Yes, You

by Carla Ryan

  Unfortunately, "their place" is a dorm room, and between pushing the beds together and playing air traffic controller, it's not nearly as hot as it should be. Home before one, you jump in the shower and try to figure out what the hell is wrong with you.

  Maybe you're too old for college girls now. You are more than a decade out of college yourself, after all. The awkward giggles and wide eyes used to turn you on like nothing else, but now it all seems empty.

  In fact, now that you think about it, the sex with Anne hasn't been all that satisfying for a while either.

  Was it ever?

  You try to remember the last time you left her place feeling truly fulfilled, and come up with nothing. It all felt great in the moment, but afterward, it was like it never happened.

  There's no challenge to any of it, you realize as you step out of the shower. It's all too easy. Gay, straight -- I can get any woman I want, so why bother?

  Not any woman.

  A distant memory taps at your thoughts...

  A hotel bar in San Francisco... the night you got your first investor... the woman with gray eyes...

  She wanted you. Even after all these years you're sure of it. But she turned you down -- the last woman to do so.

  So what? She lives across the country, or at least she did. She could have moved to Singapore for all you know. You never even knew her name.

  Another memory surfaces, one that stills the towel in your hand. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the steamy mirror and laugh.

  "No. I'm not that desperate."

  But as you get ready for bed, the idea follows you from room to room, refusing to return to your unconscious.

  "Even if it is," you say, fluffing up your pillow, "it wouldn't matter. It was six years ago. There's no way she's still there."

  Lying down, you close your eyes. You stay that way for a solid three minutes.

  "Okay, fine, I'll look, but it's not going to be there."

  Your laptop is on the couch in the living room. You turn it on and pull up your tax filing from that year, skimming through all of the paperwork: forms, letters from charities, scanned receipts...

  It takes a while -- you claimed a lot of business expenses that year -- but there it is: the receipt from the hotel bar. Fingers tingling in anticipation, you scroll to the bottom of the image.

  There's the bill total... a coupon off your next visit... a whole bunch of random numbers... and a set of three letters: MAR.

  MAR? What the frack are you supposed to do with that?

  "I told you it was useless," you say to yourself, slapping the computer closed and tossing it back on the couch. "That could mean anything."

  You climb back into bed and sandwich your head between your pillows, trying to shut out the echo of the gray-eyed woman's rejection, but even in your dreams she's there, whispering, always out of reach.

  Chapter Five

  "This is my favorite place to work," you tell the journalists as you enter the Spare warehouse. One holds a voice recorder as close to your mouth as he can get it, while the photographer snaps pictures of a box truck backing up to the loading dock.

  "The Taunton warehouse was the first one we opened," you continue, "and I come down here at least once a week. Seeing how much is being diverted from landfills always puts me in a good mood."

  "How much comes through here?" asks one of them.

  You gave almost this exact tour to the Boston Globe six months ago, and answered that same question, but when Wade told you that Forbes wanted to include you in a piece they're doing on eco-friendly startups, you weren't about to turn them down.

  "This is one of four processing warehouses that Spare operates," you say, guiding them towards the wall to get out of the crew's way, "three in Massachusetts and one in Rhode Island. A year ago, we averaged one truck delivery per hour to each warehouse, with approximately 270 bins, or 1700 cubic feet, of reusables -- what most people call waste -- from homes and business throughout the two states. Within the past six months, that rate has nearly doubled."

  "What kind of waste are we talking here?" the journalist asks. "E-waste? Plastics?"

  "There's a full list on our website, but Spare accepts e-waste of all kinds -- anything that uses batteries, plugs in, or lights up -- as long as it can fit in the bin. We don't accept food packaging yet, but we do accept many items that aren't normally accepted by municipal recycling programs, like dried out markers, broken jewelry, and hardware."

  The truck parks, and a handful of workers close in, opening the back and unloading the colorful green and purple bins from inside.

  "As the bins come off the truck, they're brought to one of several sorting stations." You lead the way to one of the stations, where workers are chipping away at an already huge stack of bins.

  "One of the innovations Spare has introduced into the waste ecosystem is tracking," you explain. "We track every reusable that comes to us, providing both Spare and the client -- we call them our 'sourcers' -- access to statistics about how much they've saved from landfills, where exactly their reusables went, and even links to works of art or recycled retail products that have been made using their items. To do this, every bin has a unique ID number, which is assigned to the source from which it came."

  You walk down the line, talking the journalists through the process while they watch the workers performing the tasks in real time. "Before anything is taken out, the ID is entered into the computer, and then the contents are placed on the conveyor belt. Every item is photographed from 360 degrees, and instantly checked against our internal marketplace, which is a private network of everyone from manufacturers to tinkerers to artists. If an item matches a need..." You gesture to a cell phone that's coming out of the photography chamber. "...for example, if the manufacturer of this phone wants it back to salvage the valuable metals inside, our A.I. system makes that connection, and automatically creates a shipment or adds it to an existing shipment."

  A worker picks up the phone and checks a tablet in his hand, then starts walking to another part of the warehouse. "Of course with items like phones that could still carry personal information," you add, "we have protocols in place for ensuring everything is wiped clean before sending it on to the next user."

  Both journalists are appropriately impressed, and the photographer even signs up for a bin after the tour. When you return to your desk in the manager's office, you're feeling better than you have in days.

  You see a missed call from Wade and get him on the phone as you close the blinds to the picture window. The warehouse manager likes being able to see the work going on, but it always makes you feel like an animal at the zoo.

  "I've got confirmations from the whole board," he says, "but the earliest everyone can meet in person is July 20th."

  "That's three months away!"

  "You could have a video conference instead..."

  "No, this has to be face to face."

  "Then you'll have to wait. I had to do some serious schedule shuffling to get it to happen that early; I'm talking seating-chart-for-your-wedding level shuffling."

  "Fine," you say. "On another note, be sure to talk to finance about getting the warehouse crews a raise. The deliveries are almost nonstop and they are really on top of things."

  "Will do. Are you still planning on --"

  Your phone buzzes.

  "Oh -- Wade? I'll call you back. Raj is on the other line."

  "Kay bye."

  "Hey Raj," you say after clicking over. "How are things in sunny San Fran?"

  "Who wants to buy?"

  You should have known she'd cut right to the chase. Rajkumari Bonaly was the first investor in Spare, and she's been your mentor ever since. In all that time, you can count on one hand the number of conversations she's started with "Hello."

  "What makes you say that?" you ask.

  "Moving the board meeting four months early can only mean one thing: an offer. Who is it? Kleen Keepers? Duniway Disposal?"

  Grinning, you
kick your feet up on the desk. "Won't Waste."

  "Tristao Cassatt wants Spare? That's interesting."

  "That's what I told Jabir!" you say, vindicated. "He doesn't think it's a good idea."

  "I didn't say it's a good idea, I said it's interesting."

  Oh.

  "He's hard to pin down," she says. "Doesn't always play by the rules. Never met him myself."

  "I got a good impression from him: smart, tough but friendly, the kind of guy who shows you his cards."

  "When did you meet him?"

  The warehouse manager starts to come into the office, but you gesture for her to give you some privacy. She nods, tossing some batteries into the Spare bin in the corner before leaving. You smile, gratified as always to see your system at work, even in your own offices.

  Waiting until the door's closed, you say, "When he dropped by my office unannounced three days ago and offered to buy Spare."

  "Definitely not by the rules. It could be a ploy, to start you off in a weak position."

  "I don't know. That doesn't seem his style."

  "You've met him once and now you know his style?" Raj asks, poking a hole in your inflated ego.

  "I mean, he doesn't seem like the kind of person who would do that... but I guess you're right. I don't really know him."

  You're starting to feel like an idiot. Maybe he was playing you. He did get you to essentially agree to the deal already. Now if the board votes it down, you've shown that you're not as strong a leader as he is. Maybe he'll even start badmouthing you to other potential buyers who might have been more willing to let Spare keep operating independently.

  You lay back in your chair. "I think I made a big mistake, Raj."

  "How big?"

  "Cassatt was saying all this stuff about being a leader and not letting the board push me around, and... and I told him that I support his offer."

  "That wasn't smart."

  Ouch. Raj has been the most important person in your life for over half a decade. She's helped you through countless business decisions -- and even a couple personal ones -- and you respect her opinion more than anyone else's. The idea that you've let her down, that you've taken all of her time, effort, and wisdom and tossed it out the window, makes you sick to your stomach.

  "I'm sorry," you say. "You and Jabir are probably right. Maybe I should cancel the meeting."

  "What have I been telling you since the beginning?" she asks, her tone softening. "About your instincts?"

  "Trust my instincts," you say, repeating one of her maxims, "but believe the research."

  "Your instincts are right: this could be a good move for Spare. But Jabir's are right too. We need to take it slow and dig deep into Won't Waste's past acquisitions, see how Cassatt treated other companies in your position. However, you and Jabir need to stay focused on what's important, and that's not the possibility of selling the company a year down the road, it's meeting the very real needs of today's demand."

  You get up and peer through the blinds onto the floor, at all of the people -- your employees -- scurrying around and working their asses off. You know she's right. She's always right.

  "Okay Raj. Thanks. I'll see you in three months."

  She hangs up without another word.

  Three months. It feels like an eternity.

  The rest of the afternoon is busy with calls and emails, but no matter how you try to distract yourself, Cassatt's offer dangles right there in front of you, tantalizingly within reach yet frustratingly off limits. On the drive back into the city, you call Wade.

  "Want to go out tonight?" you ask.

  "I'd love to, but Fatima's parents are staying with us. They just flew in an hour ago and she'd rip me a new one if I went out their first night in town."

  "Oh, that's right, you're off the rest of the week, aren't you?"

  "And Monday. Polly and Horace are leaving Sunday night and we're taking the day to recover. I've got your schedule completely up to date though, and your phone's being forwarded to Loretta. She said she'd let Jabir know she's pulling double secretary duty, but I'll check in with her before I leave to make sure."

  He gives you a summary of tomorrow's appointments, and you finish up the call as you get caught in traffic outside the city. Driving along at a cool five miles-per-hour, you try to come up with a plan for the evening. The prospect of spending the night alone is an open invitation to the depression that's been sticking to you all weekend. Jabir never wants to go out anymore so you won't even bother asking him, and although you like hanging out with your coworkers at work parties, other than Wade it would feel weird to spend time with them one on one. Normally you'd find company in the arms of a stranger, but since your realization last week, the thought of doing that makes you cringe. Maybe you should just drive all night and see where the road takes you.

  You're not kidding anybody. You know exactly where you want it to take you.

  That would be insane though. A little too close to Stalker Town for your comfort.

  Although... it is right near where Cassatt lives. Maybe you could pay him a visit and get a better sense of who he is and what his plans for Spare are.

  But Raj lives near there too. What if she saw you? She made it painfully clear that you need to focus on Spare's current operation and growth strategy. If she suspected that you were there for Cassatt, she would be wicked pissed.

  Then you'll just have to steer clear of her, won't you?

  You spend the next few minutes arguing with yourself some more, but the reality is, the decision was made as soon as you thought of it. You call Wade again.

  "Hey," he says, "I'm just packing up."

  "Can you do me a huge favor before you leave?"

  "Will it make me late for dinner?"

  "No."

  "Okay. What's up?"

  "I've decided to go on vacation too," you say. "Can you book me a ticket to San Francisco?"

  Chapter Six

  "You're what?!?" Jabir's dark eyebrows bounce up to his low hairline, and his lips jut out in opposite directions.

  Thank you creators of video chat.

  "On vacation." You lie down on your pillow, stifling a yawn. Your flight landed at three in the morning West Coast time, and planes are never easy to sleep on, even in first class. "I just arrived at my rental, but I wanted to catch you on your ride in."

  He runs a hand across his face in frustration and glances around at the crowded commuter rail. If he weren't surrounded by strangers, he'd undoubtedly be telling you off right now. You may have planned it that way.

  "Where are you?" he asks, his voice quiet but intense.

  "An undisclosed location -- and don't bother Wade, I swore him to secrecy and he's undyingly loyal to me."

  Putting the phone down in his lap, he rubs his face again, with both hands this time.

  "Yikes, Jay, those nose hairs could use a trim," you tease.

  He flips the phone over. "This is not a good time for you to take a vacation."

  "Says the man who just took one," you say to his knee. "I'm not allowed to take a break?"

  "We have meetings scheduled. We're starting the next phase --"

  "Of our growth strategy. I know."

  "I specifically took my vacation before this week because of all that. We both agreed."

  "I know, and I'm sorry, but I'm burnt out." You choose your words carefully, not wanting to lie to him. "I haven't felt like myself for days, and work isn't helping -- which means there's definitely something wrong with me." You pause, waiting for him to agree, but he's probably too busy scowling out the train window. "I thought maybe taking some time off would help. Oh, and please don't tell Raj. I don't want her thinking I can't handle all this."

  "She wouldn't think that," he snaps.

  You give him a minute to soak everything in, accept the inevitable, and move forward. With a sigh he brings the phone back up.

  "I wish you'd said something first," he says, "given me some sort of heads up."

 
"That's what I'm doing now."

  "I can spare you all this trouble though. I know exactly why you're out of sorts."

  Eyelids drooping, you crawl under the covers. "Oh yeah?"

  "It's your mom. You always get like this when she gets divorced."

  "No, this is different. I've never felt like this before. I haven't picked anyone up since Friday."

  "What happened to Anne?"

  "The usual," you say with an eye-watering yawn. "Good night."

  "Enjoy your vacation," he says gently. "You do deserve it, even if the timing sucks."

  The screen goes black, but you don't even have the energy to move the phone off the bed before falling fast asleep.

  * * *

  A loud chime startles you awake. You glance around the room, memories of your spontaneous cross-country flight settling back into place.

  Did you actually hear the chiming? Or was that part of your dream?

  There it is again. Wow that's loud.

  Dragging yourself out of bed, you make your way to the front door. Your visitor, a boy around Jake's age, is starting to walk toward the street, but he runs back to your front step when he hears the door open.

  "Have you seen an orange tabby cat?" he asks. Before you can answer, his face scrunches up and he spins around, turning his back to you.

  Is this some weird new prank?

  There aren't any other kids around that you can see, although the house is sunk into the hill in such a way that the road is out of sight. Maybe you're about to get hit by a water balloon or something?

  "Uh, kid?" You start rubbing away the goosebumps that are breaking out across your bare arms and legs. The air is warm, but not as warm as your bed was.

  The boy completes his spin and faces you again, now wearing a wide, forced smile, although his eyes are looking just about everywhere but at you. "Good afternoon, and please pardon the intrusion." He says it like he's reciting a poem, stilted and rehearsed. "Have you seen an orange tabby cat?"

  He holds up a photograph of a toddler version of himself, hugging a cat with the same color fur as his hair. "His name is Sharktastic -- two words, with a hyphen." He flips the picture over to show the handwritten caption Gustave loves Shark-Tastic.