by Doc King
- The name of your product comprises Kolba and Base. That tells the potential customer that this drink is offered by a popular athlete and that it contains all the vitamins and minerals, that is, the base their organism needs on daily basis. But when you merge those two words into KolBase, it can make an average customer, including me, think of sausage powder (Kielbase).
He begins to blush. Now I have to help him relax before he breaks into sweat. I don’t want to make him even more nervous by saying that the name of his product actually sounds like some kind of enema kit. Basic colon cleansing. Get it?
- Luckily, that’s not an unsolvable problem. We will think of a new name together. You will give me a day to think of a few suggestions, and tomorrow we will meet again so we could pick a name. After all, it is a new product, right?
- Right... – he answers quietly, through his teeth.
- And for a new product, we need a new, powerful name.
He’s finally brightening up. It’s time for some icing on the top.
- I see no other flaw. – I smile.
He smiles back.
- What I consider to be the main advantage of you product is the idea of selling it to every team and the league. Just what you had in mind before. The fans would buy sports drinks of their favorite teams, and each team would have its own flavor. Yankees –blueberry, Dodgers – orange, Red Sox – raspberry. A superb idea.
- We’ve tried, but there was a bunch of legal and non-legal conundrums. It’s hard to get in on that game. The two of us got carried away and were overly optimistic about this whole idea.
- One of the reasons you are here at ThinkBean today is that idea. It is that idea that will help you turn the couple of hundreds of thousands a year you make today into dozens of millions you can make if we launch your product properly.
I can see a sparkle in his eyes.
- Have you signed any kind of contract previously? Could your ex-partner Ray Davis have a problem with us realizing this idea?
- Ray... Um... Ray past away this year.
- I’m sorry to hear that. I believe you were close?
He nods.
- We were friends.
- I know it must be hard for you to talk about it, but we have to take care of every detail. You do understand that?
He nods again.
- So, have you signed a contract and would it be possible for the Davis family to make any future contracts and product launches complicated?
- No, there was no contract. The idea was mine. Ray was… Support… And he backed out by his own free will. He wasn’t interested in KolBase. His wife and kids moved to Oregon a couple of years ago. He wasn’t in touch with them anymore. They weren’t there when he… No one was there. Not even me…
Shit. Just don’t get weepy on me now.
- All right. Don’t worry about it. I’ll check all everything, so there are no unpleasant surprises later. Like I said, this is your ticket back into the game. The name of Greg Kolba will be back in the world of baseball, big time. Can you picture yourself as an MLB sponsor?
Good. He’s smiling again.
- What is also important is that you can become a millionaire. In today’s world of uncertainty, where nothing lasts forever, that means a lot. In fact, it means everything. You won’t depend on anyone. No one can decide that your life as you know it is over just because they see you as a decimal point in the statistic of necessary restructuring, cost reductions, and dismissals. You are neither a decimal point nor a percentile, Greg, but a person with a history and reputation. ThinkBean knows that, and that is why we will help you get the millions you deserve.
Truth be told, ThinkBean’s cut will be 5% and I get 30% of everything the company gets. Imagine the figure on Kolba’s account and you’ll get the picture.
- Yes...
- Don’t worry, Greg, you’re in capable hands. You are familiar with the long list of people ThinkBean helped with their projects and careers. What I’m asking you to do is go home, get some rest, and I’ll see you this time tomorrow, when you will hear my ideas. Then we’ll get our offensive game started: Greg Kolba strikes back!
He bursts into laughter.
- See how easily I can think of a pitch that’s related both to you and baseball.
- I’m impressed.
We shake hands, smiling wide.
- Ok, then, till tomorrow, Mark. And… thanks. I needed this.
- You’re welcome, Greg. It’s been a pleasure.
I watch his broad shoulders disappear down the hall, towards the elevator. He’s smiling at everyone.
- So, how was it? – asks Laura, pulling a naïve face. She’s fluttering her eyelashes and pouting her lips.
I pull a face in response. I raise my eyebrow, grin, and stick my thumbs in the air.
All right. Time to turn the sausage and enema into a golden goose.
***
Kolba really was on a good track regarding the name of his product. So I start playing with his name and combining it with strong words that could mean something to all physically active people, as well as their synonyms. You know, power, energy, vigorous… That sort of thing.
Ok, so, to begin with, I combine his first and last name. GreKo. Hm. I search the web for a similarly named drink. There isn’t one, but that doesn’t mean the name Is good. It would be ok if Kolba was Greek, and he was selling yoghurt or tzatziki salad under that name. I move on to KolFit, KolBolt, Kol-Boom… No, that’s not it.
There’s Greg in Aggregate. Good word. Solid. A drink that’s got everything it needs to have. Aggregates everything, so to speak. The problem is, I can’t think of anything appropriate that includes this word. Aggregator. No, too many different associations.
Hit&Run. Yeah, it sounds great, but the analogy with car accidents could be a problem.
I go back to KolFit as the best choice. But no, it’s acceptable, but not perfect. Besides, if he’s going to offer the drink to all teams, I’m not sure the ex rivals would give a chance to a Yankee. Especially the Red Sox. It has to be something else.
I continue writing words on the whiteboard. Connecting them with lines, making compounds and abbreviations. An hour later, I’m standing in front of an unraveled ball of word-yarn, and as the time passes, it’s getting more and more entangled. Fuck. On top of everything else, my forehead is beginning to pulsate again. The hangover always returns around two.
- Laura, please, get me another cup of coffee and an aspirin.
She walks in. She casts a cursory glance at me and leaves the coffee and the tablets on the desk, without saying a word. That’s Laura. Priceless. She knows when it’s time not to say anything. Especially when she sees me all gloomy in my armchair, trying to banish the pain above my left eye by pressing it with my thumb and forefinger.
As she walks out, I say a barely audible thank you. I don’t look up, but I know that she’s smiling at the door.
I get up. Take another sip of coffee and an aspirin. Erase everything from the whiteboard in one single motion. Fuck you, stupid ideas. It can’t scream Kolba. But it has to be some prominent trait of his.
Suddenly, I’ve got it.
Fuck, that’s it.
I take the marker and write STREAK in all caps, across the whiteboard.
His streak that never made history now has the chance to be super popular. Plus, the name will be great for the other teams as well, since it’s a general sports term, and every single one of them dreams about their own infinite winning streak.
I run to my laptop.
- I hope nobody thought of it before. – I repeat my mantra.
There are no drinks by the name Streak in the results. It seems that I have the winning comb. I send an email to Rob from the design team, asking him to prepare a few ideas for the logo by tomorrow. If Kolba agrees, we should register the trademark and send in the change of the patent name.
A breeze of relief slides down my hands and warms my chest. That’s exactly what they call getting a load off your chest. It’s
that little bubble of discomfort that bursts as soon as you do the right thing. I sink into my armchair with a wide smile on my face, proud of myself. I call Angela.
- Darling, tell me you’ve got something. – she chirps.
- Have I ever failed you? Of course I’ve got something. We’ve got the bomb. But don’t go pressing the alarm button.
She laughs.
- Would it be a problem if I left early today? Since I’m already done, and I’m not feeling so hot.
- Sure. But go to bed early tonight. Alone. – she giggles.
Wow.
- Of course. That’s the first thing I’ll do, as soon as I grab something to eat. Thanks, Angela.
I’m lying. Of course I’m not going to bed. I’m going to Wechsler's in the East Village for some real hangover grub – sausages, fries, and a beer, and then to the store to buy some groceries.
On my way home, I sit in the park for a while and listen to the city. I do that every day. Fuck yoga, fuck meditation.
You look at the fluffy clouds cruising the sky above you. Listen to the murmur of people and the sound of the sirens. It’s all simmering and boiling. That’s my idea of peace. A proof that I’m alive and that I’m not alone. After that, I catch a bus and ride home.
***
My street could easily be a street in any other town. An idyllic house in the suburbs. Comes with a family of termites and 65 sq ft lawn. American dream. Just half a mil. In the late afternoon, when I come back from work, I always walk into the same scene. Fred, ex-marine from ‘Nam, in a tank top, watering his lawn. Holding the hose in one hand, and scratching his belly with the other, until he notices me and waves. Maggie is chasing the kids around the house. When she sees me walking by, she smiles, all blushed. I wave. We mostly ask and answer the same questions.
The folks living next door are Robert and Claire. Thirty-something, no kids. I think they met at school and have been together ever since. Claire is in love with me. My intuition says so, and it’s never wrong. Every day, Claire greets me, standing in the driveway, eager to talk to me. I’d hate to leave her hanging, so I always stop for a few minutes and have a chat with her. She’s pretty, but married, and I steer clear of married women. Similar to the situation with Laura, short-term pleasure would lead to long-term complications.
- Why don’t you come in, I made muffins? Chocolate-cranberry. Those are your favorite, right?
- Yeah, they are. But I’m really tired. Maybe next time.
- That’s what you always say.
- How’s Bob? Is he home? – I change the subject.
- No. He’s gone fishing with his brother… until tomorrow.
- (Sigh) Say hi to him for me.
- I will. (Sigh)
I can’t keep turning down their invitations. Ever since I moved here, they keep inviting me over, and I keep coming up with excuses. They seem to be a decent couple, looking to make friends, but they always catch me somewhere between tiredness and moodiness. I guess they see something in me, like most people, that I myself cannot. On the subway, people come to me to ask the time. I give directions to the lost people in this beehive. Grannies smile at me, babies reach out for me with their tiny hands. Everyone recognizes the kindness underneath the cynical shell. Everyone but me. It’s the same thing with the Kaplans.
Although the look Claire often gives me tells me she’s not dying to watch me mumble with my mouth filled with muffins, praising her culinary skills. Those somewhat sad chestnut eyes burn with a different kind of desire, the one of an awkward, inexperienced woman. She wants someone to unleash her passion and set it free. To let it go wild, boil, moan, sigh, and scream out in the open. Fall apart in sweat and fire and be gloriously reborn. Her Bob can’t give her that, being as awkward and inexperienced as she is. So Claire expects me to do it for her.
She wants me to fuck her like no one has ever fucked her before, and then hold her gently in my arms, as if she were a helpless nestling, and whisper softly in her ear as I run my fingers through her hair. To give her the life portrayed in romantic movies and books that turn her into a hormonal fountain. Fiery nights and whispery dawns. Then I try to imagine what their sex must be like. Hilarious. I laugh, but I instantly feel bad. No, Claire, I’m sorry. That’s not going to happen. It’s simple, like I said. I steer clear of married women.
Truth be told, Claire is beautiful. She’s got nice breasts and great hips. And ass. A couple of years ago, while I was clearing leaves from the gutters, and it was unusually hot for October, I saw her sunbathing behind the house in a bikini that left little to the imagination. Even now, I often remember the image of her insufficiently tanned body, beautiful curves, covered with skimpy blue-green fabric. Thankfully, my self-control is admirable.
It’s dark inside. I go upstairs and take a shower. After the water washes away the day’s dirt, I like to stand under the shower for a while, with my head bowing under the stream of water. As if I’m making atonement in front of some hygienic divinity. Afterwards, I go downstairs and into the kitchen. I’m hungry again. The sausages were actually my breakfast. I put the dish into the microwave. I sit on the couch in the living room and turn on the TV. I never watch anything specific. I just flick through the channels. Bites of gummy mac and cheese are followed by the sports news, police chase, bad weather in the south, chaos in the Middle East. I come across a puppet show. Soothing enough for me to finish my meal.
-Ernie, is that gift for me?
-Well, Bernie, aren’t you silly, of course it’s for you. Today is Friends’ day, and you’re my best friend.
-Oh, cookies! My favorites! Ernie, you’re such a good friend. But I haven’t bought anything for you.
-That’s ok. When I buy cookies, I think of myself as well.
*laughter*
Ernest and Bernard continue talking on the blurry screen, but I no longer hear them.
I wake up. It’s dark. 7:30. Crap. I hate it when the day just slips away like this. On TV, some overripe yuppie is trying to sell me “killer knives”. I turn it off. Stand up and stretch my arms. I finish the cold leftovers in the kitchen. I hear my cell ringing in the living room. I can’t find it. It won’t stop ringing. Someone really wants to talk to me. I finally find it inside the couch.
- Yes?
- Hey... Mark, was it? It’s Alice.
I say nothing.
- From last night.
I visualize the ass. Can’t remember the face, though.
- Oh, yes, Alice. How are you?
- A bit down. I wondered if you’d like to come to my place tonight, so we could pick up where we left off.
I sincerely can’t remember where we started, I think to myself.
- Alice, listen… thanks for the invite, but I can’t. I’ve had a rough day, I’m just gonna hit the sack. Maybe some other time.
- Tomorrow? What are you doing tomorrow? We could go to that new club… The Rose… or something like that. Drink cocktails, get wasted, dance our butts off, and then I’ll let you do whatever you want to me. Huh?
- I’m not sure about tomorrow either.
- I hope you’re not one of those guys who fuck and run?
- No... I’m not... Really, it’s just a bad time. Ok? I’ll call you.
- I don’t believe you, but ok. I’ll be waiting for you to call. Bye.
- Bye.
A minute later, the phone is ringing again. It’s Alice, again.
- Yes?
- Why are you being such an ass? Come on, come. You have no idea how wet I am. Wanna see, huh?
- Alice... really... I’m tired…you don’t have to...
*Pling*
She sends me the photo anyway.
- What do you say? Don’t you wanna be inside me? Lick a little? Huh?
I look at the photo. A pink smudge. She was impatient and held the phone too close. Still, I can see her finger on her clit, and her wet vulva. I’m turned on and for a moment, I think of accepting her invitation. The guy in white, standing on my shoulder, t
ells me it’s a bad idea. The man in black, normally standing on my other shoulder, isn’t there. He’s probably asleep. I’ll take White’s advice.
- I’m sorry. Maybe some other time.
I hang up.
It's all about the choices we make. Our decisions haunt us whether we accept them or not. What would happen if the dark side of Mark's consciousness was awake? Would he accept Alice's invitation for wild and steamy sex? Find out in third Author's Cut.
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Before I can put my phone down, it rings again.
- (Sigh) Alice...
- You disgusting pig! You dipshit! Fuck you, asshole! You’re all the same!
I’m trying to say something, but the outburst of anger on the other end doesn’t let me.
- And I really thought we clicked. That you felt that vibe between us. You’re breaking my heart! You don’t care about my feelings! You don’t even wonder if I’m in love with you.
-Wait, wait, wait. Feelings? Love? – I manage to jump in. – It was a drunken one night stand. What did you expect? A white wedding?
- Go to hell, asshole! I’ll dig out your eyes when I see you! I’ll kill you…
