by Paul Lally
Unlike like Thomas Edison, who invented the world’s first efficient lightbulb, and then went on to create General Electric, Jack’s been smart enough to stay out of any downstream applications of his creations. Happy instead to license patents and keep on inventing easier ways to live, he’s always got ideas buzzing in his head like happy bumblebees.
“Like inventing ceremonial scissors that actually work,” he thinks as the ribbon final falls (“What if you inserted two opposing metal knife blades near the hinge?”).
The gathered crowd applauds as Jack’s (all-electric) town car pulls up to the pump to get a charge, while he gets ready to pull up stakes and haul-ass back to Akron-Canton Regional airport, where he landed two short hours ago.
“Sorry you can’t stay for lunch, Mr. Riley,” the mayor says. “I hear the Plug n’ Go folks are putting on quite a spread.”
“Give Margie my regards.”
The mayor’s face goes blank, then lights up, “Oh, you mean Ms. Lawrence?”
“Affirmative. Tell her I’ll be available for the one-thousandth ribbon cutting. Going to make it a tradition.”
That gets a laugh, a vigorous handshake, and a beaming smile. “This station is exactly what the city needs. Going to be a real shot in the arm.”
“First of five, as I understand.”
“Six.”
“Wonderful. As usual, Marjorie ‘maketh the crooked way straight’.”
“Pardon me?”
“Book of Isaiah.”
“I see.”
But he doesn’t.
And it doesn’t matter. What does, is that Jack’s Gulfstream 550 waits on the tarmac at Youngstown-Warren Regional Airport, fueled up, crew on-board, ready to whisk him back to New Hampshire.
It’s 10:25 a.m. The meeting with his lawyers is at 3 p.m.. Ten tedious, hours driving nonstop by car, his twenty million-dollar business jet can do it in just under two, winds-aloft permitting. He might even have time for a late lunch when he lands.
By now, the ribbon-cutting crowd is gathered around the recharging island, mouthing “oohs and ahhs” at how the bright blue LED lights hidden inside the “pump’s” white plastic housing pulse and glow as electricity surges from the SuperCap storage tanks below ground, and then up and into the limousine’s lithium batteries.
Jack takes advantage of the distraction to dart inside the convenience store. He buys a couple bags of Cheetos (crunchy), tucks them in his briefcase, and sprints back.
Both car and inventor properly refueled, the limo takes off.
Jack’s CFO and financial advisor Andy Diengott always frowns whenever the subject of the business jet comes up.
He’s long ago abandoned the fiscally sound argument for fractional jet ownership as the only way to go, and surrendered instead to Jack’s insisting on an outright purchase—full-time flight crew included—with an ironclad rule: when he doesn’t need the jet for business, it’s used for humanitarian purposes; medical transport, Doctors Without Borders flights, Global Re-vision Network, etc.
Toward that end, instead of sporting buttery soft, custom made business-class seats and Sultan-like interiors that Gulfstream owners brag about, Jack’s interior resembles the inside of an air force transport, complete with web seating and racks for stretchers.
He pokes his head into the cockpit. “Sorry, I’m late. How we doing for time, captain?”
The woman in the left-hand seat holds her hand up for silence. “Roger, ground, say again, Runway two-eight left?”
A brief pause while she listens in her headset. Jack nods to the co-pilot. A young man, but he’s got that “look” in his eye that Jack likes to see. Three gold stripes on his shoulder epaulets for now, but one day, four stripes for sure.
Finished with runway confirmation, the pilot turns and says brightly, “Say again your last, sir?”
“My four o’clock in Portsmouth moved back to three. Can you light a fire under this bird?”
“Absolutely, sir. She’s a hell of a lot faster than that contraption you call a helicopter.”
“Captain, you are on thin ice...”
“No offense, Mr. Riley, but have you noticed lately that your chopper’s ‘wings’ travel faster than its fuselage?”
“It’s how rotary wing advocates such as yours truly achieve the miracle of flight.”
She pats the twin throttles. “To each his own.”
Captain Kayla Archambault and Jack have been fast friends for almost five years, now. A former USAF transport pilot, she bailed out when she hit a glass ceiling made of steel and found her calling as Jack’s command pilot instead.
She never knows from one day to the next where she might end up. The Gulfstream 550’s range is intercontinental, as is Jack’s determination to be of help when he can, where he can.
Kayla looks out the side window. “Mr. Martin had to deplane.”
“Where’d he go?”
“Two more boxes of glasses showed up and—wait, here he comes.”
“The man never stops.”
“Reminds me of someone I know.”
Jack heads aft to the entry door just as a sandy-haired, Hawaiian-shirt-and-Bermuda-shorts-wearing man scrambles up the boarding stairs, hefting a big carboard box in each arm.
“Hold that door, pal!” he shouts, then laughs.
“Need a hand?”
“All set. Mérida, here we come—after you get off in Portsmouth, that is.”
“Where the hell’s Mérida?”
“Mexico, baby. The Yucatán.”
Jack rears back and hollers to the cockpit. “Captain, you know where Mérida is? Bob says it’s in Mexico.”
“Our fourth time there, sir. Like the back of my hand.”
Jack hits the airstairs retraction button as the Gulfstream’s twin turbines start spooling up.
“Light ‘em up and let’s roll.”
“Roger, wilco.”
By now, Bob’s made his way to the back and is busy stacking his boxes on top of an already considerable stack of similar cardboard boxes with different coding on them: A-11, A12, 4-33, 4-34, etc.
Jack watches his friend humming away as he secures the boxes. “Got yourself quite a haul this time.”
Bob keeps humming.
Jack repeats what he said, much louder. Then adds, “For a guy who has twenty-ten vision, you sure can’t hear worth a damn.”
“Sorry about that. New hearing aids. Cost a fortune. Keep forgetting to use the remote. Hang on.”
He fusses with a small handheld device. “Say something.”
“Something.”
Bob’s face brightens. “Ah, loud and clear. You were saying?”
“How long you been doing this?”
“Forever.”
“Who’s minding the agency?”
“Not me.”
Bob Martin has a beyond-your-wildest-dreams successful advertising and public relations company, with offices all over the world. Back during Jack’s all too brief time at Rensselaer Polytechnic, they were roommates. Countless hours drinking countless beers and dreaming countless dreams forged their lifetime friendship.
When Jack headed west on his motorcycle and kept on going into the Navy, Bob stayed put, graduated with honors from the school’s business and management program and hit the ground running at Doyle, Dane, Bernbach advertising agency in Manhattan.
Unlike his peers, Bob didn’t patiently climb DDB’s ladder, he leaped it in a single creative bound. Within five years, he was running his own agency and to everyone’s astonishment, the Ford Motor Company saw genius in the kid and handed over the keys to their advertising and public relations account. They never looked back, neither did Bob.
At the heart of supremely gifted folks like these two lurks the unspoken desire to love and be loved by, with, and through dreams they have that you and I will most likely never experience.
It’s their gateway drug.
But when you reach the top of the achievement mountain, you have a choice: eithe
r head back down, or start climbing a different mountain. For Jack, he uses his incalculable wealth the same way that Bill Gates does; through a series of non-profit foundations that help the helpless.
Bob’s into eyeglasses.
Big time.
Used glasses.
His Global Re-vision Network scoops up pre-worn eyeglasses by the thousands and donates them to vision-impaired indigenous peoples around the world. Whether it’s in the Yucatán or Bolivia, wherever impoverished people live, Bob’s network of volunteers and paid staff perform eye exams, find the correct prescription glasses, and fit them properly.
In less than ten minutes, they can change a lifetime.
After Jack’s plane lands at Pease airport, it will stop only long enough to re-fuel, and then head southwest, across the Gulf of Mexico, and eventually end up in Mérida, Mexico, with Bob and his brand-new supply of donated eyeglasses, plus an autorefractor that measures refractive errors and determines what prescription a patient needs. Once that’s completed, it’s simply a matter of finding the right box with the right prescription.
Mission accomplished.
Miracle done.
As the plane taxies for takeoff, Bob plops down onto one of the jump seats and fastens his seatbelt. Jack joins him, sitting directly across. His college roommate leans over and reaches out for a high five.
“Florence Nightingale’s got nothing on you, pal,” Bob says.
“My patron saint.”
“How is she in bed?”
“Medicinal but marvelous.”
“Now that’s funny—how’ve you been?”
“Busy. You?”
He shrugs. “The more I leave my gang alone, the better they get. What’s that say about me, I wonder?”
“Among other things, you’re a damn good manager.”
“Compliment accepted, although with reservations—how’s your dad? Last time we talked, things were...” he trails off and waves his hand back and in a “so-so” gesture.
“Funny you should ask.” Jack checks his watch. “Here’s the deal...”
Five minutes later, Bob’s face has shifted from contentment to deep concern after Jack laid it out straight. Over the years, they’ve developed a conversational style that allows a maximum of content sharing in a minimum amount of time.
Bob finally says, “And the battleship too? He’s got to be one pissed-off guy.”
“The only thing worse is a pissed-off lawyer.”
“Which he is, God bless the man.”
Jack lets out a whoosh of air.
“What’s that mean?”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“About what?”
“Everything.”
“Be specific, please.”
“Pop not being here one day. Guilt that I’ve been an asshole son.”
“Ah, yes, the normal recriminations.”
Bob closes his eyes and tilts his head to one side. Jack knows what that means. So he stares out the window instead.
Ten thousand feet and climbing fast, Akron, Ohio merges into a blur of Midwest farmland, thread-like rivers, and fast fading fall colors. Then wisps of silvery gray clouds start hiding the earth, getting darker and darker, then into a solid overcast. By the time the jet breaks free of the sullen skies and into the bright sunlight that’s been up here waiting all along, Bob Martin’s eyes pop open.
“Got me an idea.”
“I’ll bet.”
“What’s you dad love?”
Jack ponders. “Lots of things, I guess.”
“No, I mean really LOVE.”
“Mom, until she died.”
“Rest her soul. What’s next?”
“Classical music.”
“Next.”
“Ummm... his sailboat?”
“Getting warmer.”
Bob raises his eyebrows, “Rhymes with ‘clock... c’mon, c’mon, Mr. Wizard.’”
Jack laughs at hearing the long-ago nickname Bob bestowed on him.
“The Rock, of course.”
Bob applauds. “Give the man a cigar—even if he doesn’t smoke. Yes, you’re damn right, Tommy Riley loves that gigantic hunk of floating steel that nobody wants in Portsmouth anymore. Do I hear an amen?”
“Amen.”
Bob sits up straight, unbuckles his seatbelt and leans forward. “You said the navy’s going to scrap her if the foundation can’t provide proper anchorage, right?”
“Without fail.”
“And thanks to the bitch-on-wheels, it no longer can—what’d you say her name was again?
“Munroe Devillar.”
“Cruella Deville’s more like it.”
“Funny, that’s what the admiral calls her, too.”
“And well he should. She’s got you by the short hairs.”
“Not me specifically, but—”
“Excuse me, but who created you, along with your mom’s help, of course?”
“Pop.”
“Then by association, you’re caught between a rock and a hard place, too—that, is if you love your dad.”
“That’s not on the table. Of course, I do.”
A brief pause.
Bob gives him “the look” that means he’s finally arrived at his point. Whatever that point might be, Jack never knows. His friend’s mind is like the black boxes he used to work on when he was in the Navy. They did remarkable things, but you barely—if ever—understood just how.
“Remember the motorcycle ride you and I took? That winter at school before you boogied out west and disappeared into the navy?”
The memory rushes in like a black-and-white movie: snow-covered roads, the drunken joy of doing donuts in the dorm parking lot, Bob hanging on for dear life and screaming at the top of his lungs....
“Remember what you said to me, Mr. Wizard?”
Jack can hear it now and repeats it aloud. “Let’s go for a ride.”
“Bingo.”
“You mean—”
“—I mean, connect the dots, here. That’s how you ended up a billionaire twice-over—or is it three times?”
“No idea.”
“I suggest you find out, because if you buy my idea—and you’d be crazy not to—you’re going to be writing a lot of checks in the very near future.”
“This has nothing to do with you and your used eyeglasses, right?”
“Nothing. But everything to do with retaining my agency to handle what’s going to happen to that big-ass battleship of yours they call the Rock.”
“As of today, your personal net worth is two hundred-thousand, five hundred-eighty-six dollars shy of.... three billion,” CFO Andy Diengott says.
No stranger to big numbers, he turns a page on the legal pad tucked into his leather portfolio. He glances at the row of figures and smiles slightly.. “That will change by tomorrow, most likely, and for the better the way the market’s performing. As for company’s assets, the current value—”
“—not necessary, Andy, thanks.” Jack says.
His CFO closes the portfolio and folds his hands on top. His warm brown eyes regard Jack with serene attention. “Will there be anything else, sir? Got a two o’clock in town.”
“How’d you get out here?”
“Biked.”
“Nice day for it.”
“I’ll say. Not many until the snow flies.”
“Like your new rig?”
His eyes brighten, then cool down again. “I never thought I’d give up the Harley. But...”
“But the Ducati won you over, am I right?”
“I’m living the dream, thanks to you.”
“Don’t forget your helmet.”
With that, Andy leans down, grabs his leather jacket and a bright red BEON motorcycle half-helmet.
“Off like a herd of turtles,” he says.
“Helmet color matches your bike. Nice touch, don’t you think?”
A tiny smile and a nod. “You thought of everything, boss-man.” He slips it on and snaps
it the chin strap. “Later ‘gators.”
After he departs, Jack turns to the man and woman sitting across from him at his dining room table. He rubs his fingers across its smooth mahogany surface. The well-loved, scratched and chipped family dinner table is one of the pieces of furniture he rescued when his father sold their bed- and-breakfast “As is.”.
Memories of growing up in that multi-roomed, four story house always involved “Friday Family Meetings” held at this very same table after the dinner plates were cleared. It’s only one of many memories Jack brought along with him to his “compound.”
Situated on Belle Isle in Portsmouth’s Little Harbor, the twelve-acre island is as secluded as a mountaintop retreat, but only minutes away from downtown via a small connecting bridge.
Lots to see and enjoy on these few acres of his: a mile of waterfront property, multiple docks, a four-stall horse barn (converted to a hangar for his Enstrom helicopter), and the main attraction; a 1900s-era gable-roofed “manor home” with five bedrooms and multiple fireplaces. Enough square footage to rattle around in like a BB in a boxcar.
Not that Jack does. But he could.
And did so, for three years when two “BB’s” lived here. The other one was his partner Bianca DeAngelis. An Italian American girl who Jack met when he was on a business trip to Sicily. A licensed tour guide for the city of Palermo, from where her grandparents emigrated fifteen years earlier to Anchorage, Alaska—of all places—Bianca unerringly “guided” Jack into the secret pleasures of Palermo, then into a romance that you only see in the movies, and only an Italian woman can pull off.
What started as attraction, ended up with the two of them setting up housekeeping in Belle Island. But the call of Anchorage ultimately overcame the call of this tiny island. Two years ago, reaching an impasse in their relationship, Bianca packed her bags, kissed Jack goodbye, whispered. “Arrividerci caro,” and headed north to where the sled dogs live.
They say love never dies. But it can.
And it did.
Jack leans forward and alternately looks at the two attorneys who flank him like bookends. They’ve been scribbling away ever since Andy left.