The words formed a sort of semi-circle on the side of the can, the roundness of the can distorting the words into the slightly circular appearance. Below the can, the advertising copy read: “This is your opportunity to participate in ‘Trash Talk.’ A chance to learn from the experts and discuss your ideas. What’s in our future? Come to Sarasota, Florida, May 27–May 31. For more information contact: Jordan Gifford, 1218 Lime Street, Sarasota, Florida 34280 or call 1-800-668-7274.
Jordy was like a kid in a candy store. The five foot nine blond with blue eyes looked like the stereotypical California surfer. In fact, Jordy had grown up in San Diego, where his father owned a very successful advertising agency. Jordy’s dream, as well as his father’s, was for Jordy to follow in his footsteps and eventually take over the advertising agency. However, it did not take long in young Jordy’s life to realize that the talent and the drive were lacking. His dad ultimately, and with great difficulty, accepted the fact that Jordy would never be his successor in the business. Jordy accepted that much earlier than his father, but he still hoped to enter the advertising business in some role.
The job with the Sarasota Environmentalist Society had been a godsend. Jordy met a girl while on a post-college graduation vacation to Florida, who listened to Jordy bemoan his future and express his career desires. She alerted him to a possibility that she had heard about from a friend in Sarasota. Almost miraculously, after a telephone discussion about Jordy’s journalism major in college and his general knowledge of advertising due to his father’s influence, Jordy had an interview and was offered the role of public relations manager. He was also asked to handle whatever minor advertising the group might require.
He became Rama Schriff’s first hire shortly after Schriff had arrived some four years earlier. The job level and requirements seemed to suit Jordy’s limited talents quite well and, even though at times he did display a bit of undeserved arrogance, he fit in well with the rest of the group.
The national meeting was Jordy’s dream. It was like his greatest wish came true, a real advertising campaign. He was even able to overcome the disappointment of having less time to sail his small sailboat in Sarasota Bay, which had replaced his so-so surfing as his only physical activity since he arrived in Sarasota.
Melissa and Arnie were exploring opportunities for social events during the meeting. Sarasota in May, Arnie thought. What a beautiful time. Melissa suggested large sailboat cruises around the bay and even into the gulf. The attendees would appreciate the idea of minimal use of motors and minimal pollution compared to the large sightseeing yachts that regularly navigated the waters. Arnie thought of guided walks to the art galleries on Palm Avenue and perhaps a performance at the Van Wezel Performing Arts Center. Melissa agreed to find out what was on the program for the end of May.
“And no one should come to Sarasota without a visit to the Ringling Museum and Cor d’Zan, the newly renovated home of John and Mable Ringling, the circus founders.”
“So much to do and so little time,” Arnie chirped as he practically pranced around the office. His state of excitement had not dissipated in the weeks since he received this assignment. Life was good for Arnie Schwartz.
C h a p t
e r 5
The community of professional athletes couldn’t believe the curse that had befallen them. What could those jackass commissioners be thinking?
Meanwhile the ‘jackass’ commissioners had their own take on the situation. They were on the phone to each other as much as were the players. They were elated with the outcome of their historic meeting.
Bert Salen, the baseball commissioner, called Kress the day after the meeting. “David, that was a fabulous suggestion you made about additional education. You’re a genius.”
“Thanks, Bert, but it was really a joint effort. Phil’s idea to require continuing education on an annual basis was really the clincher. He’s had more than his share of problems with the football players. Hell, maybe our players will learn how to put sentences together.”
“Yeah,” Salen responded. “Remember the interview with Randy Matson two weeks ago? The only thing understandable was when he said that line drive hit him in the balls. It would have caused him a lot less damage if it had hit him in the head.” Salen continued, “I was also really pleased with Bitten’s participation and willingness to go along with the idea. His hockey players don’t get interviewed that often so they have less chance to look like idiots.”
“That’s true,” said Kress, “but they’ve had plenty of problems too. A few weeks ago Serge Kikamin from Boston broke a guy’s jaw in the parking lot after a game because the guy told him that he should be sent back to the minors.”
“Oh yeah,” agreed Salen, “and there was that fight between the Red Wings and the group of people in the seats. Hell, a couple of the players actually carried their sticks into the stands.” Salen went on, “I also hope that exposing the players to people in other walks of life in these educational programs will make them less likely to do the really stupid things like stealing and brawling and abusing their wives or girlfriends.”
“I hope so,” said Kress. “Hell, some of my players think that the merchandise in stores is free to them because of their celebrity status. Shit, I had a Miami ball player arrested for walking away from a fruit stand with a grapefruit. When the cop asked him why he didn’t pay for it, the arrogant asshole told him, ‘hell, I pick ’em off trees all the time. This jest savin’ me reachin’ up. Ain’t no big deal.’ But unfortunately the stand owner didn’t feel that way. The damn player makes a million bucks a year and he steals a grapefruit. Go figure.”
“Well,” said Salen, “let’s hope this program works. I can’t see how it can hurt them.”
“No, neither can I,” said Kress. “Maybe they’ll get involved with music, and we can have a pro player’s choir in the future.
Salen added, “Or the pro athlete sewing circle or book club.”
“We all agree that we cannot see how this can make things worse or cause them to get into more trouble,” replied Kress as they ended their phone call.
Obviously, the commissioners who held that opinion were not aware of the upcoming Sarasota ‘Trash Talk’ Symposium.
***
The press release that emanated from the commis
sioners’ meeting was a bombshell to the fans as well as the players. A seminal moment in sports history. No one had ever required professional athletes in the United States to get continuing education other than in their sport. Some of the athletes were not required to have any education, although there had not yet been reports of anyone leaving high school to sign a professional contract before graduation.
There was mixed reaction from the public. Some thought it absurd. They looked at these players as gladiators, as pieces of meat to be put in the arena for the pleasure of the public. Others thought the program was a waste of money and would surely result in an increase in ticket prices. But the majority of the public seemed to think that it was a clever and reasonable approach to improving the image of professional athletes.
The topic occupied radio talk shows for weeks. Imus was laughing so hard at comments from callers he almost choked on a bagel. Mitch Albom in Detroit ran a call-in survey and found seventy percent of the callers favored the new requirement.
Leno and Letterman created an entire repertoire of athlete-education jokes. Letterman suggested a Montessori program might be instituted. A guest on Leno’s show suggested a company be formed to make steel piano benches in case any athlete decided to take up that noble instrument.
On ESPN, sports commentators came on screen with piles of textbooks in front of them, and one wore a mortarboard.
Terry Bradshaw and Howie Long said that they would take postgraduate courses since they were retired. Everyone seemed to get their laughs from the plan, but a real curiosity was created about future activities and results.
The athletes, with very few exceptions, were irate. They saw no reason
to waste their time, and no need to change anything about themselves. And they certainly could not imagine an educational program that would gain their interest or benefit them in any way. Obviously, they were not yet aware of the upcoming Sarasota ‘Trash Talk’ symposium.
C h a p t e r 6
It was 8:20 a.m. when Jordy walked into Arnie’s office. This was the earliest Jordy had arrived at work in months, and he was eager that Arnie know he was there. He practically skipped into the office and was halfway into a cheery, “Good morning Arnie. How the hell —” but he stopped midsentence when he saw the distraught look on Arnie’s face as he sat at his desk with chin resting on his right fist, elbow bent on the desk. “What the hell happened to you? You look like you fell out of the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
“You won’t believe this,” said Arnie with a deep breath and then a sigh. “I just got a call from the national office. From old Ed Mundhill himself.”
“The big boss called you already this morning?” said Jordy, impressed. “Anything really important?”
“Yeah, Jordy, damned important. He wants us to change the meeting theme.”
“What?” shouted Jordy. “It’s a great theme. Look at all the work we’ve already done. Everybody’s excited about it. We’re even getting registrants already. We can’t change now. That’s a bunch of crap.”
“Hey, I agree,” replied Arnie. “I told all of that to Mundhill. Not exactly in your words, but I was pretty strong. He said he’ll think about it, but he wants us to submit a couple of alternatives.”
“Have you told Schriff yet?” Jordy asked.
“No, he’s not in yet, but I’ll grab him as soon as he gets here. We need some strong support from him if we are going to convince Mundhill to let us keep our theme. I hope that Rama has it in him to stand up for us.”
“Me too,” replied Jordy, “but I wouldn’t bet my life on it.”
“Well Jordy, you better start thinking of a few new possibilities for themes. Tell Pam and Melissa too. I’ll do everything I can to change Mr. Mundhill’s mind.”
“Okay, Arnie. Let me know how things are going after you talk with Schriff.”
Jordy left the office without even remembering to impress Arnie with his early arrival. It didn’t seem very important now.
Arnie was at Rama Schriff’s office door at 9:02, two minutes after Mr. Schriff arrived. Schriff was seated at his very neat desk moving a few sheets of paper onto small neat piles.
“Rama,” Arnie burst in, “I’ve got to talk to you about a serious problem. I got —”
He was interrupted by Schriff. “Serious problem?” Schriff’s Indian accent was very strong at this moment indicating some distress. “What can be so serious so early in the workday?”
“It’s Mundhill,” Arnie went on. “He’s —”
But once again Schriff interrupted. “Mundhill? You mean Edmund Mundhill? Our president?”
“The one and only,” Arnie said sarcastically. “He wants a different meeting theme.”
“What?” shouted Schriff in a near screech. “Different theme? It’s too late. Didn’t he already approve the present one?”
“Well, not exactly,” said Arnie. “We never asked him. We just sent the tentative program and the title.”
“Never asked him?” Schriff now squeaked. It sounded a bit like a question, but he didn’t wait for an answer. He started again. “Oh, my, my, my, Arnie, Arnie, how could you not ask him?”
“I thought it was our call, Rama,” Arnie explained.
“Oh my, oh my, Arnie. Our call? We have no call. He is our president. He is my boss. Oh, oh, oh.”
“Calm down, Rama,” Arnie softened his tone. “I’ll figure some way to convince Mundhill that our topic is very important and very appropriate.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, yes, Arnie. Please do so,” wailed Schriff. “I am now leaving for a massage. I must go now, Arnie. I will return tomorrow morning. Thank you, Arnie. Thank you.” With that he slid back his chair and bolted from the office.
Arnie just shook his head slowly back and forth, and walked back toward his office to plan a strategy.
C h a p t
e r 7
Arnie spent the rest of the day alone in his office with the door closed. He skipped lunch and let all the phone calls Melissa didn’t answer go to his message service. He wrote notes on a tablet. Half of the time he scratched them out and rewrote them. Arnie mumbled to himself and ran his hands through his hair as he leaned back in his desk chair.
By six o’clock Arnie knew what he had to do. He sighed, pushed his chair back from the desk, got up, switched off the office light, and left.
When Arnie got to his apartment, he kicked off his shoes, threw a leftover slice of pizza into the microwave, and did something that he only did about three times a year. He opened a can of Miller Lite beer. Arnie tossed the hot slice of pizza onto a paper plate, grabbed a paper napkin and his beer, and flopped on the couch. As he punched on the TV set to the 6:30 world news, he thought, tomorrow is going to be one hell of a day.
Arnie awakened on the couch. It was dark outside, and he was in his work clothes. The living room lamp and the TV were on. He looked at the clock: 1:23 a.m. He arose, stretched, staggered to the bedroom after turning off the TV and lamp, and undressed. He fell onto the bed without even brushing his teeth. He clicked the bedroom lamp off and was asleep again within a minute.
At 3:00 a.m. Arnie awoke. He had been dreaming something about Mr. Mundhill. His heart was racing. He didn’t remember the details, but he remembered shooting Mundhill. He jumped up, got a glass of water, and tried to wash away the beer and pizza taste while his heart slowed to normal.
The remainder of the night was spent tossing and turning in bed. Arnie thought that he may have slept thirty or forty minutes when his alarm went off: 6:00 a.m. Work time. Showered, shaved, and dressed and with the fresh taste of toothpaste in his mouth, Arnie hopped into his car and headed for work.
The beautiful Sarasota sunrise made him feel somewhat better, but Arnie was not at his peak when he arrived at his office. Since it was not quite 7:30, no one else was there yet. Arnie made a pot of coffee, stood watching it brew, and then took a cup after the pot beeped to signal the coffee was ready. He went to his office, turned on the light, closed the door, sat in his chair, and stared at the wall while he sipped his coffee. Arnie checked his watch every five minutes. Time was creeping by. 7:55 a.m. It was 6:55 a.m. in Omaha. Arnie knew that it was useless to call before 7:30 Omaha time. Although the word was that Mundhill was usually in by 6:30.
By 7:00 a.m. Omaha time, Arnie could wait no longer and punched in Mundhill’s office number.
Mundhill answered on the first ring. “Mundhill here,” was his barked greeting.
“Good morning, Mr. Mundhill. This is Arnie Schwartz.”
There was a pause.
“From the Sarasota office.” A slight upward lilt made it sound like a question.
“Hello, Schwartz. What can I do for you? You have a new theme?” grumbled Mundhill.
“Well, no, sir,” said Arnie sounding timid. “That’s what I wanted to tell you about. I’ve given a lot of thought to our discussion yesterday, and I conferred with the people here at the office and, well, we think trash is an excellent topic.”
“Oh, hell,” roared Mundhill. “It makes me think of a bad R-rated movie. Damn it, can’t you people use a little imagination?”
Arnie broke in, “That’s just it, Mr. Mundhill. We’ve used a lot of imagination. It took hours and hours of discussion for our team to pick the theme and title. We reviewed a hundred or more potential topics. We canvassed several members of the society. That was a bit of an embellishment by Arnie, but his courage was mounting. “And every one agreed that trash talk is a great title and a great theme. We have some fantastic speakers committed. This will be the best meeting in the history of the society.”
Arnie thought that the lack of sleep must be affecting his brain. Was he on the roa
d to unemployment? There was a long, quiet interval and Arnie thought he had lost the connection or Mundhill had quietly hung up. “Mr. Mundhill, I guarantee you a great meeting.”
“Schwartz, you are a gutsy son of a gun. I’ll say that much for you. Is Schriff in agreement with you?”
“He sure is,” shouted Arnie with more enthusiasm than normal. “He is thrilled with the topic and the plans so far. I think it made him think of his homeland and their issues and really got him excited,” Arnie improvised.
“Well, that’s surprising,” said Mundhill. After a long pause, he said. “I’ll tell you what, Schwartz. I’ll let you go ahead. But if this flops or embarrasses us, I guarantee I’ll have your balls and Schriff’s.”
“No problem,” cried Arnie with glee.
“Keep me up to date on your progress,” said Mundhill and hung up.
As Arnie hung up the phone, happy as he could possibly be and wide awake, a thought went through his mind, does Schriff have any?
He smiled to himself as he left his office to inform the group of his triumph. Schriff would be all right too as long as Arnie omitted the guarantee he made to Mundhill and especially the “guarantee” Mundhill made to him.
C h a p
t e r 8
Ed Mundhill sat behind his desk at the national office of the Environmentalist Society in Omaha, Nebraska. At fifty-seven-years-old Mundhill was finishing his ninth year as president of the society. He was wondering if he could make it through ten years, which would fulfil his second five-year contract. Sitting, staring out of the window through his wire-rimmed glasses, his hands folded on his flat stomach, his legs extended as he slouched in his desk chair, he muttered, “How long can I do this? The job’s all right, but I miss getting out in the field, and Omaha is killing me.”
Ed Mundhill grew up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Actually, in Crafton, a small suburb of Pittsburgh. After college he left his beloved city to pursue a master’s degree in environmental science at Purdue University. That’s where he met Sally Urquart. They hit it off, and by the end of his second year, he had both a master’s degree and a new wife. They made an interesting couple, Ed a solemn and brooding person who was quiet most of the time and Sally, a perky, pleasant, and talkative woman. They moved from West Lafayette, Indiana, to Madison, Wisconsin, where Ed had landed a job with the Forest Service and Sally as a first-grade teacher.
Trash Talk Page 2
