by Ryan Hyatt
“I know you’re upset because this isn’t exactly what you expected,” Joe G. said, and his change in tone elicited the desired response from Chuck, who sat hunched in the corner of the limo like a beaten dog, happy to receive at last a little attention to his wounds. “For this traveling roadshow to work, the audience needs a reason to tune in every week. That means it needs suspense. That’s why you’re the right man for the job, Chuck. You wear your heart on your sleeve. The audience will root for you, and if you sell $10 million of merchandise, you’ll prove yourself worthy of being their champion. Only with something great at stake will the art of this project prove successful. Radicals will be used by retail representatives around the nation, eventually around the world, to better gauge their customers. Augmented reality shouldn’t be just for video games and movies, you know?”
Joe G. regarded Chuck intently.
“Am I right?”
“Maybe, but I’m right about something, too,” Chuck said.
Siza paused from her phone conversation and stared at Chuck with a fresh inquisitiveness.
“After everything is said and done, and we’re each on our way to the grave, I’m starting to realize that our loved ones are the only thing we’ve ever really had in this life,” Chuck said. “I’ve known you for ten years, Joe, which means you’re practically family to me. If I’ve learned anything about you in that time, it’s that you genuinely appreciate my sentiments, so please do me a favor and don’t disappoint me. As much as you have riding on this scheme, I have more. I have my daughter to think about.”
Siza smiled at Chuck, and then she resumed her phone conversation.
“Of course,” Joe G. said. “We each have our priorities, and luckily for May, yours are going to set her up for life.”
CHAPTER 6
There were too many preparations, too much to do, too much hobnobbing that needed to be done on Nob Hill.
Joe G. insisted Chuck stay at his home until the traveling roadshow began. Officially, he wanted him on hand for fittings and rehearsals. Unofficially, Joe G. wanted to coach Chuck through interviews and give him the opportunity to further convince others, maybe still a part of himself, that Mr. Shaw really was the right man for the job.
This service, which really amounted to non-service, required Chuck to nod here, shake there, and occasionally smile at representatives from Rocket & Gamble and other companies involved in the project. For doing so, Joe G. provided Chuck a new wardrobe, small stipend, and room and board in the rear guest house of his palatial quarters. Chuck was also encouraged to move furnishings and request any accoutrements to his tastes, but he never asked for much, another reason Joe G. both admired and was secretly suspicious of his old friend.
Chuck was content with the bed, kitchen and bathroom in the guest house and only made minor adjustments and requests. For example, he asked a small refrigerator replace the large one and had it situated next to the table so he could reach for a glass of wine while writing his children’s tales, a habit never relinquished in his many years of restless wandering.
Otherwise, Chuck ate whatever was served in the main house, and he even did his own laundry, because he was bored, as he once told one of the housekeepers. Handling his own affairs, even those as trite as cleaning his own clothes, provided Chuck with a sense of satisfaction. Chuck was a man capable of taking care of himself, he claimed, despite what his ex-wife said.
When the former children’s author wasn’t daydreaming or cleaning, he was often in the studio of the main house where he liked to scan the tri-screen Telenet for gifts he wished to shower on his daughter once he became rich. In this manner, browsing one night, Chuck overheard Joe G. and Siza in the master bedroom discussing why he was rarely allowed out of their sight.
“There’s no reason he needs to be here,” Siza said. “Let him go home and spend the holidays with his girl. Once the show starts, he’ll be too busy to see her until it’s finished.”
“I can’t let him go,” Joe G. said. “He misses her too much. The man’s a damn flight risk!”
“Come, mi amor,” Siza said. “Let’s talk in bed…”
The door closed, and Chuck, pensive, wandered back to the guest house, bottle of wine in hand. What would Siza and Joe G. say further about him, behind closed doors? Since his partnership was born out of mutual benefit, not involuntary servitude, Joe G. had little reason to keep Chuck for Thanksgiving, and the children’s-book-author-turned-gadget-hawker realized he had no viable reason to stay in The City for the socially sanctioned celebration of family and friends because his number one love lived elsewhere.
Chuck was glad that Siza had taken up his case, and his request to skip town for Turkey Day, or what many of San Franciscans referred to as Tofurkey Day, was granted. Upon hearing the news the next day, Chuck called his ex-wife, April, anxious to make arrangements to see May.
“What the hell do you want, you bleeding heart?” April said.
Chuck, huddled in the corner of the guest house, cringed at his ex’s interpretation of him and his politics.
“Hi, honey,” he said. “How are things going at home?”
“I’m not your honey,” she said. “I haven’t been your honey for a decade, in case you haven’t noticed, and things are lousy, thanks to you. You’re late on your child support payment, again, so I’ve had to work double shifts at the hospital to make ends meet this month, but that’s probably how you like it, right, working harder because of you?”
Chuck’s heart was stuck in his throat. After so many years, after so much therapy, a casual conversation was still impossible with her. It always felt like an ambush by an extremist. April only needed an AK-47 and a few grenades, and Chuck felt his fate was sealed.
“I…I…I didn’t mean to forget the child support,” Chuck said, and his voice faltered as he failed to compose himself amid his ex’s rapid-fire verbal assaults. “I’ll transfer the money immediately. You know I’d never do that on purpose.”
“No, of course, not,” April said. “Let me guess, you’ve been too busy writing kiddy drivel to worry about your responsibilities to your daughter?”
“Ouch, please, don’t talk to me like that!” Chuck said, and he keeled over in the corner of the guest house, as if sustaining a wound to his heart. “You know…you know...you know how I hate it when you talk to me like that.”
“When are you getting a real job?” she said.
“Ouch, again, easy on the judgment!” Chuck said, and he reached up to a shelf and swigged a glass of wine. “I do have a real job.”
“Doing what?” April said. “Blogging about junk you’ll never have enough money to be able to buy yourself?”
“Not anymore,” the divorced husband and father of one said, and he stood and slowly staggered towards the table of the guest house. “I guess you haven’t heard the news.”
“What news?” April said. “You published another crappy book? I’m hanging up now…”
“No, please, wait!” Chuck said as he planted himself at the head of the empty table.
“This is a big job,” he said, allowing his sales instincts to speak for him. “It’s a job that will make me a lot of money, one that will ensure I’m able to spend all the time I want with our little girl and help her in any ways she needs, forever. In fact, there’ll be enough money for you to quit your job, too.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“By the time my next project is finished, April, you won’t have to work anymore,” Chuck said. “We can both retire. I’ll be able to take care of you, just like you always wanted me to do.”
“What line of bullshit are they feeding you over there?” she said, laughing. “Where are you, anyway?”
“San Francisco.”
“Explains everything. I’m hanging up now…”
“Wait!”
“What?”
“You can read about my new job in the Empire Street Journal,” Chuck said. “Check out the Monday, October 16th late-
night edition. Then view the video on BoobTube. I’m in over my head with high-end sales…”
“I hope you know what you’re talking about for once,” April said. “This family, your daughter, has seen enough disappointment.”
“How is May, anyway?”
“Fine.”
“Does she miss me?”
“Of course, you fool!” April said, and although the insult was meant to stick, her voice softened. “Even as a disgruntled teenager she still manages to have a soft spot for you.”
“Can I talk to her?”
“No, she’s asleep.”
“It’s seven thirty.”
“She’s had a long day,” April said, whispering. “She just started her period.”
“Oh, I see,” Chuck said. “What are you two doing for Thanksgiving?”
“Going to Chicago.”
“Can I come?”
“Bye, Chuck.”
April hung up. Deflated, Chuck tried to enlarge his sense of self by brightening the lights and opening the curtains of the guest house. Across the way, in the main house, he noticed the upstairs lights were turned on.
Chuck opened the fridge and poured himself another glass of wine, but he decided to stay where he was. He was in no mood to schmooze with his employer and talk about his botched plans to join his split family for Tofurkey Day. He opened his laptop and scanned the day’s headlines. There was an article posted about Rocket & Gamble.
Chuck assumed the corporate conglomerate intended to keep any unique technology associated with the Radicals under wraps for as long as possible to maintain whatever competitive advantage it had. The Radicals Joe G. had were likely a prototype that someday might be mass-produced and made available to the public. As if that weren’t radical enough, Chuck was surprised to discover that Rocket & Gamble also recently gained recognition for creating a new ‘super soldier.’ Judging by the video footage available on the Telenet, it was a real monster, Chuck thought. Billed as the ultimate peacemaker, the Liberator was going to put America’s enemies in check and help the United States win the Oil Wars, or so argued the colonel in charge of the program.
Disgusted, Chuck turned away from the headlines and started to pen a new children’s tale, a tentative follow up to Charles the Chicken Crosses the Road. After doodling a few Liberators, Chuck only managed to get as far as the title, Charles the Chicken Crosses the Road, Again. Chuck tried to think of a reason why the story’s main character, Charles, wanted to cross the road again, but the only one that came to mind was that the chicken was hoping to return to his ex-wife. So, Chuck put down his pen and stopped writing for the night, because he knew that even for a children’s book that reason wouldn’t suffice.
CHAPTER 7
“Change of plans,” Chuck said during the next morning’s meeting in the studio. “I’m sticking around here for Thanksgiving. April’s taking May to Chicago.”
“Fuck her,” Joe G. said, feigning surprise by the news. “She’s been sucking your blood for as long as I’ve known you. The world has enough vampires.”
“I know, I know,” Chuck said, shaking his head, not wanting to draw further attention to his depressing situation.
Siza was seated at the desk in her husband’s lap, and Dali was seated in hers. Jason was also present, taking notes, as Greg served coffee and cake. There was also an individual Chuck didn’t recognize. He was a tall, muscular male with vaguely Middle Eastern features, a darker skin tone and a pointy nose. He was bald, except for the spikey Mohawk that ran the length of his head, and he wore ripped jeans, sneakers and a green tank top with ‘Alien Logic’ printed on it.
He scanned the room with a red-blinking video camera.
“What’s the deal?” Chuck said.
“That’s for you to share with the public at Barrydale’s next week during Black Friday,” Joe G. said, clapping his hands. “You put in a few hours getting all those fat, rich cats excited about some specials at the fashion co-op, and soon anyone in earshot who doesn’t have a job or a prayer will be lining up next to you and giving you the last dime to their name in exchange for whatever exotic cologne or perfume or gimmick you convince them they need…”
“Sounds like a whole lot of sustainability to me,” Chuck said.
Jason laughed.
“Is everything okay?” Joe G. said.
“No, everything is not okay,” Chuck said, unable to conceal his foul mood. “Black Friday used to be a business term for retailers to denote the day they historically went ‘black’ and made a profit for the first time in the fiscal year. Since when did it become a national holiday that overshadows Thanksgiving?”
“A question for a history class, maybe, but not today’s sales meeting,” Joe G. said. “How the fuck should I know? Even when they’re broke, apparently Americans still like their stuff.”
“Are you sure it’s Black Friday bothering you, Chuck, and not something else?” Jason said. “Are Mr. Gracioswki’s accommodations in the guest house not to your satisfaction? Would you like me to bring you another roll or two of toilet paper, perhaps? Need a bottle of Zoloft for that head of yours?”
“Shut up, Jason!” Joe G. said. “I’ll handle this. I know what the problem is.”
“You do?” Chuck said.
“Of course,” his boss said. “Your panties are in a bunch because no one wants to spend the holidays with you. Well buck up, pal, because there’s someone here I want you to meet!”
Joe G. gestured toward the man with the Mohawk.
“Chuck, this is al-Hakim, our official videographer,” Joe G. said. “He’ll be serving as the eyes and ears of our operation. Despite your age and a few minor cultural differences, I think you’ll find the two of you have much in common.”
“Like what?”
“Punk rock, for starters.”
“Great,” Chuck said, and he waved at al-Hakim as he helped himself to a slice of cake.
“Now, huddle up!” Joe G. said, and he scooted Siza and Dali from his lap. “I want my chronically-distracted employees to listen and focus on what I am about to say …”
Those present gathered on the Persian rug around the CEO of Unitus Productions, who sat cross-legged at the center. Al-Hakim continued to film from the periphery of the circle.
“Play time is over,” Joe G. said. “This sales trip, this roadshow, means more than you or me or the crowds. The sum of this project always will be greater than its parts. We’re about to embark on an artistic adventure, my friends, one that summons the power of business alongside the power of imagination. We’re about to begin a pilgrimage to test the bounds of the human psyche, to verify for our peers the extent to which each of us is able to embrace each other in this interdependently-disconnected age in which we live, with all the glory and failures that come with such an epic journey. In short, this is our chance to make the world a better place.”
Joe G. pointed at al-Hakim.
“So, whatever strange gripes you have, whatever weird commentaries you’d like to make public, don’t direct them at me, direct them at the camera,” he said. “As long as you do your job, I don’t care what the hell you say or do. Do you understand? Have I made myself clear? This is our time to shine, for ourselves and for our future!”
Joe G. placed his right hand outward. He glanced at each of his employees, his wife and dog, and he waited as their affirming eyes, hands and paws joined him at the center of the circle. Dali, however, apparently wanted no part of this circle of trust, and she scampered from the room. The meeting was adjourned with a loud, “One, two, three goooooooo…team!”
It was just as well for Chuck, who had to use the bathroom. After he rid his body of wastes, Joe G. met him in the guest house.
“Knock, knock,” Joe G. said as he entered without knocking.
Chuck flushed, buckled his belt and met Joe G. at the table, and they stood side by side facing each other.
“What should I do now?” Chuck said. “I have nowhere to go this holiday.”
>
“Take a hike,” Joe G. said, and he handed Chuck an airline ticket to Phoenix with limo service to Jerome. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”
“I am surprised, but I guess I don’t need it.”
“Sure you do. Take the week off. Relax. Maybe there are some things you’d like to gather from home before the show begins. You’ll be on the road for a whole year, you know? Make this little getaway worth it, even if your daughter isn’t around.”
Chuck realized most of the pictures he had of May were current, downloaded from her social media sites onto his phone. It would be nice to gather some old framed pictures, especially when she was a toddler. That was the best time in Chuck’s life, despite the challenges.
Besides, there were other items Chuck wanted from home, like his slippers and his good luck charm.
“Thank you,” Chuck said.
“You deserve it, buddy,” Joe G. said. “Thank you.”
Chuck offered a hand to Joe G., who handed him a box.
“What’s this?” Chuck said. “More presents?”
He opened it. Inside was a contract the size of a novel manuscript.
“Do me a little favor before you go,” Joe G. said. “Sign and leave it on the table, okay? It’s a little something to cover our agreement.”
“Of course,” Chuck said, and he patted Joe G. on the back as he saw him to the door. “What are friends for?”
“Exactly,” Joe G. said, and his mustache twitched.
It would take Chuck ten years and a team of lawyers to comprehend the full terms of the contract, and for that reason alone Chuck already knew he was screwed. So, he skipped several hundred pages to the end of the document, signed on the dotted line, grabbed his duffel bag and fled the confines of Nob Hill.
CHAPTER 8
It was always easy for Chuck to go home. Leaving was the hard part.
He was greeted with a wave of heat as the glass doors slid open at Sky Harbor International Airport, and so ingrained in his sense memory was this first blast of the simmering Phoenix sun from his countless return trips home, he met it with nostalgia, no matter how awful it was.
