Business

by J. P. Meyboom

  I smoothed out my shirt. Whatever.

  He announced our arrival to a stylish receptionist who ushered us through an enormous wooden gate that might have been plundered from an ancient samurai villa into a boardroom with an expansive table and a long wall hung with oil portraits of rich old white guys in suits. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Lake Ontario. A yellow haze hung over the water. Hornsmith settled in one of the leather-padded chairs, his hands folded on the table. Expressionless. Unsure of what to do, I followed suit.

  After a few minutes, a door sprung open at the far end of the boardroom. A balding, bespectacled man of about sixty in a tailored blue blazer over a white polo shirt stepped in. The pink marble surface of his clean-shaven face gleamed.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, my apologies for keeping you waiting. Had I known you were coming I’d have been more prepared.” He trotted across the room, hand extended, a waft of cedar cologne in his wake.

  “Good morning, Dr. Courtney.” Hornsmith rose to shake hands. “I was in the neighbourhood and thought to give you a try. I want to introduce you to David Latour, our new writer. He has the manuscript well in hand. It’s been a difficult creative process. And the good news is he’s finally got it cracked.”

  “Yes, yes. I see,” said Dr. Courtney. “Good. We were beginning to think you’d disappeared, Mr. Hornsmith. It’s almost September. We haven’t heard from you all summer.” Courtney studied me. “What happened to the other writer? The one I met in June?”

  Hornsmith was conjuring some gambit with me as his human prop. His face flickered. He leaned in. He widened his eyes. “Phillip wasn’t up to it anymore. Which is not to say that I didn’t hire the right person for the assignment, because he was talented.” He pursed his lips. He quivered with sincerity. “Sadly, the death of his mother has proven overwhelming. He’s wracked with grief and incapable of concentrating on work. I’ve had to replace him. I trust you understand.”

  Dr. Courtney frowned like he understood nothing. “We have high expectations here. When might we review something?”

  Blank faced, I stared at the grain in the table, grasping to understand what was at hand. The wood reflected back my face, mute, as per Hornsmith’s earlier instructions.

  “I’m confident we’ll have something within the month,” Hornsmith said. “Meantime, we feel David needs access to the clinic and your staff, if he’s to do a proper job.”

  He was a lunatic.

  To me, Courtney said, “What exactly do you have in mind?”

  I’m a stray dog. A hitchhiker lured by a maniac. What I have in mind is to call a taxi.

  Before these words blurted out, Hornsmith jumped in: “It would be beneficial if he could interview a few doctors and patients to add anecdotal colour. We’ve also brought some interesting ideas for illustrations, if you’d care to look?”

  With an impresario’s flair, he produced a black hand-stitched leather portfolio from his briefcase. He extracted a stack of drawings wrapped in onion skin and laid them out on the table. Courtney approached for a closer look.

  Pen-and-ink renderings of sliced human heads spilled across the table. Eyes dissected. Necks in cross-section. Stomachs peeled open. They had a medical quality to them. The oil painting guys stared over the scene. Indifferent.

  Courtney scrutinized each drawing one by one. He traced his fingers over the lines and grunted once in a while like a man chewing through a succulent rib-eye. Hornsmith resumed his seat like he didn’t care. Pure negative salesmanship. Hornsmith knew how to bring it.

  “The attention to detail is exquisite,” said Courtney after he’d returned the last drawing to the table. “Easily some of the finest I’ve ever seen. These lend credibility to the project.”

  Hornsmith nodded. “Yes, the artist is remarkable. She’s a Dutch painter, classically trained in Eindhoven. Her canvases are becoming collectable, and many people in the know see them as a smart investment. You should consider one of her works for your lobby. I could help you with that.”

  Courtney stacked the illustrations in a neat pile. “I’m not sure a classically trained painter offers the appropriate credentials for our project. We’re looking for medical authenticity here.”

  That was enough for me. It was time to do something. Make Hornsmith see he couldn’t play me into some ruse like the fool he took me for.

  “We decided that the quality of her work t-t-trumped her credentials, Dr. Courtney.” That came out wrong.

  Courtney rolled his gaze toward me. Hornsmith winced. I didn’t care. I stammered on.

  “I may c-c-call you doctor, Doctor?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. I am a doctor.”

  Hornsmith sensed a gap and plunged back in. “Indeed. And she’s not looking for credit. Only payment. It’s just business. We can credit anyone we please. We could say you did them yourself. Call it a secret talent or a private hobby of yours. The press will like that.”

  “We’ll have to see,” said Courtney. “Meanwhile, I’ll speak to Erica about arranging your visit to our facility. I look forward to reading something from you soon, David.”

  With that, he shook our hands and left through the same door he’d entered from. In the elevator down to the car, Hornsmith hummed under his breath, apparently pleased with what had just happened. Something I had no sense of except that this wasn’t my hoped-for opportunity.

  “The ride to work still okay?” I said, to salvage something from this waste of time.

  “Of course.” He broke from his ditty. “That went rather well.”

  “What was that?” I tried to sound casual, like this sort of thing happened all the time.

  “That,” he said, unlocking the car, “was the part where you helped me through a little bump in a significant real estate play. Bravo. I particularly liked the stutter. Personally, I find a stammer a hard act to keep up.”

  “A real estate play?” I said. “Are you kidding me?”

  Nonplussed, he settled behind the wheel and started the engine. Unsure whether to get in or not, I stood at his door.

  “But next time,” he said, “don’t use a stutter. It makes clients nervous. Present calm. You’re no fool. This business has legs. This could go big.”

  “For you, maybe. Not for me,” I said. “I’m no shill. I shouldn’t be here.”

  Hornsmith flashed his teeth. “Get in. I promised you a ride.”

  Pissed, I walked around and slumped into the seat next to him. A ride was still better than transit.

  “From what you said on the phone,” Hornsmith said after letting me sulk a while, “I’ll wager you earn about twenty-five thousand before tax writing drivel for third-rate greeting cards. That’s not a job for a man. That’s purgatory, friend. You have a God-given talent for the Business. Your perfect audition this morning proves it. You’re going against the natural order of things if you stay behind a desk working for people who don’t respect your true talents.”

  The silent ebb and flow of the freeway traffic felt part of some other busy universe. One I had no connection to. A tumbler of iced Johnny Walker and a joint would’ve been good. Hornsmith had it right: the job was a joke. It barely paid bar tabs. Still, Isam and O’Malley didn’t trick me into schemes. They were primitive, transparent exploiters, unlike this lunatic who lied and manipulated without qualms.

  “This is insane,” I said. “You’re insane.”

  Hornsmith had other ideas. Sell the dream. Close the deal. Resistance would be futile.

  “Listen, the plan’s good,” he said. “I’m going to let you in on it if you swear not to tell a soul. Otherwise, there’ll be consequences.”

  Unbelievable. All preachy schoolteacher going on about consequences.

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No,” he said, “a fact. You swear or not?”

  He spit in his palm and stretched out his hand to shake, like a kid who wanted to start a secret club. It was a threat, of course. Which made me curious. After the morning’s theatrics, his
scheme had to have a motive. Some grand inner logic invisible to mortals. As for me, there was no one to tell — at least, no one who’d care. No one would believe it. I started to laugh at the improbability of it all.

  “This is insane,” I said and laughed some more.

  With his hand still extended, Hornsmith started to laugh, too. Soon we were both in the throes of laughter like a pair of loons. Eyes squeezed shut, tears trickling into his beard, his mouth seemed to cramp open, he laughed so hard. Still the hand remained extended.

  Of course, I had to know. So, we shook on his ridiculous oath. Satisfied we were now bonded in spit, Hornsmith laid it out.

  “A few months ago,” he said, “an ex-girlfriend surfaced. She married a rich old man who owns a hundred acres of industrial land in Washington, five miles from Dulles International Airport. Fully serviced. Power. Sewers. Roads. Street lights. The works. Recently, she moved the old guy into palliative care after he gave her power of attorney. She plans to sell off his assets. And she’s asked for my help.”

  Around the same time, Hornsmith said, at his club, the New Albion, he’d met our man Courtney from the family that owns one of the foremost cosmetic surgery clinics in the world. Business could hardly be better, but Courtney, the greedy swine, wanted more. A bigger enterprise. Hornsmith pitched an entire marketing plan, social media, the works, to demystify cosmetic surgery, including an independently published book written to drive business to the clinic. Hornsmith represented himself as the one to lead this project. Strangely, Courtney had agreed.

  “With the Washington real estate available, I also suggested to Courtney that he build a new cosmetic surgery spa on the property. Open up a new market on a perfect location for international clients. The book, with excerpts published in grocery store magazines and self-help websites, will be part of the engine that drives the business. We’ll get on the talk-show circuit. Hire some kids to run social media. Push the clinic big time. I’ve placed myself in the middle of every financial transaction. I get consulting fees for the book deal, the real estate deal, the construction deals, and the eventual management of the clinic.”

  Hornsmith also claimed to have secured a multi-book publishing contract with Milne Coberg on the promise that the unwritten book would be volume one in a series of twelve he called “The People’s Medical Library.” He was now in negotiations with a TV production company to turn the as yet unwritten books into a factual lifestyle series. They were already casting for a host. In addition, he took a retainer from his ex-girlfriend on the promise that he’d coordinate the land sale.

  “So far, I’ve promised a lot, done very little, and collected almost half a million dollars in fees and advances. And there’s so much more that can be done before it all ends. I might not have enough time for it all.”

  In short, his scheme was a masterpiece. Elaborate, detailed, and creative. It sounded so implausible it had to be true.

  The car stopped outside Harmony Greeting Cards. In a suburban industrial park surrounded by crabgrass, warehouses, and auto body shops, it was a lone cinder-block building. A couple of windows caked with grime overlooked the parking lot. At the loading dock, men lifted boxes of greeting cards into a truck. I didn’t expect O’Malley to notice my late arrival; by now he’d be into his first nap of the morning.

  Before he drove off, Hornsmith lowered his window. He leaned out on his elbow.

  “How about it?” he said.

  “How about what?”

  “The Business. Are you in or out?”

  I shrugged, unsure what to say.

  Hornsmith didn’t wait for a reply. “You have talent, kid. Don’t wait too long.”

  With that, he powered up the window and vanished.

  The office was an old warehouse once used to store bus engine parts. Five greeting card writers toiled here under white fluorescents set into a water-stained ceiling. The curled linoleum floor, discoloured by years of oily spills and filthy footprints, hadn’t been mopped in months. A broken water cooler stood by the entrance, disconnected. Dust-rimmed vents blasted cold air you could almost chew. At the back of the office were two imitation oak doors. One led into a room with the photocopier and the coffee machine, the other into O’Malley’s lair.

  The rubble across my desk inspired nothing. A mess of coffee-stained scrap paper covered in phrases and doodles and spattered with multicoloured Hawaiian doughnut crumbs. A ripped paperback thesaurus lay next to the cracked plastic in and out tray full of useless memos from O’Malley about statutory holidays and work quotas. My workbench.

  Most days, I squeezed out a line or two that reeked sufficiently of sentimentality to pass for an idiot’s notion of a heartfelt note marking some weighty occasion or another. “I sincerely hope your birthday is as special as you.” “May your best of today be your worst of tomorrow.” Like that. On this particular morning, however, things felt different. The groove was missing. The words dried up. Trite epitaphs couldn’t be conjured.

  Restless and unable to shake the morning’s events, I watched my fellow word slaves pass their hours in a patient countdown to five o’clock, when, depleted, they’d eat, sleep, and prepare for their next turn on the wheel. In the meantime, as if unaware this time would never present itself again, they sat scribbling their empty messages for morons even less interesting than themselves.

  Like the whores at Gerrard and Church, I’d sunken into a state desperate for just enough money to scrabble by. Stuck in a grind that promised no end. But whoredom only works when your need for money, excitement, or freedom is satisfied. When that fails, when the harness chafes, when you’re trading your time for more and more stupidity, you need to move. Or die. And I wasn’t ready to die. Hornsmith’s invitation looped and swirled in the air. His bold play with Dr. Courtney was almost unbelievable. And, his tactics aside, possibly the antidote to relieve the drudgery that had become my life.

  By noon it was clear I had to quit. Tell O’Malley I was out. Conjure up those words and set myself free. Anxious to get on with it, I swung away from the desk, accidently knocking the last of the morning coffee onto the keyboard, and made my way to O’Malley’s door. I quit. I quit. My mantra was, I quit. Until I almost tripped over a harried mouse scurrying across my path. Distracted, I opened the wrong door and found myself between the photocopier and the coffee machine. No O’Malley here. Idiot. Save yourself or die. I turned around to try again.

  When the darkness of O’Malley’s den enveloped me, it reeked of onions, sweat, and stale tobacco. He was in his customary pose, face down on the desk. A stout man. Hairy hands splayed out in front of his head. Cigarette smoke curled from a polished black ashtray, a burnt offering to O’Malley’s gods. The door squeaked closed. At the sound, he raised his head and squinted.

  “Yes?”

  He smacked his cracked lips. His meaty hand reached into the ashtray for the burning cigarette. When he inhaled, its tip glowed in the dark. His sinister little pig eyes sparked red with the flame’s reflection.

  “Well, what is it?”

  A toxic blue vapour leaked from his mouth.

  “There was a mouse.” I pointed back to the hall.

  O’Malley stared and smoked some more. After a while, he stabbed the cigarette into the ashtray with deliberate menace. In the darkness, the outline of his enormous head nodded like he’d come to some private conclusion. His eyes narrowed as though he were in pain from a toothache.

  “So is that it, then? You have something else to tell me?”

  He had nothing to do except wait for a reply. That’s when I let him have it. I blurted it all out like a prisoner starting to sing before the torturer even gets started.

  “I might have a shot at ghostwriting. A medical book,” I said. “It’s a publishing deal.”

  “A publishing deal? A medical book? A ghostwriter? You?” His head bounced to the rhythm of his words.

  I nodded.

  “When?” he said.

  I glanced at my watch. “Now. Today. I�
��d like to leave today.”

  O’Malley processed. He moved his mouth a couple of times like there was sand on his tongue before a sound came out.

  “I had no fuckin’ idea you were a doctor.” He enunciated every syllable with care. “Or that you could write.”

  His hand waved through the dark silence between us to chase an invisible fly off his face. With that, his head crashed back onto the wooden surface of his empty desk. O’Malley’s benediction.

  In the bullpen, the others were frozen at their stations midaction, all colour sucked from their faces. The only sound was the squeak of my crepe soles on the floor. There was no reason to linger. The customary business of cleaning out the desk seemed pointless. It held nothing needed in the next life. And so, without fear of contradiction, I saluted my co-workers.

  “Goodbye, you poor bastards. I must go. Moreover, you should consider doing the same yourselves.”

  No one looked up when the glorious sun burst through the open door. A mighty light filled my eyes and threatened to explode through the top of my head. I was Lazarus, back from the dead. For a moment, it felt grand.

  TWO

  Marla

  OUTSIDE, THE WHITE SUN glowered overhead and killed everything that hoped to grow. At the bus stop, there was no shade, only tufts of bleached grass along the road. Perspiration beaded down my back. Across the road shimmered the hallucination of my former place of employment, where my life had once sold for cheap. Everything was different now. The future was uncertain and happily unimaginable, except for the knowledge that what had come before would never come again.

  After almost forty sweltering minutes, a bus floated in on a mirage of silver heat waves. The skeletal driver’s greasy hair hung over his collar. Reflective aviator sunglasses made two teardrop holes of light over his eyes. He clutched the wheel in his spidery right hand and grunted when the token hit the cash box. Joyless.

  Exhausted from the day, by the time I arrived downtown, a deep-blue tightness clutched my chest. Clammy hands. Dry mouth. At Yonge and Bloor, the cacophony of the city brought on a dizzy spell. A bearded man in a muddy overcoat laughed at his invisible enemies. A stout vendor in a baseball cap passed sloppy hot dogs to a guy in a suit. An old crone with a shopping cart full of rags stumbled over the untied laces of her ripped sneakers. A delivery truck blasted its air horn while two kids kissed by a green light. My new-found freedom took on the stink of anxiety.