The Road Least Traveled

by Jerry Cole

  “How are you doing?” Greg asked. “Did the wall come down?”

  “Yeah, we pushed through the last couple of yards with the water blaster,” said Eddie. “And a couple of the guys knew family members and friends who could come down here for the night and guard the site. At least they can guard it better than the assholes who were on shift last night, so it won’t happen again. It’s after eleven here, and I’ve not eaten all day, so forgive me if I don’t have the energy to talk too long with you right now.”

  “Eddie, go back to the hotel and take the weekend off,” said Greg. “I’ll be there on Monday. Do what you need to keep the protestors away from the site until then. Give them cash and I’ll settle it with you when I arrive. I’m leaving as soon as possible and we’ll figure out what we’re going to do. If you can just stop any more concrete from being poured into the entrance, we’ll count that as a victory.”

  “Sure thing, boss,” said Eddie. He seemed a little brighter for the prospect of a weekend by the pool, no longer having to battle with surly laborers who waved their arms in his face and garbled in a language he could not understand. “Have a safe flight.”

  “Thanks,” said Greg, “Go get some sleep.”

  It was strange to think that the bustling metropolis of Thessaloniki was heading for bed when it was only one in the afternoon in California. Greg crossed his fingers and prayed that no further issues would arise over the weekend, then he left the office and went to find Henry. His best friend agreed that there was little else that could be done until Greg flew over to Greece and experienced the issues first-hand.

  “Why can’t it be last night?” Greg sighed, with an ironic laugh as he sat in a chair opposite Henry and leaned forward, his head in his hands. “Why can’t I just be eating pizza and playing poker all over again, without a care in the world?”

  “Because life’s a bitch,” said Henry. “Have you spoken to Dwyer about this?”

  “Oh God, no,” Greg replied. The very thought of having to explain the situation to the founder of TMD made his already delicate stomach churn. “With any luck he’s on a yacht in the Caribbean right now, firing golf balls into the sea.”

  “Speaking of golf,” mused Henry, “maybe a quick nine holes would help the situation?”

  Greg groaned.

  “Not a chance in hell,” he said. “I have to go home and pack, and hope that Patty can at least get me a flight to JFK by tonight. I have to call Sarah and cancel the dinner with Molly tomorrow night, and just hope that my daughter doesn’t see the hypocrisy in my telling her not to go to New York while getting on a flight to there myself.”

  “You know what you need to find out while you’re there?” asked Henry, and Greg shrugged at the question with a weary lift of his shoulders.

  “Whether the whiskey’s any good,” grinned Henry, his eyes twinkling.

  “Oh God, don’t even talk to me about whiskey,” said Greg. “I’m pretty sure I’m being punished right now for indulging as much as I did last night.”

  They were interrupted by a knock on the door and Patty let herself into the office.

  “I have your flights sorted,” she said. “It’s going to mean you getting to LAX at six this evening, but you won’t need to stop over at JFK. You’re flying directly to Zurich, arriving tomorrow afternoon, Swiss time. Then it’s a five hour wait and I can get you to Thessaloniki by early Sunday morning. You’re booked into a hotel just a ten-minute walk to the main site, and Eddie has been sent the details of where you’re staying, just in case you get lost.”

  Just the idea of twenty-four hours of traveling hurt Greg’s head even more, but he nodded. It was simply necessary.

  “Coach?” he asked, and Patty nodded. Greg stood up and took his wallet from his back pocket.

  “Screw that,” he said, taking out his own credit card and handing it to his assistant. “I’ll pay for first class. I need to be able to sleep on the plane. I don’t care what it costs.” Patty smiled and took the card from him, then left the room. Greg turned to Henry.

  “I need to find the Greek for ‘don’t fuck with me,’” he growled, raising a middle finger to Henry’s smiling face as he left the room.

  Chapter Five

  The conversation with his ex-wife did not go as badly as Greg had envisioned. From what he could tell, Sarah and Molly had already begun to discuss Molly’s choice of school, and the discussion had not ended up, for once, in Molly storming out, slamming a door and taking her car to her friend’s place for the night. If anything, Molly had opened up to her mother more than she had done in a long time. She’d confessed that since her application, she’d fallen in love with a guy on the football team named Jared, and that the thought of leaving him to go across the country to college was causing her no end of anxiety. Sarah accepted the meeting as a win, for now, and even confessed to Greg that the revelation of Molly’s new relationship was nothing but useful for her mother. In the great game of “How to Disappoint My Parents,” it turned out that having a boyfriend was worth fewer “Angry Mom Points” than moving to a college hundreds of miles away. Greg wondered whether this hadn’t been Molly’s plan all along, in a superb strategic move to break the news that she was in a serious and probably physical relationship.

  If Sarah was happy, Greg was happy, and that had been the case for almost twenty years, although they had spent most of that time apart. Today, it meant that Greg could spend however much time was needed away from home and it would not invoke too much wrath. Way to go, Molly, he thought. I owe you big time.

  Back home, Greg once again had to turn away from the comforting, inviting bed that seemed to call his name. Instead, he busied himself with packing a suitcase full of shirts, pants, underwear and toiletries, making sure he placed any liquids in a clear bag to present at the airport. He didn’t want anything to stand in the way of clearing airport security. The notion of being delayed for any reason was too much to bear. He did not bother to pack more than one pair of jeans. This visit was merely business. He was not there to sightsee or socialize in any way. He had no desire to do either, and was already frustrated with Greece and its people before he had even met them.

  A cab arrived at five-thirty and drove him to the airport. Greg sat in the back of the car, feeling at best completely underprepared for the journey. He’d been to plenty of meetings out of state on short notice, but this was another issue entirely. He had no idea whether the protesters were even violent. He wasn’t sure he could cope with pounding through walls of concrete every day. He wasn’t sure he could protect Betty from being vandalized. At that moment, Greg Marsh was not sure he felt very much like a CEO at all.

  At the airport, he produced his passport and cleared security with no problems. Though he carried with him only carry-on luggage, he decided to check the bag, leaving him free to walk around the airport and board the plane without the added stress of lugging a heavy suitcase around. He scanned his boarding pass through the gates with his cell phone, via the email Patty had sent him earlier that afternoon, and by six-thirty he had an hour to spare until his flight. He took the escalator to the first-class lounge and was greeted by an exotic-looking woman with dark hair, full red lips that beamed at him in a smile, and a pair of round, pert breasts that sat at attention on her chest. Greg smiled in return. The woman was beautiful. He was not so naive as to think that she didn’t give that smile to every single man who came through those doors, but whatever she was selling, Greg would buy. Once inside the lounge, she came toward him, her long legs striding with purpose.

  “Welcome to the first-class lounge of Athenian Airways,” she said with practiced ease, her voice smooth, with a warm but heavy accent. “My name is Irini. I will be helping to keep you comfortable before and during your flight. Can I get you a drink?”

  Habit caused Greg to begin to ask for a scotch and soda, a firm favorite in any airport lounge, but memories of the previous night reminded him that perhaps whiskey wasn’t the best idea for a good while yet.
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  “Just a soda water with ice, please,” he said, and as Irini whirled around with another smile, Greg enjoyed watching her leave. Her buttocks lifted, left and right, as she went to fetch his drink in a tight blue skirt, the color of the Greek flag. If that’s what all Greek women are like, he mused, I could certainly find something good about my trip.

  He pulled out his cell and went through his emails, double-checking that the business would continue to go on in his absence. He could always trust Henry to step up and ensure matters would be looked after. It was a rare occurrence when both CEOs were out of the picture. Any mild anger he had felt towards Marty earlier in the day had all but vanished. He knew how hard his partner worked, and in Marty’s defense, he was first to volunteer for any long-distance projects, despite being married with children. His twin sons were thirteen and keen skiers. Their annual vacation together was an important time for Marty, and Greg understood that.

  As he sipped the soda water Irini had brought for him, Greg felt a little sadness at the realization that he could not recall the last time he had taken a vacation, let alone a family vacation with people he loved. Any time out of the office was spent thinking about the office, dealing with Sarah, or trying to find ways to spend quality time with his daughter, which had become progressively more and more difficult as she had gotten older. Even his night with Henry and the guys just twenty-four hours earlier had been little short of a luxury.

  There was no need for Greg to check the screen to know when the flight to Zurich was boarding. Instead, Irini was on hand to escort him and others to the gate, where their first-class ticket ensured they boarded first. Greg got comfortable in his seat and buckled the seatbelt, then fished his cell phone and earphones out of his pants’ pocket. As the plane taxied on the runway he enjoyed watching Irini and another attractive flight attendant enthusiastically conduct their health and safety display, and once they sat down and encouraged all to enjoy their flight, he sank back into his chair and closed his eyes. The plane accelerated down the tarmac with exciting high speed before the familiar lift as the wheels folded up inside the plane and the huge mechanical bird climbed into the sky. Even with his vast knowledge of engineering, and understanding the physics that took hundreds of tons of steel into the air, Greg could never help but be amazed at the ease with which he could be transported to the other side of the world in a matter of hours in a metal box with wings.

  He opened his eyes again and gazed down onto the late May sunshine over California, before reaching forward and taking the remote control from the small television screen on the back of the seat in front of him. He turned it on browsed the menu choices for the flight, and scanned through the list of movies available. His headache, which hadn’t left him all day, continued to grumble, and once the seatbelt sign was turned off when the plane had ascended enough, he was quick to ask for some more water.

  It was two hours into the flight before Greg relaxed enough to fall asleep. He pushed his chair back into a prone position, kicked off his shoes and brought up his legs, tucked underneath him, so he lay like a little boy. He barely felt Irini unfold a blanket and lay it over him. She also switched off the light over his head and although his eyes were closed, it was as if they were grateful for the relief of finally being in darkness, and Greg drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

  When he awoke, the whole plane was dark and most of the passengers around him were sleeping. There were snuffles and snores, and in some chairs people sat with their overhead lights, dim and concentrated, as they read a book or watched a movie. One or two were doing puzzles. Greg noticed that there was a smell of food coming from behind him and he realized that it had awoken him from his sleep. He’d not eaten since breakfast with Henry and once he checked his cell phone and saw that it was just before midnight, he realized he’d gone without food for fourteen hours. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. Despite his slim, toned physique, Greg Marsh felt it was a travesty to miss a meal. Food was a very important part of his life.

  He had indeed woken up just in time. Once he polished off the chicken and rice with chocolate mousse for dessert, and the flight attendant had collected his empty tray, Greg rolled right back over and went to sleep again, as the plane flew over the lonely Atlantic Ocean towards the coast of Europe.

  He awoke again as the captain’s soft but authoritative voice announced that they would shortly be landing at Zurich airport. Greg pressed the button on his seat that brought it back up to the upright position and obediently put up his tray table and lifted the window flap. The brightness of the sunny sky caused him to yank his head away in shock. He had no idea what time it was, and reached for his cell phone. It was six a.m., California time. He calculated that this meant it was mid-afternoon, Swiss time. He’d literally lost nine hours of his life simply by flying through several time zones. At thirty-eight, he wasn’t too happy about that, and consoled himself with the notion of getting those hours back again on his return flight to the U.S.

  The captain confirmed that it was indeed three p.m. in Zurich, and that they were landing within the next twenty minutes. Greg stretched and put his shoes back on, altogether pretty satisfied that he’d managed to sleep so well that he hadn’t turned the television on once. Though the plane had Wi-Fi in first-class, he had even managed to resist the temptation to connect to it and fire off a few work-related emails.

  The plane landed smoothly and once he had disembarked, Greg walked through the airport to border control, where he stood before a severe-looking man with large shoulders and a huge, bushy mustache, who stared into Greg’s eyes, then back again at the passport photograph, before giving a nod and stamping a blank page and waving him on his way. There was no need for him to pick up the suitcase he had checked; that it was being taken care of by the staff who would make it their job to get it onto the plane from Zurich to Thessaloniki. Not that they would be in any hurry: Zurich airport was his home for the next five hours.

  Greg had always loved European airports. He enjoyed the orderly, polite way the staff spoke to him, where a curt nod and a smile seemed more efficient than a brassy girl squawking “Have a nice day!” at him. He particularly loved to walk through the expensive watch stores, where he browsed watches of Swiss craftsmanship and gave low whistles at their price tags. Thanks to his long sleep on the plane, all traces of his hangover had disappeared and he allowed himself to wander around duty free, making mental notes of all the scotch he wanted to try, including two he picked out to bring back with him on his return flight through Zurich to the U.S.

  Kicking himself, Greg realized his cell charger was stowed away somewhere in the bowels of the airport, and he had barely three percent battery left. So he purchased a charger and found a quiet booth in an exclusive restaurant where he decided to wait out the final two hours of his layover.

  At the booth, whose high, plush velvet sides hid him from the outside world, he lifted a menu. The change in world clocks clashed with his own internal body clock and he wasn’t sure what he wanted to eat. To Greg it was nine a.m. and he should have been sipping coffee and eating cereal. But as he looked out of the tall, thick windows by the restaurant onto the runway where planes were landing and taking off, the sun was setting over a hazy late spring evening. He scratched his stubbly face as he lifted a menu and mused over the elegant writing. He furrowed his brow and his confusion caught the eye of a waiter, who glided over to him.

  “Bonsoir, monsieur,” he said, with a little bow.

  “Hey there,” said Greg, and the waiter smiled and immediately switched into smooth, clipped English, heavily laden with a French accent.

  “Ah, a dignified American is joining us today,” he smiled. “It will be my utmost pleasure to serve you this evening, sir. My name is Kristian. May I fetch you a glass of water? Or an aperitif? Champagne, perhaps?”

  Greg met Kristian’s eyes and he smiled. Kristian was lithe and tall, with a cherubic face and cheeky, bright eyes. As the young waiter pointed dramatica
lly to the champagne list on the menu with a flick of his wrist, there was no doubt in Greg’s mind the guy was gay.

  Greg had been the subject of many admiring glances from men since his late teens. Since his hair had turned steely gray in his twenties, the admiring glances and even the occasional number scrawled on a napkin and slid over to him in a bar had increased. Greg wasn’t sure what it was that made him seem so attractive to those of his own sex, but he was not fazed by it. In fact, he was flattered. He was secure in his sexuality, and while he would never confess to being other than a dyed-in-the-wool straight guy, he knew himself well enough not to be concerned if he looked at a man and recognized the appeal. For Greg, nothing could beat the soft curve of a breast or the sweet heat that emanated from between the legs of a woman, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t wondered, like all men, what sleeping with another guy would be like.

  He looked back at the menu and pointed to an item on the list.

  “I’ll take a glass of this,” he said. “I’m right in thinking this is the 1978 vintage and not the 1980?”

  Kristian raised his eyebrows. “I’m impressed, sir,” he said. “Yes, you are correct. I will be happy to bring you a glass. And may I recommend my personal favorite caviar to accompany your champagne?”

  “No, no,” said Greg, passing back the menu. “No caviar, thank you. Some olives, though. That’ll be great.”

  The young waiter bowed once more and whirled around to fetch the order. Greg gave a smile and a shake of his head as he watched the man leave. When he returned, he brought with him a tall glass of straw-colored liquid that fizzed in its iconic way. Kristian lowered the glass onto the table with lips pursed in concentration. Then he placed a small bowl of green and black olives next to the glass. Greg thanked him.

  “My pleasure, sir,” Kristian purred, and with a wink, was gone. Greg sipped at the cold champagne and nodded in approval.