. The rule was, who ever spoke first conceded the contest. Mary June apparently understood this tactic because for the longest time she sat quietly, pondering the opportunity to get involved with what I had so unexpectedly laid on the table.
Time passed as we looked at one another. She was a smart lady. She understood the definition of the word danger. If she wisely chose to get up and walk away, I would not hold it against her. Actually, saying no was the smart move. Only I suspected she and I labored with the same affliction: detestation for those scoundrels who regularly took advantage of the average workingman or woman. Like me, she withdrew only so far into her stoutly woven protective cocoon before coming out fighting. I decided not to torture her any longer.
“I’m in,” is the response I heard before I could say anything. “Tell me the whole story and leave nothing, and I mean nothing, out,” she said to me, absent any pretense at politeness.
And that’s what I did, eventually ending up back where we sat at that moment trying to plan a way to get to UB2’s property and back without being spotted or followed by one of the Buford cartel.
“I think it’s time you and I went on a date,” were the first words out of her mouth after learning the whole story. “I’ll pick you up at 8:30 p.m., and we’ll head towards Justice City. About halfway there, we can turn back south and use the back roads to get you to your nine p.m. meeting. I’ll wait in the car, and then we will retrace our route back to town. Okay?”
“Okay,” I responded with a genuine tone of gratitude in my voice.
“Good. Then I’ll pick you up later,” she said as she headed for the door.
Following Mary June’s departure, I sat quietly for a long period going over in my mind all of the opportunities in front of me to either help or seriously hurt other people’s lives. After another lengthy period, a single thought forced all others to the side. I hope I don’t mess this thing up. With that sobering thought at the forefront of my mind, I figured I’d better get busy with my diner chores so I would have plenty of time to prepare for the meeting. My ride planned to pick me up at 8:30 sharp, and I needed to be ready.
Chapter Twenty-Three
