Organic Nation

Organic Nation Page 4

by Phil Wohl

The Organic Nation concept was so successful that the company accelerated its growth and achieved profitability after year one. Brad broke his own promise and decided to hang on at school for one more year. Opening two more Organic Nation locations—in Wantagh, near the Wantagh Parkway, and Rockville Center just off Sunrise Highway—which definitely put a strain on this decision.

  The company’s explosive growth pushed Brad to walk out on school by the Christmas break, although he had already mentally checked out before the school year began. He had become sort of a local celebrity once the second and third location opened. The buzz was so strong that Newsday did a Sunday magazine section expose on Organic Nation.

  Brad had avoided swankier areas of Long Island solely because the real estate was so expensive, but it wasn’t long before the towns of Roslyn, Merrick, and Dix Hills came calling. Green was “in” and that meant Organic Nation was poised to shift to its second stage of evolution: the dine-in restaurant.

  Visiting Day

  Prisoners had virtually no restrictions on visitors, yet the flow of Brad’s visitors was limited by the mental beating the collective had suffered as the result of his tunnel vision. He had been in jail for six months and only greeted one visitor.

  “You look great, Amanda!” Brad glowed as he stepped up to hug the good doctor.

  She smiled, “Getting away from you was the best thing I ever did.”

  Amanda left her job at the hospital once Organic Nation opened its fifth location.

  “I need you full time,” Brad said to Amanda after the Huntington grand opening. The double entendre was more of a personal play than a professional plea. The two had flirted openly for over a year but had still not consummated their obvious relationship.

  She blushed and then Brad tried to move in for the kill, “I’ll double your ON salary.”

  The smile slid from her face, “I still won’t be making more than my hospital salary. What about the benefits?”

  Now it was Brad’s turn to smile. “I’ll pay you 20% more than your current salary.”

  She nodded in approval and replied, “What about the benefits?”

  Brad was finally at his breaking point. The invisible, yet unscalable wall between doctor and patient all of the sudden didn’t seem so insurmountable. He took a few steps forward and officially stepped over the line.

  “Let’s start with me and then we’ll fill in the gaps with insurance, retirement plans, and other perks.” Brad moved in and Amanda met him in a passionate kiss. A few moments later, they came up for air.

  “I want my own office,” she said.

  “Done,” Brad replied as he went back in for a second helping. The scrum quickly transitioned from Brad’s kitchen to his bedroom. After three hours of continuous pleasure, Amanda sighed and said, “Done. I don’t get any of that at the hospital.”

  Dr. Amanda never regretted her decision to leave her public service job for a corporate opportunity. Within seven years she was a multi-millionaire, had a boat-load of stock options, had a husband, and was starting to think about children.

  Seven years of uncontrollable success had finally gotten to Brad’s inflated, graying dome.

  “If I told you once I told you 37 times, I don’t want children!” Brad said with all of the conviction of a seasoned life insurance agent.

  “But I do!” Amanda shot back.

  Brad didn’t even blink, “Then you’ll have to find a sperm donor somewhere else!”

  She matched his stare, “Done.”

  Amanda cashed out her stock options in a few lots - representing about $25 million in after-tax profits - and then filed for divorce, citing “Irreconcilable Differences.”

  Once the couple split Brad’s assets, Amanda was worth about $400 million, give or take a few million. He was worth close to $1 billion at the time of the divorce, and would peak at $1.5 billion a few years later. She took a two-month vacation at a spa in Palm Springs and then decided to open a clinic for children suffering from various afflictions. The “Kid Planet” cost Amanda about $25 million to build, but the rewards of the new-world facility gave her riches beyond any financial bounty.

  The not-for-profit facility was also connected to the Brenda Fellows Foundation, which was named for Amanda’s eight year-old sister who died from an aneurism.

  Amanda had met many caring and brilliant people throughout the planning process, but no one had impacted her personally and professionally as much as Dennis Thatcher. Dennis was the younger brother of Art Thatcher, who just happened to be Brad Green’s business manager.

  Dennis left his brother’s management firm about three minutes after he was rebuffed for noticing some improprieties in the Green account. He could smell the stench building in the unattended financials dumpster, and didn’t want to hang around while the ship of greed sank as fast as the stock market in the midst of a crash.

  Brad left a message on Amanda’s voice mail one day. “Hey, it’s me. Great to see you doing so well. I heard about your project and it sounds like a great idea. Not sure about the non-profit angle, but I think you should talk to a trusted advisor. I’m obviously not that guy, so here is Denny Thatcher’s number…”

  Amanda was obviously hesitant to employ Brad’s advice at first. Although their breakup had been amicable, primarily because he was knee-deep in women willing to fight to be the next Mrs. Green, it was nonetheless a painful breakup. Amanda had put her career and her life on hold for the opportunity of a lifetime. She decided that greed and status would no longer be a part of her world. Of course it was easier walking away with a truck full of cash under her mattress.

  Amanda stopped working at Organic Nation but still believed wholeheartedly in the product. She lived just outside of the town of Huntington and ate many of her meals at the ON location in town. On this particular night, she called ahead and walked in to pick up her take-out order. People waiting for their order sat on long, bright green bench made of recycled materials, which was situated near the front of the restaurant.

  “I have a Prius and a solar panel,” the well-groomed counter manager (CM) said in calm voice. ON used any opportunity to educate its patrons, and by handing people recycled cards with information on one side and a picture on the other, no stone was left unturned.

  A distinguished gentleman stepped next to Amanda and said, “I was hoping to get the whole grain card.”

  She smiled and replied, “I came up with that one.”

  “Here you go, Miss Fellows,” the CM said.

  “And, for you, Mr. Thatcher.”

  They looked at each other and the magic happened.

  “All of the sudden, I’m not in such a rush. Do you want to get a table?” he said.

  “Alberto, can we have a quiet table for two?” Amanda asked.

  They handed their recycled paper bags back and Alberto said, “I’ll have these plated for you, Miss Fellows. Brison, please escort Miss Fellows and Mr. Thatcher to table 12.”

  While Amanda was getting used to eating alone, she nonetheless missed the fun times she had with Brad in the early years.

  “You know, you were a lot more fun in the beginning,” she said to Brad as they strolled through the prison atrium.

  “I sort of lost myself and you along the way,” Brad stated. “What brings you here today? Not that I mind the company.”

  Amanda looked in Brad’s eyes and sighed, “Nobody’s been here to see you? Am I the first person to visit you?”

  Brad showed vulnerability for a change and replied, “Yes.”

  “Can’t say that you don’t deserve it big guy. Anyone make you their bitch yet?” Amanda deadpanned.

  “The only bitches in here are in the K-9 unit.”

  “I came to ask you a question,” Amanda said.

  “Shoot,” Brad said.

  “Where did you go wrong with the expansion?” she asked.

  They stopped walking and sat down on a couch. Brad sat back and thought
a few seconds before replying.

  “I tried to manage everything myself instead of letting the people at the individual locations do their jobs. The centralized management structure worked well when we were small but when we ballooned out of control, things started to unravel. Why do you ask? Do you need a consultant?”

  Amanda rolled her eyes, “God, no! We were thinking about opening a few more Kid Planet’s in the U.S. and possibly one in either France or Spain.”

  “You gonna’ stay non-profit?” Brad asked.

  She looked down on him like a disappointed mother, “Of course!”

  He replied, “Some things never change!”

  Brad flashed back to the first big fight he had with Amanda. She was concerned with the apparent misuse of charity funds.

  “Is that money really going back to the community?” she asked.

  “What are you saying? What about that playground we put up at Prospect Park and the garden we planted at Uniondale High School?”

  “Okay. That was year one. What happened after that?” she said.

  He replied without hesitation, “We have a number of projects in development.”

  “A number of projects in development? A number projects in development? What are these projects?”

  He countered, “Our community relations director is in discussions with several town boards.”

  She became enraged, “We have a community relations director? There are 50 employees in the company and I have never met this person! How is that possible?”

  “She’s a part-time employee,” Brad said.

  Amanda stared Brad down, so he folded and revealed the source. “Sheila Levine.”

  “Sheila the Stalker? You hired Sheila the Stalker?”

  Brad replied, “Hired is more of a liberal term. She has taken on the role in a more unofficial capacity.”

  “You’re not even paying her?” Amanda exclaimed as she became even more incensed.

  Brad had enough of the conversation, “Do you like making money?”

  “What do you mean?” she replied.

  He had no patience, “What do I mean?” he muttered under his breath. “If I hire a person full-time to complete the task, then that will take money out of all of our pockets!”

  “So, that’s what all of this is about?” Amanda said as she looked around the room with her arms spread wide.

  Brad took a deep breath and answered, “What do you think, that I went into business to save the world?”

  “Wow. I really got out of control, didn’t I?” Brad said as he readjusted on the jail couch.

  “Yeah, you got lost in the money,” Amanda stated.

  Brad nodded in agreement, “I couldn’t stop myself after it took off.”

  “Are you getting therapy in here?”

  He smiled, “You could call it that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There is a therapist on staff, but I have chosen my own form of therapy,” Brad explained.

  Amanda sat quietly, trying to once again figure out the puzzle that was Brad Green. “You never fail to confuse the hell out of me.”

  “I’ve discovered cooking,” Brad said with a straight face.

  Amanda was taking a sip of water and nearly forced the water from her nostrils out of shock! Then she started coughing.

  “Are you all right?” Brad asked as he patted his ex-wife on the back.

  “Wrong pipe,” she said in a scratchy voice as the final coughs sounded off.

  “Cooking? I had to coax you into getting me a bottle of water from the fridge.”

  “I know. It started when I was doing dishes and then I was on vegetable prep duty.”

  Amanda then pulled out a tissue and blew her flooded nose. She located a garbage can and then tossed the soiled rag in the target.

  “You actually got your hands dirty? Wow! There might still be hope for you.”

  They looked at each other and said simultaneously, “Maybe.”

  Chef Green

  The prison was so white collar that there was a cork board in front of the mess hall that listed a group of classes/activities available to inmates. Some prisoners turned to religious studies, but these men tended to be on the fringe of the mainstream. The majority of these wealthy businesspeople had given up standardized religion earlier in their lives in favor of giving praise to the almighty dollar. Praise given to greenbacks seemed to pay off for the 123 men and 12 woman dedicated to procuring lofty levels of greed in place of sound business ethics and spirituality-based morals.

  While there were many felons that cost thousands of hard-working people their jobs, houses and families, there were just as many men that cheated quietly in the dark recesses of their paper-infested offices. One such man was Bruce Wasserstein, a high-powered attorney for the New York-based law firm, Klein, Barrett, and Wasserstein. In fact, Wasserstein represented Brad Green in his trial. Two months after Green was sent to jail, federal charges were levied against Wasserstein and his partners for padding their billable hours. Ironically, this suit was brought on by the new management of Organic Nation and its shareholders, in the hope that they could more swiftly emerge from Chapter 11 bankruptcy proceedings.

  Wasserstein was a complete Sands Point, Long Island snob, but he had incredible taste buds. He had slowly introduced Brad to the world of gourmet food and wine in the four years since they became associated. Bruce Wasserstein was a classic bandwagon jumper - he never made a bet until the outcome seemed certain, or if he received inside information.

  Once Organic Nation made the front page of the Wall Street Journal, Bruce moved in like a hawk that had just spotted a mouse. After all, he said, “Every successful company needs an equally successful attorney.”

  Brad was impressed with Bruce’s class. The man reeked of success with his Armani suits and perfectly-pressed, French cuff shirts. Brad had grown up solidly entrenched in the middle class and was looking to vault upwards. Simply having more money than all of the people you grew up with, does not the upper class make. Associating yourself with the upper crust of society also does not transition you permanently into a higher class, but having money over the long-term will probably get you in the building.

  Moving from Brooklyn to Long Island in the early 1960’s was no easy chore, but it was a path that most people decided to take. Leaving the crowded nature of the inner city for the open spaces of the new country effectively destroyed the fabric of the nuclear family. Moving from apartment/tenement buildings into houses meant the generational chain had been permanently severed; that children, parents, and grandparents would never live in the same house again as able-bodied contributors. Suburban life meant independence, and independence translated into the detachment of future generations.

  While it was certain that two year-old Brad enjoyed the company of his grandparents, adult Brad had little or no memory of even knowing them. He was always a loner, preferring to work on solo projects versus bonding together with others to accomplish a common goal. His ventures always started out with a group of people, but inevitably ended as a mission of one. A case in point was that several key executives of ON committed crimes, but only Brad went to jail. He had so distanced himself from his co-workers that they had no problem copping a plea and testifying against him. Menial fines and probation were their punishment, while Brad lost almost everything and had to endure cooking classes and investment clubs for five years.

  Money had become such a cumbersome part of Brad’s life that it seemed to burden his every thought. Cutting corners and deceiving the community were only the first two strokes off a brush painting a picture of the most colorful and vivid rainbow. In the corporate world, however, the rainbow followed a Category 5 hurricane that wiped out the entire community.

  Brad and Charles had many long conversations about money and they both came to the same conclusion: "If we made it once, we can make it again.”

  Brad’s only chance to access his hidd
en fortune would be to leave the country and live the rest of his life on a beautiful beach, watching awe-inspiring sunset after awe-inspiring sunset. While that would have worked for 999 people out of 1,000, it was not Brad’s idea of a happy life.

  “I’m gonna’ give the money back to my employees and the community,” Brad said while using a Q-tip in his ears. He walked out of the bathroom to hear Charles’ response.

  “Do you think the government will go for that?”

  “I’m not going to run it by the government,” Brad stated.

  “What? Are you going to write a thousand cashier’s checks?”

  Brad smiled and then walked back into the bathroom.

  “What are you going to live on when you get out of here?” Charles asked.

  Brad walked out of the bathroom and picked up one of the notebooks that Charles had been writing in.

  “This,” Brad boldly exclaimed.

  “Yeah, but we don’t have a publisher,” Charles said in a dejected tone.

  “You need to get back on the horse again my friend. What’s with this can’t shit? Get the hell on the horn and find us a publisher!” Brad said.

  Charles stood up and quickly removed his wool sweater vest.

  “I’m sick of wearing these stupid vests!”

  He tossed the vest in the garbage and then took off his glasses and threw them in the garbage.

  “I can’t stand these glasses anymore! Give me the name of that doctor who did your laser surgery!”

  “Wow! That hit a nerve. You do have another pair of glasses until then?” Brad questioned.

  “No, I don’t,” Charles said and then scurried to fetch his glasses from the trash.

  Brad’s dream was to make enough money on the book and then open his own restaurant. He also planned to keep a nice chunk of his offshore money as a launching point. Sending 200 former Organic Nation employees checks of $50,000 each would cut about $10 million of his $25 million account. Another $10 million would be sent to the various towns ON was located, leaving Brad with $5 million to play with for moderate housing and business start-up expenses.

  Brad looked at his ocular-challenged friend and stated, “I’ll pick up the cost of the procedure.”

  “You don’t have to,” a proud Chuck replied.

  “That’s what friends do,” Brad said as he put his arm around his roommate.

  “It’s been a long time since I had a real friend,” Brad continued as the two men shared a genuine moment for the first time in years.

  Brad’s journey to becoming a chef was as up-and-down as a Six Flags roller coaster. He spent many of those earlier days and nights in the test kitchen with Joe and Maggie, trying to come up with the right mix of menu items for Organic Nation.

  “The early days were the company’s most bold” according to Brad. His taste buds were one of the first lines of defense for a company still crawling in diapers.

  While Brad never so much as raised a carrot peeler or a strainer, his culinary vision was unparalleled.

  Comments like “Needs more nutmeg,” about the Organic Pumpkin Pie and “Add pesto to the 12-grain Turkey and Cranberry Club,” were finishes touches to dishes in need of a personality. And Brad Green had more than enough personality to go around. He learned so much from being around Margolis and Paget that he used their continuous innovation in his own creations in prison.

  The first time Brad put Portobello Mushroom with Pecan Crust on the menu it met with some short-lived resistance. After that dish ran out after only 20 minutes, the inmates learned to trust Brad’s food choices. Brad once again utilized local growers and got back to the basics with his mantra at Organic Nation: provide great food that is also healthy for you.

  Charles quickly became Brad’s sous chef once he tasted his cooking.

  “We should open a restaurant when we get out of here,” Charles stated.

  That was the first time Brad even considered the idea of his life after the scandal, and prison, and his interaction with Charles.

  I was born in a small town…

  The self-serving nature of an autobiography made it imperative for Brad and Charles to be objective in an interesting way. The initial drafts of the books looked more like the inside of a therapy session than an interesting book about a dramatic fall from power on Wall Street.

  Before Organic Nation, Dr. Amanda Fellows had just endured the worst break-up of her life. She had broken the code and started a hot-and-heavy relationship with a fellow intern. The relationship lasted three years until Amanda started hearing the deafening sound of the proverbial ticking clock.

  “Gary, why are you so mad?” Amanda said to her boyfriend, Gary Moses, as they walked into their one-bedroom apartment.

  “I don’t appreciate it when you hit me with this passive-aggressive relationship pressure!” he replied.

  “I asked you if you thought it was time we took the next step. What was wrong with that?”

  I don’t need that kind of pressure! You know that I’m trying to get the shotgun spot on the cardiology team.”

  Amanda stayed fixed in a freshly-poured tub of concrete, and she could feel the sandy substance hardening around her with every breath of life her self-centered boyfriend extracted from her. At that moment, she saw the future clearly. A future that did not include Dr. Gary Moses and a life that focused on rising star Brad Green.

  When Brad called Amanda that fateful day, as she was probably a day or two away from kicking down his door. Her hypocritical oath precluded her from dating patients, but Brad was not a patient anymore and she had indeed lost all of her patience.

  It had been a year and-a-half since they met in the hospital. At that time, Brad was overweight and hadn’t slept regularly in months, yet he was still surprisingly appealing. His appeal might have been only as wide as a mother’s love, but she was used to seeing people at their worst.

  When Amanda first saw the leaner, healthier version of Brad, her eyes nearly popped out of her head. She had first seen professional opportunity with a secondary objective of romance. After all, work always preempted play in Amanda’s world. She hit the drive-thru of Organic Nation about as many times as she said, “This will only sting for a moment,” to her patients. She had fallen for the food, so falling for the man would become a mere formality.

  “Let’s meet at the Organic Nation in East Meadow,” Brad said to Amanda as he made his daily rounds to the various locations. It helped to have a hybrid car with all the driving he did each week.

  Amanda was driving south on Merrick Avenue and crossed over Front Street before she clicked down her left turn signal and stopped before the light. She saw Brad getting out of his car and a smile came across her face. This was going to be a good day - the kind of day that would change her life.

  Brad knew a sure thing when he first saw it. He had a foreshadowing when he first met Amanda in the hospital. It took the Angel of Mercy herself to conger healthy thoughts in his mind. Before Amanda walked into the room, the ocean of self-pity and loathing was pulling Brad out with the tide. He felt there was nothing to live for, and continuing to walk into the light was the only route he could see.

  Amanda stepped out of the car and any thoughts of maintaining her professional integrity went out of the window as he approached.

  “Doc, it’s great to see you again!” Brad said as he opened his arms wide in preparation of a big hug.

  She barely uttered a sound as they melted into a very friendly hug. Her usual sturdy handshake never got out of the greetings garage. Brad never wanted his interaction to be normal, because his company was a few paces left of the mainstream.

  They broke the hug and the good doctor said, “Enough with the doctor stuff! Please call me Amanda.”

  “All right, Amanda. Why don’t we get something to eat and let the rest just fall into place?”

  She smiled and replied, “Sounds like a plan.”

  Leaving the hospi
tal right away was not the plan that Amanda had for her immediate future. In fact, she expected a promotion to the board of directors of Nassau County Medical Center to come through any day. If that developed, it would have been next-to-impossible for her to walk away and start a whole new life.

  Half-way through her chicken, bean, and brown rice burrito,” Amanda’s phone rang.

  “Excuse me,” she said to Brad. “This will only take a second.”

  Amanda slid her vibrating cell phone out of the holder on her belt.

  “Dr. Fellows,” she said in her professional voice.

  Brad spent most of his life observing body language. He took a bite of his favorite turkey sandwich with basil pesto spread and cranberries, and let the action/reaction guide his thoughts.

  “We’ve come to a decision about the board position,” a voice iterated on the other end of the line.

  Amanda turned her back on Brad to invoke the illusion of privacy.

  “While your qualifications…” the voice explained, positioning his words to cushion the blow of failure.

  When the name “Dr. Gary Moses,” was spoken, Amanda had already moved on. She wiped away a tear as Brad used all of his strength to stay anchored to the bench and not smother her moment. She took a few seconds to collect herself, and then re-clipped her phone to her belt.

  “Problems at the hospital?” Brad asked trying to reinvigorate the conversation.

  She was trying to hold back the tears but the wave of emotions took her over. The next 20 or 30 words were drowned out by uneven breathing and wailing tears.

  “You don’t need to be under-appreciated anymore. Come work with us full time,” Brad stated.

  It took him a year, however, to make her an offer she couldn’t refuse. They constantly toed the line between a personal and the professional relationship.

  Brad finished telling the story to Charles and then the two men looked at each other like they had just discovered America.

  “I need more stories like that, “Charles said in a demonstrative way.

  Brad smirked and replied, “Well! I got plenty of ‘em.”

  Closing the Door

  Just as Brad and Organic Nation were hitting a high point in its existence, the phone rang in Brad’s office.

  “Yes!” Brad yelled into the speakerphone at his secretary.

  “There’s a person on the phone that claims she’s your sister, Rachel.”

  The usually unflappable executive replied, “I’ll take it,” and he took a deep breath before picking up the phone.

  “Brad Green,” he said in his most professional voice, not letting his feelings of insecurity bubble over anywhere near the surface.

  “Brad, it’s Rachel,” a voice filled with insecurity, anger, and angst filtered through.

  “Hello, Rachel. What can I do for you?”

  Rachel was Brad’s older sister by three years, and had spent the past 30 years as a housewife in Plainview, Long Island. Brad hadn’t spoken to her in over five years, just before he had his heart attack. No one from his family showed up at the hospital and that was good enough for Brad - he was all set, anyway.

  “Dad is dead,” she said without any hesitation or feeling.

  Brad had recently turned 50 and was amazed that he hadn’t received the call about his 80 year-old father. Papa Greenberg wanted nothing to do with his “fruity” son. Father was always disappointed that his son walked away from the income and stability of the family business. Henry Greenberg would not even open up to fatherly pride when his son graced the cover of TIME magazine as “Man of the Year” for his contribution to the health and wellness of a nation. He had put a gag order on the entire family, so no member of the Greenberg clan had shared their sense of pride with Brad. This, in turn, hardened Brad’s heart.

  Brad offered no response to the announcement that his father had passed away. The awkward silence was broken by Rachel.

  “Did you hear what I said, Bradley?”

  Brad put the call on hold and slammed the headset against his desk, partially shattering the earpiece. He hit line three and heard his sister saying, “Are you there?”

  “Where and when?” Brad said as if he were making plans for lunch.

  Rachel needed a moment to compose herself. She made her best effort not to jump through the phone and strangle her brother, much in the way she had done when they were kids. Her reaction would have fallen on the deaf ears of her superstar brother, anyway. The family had gone to event after event for years and accepted accolades for Brad’s success without hinting the relationship had moved from the outhouse to the icebox.

  “Sunday, 11 a.m.,” she said knowing the conversation would be over once she divulged the information. The one thing she still knew about her brother was his abhorrence for small talk. The guy never wasted time, even if it hedged on being slightly rude or abrupt.

  Brad heard the words and quickly wrote the information down while hanging up the splintered phone. He pressed the speaker button and said, “Catherine, I’m gonna’ need a new phone in here. This one seems to be broken.” He pressed the speaker button again and within five minutes, an anonymous worker hustled into the office and replaced the phone. The worker tried to make eye contact, but Brad was quickly off into his bathroom to take care of some even-numbered business.

  The thought of saying, “Mr. Green, the new phone is in” popped into the technician’s head, but quickly disappeared when he heard the sound of Brad’s formerly iron-cast stomach exploding. It wasn’t the proudest moment in corporate executive history, but it was one of the more honest reactions in recent memory at Organic Nation.

  “Why are you getting so dressed up?” Amanda asked Brad on that Sunday morning.

  “It’s not important. I’ll be back in a few hours,” a robotic Brad answered.

  “You look like you’re going to a funeral,” she said trying to add some levity to the heavy mood.

  Instead of blowing up, Brad laughed and replied, “I’ve been dressing up for this day for the last five years.”

  It took a few more minutes of cajoling for Amanda to wedge her way into Brad’s dark world. He finally came to the conclusion that it would be a lot cooler to sit in the last row of the cemetery chapel with a drop-dead gorgeous blonde, rather than slinking in and sulking alone.

  He finally turned to Amanda and said, “You wanna’ come with me?”

  Amanda didn’t bother to ask where they were going, because she knew that if Brad Green had anything to do with it the day would surely be an adventure.

  “We are here today to celebrate the life of Henry Greenberg,” the aged rabbi said to the 60-plus mourners.

  It took Amanda a few seconds to put two and two together, because she knew Brad’s legal name was Green. She thought back to the time when she was in the hospital and she was sure his chart said “Green.”

  “When did you change your name?” she whispered.

  “When I became a teacher,” he answered.

  Brad thought it would be easier to have the name Green as a professional. This angered both of his parents, who thought Bradley was rejecting his heritage. His aim was primarily to simplify his life, with a secondary objective to take a shot at his overzealous parents.

  He sat in the back row and his mind proceeded to erase every other person in the room with the exception of his father. He walked slowly to the front of the room and opened the shiny wood coffin. His father’s arms were folded on his chest and his eyes were closed until he slowly opened them.

  Henry looked at his son and exclaimed, “Bradley, so glad you could make it!”

  Brad helped his dad out of the coffin and they walked out the side door and strolled through the cemetery.

  Henry Greenberg - at least his subconscious in the back of his son’s mind - was telling his son how proud he was of him. His dad, in the early years, was very supportive and loving, and that was the father Brad chose
to remember on that day.

  Brad was in his own world throughout the 25-minute ceremony and then chose to walk around with Amanda when everyone else went to the grave site.

  “I know my dad is proud of me,” he said to Amanda as they sat down on a stone bench.

  She snuggled close to her husband and replied, “What father wouldn’t be proud?”

  He felt the ground was a place for worms and dirt, not bodies without life. Throwing dirt on a box was not the way Brad wanted to pay homage to his father. Instead, he decided to start the Henry Greenberg Scholarship Fund to send local teenagers to Israel for the summer. The scholarship went on as planned for the two years before Brad diverted the funds to pay for his own vacations. At least four or five kids got to see the homeland before Brad opened Organic Nation locations in Japan and Norway. Most of the money was sunk into happy endings after that.

  A few years after Brad’s dad passed away, his mother walked up to death’s door. This time his sister alerted him before his parent crossed over to death.

  “Mom is asking for you,” was all she said when leaving a message after hours. Amanda was not around this time because Brad had pushed her out the door, and life was pretty much a beautiful mess.

  Phyllis Greenberg did not want her last breath on earth occurring in a hospital, so Rachel made sure that Hospice made her mother as comfortable as possible at home.

  Brad walked through the door of his parents’ house for the first time in 15 years, yet the smells and sights immediately brought him home. His sister nodded and he returned the welcoming gesture before heading upstairs to see his mom.

  He had become an extremely public persona, but this was one moment that he preferred to keep behind closed doors. He tapped lightly on his parents’ bedroom door and walked into the dimly lit room. The nurse on duty was told repeatedly that, “My son is coming to visit me,” but she didn’t realize who her son was.

  Nurse Patty blushed at the sight of such a celebrity and then walked out of the room.

  “Is that my son, the king of Wall Street?”

  The tears started flowing out of Brad’s eyes as he got down on his hands and knees and crawled over to his mother’s bedside.

  “Yes, it’s me mom.”

  Brad looked into his mother’s eyes and realized that she was on the verge of passing on. She slowly lifted her wrinkled, frail right hand and tenderly caressed his face, only the way a mother could.

  “Don’t cry, Bradley. The pain will be gone soon. You just have to promise me one thing.”

  Brad grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and blew his nose. “Anything, mom.”

  “Don’t ever forget where you came from,” Phyllis said with all of the guided purpose of a good mother.

  Brad extended his hand and gently placed it on the covers above his mother’s stomach.

  “I came from right here,” he said as mother and son shared their final special moment.

  “Phyllis Greenberg died later that night and Brad gladly paid for the funeral and all related expenses. He even purchased his parents’ house and gave all of the $500,000 directly to his sister as part of her inheritance. He might have overpaid for the house but he never felt better. Brad also had the foresight to put the house under his sister’s name even though he retained ownership of it. Although he didn’t live in the house after buying it, he was constantly renovating the property to suit his changing needs.

  Home, Sweet Home

  Brad’s primary connection with the outside world was a contractor he used on most of his restaurant projects. Guy Fillano never imagined that his little weekend renovation projects would turn into a multi-million dollar empire.

  “Do you have a card?” a business-like Brad asked Guy.

  Guy dropped his head down and was having difficulty putting his next words together.

  Brad put his hand on the hard-working Fillano’s shoulder.

  “Business rule number one. Even if you don’t know the answer, you know the answer. Look, I know you’re a hardworking man, but I don’t think you have the capacity to handle what I can throw at you.”

  Guy picked up his head and boldly replied, “I don’t know, Mr. Green? I have a pretty big family.”

  And with that, a reasonable partnership was born. Fillano Brothers transitioned through the years into Fillano & Sons, and the money and credibility they received from being associated with Organic Nation never seemed to diminish. It was one of the few associations that avoided the free-fall of the sinking ON ship.

  Guy Fillano knew nothing about organic and natural food, but he did have a knack for innovative design. His mother’s classic tomato sauce was about as natural as it gets, and so were many of the foods he ate. Guy was a quick study since he was a kid. All of the kids in his Levittown neighborhood knew where to go when they had broken toys and bikes in need of repair. By the time he was 16, he had a large shed in the backyard that he used as a workshop.

  Thoughts of college fleeted quickly as Guy’s brother Salvatore implored him to expand their small repair business. The business was named Fillano Brothers, even though Sal changed his mind and decided to go to college only six months after Guy committed to the endeavor. Guy decided to continue to do what he loved, instead of abandoning a money-making business in favor of the cash drain of college.

  Initially, Guy was simply fixing lawnmowers and other outdoor equipment, but quickly transitioned to house-related jobs one afternoon following a conversation with a neighbor.

  “I can’t believe how quickly you got this done,” Gary Summer said to Guy one Saturday morning as he picked up his lawn mower.

  “Mowers aren’t very complicated,” Guy replied.

  “Do you ever do home repair?” Gary asked.

  Guy laughed, “Yeah, inside the house. I just built our extension last year.”

  “Would you mind if I looked at it?” Gary inquired.

  The two men walked inside of Guy’s parents’ house and Gary exclaimed, “Wow! You did this all yourself?”

  Guy smiled, “My brother banged a few nails in, too.”

  The two men squared off and Gary posed the obvious question, “Could you do this in my house? What would something like this cost?”

  Guy replied, “Oh, I think we can work something out.”

  Word spread quickly through the neighborhood and within six months, Guy had completed three jobs and saved enough money to move out of his parents’ house. He bought a house a few blocks away that was really run down, paying peanuts and maintaining a continuous flow of renovation for years between jobs.

  Organic Nation obviously wasn’t Guy’s first renovation project, but it was his first foray into corporate America. While he had an eye for using materials that increased energy efficiency, he never delved into renewable materials and other green-friendly materials.

  Guy absorbed information like a sponge to the point where Brad not only hired him to renovate all properties to Organic Nation specifications, he also talked to him into working on his parents’ house. Brad called Guy one quiet afternoon.

  “Guy, how are you doing?” Brad asked.

  Guy was a bit confused, “Mr. Green? Is that you?”

  “Yeah, it’s me Guy.”

  “Are you still in jail?”

  Brad rolled his eyes knowing that Guy was quite skilled with his hands, but usually came up short with his stumbling attempts to master the English language.

  “Yes, but I have another job for you,” Brad explained after he confirmed that he was, indeed, behind the proverbial bars.

  Guy hesitated, “Ugh, I’m not sure, Mr. Green.”

  Brad replied, “No, no. This one is personal, not professional.”

  Guy sounded relieved, “That good to hear. What’s on your mind?”

  Guy’s company focused on high profile commercial projects, and it had been years since he worked on a residential project.

  “I need you to
renovate my parents’ house. I think I’m gonna’ live there after I get out of here.”

  Guy hesitated and then replied, “Are they treating you okay in there?”

  “Once I started doing most of the cooking, things have been great.”

  Guy started coughing, “You’re cooking?”

  Brad looks at us, “Why is everyone so surprised about my cooking?” He then talks to Guy, “I’ll have to cook you something in my new kitchen.”

  “I’ll have to take you up on that, boss. I’ll work up some plans once I complete the walk-through.”

  “You can get the key from my realtor. I’ll give her a call and she’ll get in touch with you to let you in. Just keep in mind…” and the both said simultaneously, “an open floor plan.”

  Guy never brought up money, because money was never an issue in his dealings with Brad. His “boss” always took care of him, and he made him a wealthy man beyond his wildest dreams.

  Guy was in full research mode again searching for the latest renewable materials and green products. He planned on using solar energy to power the entire house and replace all of the walls with one-way glass, which let natural light in but appeared mirror-like to people outside. This enabled the inhabitants to retain full privacy while enjoying the natural beauty of the outside.

  The traditional split-level house was turned into a Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired, free-flowing wonder. It took almost three years to complete the job, but Brad had plenty of time and money. No invoice was ever sent to Brad, because Guy always got paid. Brad was always up front with the Fillano family despite all of his quirks in his business life. The job wound up costing more than the initial house was worth, and Guy could sense there would be more excitement forthcoming in his long association with Brad. Money was no longer the object even though Guy wasn’t sure if Brad had the money. He knew, however, with 100% certainty that the big guy would make eventually make good on the deal.

  Three Down, Two to Go

  Hours turned into days, which turned into months and then years. Steve Churchill, the new CEO of Organic Nation, tried to pick up the pieces and emerge from Chapter 11 bankruptcy proceedings.

  “Did you see the news today?” Charles said to Brad as they sat in the lounge.

  “No, you know I don’t read those rags anymore,” Brad replied as he looked over pictures of his renovated house.

  Charles turned the paper around to reveal the following headline:

  ON TURNS OFF

  “Looks like your company finally went belly-up.”

  Brad’s initial inclination was to say, “It’s not my company anymore,” but he said, “The light went off years ago. Churchill never really had a chance.”

  “On a positive note, I think I’m done with the book,” Charles stated.

  Brad’s nerves were still a bit raw, “You think? When will you know?”

  Charles hesitated, so a new and improved Brad stepped in.

  “I’m sorry, my friend. That just unearthed a few raw memories.”

  “No worries. I was just editing the book for the fifth time. I must be getting a little punchy myself.”

  “Is it time for us to meet the publisher?” Brad asked.

  Charles nodded and replied, “It’s time for us to get back to The Street.”

  “Yeah, I guess it is,” Brad replied.

  The representative from McGraw-Hill was a friend of Charles’, but the two men hadn’t seen each other in over five years. Brad and Charles were able to swing a meeting at Starbucks instead of meeting inside the prison.

  “You guys are actually friends?” Joe Archibald asked the two men sitting in front of him.

  Once the laughter subsided, Charles said “That’s why we decided to write a book. When we first looked at it, there were two separate books here: one on the rise and fall of Organic Nation, and the other on our unlikely relationship.”

  “So, which one did you write?” Joe asked.

  Brad interjected, “Which book would you want to read or publish?”

  Joe looked into Brad’s gentle but unyielding eyes and replied, “I want both the peanut butter and the chocolate.”

  Charles reached into his bag and pulled out a thick wad of paper and plunked it on the table.

  “I’ve already had this copyrighted,” Charles stated, putting all of his cards on the table.

  Joe looked at the title and said, “Wall Street Nation” and then chewed on it for a moment and stated, “I like it.”

  He picked up the manuscript and said, “I’m going to pull a Harry Met Sally for a moment.”

  He flipped the title page over and read the first page a then flipped the book over and read the last page.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Joe said looking at the two men, “I think we have a best seller here.”

  The men toasted with various coffee blends and then stood up and shook on the deal. The clock was approaching twelve and it was time for the men to get back before their carriage turned back into a pumpkin.

  Charles and Brad were noticeably excited when they returned to the prison. With only one a year and change remaining on Charles’ sentence and two on Brad’s time, the men were starting to focus on their lives after prison.

  The guys made a bee-line to their room to change out of their civvies’ and back into standard prison garb. Brad was walking ahead of Charles and turned into the corner of the doorway before running into an unexpected clenched fist.

  “You mother fucker! You ruined my life!” the large man said as he repeatedly struck Brad in the face with his right fist. A surprised Charles tried to pull the guy off Brad but he inadvertently got knocked out with one punch. The enraged man picked a semi-conscious Brad up by clasping both sides of his dress shirt.

  “You ruined my life! I believed in you!” the man screamed as he tossed Brad to the floor.

  Carl the prison guard walked in and said after looking around, “Let’s go, Coplia. Play-time is over.”

  The two men walked out and a few minutes later, Charles and Brad came to and staggered into the bathroom to clean the semi-dried blood off. This wasn’t a world where ambulances raced in to save the day. Years of obscurity and existing in a relatively peaceful environment were all wiped clean in the span of one action-packed afternoon.

  “I think that guy broke my nose,” Charles said in a nasally voice.

  Brad was pretty badly beaten but still managed to joke, “It’s definitely an improvement.”

  “Who was that guy?” Charles asked.

  “I might be wrong, but I’m pretty sure that he worked for me,” Brad said as he tossed water on his face, the blood from his eyes, nose and mouth rolled off his face and slowly slid down the drain. He had taken a beating but it paled in comparison to the drubbing that his employees and shareholders had to endure.

  “Don’t you know all of your employees?” Charles questioned.

  Brad wet a towel with cold water and dabbed his lip, which was swelling at a rapid pace.

  “You know, I used to know everyone when we were just beginning, when we were smaller. But we got so big, so fast. It seemed like I lost track of my people after a while.”

  The two guys cleaned up and briefly stopped at the infirmary to get some Tylenol and a few band aids. The doctor looked at Charles’ nose and walked right up to him and placed both thumbs on both sides of the bridge of his nose and applied enough pressure to straighten his nose.

  Charles let out a moan and then tears shot out of his eyes and down his cheeks.

  “Wow! That hurt like hell!” Charles yelled.

  “But it feels better, right?” the doctor replied.

  “Yes, it feels better,” Charles replied. “I can actually breathe through my nose for the first time in years!"

  “Clean yourself up. I’ll meet you in the mess hall,” Brad said.

  It was Brad’s first day off from preparing meals, but he decided to stop off in the kitchen before pi
cking up a tray. Looks of horror greeted Brad as he walked through the kitchen. Not only were the cuts on his face startling, but everyone knew what awaited him once he reached the prep station. A familiar face was slicing tomatoes with a large, sharp knife. Brad barely hesitated as he approached the man that had just beaten him to a pulp.

  The 6’4” Green was rarely overshadowed by anyone, let alone a man his size that surprised him with a sucker punch. In many ways, it was the beating that he wanted to take for years, but he couldn’t let the event go without retaliation. He was nobody’s bitch, having fought every step of the way in his life on the way to the top.

  Brad started talking as he approached the man, “Next time you have a beef with me,” he clenched his right fist and the struck the man with a thundering right hand in the middle of his nose.

  The knife went flying up in the air as the guy went crashing to the floor. Brad moved quickly and caught the knife by its handle before it lodged into the man’s leg.

  Blood was gushing from the guy’s nose as Brad tossed a towel at him. He moved really close to the guy’s face and then repeated the same move the doctor had just performed on Charles.

  Once the guy got over the shock, Brad whispered, “You got your retribution, but don’t you ever come at me like that again.”

  Brad then extended his right hand and the guy clasped his hand and was lifted to his feet.

  “Who are you?” Brad asked.

  The guy dabbed his nose and replied, “I was a sous chef at your Stony Brook location. I lost my job a few years ago.”

  “So, why the dramatics today? Why didn’t you come after me a few years ago?” Brad asked as the two men walked into the corridor.

  The man dropped his head, “My name is Salvatore Coplia and…” he started crying. “I lost my house and my wife left me, and then I wrote some bad checks, and then they repossessed my car.”

  “Okay, easy there big guy. How long you in for?” Brad asked.

  “A few years,” Sal replied.

  “Well, Sal. This is your lucky day. Believe it, or not, everything is going to be all right.”

  Brad finally found a sous chef that could match his newfound passion for cooking. The pickings were slim in jail for able-bodied assistants that weren’t just biding their time. Just as fate had brought Charles and Brad together, it also dealt Brad an equally good hand in having Sal’s life completely fall apart.

  BOOK ‘EM

  It took six months for Wall Street Nation to get from the table of Starbucks to the printing press. By that time, the public furor over Brad’s indiscretions has subsided and most of the corporate vultures had moved on to fresher pieces of meat.

  Brad was also a few years removed from sending most of the money from his off-shore account to former employees. He received many letters of thanks for his generous gesture and just as many angry rebuttals, although no one had the balls, or uterus, to return the money.

  Word had spread about the book like a case of poison ivy at summer camp. The thought of Wall Street’s golden boy joining forces with the Mouth from South Jersey turned a lot of heads and stomachs. CNBC was eager to beat all of its financial media counterparts to the punch by scheduling its first ever interview from the inside of a Federal penitentiary.

  The Wall Street Journal called, but the two men had no use for the rag. The paper had not surprisingly grandstanded their views on the direction of public opinion. The TV news show 60 Minutes was persistent, but it would have placed a decidedly negative spin on the book and the show refused to give them the final cut on editing the piece. No, it was to be a live interview with CNBC’s Peter Bartlett, a veteran reporter that understood the ebbs and flows of Wall Street.

  Charles had been Bartlett’s mentor and the two men still spoke often. Bartlett had interviewed Brad a few times over the years, both on the way up and the way down. It was a slow financial news day, being that it was being billed as a CNBC Special Report: Cell Mates - On the Way Back. The network gave the duo an unprecedented 15- to 20-minute block, although the final length of the interview grew to 22 minutes after producers got mostly overwhelming positive calls after the first break.

  “When did the idea for the book first surface?” Bartlett asked.

  Brad looked at Charles and replied, “Well. I walked into our room day one and Charles was playing the cello. I figured that I would either do something constructive, or I would quickly be without a roommate.”

  Bartlett looked at Charles, “You were that depressed, Charles?”

  Charles started laughing, “Yeah, I was pretty deep in the abyss.”

  “How is your mental state now?” Peter asked.

  “Since this has become a therapy session, I’m starting to feel like my old self again. Or as much as I can being in jail.”

  Peter jumped back in, “So, how is this whole jail thing going?” He turned to Brad, “Are you worried about the public perception at this point?”

  Brad replied, “Jail has been a life-changing experience for me. I entered three and-a-half years ago thinking I would just do my time and then go back to conquering the world. I’m happy to sit here today and say that I’m no longer interested in world domination,” he said releasing some of his old charm on the general population.

  Brad continued, “I used to love that movie Wall Street and the line ‘Greed is good.’ Honestly, the only thing greed got me was five years in prison, the loss of my wife and possessions, and the company I loved,” Brad said slumping in his chair with his head down.

  Peter paused for dramatic affect and asked, “I’ve heard that you’ve sent sizable sums of money to all of your former employees. Is that true?”

  A new, more humble Brad replied, “I would rather not comment on that. Anything that may or may not have happened is between me and my employees. Those people have suffered unnecessarily after giving all of their energy to Organic Nation. It would be juvenile of me to think that I could ever fully square things with my nation.”

  Peter nodded at Brad and then looked into the camera number one, “We will be back to discuss Wall Street Nation after this short break.”

  The producer said “We’re out,” and Peter turned to Charles and exclaimed, “This is incredible!” He then turned to Brad and said, “You still got it, Brad. That’s some great TV!”

  The three men went on to talk about the book, life after prison, and Brad’s newfound love of cooking.

  “Did you ever cook anything while at Organic Nation?” Bartlett asked.

  Brad laughed, “We would have lost our entire customer base if I would have done that!” They all laughed. “My only concern in those days was the cleanliness of the kitchen. I’m still a real stickler for that.”

  “What do you like to cook now?” Peter asked.

  Charles interjected, “He makes a mean pesto.”

  “In fact, I have a plate of pasta with pesto for you to try.”

  With that, sous chef extraordinaire Salvatore Coplia walked into the shot with a bowl of pasta.

  “This is my sous chef, Salvatore Coplia,” Brad stated.

  Peter took hold of the bowl and he quickly twirled a forkful of pasta. “Wow! This is the best pesto I have ever tasted. What is your secret?” Brad waved him off and Peter continued, “You should open up your own restaurant.”

  The three men looked at each other in a rare moment of complete clarity and understanding. Peter looked at Sal and asked, “Brad, is this the guy that beat you to a pulp?”

  Brad nodded in agreement before his new right-hand man, Sal, interjected, “Yeah, but he took his beating, dusted himself off, and then came back and knocked me out with one punch.”

  Bartlett again took a pregnant pause and then concluded the interview, “Well, it’s obvious to this reporter that you can’t keep a good man down. We all make mistakes in life, but the true measure of a man are how he responds to adversity.” He picked up the black-jacketed book and said, “Wall Stree
t Nation. Give it a read. I want to thank my guests, Brad Green, Charles Langford, and sous chef extraordinaire Salvatore “Rocky” Coplia. This has been Peter Bartlett. Have a profitable day.”

  Something clicked off in Brad’s head when he heard the name “Green” being spoken by Peter Bartlett. His conceit and ignorance pushed him to shorten his given name of Greenberg to the multi-purpose usage of Green. It was too late to change his name on the book jacket - and, besides, he would sell more books with the more identifiable surname - but after he became a private citizen again, he would reclaim his birthright and become Brad Greenberg once more.

  FINAL DAYS

  The interviews kept flowing in after that, propelling the book to the top of the New York Times Bestseller’s List in its first few days after being released. The book was hot because of the candor of its protagonists; this seldom-seen look inside Wall Street gave the events that unfolded a more human and accessible touch. Not only did the general public eat it up like the dollar menu at McDonald’s, the mainstream Wall Street professionals also fetched it up like an undervalued stock.

  “Have you given any thought to Peter’s idea?” Charles asked Brad as they strolled in the courtyard.

  “I’m just a little gun-shy after my last venture,” Brad replied.

  “Brad Green backing up? I can’t believe my ears and eyes.”

  “It’s Greenberg. At least it will be once I get out of here,” Brad replied.

  “Green, Greenberg. Scared, cold feet. Whatever. You’re getting out of here next week and I’ll follow by the end of the month,” Charles stated. “So, is this going to be it? One bestselling book and we’re done?”

  Brad walked over and sat on a stone bench on the shady side of the courtyard. The last days of summer were moving past but a few more 80-degree days were trying to hang on. He ran his left hand over his face and replied, “I don’t want the word “nation” in the title of our restaurant.

  Sal came outside and took a seat next to Brad on the bench.

  “We have to prepare dinner in 10 minutes,” Sal said to Brad.

  “We doing lentil soup tonight?” Brad asked.

  “Oh, I love your lentil soup!” Charles cooed like a starved fan.

  “Let me ask you guys a question. Where did you plan to live when we get out of here?” Brad asked.

  Charles looked at Sal and the two guys shrugged their shoulders.

  “Haven’t really thought that far ahead,” Charles said.

  Sal added, “I just thought we’d all do something together.”

  Brad smirked, “What would you guys say to living in my house? I spaced the four bedrooms out so we’d all have privacy.”

  Sal slapped Brad’s hand and yelled, “I’m in!” and then ran inside like an excited kid.

  Charles extended his right hand and helped Brad off the bench. The two men met in a hug, “Thanks for saving me, Greenberg.”

  “Everyone needs a muse, Langford.”

  Brad was on the phone constantly in the days leading up to his release. In fact, a generous donation by Brad and Charles to fund a new prison kitchen was greeted with letting the three inmates free on the same day. After all, Charles had one month left on his sentence and Sal had three months left on his. The three men had been model prisoners, aside from the initial confrontation between Sal and Brad, and the administration of the jail wanted to show the world that they were successful in rehabilitating these three men.

  Guy Fillano worked like a cyclone on the days leading up to Brad’s release. He was a perfectionist and knew how important it would be for his “boss” to reestablish a comfortable state of mind and home. Although he had taken a more passive role in the manual labor portion of his business in recent years, he never needed an excuse to roll up his sleeves and get dirty.

  “Is the place ready?” Brad asked Guy while talking on the cell phone he had recently been allowed to purchase. He threw his old cell phone in the garbage before entering jail, safe in the knowledge that the technology would obsolete by the time he got out.

  “Have I ever missed a deadline?” Guy asked like a true New Yorker always answering questions with another question.

  Brad laughed, “No, my friend, you never have. A courier should be stopping by your office. Let’s go have a meal together next week. I have to talk with you about another project.”

  The wheels were already turning and Guy was confident that Brad had turned a corner in his life. He could sense the change in the organic king once he started reworking his house. Brad’s suggestions were always ahead of conventional thinking and inevitably expanded Guy’s thoughts much broader than he ever could have imagined alone.

  About 45 minutes after the phone call, a courier walked through the front door of Fillano Bros. and told the receptionist that he “had a package for Guy Fillano.”

  “Just leave it here, sweetie,” the 50-something woman said.

  “I have specific instructions to hand-deliver this to Mr. Fillano himself.”

  The woman picked up her phone and dialed Mr. Fillano’s extension.

  “Ugh sir, I have a courier out here that says he has to hand-deliver a package to you.”

  “Don’t worry about it Celia. I’ll come out and pick it up.”

  Fillano walked out of his office and down the smartly-lit hall to the large half-oval, front desk.

  “Mr. Fillano?” the messenger said as he addressed Guy.

  “Yes, I am Guy Fillano.”

  “I have a package for you from Mr. Greenberg, Mr. Brad Greenberg. Could you please sign here,” the messenger said as he pulled an envelope with a delivery form attached out of his knapsack.

  Fillano took a pen from the messenger and signed the signature box of the green and white form. The messenger detached a portion of the form and handed the large, flat letter-sized envelope to Guy Fillano.

  “Thank you,” Fillano said.

  “You’re very welcome, sir. Have a good day,” the messenger countered.

  Fillano smiled at the receptionist and wasn’t about to let her in on the “top level” secret. Instead, he walked directly into his office and scooped up a letter opener before resting comfortably in his cushy desk chair. The freshly-sealed envelope opened as easily as infant’s saturated diaper and Fillano slid a check out and placed it on his desk. He then removed a small note, which read:

  Guy,

  This should cover it, plus an advance on our next job.

  Brad

  A cashier’s check on its own was a mere dot on Guy’s large desk, but this check written for one million dollars stood out like plaid pants at a striped shirts convention.

  There was an obvious reason why Guy stood behind his boss even when every other person in the universe abandoned him. He refused to be party to the bashing of such an easy target even though it opened his own business up to government scrutiny. Guy had nothing to hide and he did nothing wrong. In fact, the government said in its findings, “Organic Nation could learn a lot about proper accounting methods from Fillano Brothers.”

  Brad was also steadfast in his loyalty toward Guy, as there had been many occasions during the years when builders and contractors had approached him about making a change for change sake. Free cars and other perks were offered but Brad never took the bait. It was the one relationship in his life that stood the test of time and endured, which was quite a diversion from his usual routine of establishing a relationship, pissing on the relationship, and then walking away.

  The average prison relationship is somewhat more intense than the average relationship on the outside. The thought crossed Brad’s mind that his buddies in prison wouldn’t translate into the unconfined world, but he quickly dismissed the flighty notion. Brad, Charles, and Sal had already hit the ground hard, and even dug half-way to the earth’s core. Prosperity would only bring the men closer, or so Brad thought.

  “You excited about getting out t
omorrow?” Sal asked to Charles.

  Charles was the consummate thinker and rarely responded in direct “Yes” and “No” answers. He usually had so much on his mind that being in jail helped focus his thoughts on essential elements only.

  Charles sighed, “It’s tough to say.”

  “What? You don’t want your freedom?” Sal stated.

  “Freedom?” Charles exclaimed. “All the problems of the world are out there. I haven’t even thought about money until we started making money from the book recently. We need to keep it simple if we’re going to survive out there.”

  Just then, Brad walked into the room and said, “Our restaurant is being built as we speak. We should be open next month.” He then sat down in a chair and crossed his legs. Since Brad had sizable balls he did not cross his legs like a woman, preferring to use a more open-legged technique that made a more triangular shape. He then stood up suddenly and said to Sal, “Walk with me a minute.”

  He put his arm around Sal and said, “I’ve been doing some thinking,” Brad said as the two men strolled down the hallway. “As much as I would like to be the head chef at my own restaurant, I know my skills would be better utilized in the front of the house.” Brad stopped walking and turned to face Sal, “That is why I thought it would be best if you took over the kitchen. I know you’re ready to be the Executive Chef of The Exchange.

  Sal was quite an emotional man and could do nothing to stop the flow of tears. The years had been in hard on him in a way that he never expected. Working for Organic Nation and then having his life tumble down like a house of cards was almost impossible to stomach. The sunny side of the street for Sal was also equally as astounding. After beating the crap out of Brad and then being knocked out himself, their relationship took a turn for the better.

  Brad hugged his sobbing friend knowing that his decision was not only the right move for their friendship, it was also the right decision for the restaurant. Sal had honed his craft in the few years they cooked together to the point that his Johnson & Wales education was undeniably shining through. Brad had neither the education nor the interest to take his incarcerated-driven obsession to the world of oxygen and fast cars.

  “Thanks for believing in me,” Sal said as the two men walked back into the room.

  Both Sal and Brad was teary, leading Charles to the logical conclusion that something good was afoot.

  “Meet our new Executive Chef,” Brad said to Charles.

  If there was any real bravado in the room, feelings would have been hurt over the lack of discussion on the future direction of the restaurant. Charles couldn’t have been happier, and he crossed the room and shook hands with Sal and gave him a hug.

  “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” Charles said in Sal’s left ear.

  “Thanks, Chuck,” Sal countered.

 

  MOVING ON

  Brad’s first stop out of jail was his new lawyer’s office. The firm of Bernstein, Clark & Jacobs represented him until his criminal and civil trials ended, and a subsequent search landed him in the lobby of a new local firm.

  Guy Fillano had changed law firms a few years before Brad got out, and was quick to suggest that Brad follow his lead for a change. The law firm of Torres, Berger, Thomas and Fukiyama was the Rainbow Coalition of law firms. With a Hispanic, African American, Asian American and the European American in house, the firm was able to service a wide range of both clientele and legal situations.

  Brad walked through the front door of the modest four-story office building and proceeded toward the elevator and pushed the up-arrowed button. The doors swung open and Brad entered the elevator alone, pressing the number four button and the settling into the back of the elevator. Brad spotted a woman bearing down on the closing doors, but he was too far away to stop what had already been started. He made a token attempt to push the open door button, but the doors closed and Brad was on his was upward.

  There were only a few offices on each floor, so finding the offices of Torres, Berger, Thomas and Fukiyama was about as difficult as locating an anchor in a haystack. After all, the offices consumed the entire fourth floor, which amounted to the equivalent of four separate offices opened up and then designed by Fillano into one big office.

  He walked out of the elevator and walked to toward the huge frosted glass door with the name Torres, Berger, Thomas & Fukiyama etched prominently, but tastefully into the glass. Brad pushed open the right side of the door and walked toward the front desk, where a dark-haired, middle-aged receptionist awaited his inquiry.

  “Good morning, sir. Who are you here to see?”

  Before Brad could respond the front door swung open and a fast-walking woman said, “He’s here to see me.”

  “Good morning, Miss Berger.”

  “Good morning, Brenda. Mr. Greenberg, follow me to the conference room.”

  Brad rolled the name Berger around in his mental Rolodex but his internal files came up dry. The tall, sharply-dressed woman led Brad to an open, airy boardroom and asked, “Can I get you something to drink?” all the while never revealing her face.

  Brad was unsuccessfully trying to get a look at this mystery-woman’s face, so he replied, “Bottled water would be great.” He waited sit down at the ten-seat, marble rectangular table. Berger walked back in with a plastic bottle of water and then closed the door. She turned around and walked toward Brad, who went into instant flashback mode at the sight of her face.

  Brad Green’s criminal trial lasted almost a year and cost taxpayers in excess of three million dollars, which he also had to repay to the government. The government had assembled a dream team of federal criminal lawyers led by Lawrence Trimball, and it also included a New York-based lawyer that initially uncovered the accounting indiscretions, named Stacey Berger.

  Berger started her association with Organic Nation as a huge fan of the 72nd Street and Broadway location. Her love with the food that made her feel great turned into genuine fascination with every aspect of the company. Being a federal attorney specializing in corporate fraud was usually an existence devoid of any glitz or glamour, but the Organic Nation case not only brought excitement to the job, it brought her into the national spotlight.

  There was a time when Organic Nation had hit its peak and Brad Green’s ego was approaching Trump-like proportions. He moved the company’s headquarters from Hicksville, Long Island, to Columbus Circle in Manhattan. Not only did the company’s offices occupy an entire seven-story building, Brad also built living quarters into the back of his top-floor office so he never had to be far away from work.

  It was Guy Fillano’s first foray into the big city, with the company’s upper Westside location being the follow-up to his initial stroke of genius. The complex bordering the western end of Central Park South consisted of Organic Nation retail space in the lobby, offices from the second floor to the seventh floor, a jazz facility overlooking the park for the nearby Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts, a TV studio for financial broadcasts and company commercials, and Brad’s spectacular apartment that also overlooked the park.

  Green also had a no cubicle policy where work spaces were unstructured and views were generally unobstructed. Organic Nation employees were cooperative by nature and independent in their desire to complete a given task. Individuals were encouraged to excel, but only within the team framework. Everything from food prep to accounting and marketing were done within the ON credo: Alone we can move a pile. Together we can lift a nation.

  Brad flashed forward to his long trial, much of it he already stashed into his blackout file. The face now in front of him was so familiar, that he didn’t know whether to hide under the table or locate the first exit and sprint directly through the door. While Brad had delegated personnel to handle the day-to-day operations of his restaurant - including all personnel decisions - he still interviewed all candidates for the main headquarters positions.

&nbs
p; Brad’s assistant summoned him one morning, “Mr. Green, Stacey Berger here to see you for the open media relations position.”

  In walked the 35 year-old Berger, tall and well-built with dark hair and a pair of killer green eyes, posing as a wide-eyed 20-something looking for a break. Green barely remembered the interview, but was fairly sure that her working undercover for the government was not brought up in their 20-minute discussion. Brad recommended that Berger be hired for the position despite her lack of credible media relations experience, proving once again that a resume is only as good as its lies and blatant stretching of the truth.

  As a Federal Criminal Investigator for the corporate unit, Berger turned her fascination and admiration for Organic Nation into a launching pad for her legal career. Being an attorney and a CPA would have made the average person both egotistical and as boring as a documentary on the evolution of chalk, but Stacey Olivia Berger was the exception rather than the rule.

  She worked diligently for Organic Nation for nearly two years, and actually became very competent at her media relations job. In fact, a few months before the thunder led to rain, a handful of more savvy employees started running for the exits before destruction and devastation took hold. The Director of Media Relations had been taking the brunt of the onslaught of media scrutiny, so she fled for the safer pastures of The Gap. Once Brad heard of the defection, he quickly moved to promote Stacey to the director position, knowing that her obvious loyalty and good looks would help buffer him from the mounting negative exposure.

  Once inside the building, Stacey had exposure to all company memos and internal documents to build the government's mountainous case. She used her progressively tight relationship with Brad to get the information she needed, but the line had definitely blurred by the time the curtain went up on the biggest corporate trial in history of the modern era.

  Stacey sat in a high-backed leather chair across from Brad and slid the bottle of water across the table, in front of a stone-faced Brad. The years in jail sent him on a journey to release any angry feelings he had towards the people that had wronged him in his life. Family resolution blended into corporate resolution, but in all that time he never had a soft or warm and squishy thought about the one… the woman that bruised his heart and sent his company to the wood chipper, all in the same stroke.

  They sat across the table from each other in a virtual stalemate. Brad had put Stacey out of his mind, or at least the front of his mind.

  “Surprised?” Stacey said as she smiled nervously but confidently.

  Brad was having a little difficulty finding the appropriate words to say for a change. “Surprised? That’s the best you can do?” he sat nodded his head in disbelief.

  He continued, “I might have led with “I’m sorry” or “I didn’t mean to betray you” or “I had feelings for you, but…”

  “I hate to quote Tina Turner but ‘What’s Love Got to do with it?”

  “Are you saying that you loved me?” Brad asked.

  She measured his interest and said, “It was moving that way,” appealing to his massive ago.

  “Okay, I forgive you then,” he replied.

  She had almost conquered the seemingly insurmountable initial hurdle, before having no choice but to retrace her steps. “You forgive me?” she uttered in a slightly elevated tone. “You forgive me?” she said nearly raising the proverbial roof. “You took advantage of me!” She then lowered her tone of voice but ratcheted up the anger, “You knew the ship was sinking and you tried to jump off while leaving me behind!”

  “I left you behind? You were just waiting for the right moment to jump off any bury me!” Brad responded.

  “I earned that promotion!” she shot back.

  “There was no one else left!” he said to hurt her feelings.

  Just then, the sliding doors to the conference room slid open and the front desk receptionist poked her head in and said, “Is everything all right, Miss Berger?”

  Brad interjected, “Just two old friends catching up.”

  Stacey nodded in agreement and the receptionist smirked like she knew the whole story.

  “She must have read your book,” Brad stated.

  “Did you?” Stacey asked.

  “I got it as a gag gift a few years ago.”

  “You guys gave gag gifts in jail?” Stacey questioned.

  “You’d be surprised what I learned in jail,” Brad said.

  “So, are you going to retain me as your lawyer?” Stacey asked.

  Brad studied her face and then backed off, “I’m not sure. I’ll have to think it over.” He paused for a split second and then continued, “Do you still work for the government?”

  She scanned his face and then smirked, “Are you still breaking the law?”

  They shook hands and Brad left the office after nodding to the receptionist and saying, “Have a great day.”

  OLD BEGINNINGS

  “Why didn’t you tell me that it was Berger’s firm?” Brad questioned Guy Fillano as they stood in front of the new restaurant.

  “It’s a good firm. They have done some good work for me,” he replied.

  The two men walked into The Exchange, which was modeled after the inside of a new-age brokerage firm. There was a flat-screen monitor and keyboard built into the top of every table. In the middle of the restaurant was a large boardroom table that could accommodate a large party of up to 14 people, or simply be used for smaller groups looking for the corporate experience.

  “Wow” was the word that instantly floated out of Brad’s lips.

  “Wow, is right,” Guy replied. “I wasn’t messing around when I designed this place.”

  “Yeah, I’m with you. I don’t have the time or the money to mess around,” Brad stated.

  Guy showed Brad around and some of the kitchen staff was preparing lunch for them. “Good afternoon, Mr. Greenberg,” one of the men said and then went back to work.

  It had been some time since he heard the name Greenberg spoken in his direction. Although the name “Green” seemed to fit Brad’s previous lifestyle and corporate image, using his given name definitely helped set the wheels in motion toward feeling whole again. Toward being more in tune with where he came from and where he wanted to go.

  Brad’s rebirth of sorts had taken shape amidst some of his darkest hours. The great thing about the dark is that it either thrusts you into your grave or makes your life-smart. This thing about adversity making you stronger is about as valid as an expired driver’s license. Brad knew that this time around he had to get it right… he had to live cleaner and stop trying to take the express train on the local track.

  Sitting in his restaurant eating lunch with Guy reminded Brad of how precious basic freedom could be. In his previous life, he would barely crack a smile while eating lunch, preferring to plot his next series of moves instead of enjoying the company and his plated meal. Life had become an ongoing chess match where a check mate would only clear the board for the next game, the next series of moves designed to empower the king.

  “I really love this place,” Brad said to Guy.

  Guy kept eating, waiting for the “but” behind the compliment.

  “Did you hear me?”

  Guy replied, “I was just waiting for the but.”

  Brad smiled, “No more buts, my friend. The only point of contention I have with you is over this law firm.”

  Guy put his hands, palms up, “I can see you’re not going to let this go. There weren’t a lot of firms lining up around the block to represent a convicted felon. This was a new firm that came highly recommended. Actually, they were the only law firm to take the bait.”

  Brad finally took his friend’s words at face value and decided to schedule another meeting with Stacey Berger. He had been so blinded by past feelings of a trial gone ugly that it was difficult to think in the present tense. Berger used her rising status in Organic Nation to uncover the web of lies behind the scenes at
Wall Street’s little darling.

  A few more days on the outside combined with a working knowledge of what he was walking in to, made Brad much more focused this time around. The familiar receptionist at the Torres, Berger, Thomas & Fukiyama front desk appeared busy but was actually scribbling her way through the Monday New York Times crossword puzzle. There were days when she could stretch her natural abilities to attempt the Wednesday puzzle, but once the weekend was in sight she resorted to other time-wasting means to pass get through the day.

  “Good morning, Mr. Greenberg,” the receptionist, named Kelly, said in a tone she usually saved for dignitaries, heads of state, and construction guys.

  Brad half-smile and replied, “Morning” as Kelly picked up her phone. “Mr. Greenberg is here for his appointment.”

  “She’ll be right up,” Kelly said as Brad nodded in understanding.

  Within seconds, Stacey Berger energetically advanced to the front of the office and was extended her right hand in friendly gesture. This festive mood, however, lasted all of 15 seconds before Brad’s ass even hit the chair in Stacey's office.

  “Why did you turn on me?” Brad said, stringing the first piece of his dirty laundry on the line.

  Tracey closed the door to her spacious office and took a seat on the dark brown, Pottery Barn standard issue, leather couch instead of being confrontational and assuming a power position behind her desk.

  “First of all, I didn’t turn on you. Quite the contrary, you turned on me?”

  Brad went from anger to confusion in the time it usually took to order a latte at Starbucks. “What? I turned on you?” He then turned his chair around to face Stacey on the couch.

  Stacey barely flinched before saying, “Michelle Larocca.”

  Brad was somewhere between confusion and unconsciousness when he replied,” Michelle Larocca?” What does she have to do with your insubordination?”

  “Insubordination? You dumb ass! I worked for the government! Even with that fact in tow, I wasn’t sure if I would submit all of my evidence until Michelle Larocca strutted her half-naked ass around the office like she was participating in a Hawaiian Tropic Pageant!”

  Brad couldn’t believe his ears. “What are you talking about? She was appropriately dressed.”

  Stacey countered, “She was appropriately dressed if she worked the corner of 38th and 9th Avenue. There’s nothing corporate about a beaver shot in the middle of a staff meeting!”

  “Ok, so her skirts were a little short. Our dress code was extremely casual,” Brad stated.

  “But it wasn’t clothing-optional,” Stacey kept swinging.

  Brad wasn’t sure where he should go from there. “You are infuriating!”

  She rolled her eyes, “At least I didn’t sleep with Michelle “The Ho” Larocca!”

  Brad had a look on his face that he was being accused of fraud, again. “I didn’t sleep with Michelle Larocca.”

  Stacey waved him off and turned her head away in disgust.

  “What would make you think that I slept with Michelle Larocca?” Brad asked.

  With that, Stacey stood up and then recanted the following chain of tightly-connected events that led her to believe that Brad had boinked Michelle Larocca. The initial side of the story is told through her eyes.

  Stacey was leading a dual life and her world was one big ball of bountiful stress. By day, she assumed her role as Organic Nation’s shameless promoter, utilizing all of her positive feelings for the company to let the world know they should join the nation. By night, Stacey fought crime and shared her findings with the various members of the U.S. government.

  It was the end of a glorious late spring day and many of the Organic Nation employees were finishing the last of their work and heading toward the bustling street below at Columbus Circle. You could tell the weather was getting warmer because the hem on Michelle Larocca’s skirts was inching up toward her belly button. Stacey Berger was usually one of the last employees to leave the building, and this Thursday night was no exception.

  Organic Nation headquarters was a completely open and airy structure encased by all windows, thus providing an unimpeded view for employees to their inside and outside worlds. All associates had an incredible view of Central Park and all of its grandeur, and Brad Green and all of his glory.

  Stacey picked up her head almost every time someone approached Brad’s office. Not only was she assigned to shadow the king of all healthy, she was also becoming quite protective over the man, the myth, and the legend. Michelle Larocca was strutting down the hallway toward Brad’s office like she had some additional rump-shaking in mind. Some twenty minutes after she entered the office, Michelle emerged with Brad basically draped over her. His arm was around the infamous streetwalker as they headed toward the elevator.

  The elevator doors closed and Stacey quickly gathered her things and shoved them in her inconspicuous-looking leather briefcase. The briefcase was so white, middle-America-looking that it reeked of “Hey, I’m working for the government but I’m trying to look normal.” Under normal circumstances, Stacey would be prone to snooping around when Brad left the building. She had planted a GPS tracking device in his wallet and a few other places, ensuring that she would always be current with his whereabouts.

  She quickly downloaded and backed up all of Brad’s daily files with her wireless capture device, and then hustled out of the building. It was rush hour, so open cabs were about as scarce as modesty in the thick Manhattan streets. Stacey glanced one last time at her GPS tracking system, and the device seemed to be pointing her a few long blocks down the street to 5th Avenue. She took a deep breath, relieved to have avoided the Metropolitan Transit Authority system, and then started walking east.

  As Stacey’s sensible shoes guided her toward The Plaza Hotel on 5th Avenue, visions of Michelle contorting her body on a hotel bed into gymnastic-like positions overwhelmed her. Then her red phone rang:

  “Berger,” she said as she answered the government-issued cell phone.

  “What are you doing near The Plaza? Hot date tonight?” a male voice jabbed at her.

  The tracking never seemed to end... Stacey’s cell phone was a tracking device in itself and she was never off the clock, even when she turned off the phone.

  “Yeah that’s great, Jenkins. I’m tracking Green right now. Gotta’ go. I’m transferring today’s files right now.”

  She pushed a button on her phone and all of Brad’s files were transferred to the home base. It was a routine she had completed for the past two months without fail. The process involved an index finger and a thumb, but her gut was the area of her body that experienced the most sensation on this day. Stacey sensed that her assignment was coming to an end. Any feelings she had for Brad were melting quickly like an ice cube on an oppressive subway platform in the middle of summer.

  Stacey followed the GPS signal until she stopped in front of The Plaza Hotel. She sat on a bench facing the hotel for a good hour and 40 minutes until Brad and Michelle emerged from the front door. Michelle, still wearing a short skirt and four-inch pumps, stopped and gave Brad a hug and then smiled and was on her way. Brad, looking like he had just found a winning lottery ticket, smiled and then was on his way back toward the office. Stacey’s first instinct was to follow him but she had quite enough of the cat and mouse game. She waited a few hours for Brad to leave the office and then went back to clear her stuff out and gather all of the evidence she would need to bury Green.

  “Jenkins. I need an escort back home. We’re done here,” Stacey said as she put the last of the incriminating files in a box. The bureau had a few doubts about Stacey Berger’s ability to close the deal, but was impressed with the depth and range of the information she gathered. Once the government prosecuted the case successfully, with Stacey being the lead prosecutor, a big promotion was in the offing. Stacey accepted the raise and new title but managed to deflect most of the praise. She was not in the
mood to celebrate.

  A few years after riding the wave of the big victory against Organic Nation, Stacey Berger walked into work one day and walked right out shortly thereafter. The harshness of the job had taken its toll on her, because she was no snitch. Getting close to Brad Green and then slamming the door in his face had many ramifications, even if he slept with Michelle Larocca that afternoon. Writing a best-selling book about her experiences, called Bringing down the Nation, was a lot harder than handing in her resignation that morning. She toiled while writing the book for a good six months after she left the bureau, and it took her almost a year from first word to last draft. Once the book became available, the royalty money kept rolling in prompting Stacey to open her own law firm.

  Of course, Brad’s side of the story was quite different than the Harlequin, smut novel that Stacey presented.

  It was a pretty typical day at Organic Nation until Michelle Larocca tapped on Brad’s glass door.

  “Do you have a minute?” Michelle asked.

  Brad was knee deep in number's manipulation, but he looked up and replied, “Yes, come in Michelle.”

  She moved closer to his desk and took a seat in a chair at the other end of his desk. “What can I do for you?” Brad asked.

  “I have some good news and some bad news,” the sensitively-dressed Michele said.

  Brad smiled, “Why don’t we start with the good news. I could use some of that.”

  Michelle hesitated and then stated, “My dad wants to meet with you to form an alliance.”

  The cylinders of Brad’s brain tumbled until he found some clarity “Is your father Vincent Larocca of MacroLarge?”

  “Yes. He wants to put an Organic Nation location in their corporate headquarters and their other satellite offices around the world.”

  “That sounds great! How can I get in touch with him?” Brad asked.

  “He’ll be at The Plaza Hotel this afternoon. He’ll be expecting us at 5:30.”

  Brad nodded, “Okay, so what’s the bad news?”

  Michelle hesitated again and then Niagara Falls opened up in the in the middle of Columbus Circle. If that much water had consumed the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria, then Columbus surely would been sunk in his attempt to discover a “new” world that already had natives in tow.

  Brad got up from his chair and moved to the other side of the desk, partially to comfort Michelle but mostly to take in the skin-dominated visual.

  “What wrong, Michelle?”

  She stopped crying long enough to spout, “I haven’t seen my father in 20 years. He left us when I was five and never looked back.”

  Brad was thinking more about the millions of dollars he could make off a MacroLarge relationship then he was about a little girl that barely wore any clothes so people would notice her. The veritable peep show was just an added bonus to the day’s events. Michelle and Brad left the building just after five and began strolling east to The Plaza.

  It was a nice day to be a New Yorker. The sun was ducking in and out of a few wispy clouds and the breeze was mellow enough to calm the mind and refresh the spirit after a long day indoors. Brad’s almost daily ritual of walking in and around Central Park did wonders for his focus and confidence. Being in the world’s greatest city and captaining a beloved company didn’t hurt the confidence much, either.

  The Plaza had been refurbished and much of its regal, yet somewhat gaudy glory had been restored.

  “Are you nervous?” a generally disinterested Brad asked to fill the space between Organic Nation and The Plaza steps.

  Michelle’s emotions were all over the place and resembled the very makeup of when her internal clock shut down. “I feel like a five year-old all over again.”

  Brad’s first thought was, “Well, you don’t look like a five year-old,” but he said “Just be yourself and everything will be all right.”

  Not that he had a firm grasp on what the “true” Michelle Larocca was really like, anyway? It was just one of those things that people say to each other when confronted with dead air. The equivalent would have been, “We should do lunch,” or “Send me your resume.”

  Once inside The Plaza, Brad and Michelle headed to meet Vincent Larocca in his room in the penthouse. The word “room” was a little liberal for a suite you could land a jumbo jet in. The security that came with staying on top of the city meant that guests had to be screened before they came up.

  “Mr. Larocca, your daughter is here to see you,” the concierge said into the phone.

  Larocca replied, “Send her up. Please tell Mr. Green to give us a few minutes and then I’ll call for him.”

  Brad wished Michelle good luck and then she disappeared around the corner headed to the elevator bank. The ride up to the penthouse felt like it took longer than being parked in rush-hour traffic. Vincent Larocca was rarely fazed by meetings but this one was causing him to pace back and forth. How do you great someone you haven’t seen in 20 years? When it’s you daughter, he surmised, you do it with open arms.

  The rest of the long-awaited meeting was the stuff that Hallmark cards are based on. Once the penthouse door was closed behind Michelle, Vincent dropped to his knees and sobbed. “You’re so beautiful,” he uttered between crying fits. “How did I ever walk away from you?”

  The layers of anxiety from growing up without a father slowly peeled away for Michelle. Although she continued to wear short skirts, she ascended to the designer level once she joined MacroLarge after her stint with Organic Nation ended with the scandal. In hindsight, being without a father for the formative years wasn’t as painful as the joy she experienced being reconnected with her dad for the next 20 years. The event not only moved her up the caste system of life, she also married another billionaire and had a beautiful, stress-free life from the moment she stepped into The Plaza penthouse. As for Brad, his association with Vincent Larocca lasted all of a week. The conversations obviously stopped once charges were brought against Green and Organic Nation, proving that timing is indeed everything.

  Back in the law office, Brad and Stacey continued to jaw at each other about their varying accounts of the Michelle Larocca fiasco.

  “You’re such a liar! Are you saying that you didn’t sleep with her?” Stacey probed.

  Brad rolled his eyes in disgust, “Let me ask you a question. Did you ever walk into The Plaza that day?”

  Stacey backed up for a minute and then responded, “No. I waited outside on a bench until you two came out.”

  Brad reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He then scanned through a few numbers and put the phone up to his ear. “Michelle! How are you today? I am fine. Yes, the restaurant is going to open in a few days. I’m looking forward to seeing you, too. Can you do me a favor? I have Stacey Berger sitting here with me and she wants to know what happened that day you reconnected with your father at The Plaza. Okay, thanks.”

  Brad removed the phone from his ear and extended his left arm to hand the phone over to Stacey. She motioned “No” but the curiosity of the situation made her reach for the phone and put it up to her ear. Michelle recounted a similar version to Brad’s story for about five minutes and then Stacey said, “Thank you” and hung up.

  The light finally went on in Brad’s head, “You took an unannounced vacation after that day. Is that the reason why you prosecuted me?”

  “No, Einstein. That’s the reason I sent your ass to jail and took most of your money.”

  “You wanna’ get some coffee and talk about this?” Brad asked.

  “I can’t do it right now. Call me later. I have to digest this for a while” she replied.

  He shook her hand and left the office, saying “Thanks” to the receptionist on the way out. A few minutes later, Stacey poked her head out of the office and nodded toward Kelly the receptionist, who quickly sprinted from her desk to Stacey’s office.

  “So, what happened?” Kelly asked with the knowledge that th
ere were feelings between Stacey and Brad.

  “He didn’t sleep with her,” Stacey stated and then sat back in her chair.

  Kelly nodded, knowing that the new information must have stretched Stacey’s insides in about 20 different directions. The rainbow of emotions she was feeling obviously needed time to untangle, so Stacey said, “Aruba.”

  Kelly nodded again, “Aruba.”

  TRANSITION, TRANSLATION

  With no sign of Stacey for days, Brad turned his attention to his roommates and his restaurant. The opening of The Exchange was only days away and there were a few finishing touches left to make. Sal was busy experimenting with new recipes and Charles was checking with the printer to make sure the restaurant’s menus would be ready in time.

  “You gonna’ be all right?” a concerned Charles said to Sal, who looked downright queasy.

  Sal, wearing his chef’s outfit with the name Chef Sal under The Exchange, looked more like a sick patron than a future award-winning chef. “Yeah, I’ll be okay.”

  “It’s a lot better than being in The Ed isn’t it,” Charles said trying to cheer his friend up.

  Sal quickly shook off the cob webs and replied, “Still trying to adjust to the change. How long do you think we can all live together?”

  Charles smirked, “About two months after we open.”

  Just then, a slightly jumpy Brad walked in and said, “Two months for what?”

  “’Till we’re making a profit,” Charles quickly responded before Sal go into it.

  “More like three or four months, depending on the gate.”

  The locations of the first Exchange restaurant was bandied about for months while the guys were still in jail. The initial discussion was focused on Broadway just off Wall Street, but that was quickly squashed by Charles “It’s like a ghost town on the weekend.”

  Brad was the real business mind out of the three and theorized, “What we need is an all-hours link to The Street. If we put these restaurants in the suburbs we can solicit women as well as men.”

  “What do you mean?” Sal asked.

  “Yeah, I’m not following you either” Charles added.

  “More and more financial businesses are moving out of the city and into the suburbs.” Brad looks at both guys for conformation, “You following me so far?”

  Sal and Charles nodded their heads, verifying they were among the living.

  “I see much more than the good old boys club on Wall Street. It’s all about getting the populous involved. When I started Organic Nation the majority of the country was more interested in eating unhealthy and eating it fast. So, we convinced a few more people to eat a little healthier while still eating fast. We have to think good, healthy food with The Exchange but first and foremost, we must promote a spirit of involvement from the entire community, not just the wealthiest tier.” Brad looked at Charles and at once, Charles realized what Brad was reaching for.

  “Investment clubs,” Charles proudly stated.

  Brad nodded in approval, “Investment clubs. I’m talking about clubs with women, clubs with senior citizens, teenage clubs, couples clubs, singles clubs, religious clubs, organization clubs, corporate clubs, political clubs, college and alumni clubs, leisure activity and sports clubs, all sitting around here drinking and eating and talking about their portfolios. We could have stock picking contests for meals and other prizes going on all the time. Just think of the possibilities, gentlemen!

  “That man could sell snow tires to a surfer,” Charles said.

  “He had me at clubs” Sal added.

  Brad continued, “Our restaurant traffic will be static during the day. We should probably be open for breakfast, too. We’d have different people coming through here all day. Older people and caregivers in the morning, corporate types and other professionals around lunchtime, teenagers, 20- and 30-somethings early afternoon, and a general free-for-all from dinner time until we close at 10 0’clock or so.”

  Sal looked at Charles and then asked, “That lawyer ever call you back?”

  Charles knew Sal was the right man for the head chef’s job but couldn’t believe his lack of timing out of the kitchen.

  Brad answered “It’s okay, Charles. Sal means well. No, I haven’t heard back from Stacey this week. Word is that she went to Aruba with her receptionist.”

  Sal was on a roll, “You think she’s a lesbian?”

  Brad shot Charles a “Can you believe this fuckin’ guy” look before he stated the obvious. “No, I don’t think she’s a lesbian.”

  Sal wouldn’t give up that easy, “How do you know?”

  “Because I know!” Brad raised his voice.

  Sal backed off a little, “How?”

  Brad was trying to keep the genie in the bottle but it couldn’t be contained any longer, “Because I kissed her!”

  Both Sal and Charles look astonished, leading the three men to leave the kitchen and sit at the restaurant’s bar for a few minutes. Brad went behind the bar and poured three beers from the tap while the other guys took seats in the peanut gallery for a little story time.

  Brad recounted a tale of working late one night and stretching his legs at about 6:45 p.m. and walking around his floor. He always used his private bathroom, but decided to use the general employees’ bathroom because nature was calling quickly on this occasion. A few minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom and turned left toward his office. A split-second later, Stacey hurried out of the ladies bathroom and tuned right. It was one of those “Your chocolate fell in my peanut butter/Your peanut butter fell on my chocolate” moments. Brad and Stacey slammed together and they both fell to the floor. He helped her back to her feet and then reached over and picked a piece of lint from her hair. They both were taken by the tender moment and quickly met in a passionate kiss. The seven-second, lip access only, knee-knocking session broke off when Brad’s phone rang. He took the call and she walked away down the hall back to her desk.

  By the time Brad got off the call and scurried back toward Stacey’s desk, she was gone for the day. “I could never find the right moment after that to try it again,” Brad said and then took a big swig of beer.

  “Wow,” Sal said.

  “You still have feelings for her?” Charles asked.

  “No, I want to rip her head off when I’m with her!” Brad said emphatically.

  Sal turned to Charles and whispered, “We better start looking for that place to live.”

  “I’ll set some things up,” Charles replied.

  A few days later, the restaurant opened to a full house and rave reviews. Brad was still concerned that most of these people came in for the event, not for the long haul. People weren’t using the equipment to check stocks and chatter about their investments. This was a clear sign that nobody “got” the concept yet.

  “We have to get the word out,” Brad said to Charles as they tallied up the receipts.

  “The people we had in here tonight didn’t get it,” Charles concurred.

  Brad picked his head up and stated, “We have to tell them what to get. Something like, ‘Groups can join for as little as $100’.”

  “Once people get in the action they won’t want to get out,” Charles said.

  “We have all the investment tracking software in place. All we need is the people. We should send e-mails and flyers to places offering free food with every investment club entry.”

  “I’ll get on that first thing,” Charles energetically stated.

  The front door had been locked for over an hour and the only door that still swung both ways was the back door. Sal was busy cleaning the kitchen and preparing food for the next day when he heard a faint knock on the back door. All the kitchen help had gone home for the night, so Sal put down a potato and wiped his hands off on a towel before opening the back door.

  “Who is it?” Sal asked.

  “It’s Stacey Berger.”

  The name was greeted by silence so Stacey sai
d, “I’m Brad’s lawyer.”

  Sal was so deep in food thought that he spaced out for a minute before realizing who the person was. He opened the door and said, “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”

  He extended his hand and said, “I’m Sal, the head chef.”

  She looked at his chef’s garb and then looked in his eyes in true New Yorker fashion, to say “No shit! I can see that by the name on your shirt.”

  “Is Brad still here?” a tanned Tracey asked.

  Sal smiled, “Yeah, he should be out front with Charlie.”

  Charlie and Brad were still sitting at a table until Charlie got up and saw Stacey coming toward them. He wanted to alert Brad but it was too late. She had entered a physical range where normal conversations were in earshot and whispers would hold a negative connotation.

  “I’m going to see what Sal’s doing,” an awkward Charles said before nodding at Stacey and then scurrying into the back. Being a former famous television personality, it was his job to know just about everything about everybody on Wall Street. Stacey Berger was the pilot that dropped the atomic bomb on Wall Street.

  “She’s a lot better looking in person,” Sal said to Charles as he entered the kitchen.

  “A lot taller, too. You ready to start looking for a place tomorrow morning?”

  Sal nodded, “Yeah, but not too early. Okay?”

  Charles replied, “Okay.”

  Back on the main floor, Stacey approached Brad who picked up his head and felt a surge of energy shoot through his body after a long, hard day. Her tanned face instantly had Brad wondering what the rest of her body looked like. The open buttons on her professional-looking indigo blue shirt gave a preview of how little clothing she wore on the beach of Aruba. Stacey had aged well despite all of the stress she had endured. Avoiding such vices as smoking and alcohol helped preserve the 40-something’s face and body. Of course, Stacey would say it was all of those spinning classes and personal training sessions that keep her body in shape.

  Stacey sat down across the table of four from Brad, who was waiting for her to kick off the conversation.

  “I was divorced when I was in my 20s,” she said trying to create a more honest, deeper conversation.

  Brad wasn’t sure if he should attack or put his guard down, “Looks like you had a nice little vacation. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”

  “Yeah, I heard the eight messages you left,” she replied. “Kelly and I went to Aruba.”

  “Found a little clarity on the beach, did you?”

  “Yeah, watching Kelly shake her ass in front of any dick with a pulse, led me to a simple conclusion,” Stacey stated.

  “What was that?” Brad inquired.

  Stacey had finally broken down. She put her head down as the tears started rolling down her cheeks. She grabbed a napkin from the table and then picked her head up, “I have to stop running.”

  Running had become a natural habit for Brad in the last year of Organic Nation. He was, in fact, the marathoner of corporate America, staying just ahead of the Fed’s and the press. Brad was appearing on television up to a week before he was arrested by the Fed’s.

  “We will be proved innocent of these heinous rumors. There is no foundation for all of this doubt about both our accounting standards and corporate ethical responsibility,” was just a few lies that Brad was more than willing to perpetrate in order to save his own hide.

  Brad refused to acknowledge that his company had fallen through the thin ice, had sunk to the bottom of the ocean, and was already as dead as a doornail. It was months since Stacey left the company abruptly, giving her two weeks’ notice and then using the remainder of her unused vacation time so she wouldn’t have to step foot in the office again. Brad was confused that one of his best workers left so aggressively, but he had bigger farmed-raised fish to bake at the time.

  It wasn’t until his last day at Organic Nation that the depth of the betrayal was revealed to Brad. It was a relatively quiet Thursday afternoon and many of the employees had already cleared out for the day. Stacey had studied the hourly patterns of her co-workers and was attempting to be somewhat sympathetic by not turning the confrontation into a circus. Her presence was purely professional, or so she convinced herself at the time.

  Brad instinctively picked up his head at the sound of noise in the hallway. His first emotion was quite positive at seeing Stacey walking by herself toward him. It was a good thing to see such an ally again, he thought. Nobody seemed to have his back anymore unless they were paid to represent him. Brad stood up to greet Stacey and then he saw a litany of men and women wearing dark blue jackets with the initials FBI across the left breast and back. His first instinct was to run but there was nowhere to go but straight ahead. That secret passageway he thought of putting in certainly would have come in handy that day.

  The small troop of government employees bearing down effectively brought an end to Brad’s days of running. Brad stood in front of his desk almost motionless as Stacey Berger walked toward him. Without hesitation or rhetoric she said, “Bradley Green. You are under arrest for crimes…”

  The rest of the catalog of rights and legal mumbo-jumbo were a mere formality as Brad stared blankly into Stacey’s cold, professional eyes as some of the muscle went behind him and slid shackles around his wrists.

  That was the last time Brad saw Stacey before the trial, and the two hadn’t spoken until they met years later in the conference room at her law firm. The scars of betrayal were still fresh inside both Stacey and Brad, but life had once again shifted and offered both of them a second chance.

  Brad stood up after squashing thoughts about restarting the mindless banter. He quickly realized the Stacey in front of him was not the Stacey he last saw at her office the week before. Gone was the look of contempt, which was replaced by another look that he hadn’t seen in some time. Words would have sequestered the feelings inside both Stacey and Brad, so they let their actions unlock the passions they had buried inside.

  The force of the connection was so strong that the building could have been crumbling down around their lips of fury and they wouldn’t have noticed it. Sal and Charles peered out from the kitchen and were shocked to see the R-rated action already unfolding in front of them.

  “Wow, that’s like soap opera steamy,” Sal said.

  “Young and the Restless or Days of Our Lives?” Charles asked.

  “Definitely Nikki and Victor on Y and R. Definitely,” Sal said in his best Rainman impression.

  Ten minutes later, Stacey and Brad detangled a bit and he said, “That was even better than our first kiss.”

  “Our first kiss?” she replied.

  He looked as puzzled as a dazed guy with wood pants could be, “You know, coming out of the bathroom.”

  Stacey recovered enough from her pool of mush condition to reflect back on her days at Organic Nation. It was a standard practice for her to follow Brad’s every move. Whenever he moved within range or she was sitting in his office or at a meeting with him, she would scan and extract the contents of his cell phone on to her data capturing device. On that particular day, she was surprised to see him using the general employees’ bathroom instead of using his own personal bathroom, so she jumped at the chance to download the data from his phone. That phone never left his side, so it was relatively easy to get the information she needed.

  Stacey tried to beat Brad out of the bathroom but got a face-full of him instead. She had indeed remembered the kiss, their eyes meeting suggesting the inevitability of the fusion of lips. From that point on the emotional tie from the kiss made her job that much more difficult. She never talked about the event to a sole, and even skipped over its occurrence in her book. Stacey’s personal life never conflicted with her professional life, at least not until Brad.

  “Mr. Greenberg, are you suggesting that I have forgotten about the time you smacked into me coming out of the bathroom?”

 
Brad smiled, “No, Miss Berger, I am only suggesting…” and then a wave of understanding washed over Brad. He cocked his head, “Why were you in such a hurry to beat me out of the bathroom that day?” Stacey lost eye contact and that’s all Brad needed to know. “You were doing some spy stuff weren’t you?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, “You were after my cell phone.”

  Stacey smiled, “Guilty as charged, but the kiss was definitely memorable,” she said as she cozied up to him. “That kiss almost stopped me from prosecuting you.”

  Brad smiled, “You are such a hopeless romantic.”

  EXCHANGE CLUBS

  Brad and Stacey kissed for a few more minutes and then went home together to Stacey’s condo, which was located only a few minutes away from the restaurant. They woke up and showered together and had the following conversation over breakfast.

  “So, how did the restaurant do on its first night?” Stacey asked.

  “It was a good night, but I don’t think it will last,” Brad replied.

  Stacey took a sip of her coffee and asked, “Why not?”

  “Our concept is based solely on the proliferation of investment clubs.”

  “You mean a group of people that invest together? I read an article in Money magazine about that the other day.”

  Brad explained, “The possibilities are endless. We could support teacher, medical, high school, college, professional, housewife, senior citizen, and even legal investment clubs.”

  Stacey smiled, “My firm is in. What’s the minimum initial investment?”

  “One hundred dollars,” Brad stated.

  “Done,” she replied.

  “You get a free appetizer with every club entry,” Brad said as he smirked.

  “Is that for each club member, or just one for the entire club?”

  Brad loved the fact that Stacey was so feisty. “That’s one per table. We’d bump that up to two for a larger table.” He reached over and kissed his new love and came to attention when thinking about their passionate love-making the previous night, which continued in the morning in the shower. “Now that we have our first investment club, we have to go out and get more.”

  “You know it better than I do that all you have to do is let them come to you. Once word gets out, you’re going to have to beat people off with a stick to keep them away.”

  “That’s when we’ll start moving into catering. People will initially use The Exchange as a gathering place and then branch out into their own private groups. The one thing I know about investors is that they are staunchly competitive and rarely like to expose ideas before their time,” Brad stated.

  “Or until they go to a cocktail party and brag about the stock they own that tripled,” Stacey interjected.

  “Exactly,” Brad said as he finished the rest of the granola in his bowl.

  “I’ve been trying to eat healthier lately,” Stacey stated.

  The recently released jailbird replied, “Me, too.”

  Stacey did her best to get the word out about the investment clubs at The Exchange, and even sponsored a few local groups of clients and friends of clients. One group at the Nassau County Court House was especially grateful to be able to flex their investment prowess. The $100 minimum was quite reachable for most people, especially considering that a group could join for less money per person than it would take to sit down and watch a movie with your popcorn and frozen drink.

  Investing is such a foreign topic to most people. You have to quite skilled to achieve and maintain serious wealth, but any Tyrone, Domo, or Allison can dabble with plunking a few dollars down and playing the market. Charles and Brad would often make the rounds in the restaurant and informally talk to groups about investing. Complex terms like the “Efficient Market Theory” were replaced with the language of the common man. Charles always stated that “markets are inherently inefficient” and that there were “opportunities to be uncovered” for every company.

  For instance, Charles was sitting was the first investment club of housewives, which also included one stay-at-home dad, and the following conversation took place:

  “Most Wall Street analysts are chained to a desk and rarely get out and see what is actually going on in the world. There was this famous money manager named Peter Lynch who said that people should use what they already know to make money in the stock market. So, what do we collectively know?”

  There was a slight hesitation and then Kathy Reynolds, the smallest mother of the group, spoke up, “I know that The Gap has been marking down things like crazy and a few of the salespeople have told me that their sales have been extremely slow.”

  The other five caretakers at the table perked up, “I heard the same thing at Ann Taylor,” Brenda Hollingsworth stated.

  “Things seem to be going well at Target, though,” Carl Jenkins added.

  Charles stood up and said, “You see. You already have two potential shorts and one potential buy.” The people at the table got all excited. “Just stick to what you know and mix a little basic investing knowledge in and you’ll do just fine. The most important thing with group investing is progress, not agreement. If everyone has the same thought and your idea is not thoroughly thought out, then you will certainly miss important details.”

  Brad and Charles had similar conversations with more and more groups as the weeks and months passed by, and it appeared that the investment club concept had indeed caught on.

  “That new artificial heart has some bugs in it,” a member of the Nurses Investment Club chimed in.

  Brad waited for the follow-up question in vain, “So, the obvious question would be, who makes the heart?”

  The group thought it over and then Carol Simmons said, “I think it’s AbioCor?”

  “Is that a public stock?” Grant Perkins chimed in.

  Brad muttered under his breath, “My work here is done.”

  Before long, there was a rainbow of investments clubs with everything from school crossing guard clubs to dentist and dental assistants clubs. Of course, the pursuit started as purely a social endeavor but quickly became more like a group of animals fighting over a raw piece of meat.

  All of this growth meant that the Sal, Brad, and Charles had to revamp the current menu.

  “Finger food on small plates or napkins,” Brad said throwing out the first volley.

  “Are we talking chicken fingers and mini pizzas or the kind of stuff you would find at a more upscale party?” Sal asked.

  “Why not do both?” Charles interjected.

  Brad nodded and said to Sal in a slightly different intonation, “Why not do both?”

  Charles continued, “This way we can connect with all of the different people we have coming through here. We could also have $200 bottles of wine and also have Budweiser on tap.”

  Sal added, “We need to get people food fast and keep it coming through the meal. I can put just about anything on a stick - chicken, shrimp, vegetables, beef, tofu - where people’s total bill will be comparable or even greater than with the big-plate entrée approach.”

  “Desserts and coffee work as well,” Brad stated. “The key is to keep the table as clear as possible for papers and on-line stock evaluation. A lack of room has been the biggest complaint by customers.”

  “So, let’s give them room,” Sal said.

  “And food on a stick,” Charles added as the three men cracked up.

  The competitions for investment club supremacy took place in increments of 30-day, one quarter (three months), six months, and one year, with the two- to five-year window reserved for more seasoned players only. Prizes varied from free food to $100-plus gift certificates for each team member to day spas, movie theaters, Broadway shows, sporting goods stores, and natural food markets. As time went on, though, exotic vacations and cash remuneration were also added to the kitty.

  Expansion was a more complex thought process the second time around for Brad than it had been when he ran O
rganic Nation. In those days, size did matter and he was in a race to further the growth prospects of the public company. Being privately-held definitely had its advantages, and Brad wanted to keep it that way. The initial stab at the concept was so successful that, at the very minimum, natural curiosity would demand at least a second and third location.

  The initial Westbury, Long Island location was right in the heart of restaurant row and was a short drive from businesses and a major parkway. Similar locations were scouted out in Chatham, New Jersey and Ridgefield, Connecticut, and another spot was considered in the heart of Brooklyn, New York. The guys eventually settled on the Chatham, New Jersey location, but also opened the other two locations within four years.

  The restaurants proved to wildly successfully like the Westbury location, prompting the guys to sell the concept to Yum! Brands through a national franchising and consulting agreement. The guys agreed to sell all but the Westbury location, which obviously held a great deal of sentimental value.

  THE HOME FRONT

  The matriculation back into professional life proved to be quite different for Brad, Charles, and Sal than it was when they were originally in the workforce. Their respective career decisions became a lot easier with all of that time to think while they were in jail. The more complex variable in the equation was the personal because that required the radical unearthing of buried emotions and other hidden, yet impactful treasures.

  Simply doing something you’re good at, repeatedly, is much easier than baring your soul and trying to establish a real connection with another human being. At least two of the three guys were on their way to establishing a long-term, meaningful relationship, as Charles was in the process of falling for the restaurant's new wine steward, Sandra Parker.. Sal, on the other hand, had neither the time nor the inclination to settle down.

  “Settle down, Mr. Coplia,” Mrs. Marshall said to her most rambunctious fourth-grade student.

  This was the story of Sal’s life. He was always going 100 miles per hour in a 55 miles per-hour zone. While this helter-skelter attitude got him in trouble most of his life, it definitely served him well in the fast-paced inner workings of the kitchen. Sal finally felt in place when he went to work for Organic Nation. That was why he literally cracked in half when he lost his job. Any balance he had achieved instantly shifted to chaos, and he quickly lost everything before heading to jail. Sal’s life now was completely balanced through a healthy dose of being a chef and then running around in the dead of night with fast women with absolutely no inclination toward commitment.

  Balance was everything in Brad’s relationship with Stacey. Their prior working relationship was based on deception, yet they managed to create a great deal of heat between the lies.

  “Did you ever think we’d wind up together?” Brad said to Stacey as she rested her head on his chest as they stretched out in bed.

  She replied, “I did a long time ago.”

  He sat up, “When was that?”

  “I told you about this, didn’t I?” she said.

  “No, I haven’t heard this story yet,” Brad stated with a smile on his face.

  Stacey stood up and started pacing back and forth in a move reminiscent of an expectant father. “It all started when we first met. I was at a restaurant and food chain analyst conference at the Intercontinental Hotel. Those were the days when I was still deciding between law school and an M.B.A., so a friend of the family got me in to check things out. Everything was so new to me, so I decided to check out a series of presentations from companies expected to come out with their Initial Public Offerings,” she stopped pacing and then sat down on a tub chair next to the bed.

  “I remember being really nervous that day,” Brad interjected. “It was all or nothing. I was so nervous that I slammed into this girl…”

  She smiled and pointed toward the right side of her mouth, “I had to go to the dentist four of five times just to get these teeth secure again.”

  “Wow, I’m sorry! Brad said as he made his way over to Stacey. He then smirked, “Did you stay for the presentation?”

  She kissed Brad and then replied, “Once I got the blood to stop flowing, I stood in the back and watched you charm the pants off every single person in the room. Organic Nation was irresistible and so were you.”

  Brad, of course, had no response for such high praise, so he told his own first meeting story. “I remember the first time I saw you. I was taking the subway into work in those days, and it was just another day until I looked across the car and saw a woman wearing headphones and scribbling on a note pad. I couldn’t take my eyes off you the entire 20-minute ride.”

  Stacey anticipated the next question by saying, “I used to keep a journal to avoid making eye contact with people. I felt like if I looked busy then people would generally leave me alone.”

  “Well it worked. I don’t think you picked up your head once, which made it easy to soak all of that good eye-candy in,” Brad stated as he rolled over and then mauled his girlfriend like a hungry grizzly bear.

  She recovered from the carnage and said, “Now you’re going to tell me that was the day I came in for my interview.”

  “You must have been riding the train for a while because it seemed like I stared at you for a few weeks. Were you following me?” Brad asked feeling a bit paranoid about the former prosecutor.

  She smiled, “For a change, no. According to your account, I was definitely the hunted instead of the hunter for a change.”

  Brad breathed a sigh of relief and then asked, “So what were you doing riding the train every day?”

  “Well my day always said that I should keep busy while I was looking for work. I felt like I would build up some momentum building up to my interview at Organic Nation.”

  Brad looked confused, “But didn’t you already work for the government?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you telling me the truth?” he asked.

  “Yes. I must have been getting into character. They didn’t know that I had a thing for you. I needed to clear my head so I wouldn’t blow the interview.”

  “I remember when you came in for that interview. Day-to-day operations were my focus, not hiring new employees. You were sitting outside of HR waiting to talk to someone and I just happened to stroll by and introduce myself,” he said.

  “And then you ushered me into a conference room and grilled me for a few minutes before the HR person came in and was quite surprised to see you. What did you say to that woman after I left?”

  Brad’s face beamed the kind of smile that could heat an entire village, “She asked me what I thought of you and I told her that we’d be fools if we didn’t hire you. What I was really saying was that I would be fool to let you get away.”

  Stacey became flushed and then softly replied, “I don’t think I would have gotten that job without you?”

  Brad smiled again, “Well, I guess we’re even. I wouldn’t be sitting her now if you hadn’t come into my life.”

  “No hard feelings for destroying your life and sending you to jail?” Stacey asked.

  He snuggled up and put his arms around her, “None. I only wish I had come to my senses sooner.”

  “So, you’re okay with the betrayal?” Stacey pushed on.

  “Don’t press your luck. I was trying to move on,” Brad said at first with a serious face and then burst into laughter and a rampant tickling session.

  “Say you’re sorry,” Brad said repeatedly to the stubborn Stacey who finally relented after about 20 seconds, “I’m sorry!”

  “Well, in that case…” he said as he moved away from Stacey and reached into his pocket. He knelt down on his left knee and asked, “Stacey Berger. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Stacey was still catching her breath and the proposal did nothing to slow her heartbeat. She smiled, as tears started flowing down her eyes, “I can’t think of any other place I’d rather be.”

&nb
sp;

‹ Prev Next ›