Sh-Boom

by Don Potter

  70

  Sears closes its catalog sales department after ninety-seven years. A gun battle at the Branch Davidian compound in Waco, Texas turns into a disaster. Rudolph Nureyev dies of AIDS at age fifty-four. And Rob has a bold idea for the agency.

  * * *

  The office was quiet, most of the lights were off, all the staff had gone home, except for Vince and me sitting over a cup of stale coffee in the lunch room, and a couple of cleaning people somewhere making distant noises to show how hard they were working.

  “Now that you’ve stunned Clorox with your brilliance, maybe we can afford a conference room,” Vince said as he picked over what was left in a donut box.

  “Offices next door are empty, but I don’t want to expand until we are bursting at the seams.”

  “If I keep slamming down donuts I’ll be the one bursting at the seams.” Vince folded up the box and jammed it into the trash can. He dusted the crumbs off his hands, leaned over the table, stared hard at me and said, “Now, let’s discuss whatever socialist, share-the-wealth crap you have in mind, Santa Claus?”

  “I gather you don’t like my stock sharing idea.”

  “I dunno.”

  “Vince, in a very short time Sh-Boom has gone from two men and a dog—“

  “Dog, what dog?”

  “A metaphorical dog.”

  “That like a LabraDoodle, or a DachsDane?”

  “Stop it. We’ve exploded in our first year and a big part of that amazing growth is because of our team.”

  “Our team is a bunch of ducks. Cute as hell but brain-dead and lost until Mommy Duck turns to lead them.”

  “Even for a creative guy you have the most bizarre thoughts.”

  “I’m in southern California. It’s encouraged here.”

  “God, this is turning into an odyssey. Just be quiet and listen, please. We’ll hold off on the stock sharing idea for now. This discussion is about what’s going to happen at the Christmas party.”

  The day came for Sh-Boom’s Christmas party. It was held in the Ca del Sol restaurant in Universal City, and every member of our staff had an assigned seat. Vince and his creative crew had gone bonkers decorating the room and I half-expected him to turn up in an elf outfit. Once dinner was over it was my turn to speak. I was looking forward to it.

  “Sh-Boom had a great initial year and it was because of you.” I paused and looked at all the happy faces. We have done our jobs. We worked hard and produced original work. “The term family is overused in business, but I use it here in all honesty. You are my family.”

  They applauded and I felt my throat tighten. Ginger should have been sitting next to me. She was my family. “Rather than pretend to be Santa Claus and hand out gifts, one at a time, I’ll ask you to look under your chairs. You’ll find an envelope containing your bonus taped there.”

  The room became a bedlam of scraping chairs as they found their bonuses. Then came cheers and applause.

  “My thanks for a job well done. The agency will be closed for the holidays. Take the time to be with your family and friends. I look forward to seeing you in January when we’ll start working together to make next year another big bonus one for everybody. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all.”

  I went back to my office because I had left my wallet there. I found it and slipped it into my pocket when the phone rang. I answered it.

  “Merry Christmas,” Nancy Gates voice whispered in my ear.

  “Merry Christmas, Nancy.”

  “Like to buy a dame a drink?”

  “I’m in LA.”

  “So am I,” she said. “And right downstairs calling from my mobile phone. Guess you can’t afford to have one of them yet.”

  I waited at the door and let her in. Nancy was, as ever, impeccably dressed.

  “So this is Sh-Boom?” she said and wandered through the office. “Smaller than I imagined.”

  “Not the first time you’ve used that remark, I’m sure.”

  “But never on you,” she said and offered up that barracuda grin at me. “Stop being such a wicked old elf.”

  “What do you want, Nancy?”

  She sat on the edge of a desk and crossed one leg over the other revealing more than a hint of her thigh. Nancy always had beautiful legs. She knew it and flaunted it. “You have been such a nuisance over the years, Rob.”

  There was that scent again, her earthy scent, her presence.

  “Nancy, I am very tired, I’ve had a few drinks and just want to go home. Say what you have to say.”

  She stood and came closer. Now with the scent came the close heat. “We are considering expanding the ConCom Los Angeles office and need someone really good at the helm. Someone who knows what they’re doing. You.”

  A thought raced through my mind and I let it run free. I would rip off that expensive dress of hers and do Nancy right on the desk. Then tell her to leave. The next thought was when was the last time you got laid, now that your wife was gone forever? Having sex with Nancy would be okay as a form of stress relief. But no, you’re stronger than that.

  “Bullshit, Nancy. We’re beating you every time we go head to head, and we’ll keep doing it. This time next year there’ll be no LA office for you to worry about. We’re going to take it all.”

  I stepped back from her scent and the close heat. “Merry Christmas, Nancy, now let me show you to the door. I have to go home and hang Christmas balls on the tree rather than hand mine over to you.” I felt as if I just screwed Nancy Gates without having to compromise any moral values.

  Her smile died, she turned and walked out of the office and, hopefully, out of my life.

  The following evening I drove to Sunrise. The memory unit was well decorated with a tall Christmas tree in one corner. A quartet singing carols stood in front of the tree. I couldn’t find Ginger at first, and then I saw her sitting in the middle of a cloud of older women. They were singing along with the carolers and Ginger was trying to keep up with them. Often she would stop, only to abruptly start again and sing part of a chorus. I waved to her but she did not seem to see me. I was there, but I was not. One of the staff pointed me out to her, but that made no difference. I did not exist. I fought back tears. Ginger, my lovely Ginger was ten feet and an eternity away from me.

  A hand slipped into mine and a voice whispered in my ear, “It’s okay to cry, Dad. I am.”

  Beth stood beside me, her eyes moist with tears. “Mom’s in the right place. You did the right thing. Sorry I was so rough on you. I love you, Merry Christmas.”

  I pulled her to me and held her tight. Through tear-smeared eyes we watched Ginger attempt to sing along with the others. “Merry Christmas, Beth,” I said. “Thanks for understanding. I love you.”

  That night I prayed before going to bed. I didn’t ask for anything. Rather, I thanked God for helping me deal with unresolved problems, particularly those out of my control such as Ginger’s situation.

  71

  The United States and Russia proclaim an end to the Cold War. The US Supreme Court reaffirms the right to abortion. Woody Allen and Mia Farrow fight over his affair with their adopted daughter. Rob understands it all, well most of it.

  * * *

  I woke early on Christmas Day feeling better than I had in months. In my dreams it had been snowing, but this was Hollywood, land of palm trees and assorted nonsense. I ate breakfast, put on my sneakers and drove to Beeman Park over near the Studio City Library. It had a dirt track that was used by everyone from committed runners to old geezers and moms with strollers. I had been going there recently to work off the stress, even though going around a track was not my thing. At least this track was surrounded by trees with playing fields in the middle to distract me from otherwise sheer boredom. This morning I walked the track for the first three circuits. On the fourth one I met a young man with his son who I guess was maybe five or six years old.

  “I know you,” the little boy said and I
stopped.

  “You do?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I watched you. You’re a walker.”

  I laughed. “I am indeed.”

  “I’m a runner,” he said and proved it by charging away down the track with that odd gait exclusive to little children that promises tragedy. He got his sequence wrong by turning back to see if we were admiring him. His feet got tangled up and he tumbled to the ground.

  “You okay, Edward?” his father called to him.

  Edward got to his feet, smiled at us to indicate he was all right and continued on around the track, although a little slower.

  “That was wonderful,” I said.

  “Thank you. Edward likes talking to people. You have kids?”

  Do I have kids? “I do, a boy and a girl. Young man and woman now.”

  “Good for you. I—” he stopped as Edward fell again and wasn’t getting up smiling this time. “That old gravity gets you every time. Better go put my boy back together. It’s an adventure being a Dad, huh? Merry Christmas.”

  He ran across the field to his son.

  It’s an adventure being a dad. And I was about to find out, better late than never. As I drove home I thought of Ginger, the Ginger that once was. The Ginger I ignored and squandered my time chasing a dream - the dream of being at the top of the heap in the ad agency business. And now I can only watch as her time is spent somewhere else, not with me. But I learned some things through this tragedy. Ginger taught me a great deal in these past few months, although she did not realize it. I learned to talk and do things slower, to be present, to see nature as it is, to enjoy the simple things in life and be grateful for them. Here I was, fifty-five years old, learning more each day and looking forward to the rest of my life.

  I also thought about Stevie and how courageous he was to stand up and be independent, even though I felt his military move was the wrong thing. Time will tell. And Beth, my lovely Beth, who last night told me she loved me and that everything was going to be all right. Perhaps, soon it would be. And now I have gone full circle, back to a humble beginning with a world of opportunities awaiting me.

  Our little agency was off to a promising start. What it will become, I have no idea. It is my job to see we do well for our clients and our employees. But this time around I don’t intend for the business to be the all-consuming master of my life.

  Then it struck me, I could no more change the past than I can predict the future. All I have is today, so I must live the day as if this is my last one on earth and live my life as if it is everlasting.

  Which means the only reality is this moment. I must appreciate it for all it’s worth, because life is more than living the dream. Life is accepting reality. Sh-Boom.

  # # #

  PREVIEW FOR

  9 MURDER MYSTERIES: VOLUME 39

  WESTWARD

  Jeb Powell slumped in the saddle of his exhausted horse and stared in disgrace at the Appomattox Court House, where General Robert E Lee was surrendering his army. Jeb had fought for four years and had lost many things, including friends, innocence and finally even hope, but he never lost his belief. Until today.

  The court house door opened and General Lee came out with General Grant next to him. Jeb turned his horse away. He hated Lee now.

  A movement caught his eye and he saw George Armstrong Custer stride onto the porch. Golden-haired, always dandy Custer with thigh-high cavalier boots, black velour uniform and all. Custer flashed his victor’s grin as he urged the Union band to play Dixie for his defeated foe. Jeb tried to ignore him but could not. He hated Custer too.

  Jeb joined the stream of exhausted Confederate soldiers trudging away between the Union ranks. I wish I was in Dixie, Hooray! Hooray! He glanced at the enemy troops. There were so many of them and he saw the difference in the armies. The Yankees all wore boots while the remnants of Lee’s army were barefoot. In Dixie’s land I’ll take my stand, to live and die in Dixie. Four years of fighting and dying boiled down to that. Victor, boots; vanquished, barefoot. Away, away down south in Dixie.

  He nudged his horse apart from the conquered army and turned south as the band continued. Away, away, away down south in Dixie. He was going home.

  But it no longer existed.

  Sherman’s army had swept south like a biblical plague. They burned the plantation big house, ran off the livestock and desecrated the cotton fields. They shot Jeb’s father and scattered his family. They left nothing. Perhaps there’s one thing. He ran to the springhouse where his father had a strongbox hidden in the brick walls. The springhouse door had been wrenched off and all the perishables looted. And a blackened hole showed where the strongbox had been blasted open. It was empty, save for a few charred Confederate bills. Nothing remained of his life and the family’s slaves, their ungrateful nigger slaves, had stood by and watched it all happen and then ran away.

  Jeb climbed into his saddle. He was heading west with a cancerous hatred in his heart for Yankees and niggers.

  Henry Stevens had a dream. He wanted to be a hero. In his dream he held the regiment battle flag in one hand and a glittering saber in the other as he led his faithful troops in a glorious charge. They quickly slaughtered the cowering Rebs and his admiring men hoisted him on their shoulders and shouted his praise. He was a hero-warrior - in his dream. The only part that was a little vague was the actual killing of the enemy. Henry was a good Christian. He wanted to do his part to help abolish slavery. He was a fearful person who believed military service might help him overcome this weakness. He tried to enlist in a front-line regiment but was turned because he did not have the physical strength to do so. But with his impressive educational record and strong family connections in Washington, the department of the Provost Marshal General took him. The result was Henry became a policeman overseeing the troops. They didn’t like policemen and didn’t like Henry, but he learned to love his job. This came easy to Henry because he had a great affection for order and delighted in writing reports. A good report made the world a safer place.

  Once the war was over, to his surprise Henry was assigned to the 9th Cavalry as an aide to Colonel Edward Hatch. It was a colored regiment, Buffalo Soldiers, who according to legend were named that by the Indians because their dark skin and nappy hair reminded them of the skin and hair of a buffalo. These Negro soldiers were fierce fighters when sober and commanded by white officers.

  With a great flood of people leaving the devastated south, the 9th was given the task of guarding the dangerous San Antonio-El Paso Road. After initial months of training in New Orleans, the 9th Cavalry along with Lieutenant Henry Stevens was heading west.

  Colonel Hatch did not have much use for an aide, so he put young Henry Stevens in charge of the regiment’s self-policing activities. The lieutenant’s prior service in the Provost Marshal unit seemed reason for the assignment. Henry hoped doing a favorable job here would eventually lead him to become more than a policeman in the future.

  Not long after Henry arrived at the fort, a half day’s ride from San Antonio, the colonel summoned him and said, ”We have a situation on our hands, Lieutenant.”

  “Sir?”

  “One of our troopers is missing.”

  “Absent without leave?”

  “Worse than being AWOL, his sergeant suspects foul play.”

  “Part of a drunken spree?”

  “No, the soldier in question does not drink.”

  “Why does the sergeant believe foul play is involved?”

  “That’s what I want you to find out. Select a volunteer from the troops to help your investigation, and give this your complete and undivided attention.”

  “I won’t need an assistant for this assignment, if that’s acceptable to you, Colonel.”

  “You’re new to the ways of the Buffalo Soldier. These fellas are good fighters but are often difficult to keep in line. Much of this is because of cultural differences. They don’t like authority, even from the Negro noncommissi
oned officers. So you can see why a white commissioned officer is the last person they’ll trust. You need someone of their own color to help get to the real truth.”

  “As you wish, sir.” Henry saluted and left to find a man from among the ranks to accompany him on what he believed was a wild goose chase rather than a serious investigation.

  “How can I help you, sir?” the top Sergeant asked when Lieutenant Stevens approached the man’s desk.

  “Give me the files of your ten smartest troopers.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “You reported a soldier is unaccounted for.”

  “So you want these men to help search for the man?”

  “I was ordered by Colonel Hatch to get someone to assist me with the investigation.”

  “Nobody in my ranks is a detective.”

  “I need someone to help me with the questioning.”

  “Oh, you want an interpreter to explain what the Negroes are really saying. Why didn’t you say so?” the top NCO said in a slightly sarcastic tone punctuated by a knowing smile.

  “I do not appreciate your manners, Sergeant,” Stevens said.

  “Sorry, sir. It’s just that we don’t have much in the way of files and nothing that shows who might be smarter than the others. The boys we picked up from the South can’t read or write because slave owners wanted it that way. And those from the North claiming to have some education never made it past the sixth grade.”

  “Who would you pick?”

  “Willie Washington,” the sergeant said without hesitation.

  “Why?”