53. rainy day in real life
Martin drove quickly through a puddle of water and looked into the
rear view mirror to see how the vagrant hippie type reacted to the
splash. He was on his way to Realife to ask Candi if she would like a
lift to the closing gala of the Young Millionaires Convention. Martin
had been looking forward to this evening ever since Mike Mueller had
offered him the role. The thought of being in a room with 500
millionaires and the possibilities that it might bring excited him.
Although he would be unrecognizable in his costume, the event would
be a point of reference when he later met these men dressed as Martin
the adman.
“Martin. You are driving too fast,” the on-board computer announced.
“Please decrease your speed.”
Realife had provided Martin with a brand new set of wheels when he
started working, and he was still constantly fascinated by its
driving possibilities. Martin sat pretty as a pig taking a dump in
his new Saturn Io, which changed colors according to the weather. It
had sculptured seating and could sit five comfortably. It had a V-8
under the hood and an entertainment center on voice command.
He sat high in comparison to the Ford Lima and was still having trouble
judging distances, but thanks to the onboard computer, Martin could
do no wrong.
“Martin, you are in the wrong lane. Please return to the right side
of the road.”
Martin’s hernia had not required hospitalization and he was glad not
to have missed any days from work. He had only been restricted from
lifting heavy objects forever. For Martin, this meant a lifetime
excuse never to engage in manual labor.
While at the hospital the Sunbeam iron had burned down the house. A
gapping charred hole had replaced the roof over the living room.
Martin had decided to stay at a hotel close to Realife while
considering his options until the new job and the promised transfer
up to the new Realife factory in sacramento materialized. It was only
when Bianca had called him to ask about her mother’s whereabouts that
Martin realized that he also had not seen her for a couple of days.
As it turned out, she called shortly after and left a message on his
cell phone that she wanted a divorce. New car, new job, new city, new
house, new life, and perhaps one day a new wife. Once again, Martin
was slipping without a plan into the next phase, sure of being
rewarded on the way.
“Martin. Please turn off the blinker.”
The new job at Realife had required him to establish a whole new set
of working parameters. A new list of clients, a different driving
route, the still unfamiliar faces of his colleagues, the flow charts
and sales goals, the chemicals and their by-products, production
standards and guidelines, refill stations, wholesale, bulk and over
the counter.
Wherever he went, Martin was well received and after the initial
nervousness of being in a new job, he was finding his niche. He often
wondered why he had not switched jobs earlier, wondered how he had
ever lived without Realife.
He had already developed a new slogan for the company, one that no
longer used the word chemicals. His suggestion of, ’’We’re changing
your world for the better’ was greeted enthusiastically, and enabled
him to pocket his first bonus.
Working for the company gave Martin a sense of self-realization. As
well as the company car, future relocation and a thirteen-day paid
vacation, he was also the proud holder of a golden key to the
executive toilet. Martin knew that it was in the privacy of the
urinals that camaraderie with his male colleagues was at its most
honest. Martin had bonded with them over prostrate glands, digestive
systems, bowel movements, hemorrhoid treatments and impotence.
He had truly been made to feel part of the Realife family.
“Martin. You are approaching Olive Avenue,” the pleasant digitized
female voice announced. “Please move over to the left lane and turn
left.”
“Don’t tell me where to go.” He moved over to the left lane. “I’ve
been driving this way …”
“Martin. Please reduce your speed and turn left on Olive Avenue.”
“Oh shut up.” Martin obeyed the command, floored the gas and caught
the left before the signal changed. Then he drove straight without
distraction for a good twenty minutes and thought about the ad he was
developing. Fertilizers for growth, weed killers for death and
genetic tomatoes for life.
“Martin. You are approaching your destination. Please reduce your
speed,” the voice interrupted.
“Candi? I came by …”
“Martin!” she shouted and spun around in her office chair. “Jeepers,
Martin. How do you get to my desk without a sound? You spooked me
again.”
“I’m sorry.” He covered his mouth and coughed. “I came by to ask you
if you need a ride because of the rain?”
“What?” Then figuring out the gist of what Martin had said, she
replied, “Well, that’s nice of you.”
“Streets are all backed up. You have to take a detour around West
Avenue.” He patted his orange company jacket and fumbled through
his coat pockets. “Here. I brought you some chocolate.” His left elbow
knocked over an artificial cornucopia display on Candi’s desk,
sending little plastic fruit tumbling onto the lobby floor.
“Slow down, Martin,” Candi instructed, struggling to stop the rest of
the fruit from falling. “You’re a little bit nervous about tonight,
aren’t you?” she asked with an edgy note in her voice.
“I guess I am.” He bent over to retrieve the fallen fruit. “I’ve got
some whisky and cola drinks in the car. I’d thought we’d get an early
start with all the rain. Here’s a banana.” He laid it on the counter.
During the convention, Candi had manned the switchboard diligently
and managed to keep the natives at Realife happy while gaggles of
millionaires came through the lobby in their designer blue or gray
suits, starched white shirts, company neckties and expensive leather
shoes. She even had met a few of their wives who, in her opinion,
were nothing more than bubblehead whores who had sold themselves in
marriage to the nearest demi-god for the highest price they could.
She felt she had more of a right than them to attend the gala. After
all, she was doing most of the extra work for Mr. Thorndorn and Mr.
Cole. Instead, it was only through Martin’s friendship with Mike
Mueller that she would be at the closing gala, though as a performer
and not a guest.
“Is this your first time on stage?”
“No. Not really.” Martin stood in silence for a moment shifting from
one foot to another.
“Well. Are you going to tell me about it?” she asked and started to
straighten her desk.
“I was on stage with Norma Child once, in my teens.”
“Who’s Norma Child?’’
“You know, the one who had that hit song, ‘Butterflies are free at
the zoo’.”
Martin went on to babble everything he knew about the life of Norma
Child, her successful diet plan, the time when her son had pierced
himself to death attempting to scale a metal fence, her first husband,
the French film star Kili Lechien who was still lying in a coma at
the Johns Hopkins Medical Clinic after a serious boating accident,
and her successful second marriage to bodybuilder turned millionaire
congressman, Arnold Weissman.
Candi did not pay much attention to what Martin was saying, but
worked her new theory that most men were like farm animals that
simply disguised themselves in dab business suits and wore neckties
as leashes. They were predominantly of one variety of livestock, the
pig, of which there were four subclasses: the fat pig, the skinny
pig, the runt and the suckling. On occasion, a stud would saunter
through the pigsty but there would always be a hitch, he was either
unbroken, unsaddled or just downright lame.
Her affair with Martin was beginning to wither. They had been going
at it for a half a year but she had come to realize that Martin was
no different. At first, he had displayed himself as an outgoing and
individualistic man, but underneath that façade was a boy with a one-
track mind who was happy to wipe ass, and rode every opportunity to
his advantage.
“Martin!” she interrupted him in recounting the climax of his first
and only contact with Norma Child at the Monterey Folk Festival,
where he had gotten her autograph. “Martin! There’s a big chocolate
cake from the Acme Disposal Union in the cafeteria. I think you’ll
like it. It’s pretty funny. Mr. Thorndorn sure did. It’s shaped like
a dump truck with candy fruit as trash. It’s a gift to Mr. Thorndorn
and Realife.”
Martin had followed Candi’s red lips opening and closing, sweetening
her explanation of the cake in the cafeteria, until he could not
imagine doing anything but taking a bite. He started to make his way
to the cafeteria but Candi called him back.
“Martin.” She leaned over her desk and placed the headset on his
head, then she held down a button on the control panel and told
Martin, “ Say something.”
“Something.”
“Just say ’pick up’ when the phone rings.” She walked around her
desk. “I’ll be back in a sec. I’ve got to take a pee. My back teeth
are floating.” Candi patted Martin on the butt and went into the
woman’s lavatory.
Mouth watering, Martin searched the lobby for something to eat. The
thought of the chocolate cake was making his stomach rumble. He
picked up the banana and tried to place it carefully back in the
cornucopia. He heard a ringing in his ear and froze. Seconds went by
as Martin rubbed the wax banana with each additional ring. He broke
out in a mild sweat while debating whether he should answer the
phone, or leave the lobby and eat cake. Finally, on the eighth ring,
he answered.
“Mr. Thorndorn.”
“Yeah. Mr. Thorndorn,” Martin replied.
“There is a bomb planted at the F.C.T. It will go off at nine. You
have received our warning. Do not expand onto your brothers’ land.
This is your last chance. We are not kidding. Clever and money. We
are the opportunists.”
The phone went dead and Martin jumped as Candi tapped him on the
shoulder. “Did you get a call?”
“Yeah. I think it was a bomb threat.”
“Male voice? Distorted? Clever and money?”
“Yeah,” he stuttered, ’’that’s, that’s what I heard.”
“We’ve been getting them regularly for some time now. As of yet,
there hasn’t been a single bomb found. You remember that other one.
It turned out to be just a can of tomato juice left in a lunch bag,
that exploded in the microwave.” She took the headset Martin was
holding out to her. “This is Fresno. Who’s going to blow up anything
in this town?” She smirked and circled her work area. “And if it gets
blown up, it deserved it.”
“Can I eat some cake now. Do you want a piece?”
“No Martin. We have to report this call to the police immediately.
Poop!” She stomped her foot. “Why did it have to happen now?”
“Maybe you’ve got an angry employee.”
“Listen. You’ve got to talk to the police. You’re the one who
answered.” Candi handed Martin the headset.
“Ah, hun. I don’t want to talk to the police now,” he said, and
ignored the headset. “Can’t we just forget about it?”
“Geez, Martin. Just tell them exactly what you heard on the
telephone.” She shook the headset in front of him.
“You do it.” He stepped back. “You’ve done it before. You said they
call all the time. It was the same thing again.”
“Martin!” Candi put the receiver up to her ear and dialed. “You know
Martin. I’ll make sure you’re not the first person I call when I’m on
my deathbed.” Candi stood huffing, refusing to make eye contact with
Martin.
Martin shifted nervously from one foot to another, waiting to be
freed from Candi’s presence. A not too common scenario.
“Hello. Can I speak to Sergeant Pisa? This is Candi Powers at Realife
again. Yeah. Hi Antonio. Any news about your mom? Still the same? Oh
okay. Well, you let me know if anything happens.” She listened. “Oh,
I’m so happy that Mona finally did it. What’s the shop called? Big
Mama what Trash? Big Mama Fast Trash. Oh, Big Mona’s Fast Trash.
That will sure bring in the customers.
“Everything’s okay on my end. I just called because we got another
one of those bomb threats. Yeah. Yeah. Clever and money.”
She looked at Martin. “That’s what he said. It was a male voice.”
Martin shook his head affirmatively.
“Yeah. Distorted. Where did they say it was planted?”
“At the factory,” Martin whispered.
“At the factory. Which building?”
“Nine.”
“Yeah. They said the usual things.” She looked at Martin for
confirmation. “We are the opportunists, etcetera, etcetera.”
He nodded in agreement.
“No. That won’t be possible. I have a date at the F.C.T. tonight.
Yeah. Yeah. The Young Millionaires Gala. I have to be there at four.
Well, okay. Ten minutes, then I’m leaving. Yeah. I’ll tell the people
in nine that they have to get out.”
“Poop!” she cursed and took off the headset and casually tossed it on
her desk. “They want to come by and make a report. I guess you’ll
have to talk to them. They got half an hour. Otherwise we’re
leaving.” She sat down and realized that Martin was waiting for her
to command. Suddenly, the opportunity to practice simple sadism
supplanted her frustration. She scooted her chair forward, placed her
elbows on the desk, and rested her chin on her hands. “Martin?” She
paused. “Why don’t you get me a piece of cake?”
Martin smiled and started to move.
“I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee. Martin?”
Martin stopped in his tracks and looked back at Candi.
“Is that your raincoat?”
He nodded affirmatively.
“Why didn’t you leave it out in the hall. It’s soaking the lobby.
Someone is going to slip on the floor.”
Martin shrugged his shoulders and started to move.
“Martin!”
“Hun?” He stopped once more.
“On second thought, why don’t you get those drinks from the car? I’ll
get the cake.”
Martin stopped, stood for a moment and changed directions.
“Oh Martin?”
He turned back before exiting the building.
“Martin. How big a piece do you want?’’
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