Beyond Believing

by D. D. Marx

  In walks a cowboy just after me, decked out in a five-gallon hat, jeans a huge belt buckle and cowboy boots.

  “Howdy,” he says as he extends his hand. “Name’s Jimmy Bolt. I live on a ranch in Dripping Springs, Texas. It’s a small town just outside of Austin, Texas. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Seems like a cheerful guy. About six feet two, brown hair, and a beer belly.

  “Aye, lad. I’m Finn. I’m from Europe, Scotland originally, but most recently from right here in New York City” I reply.

  “Right on. What’s your poison?”

  “Poison?” I say, looking confused. I’m not up on all the American slang.

  “I mean, what’s your specialty? What do you cook?”

  “Aye, right. My background is in international cuisine. Spent a lot of time in France but like Spanish and Italian cuisine. How about you?”

  “I’m mainly BBQ and Tex-Mex. Think meat, meat, and more meat,” he says with a chuckle. His laugh is contagious. “Say, you gotta roommate yet?”

  “Nope, haven’t gotten that far. Are ye askin?”

  “I reckon I am,” he says.

  “All right laddie, let’s go find our home.” We make our way upstairs to inspect our options. We are the first two to arrive, so we search for a good room. I can tell he’s very wholesome, honest; a bit naïve but seems loyal and genuine.

  Everyone is friendly but guarded, trying to size each other up. My strategy going in is to keep to myself. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here for the sheer distraction and to prepare amazing food, period. I don’t want to be judged, seen as weak, or at a disadvantage. As far as all these people know, I’m a single man who has yet to marry. If by some fluke I’m successful, Christine deserves all the credit. She is my muse, my inspiration. I think about her non-stop and see her face everywhere. I even dream about her. I’ve heard from people who believe in spirits that dreams are a form of visitation. I don’t need to make sense of it; I’m so grateful to see her. Every minute of every day is a struggle without her.

  The gimmick with this show is that you can be called at any time, middle of the night included. The first challenge starts within forty-five minutes of the last contestant’s arrival. We are shuffled on to a bus and taken to our secret location. Today’s mission is to prepare a gourmet meal for a children’s hospital benefit being held at the Met tonight. We are broken up into four teams of four and everyone on the team is given a specific course to prepare. The winner of each course will be selected to make that dish for the two hundred and fifty people attending the gala this evening. We have one hour to complete the challenge. My team quickly huddles, and I am put in charge of course three. We have fifteen minutes to shop then the clock begins.

  Chapter Seven

  (Olivia)

  My first day is upon me. I receive my ID badge, and the administrative assistant escorts me to my new office. I’m greeted by a giant bouquet of flowers sitting on the desk. I assume it’s a welcome gesture from the Hellyxia team until I open the card.

  Hank,

  Congratulations! So proud of you!! Knock ‘em dead.

  Love and Hugs!

  Red

  Red always takes such wonderful care of my heart. I am positive that no better girlfriend exists on this earth.

  I pull out my phone and send off a text.

  Aww, thx so much for the flowers!!! I’m the talk of the office. Made my year!! XO

  Any HOTTIES?????

  Eyes peeled!

  Have a great day! XO

  #

  The first week is typical. I get oriented with the overall organization, housekeeping items like insurance benefits, meeting key executives, attending standing meetings, and collaborating with my new team. Before I know it, Friday has arrived. Fridays are casual days. I’m getting settled in when there is a knock at the office door. In walks, what looks like a teenage boy at the height of puberty. Imagine the cast of The Big Bang Theory. He looks like the love child of Sheldon and Howard. He’s about six feet tall, lanky with horrible posture. He’s wearing what I would describe as mom jeans, no belt, a faded striped blue button down, and bright, white tennis shoes. I, of course, assume he is either the summer intern or perhaps someone from the mailroom making a delivery.

  Imagine my shock and awe when I look up with a half-cocked grin and a bit of a scowl to hear,

  “Welcome, Olivia, I’m Doug Hemsworth, the Chief Technology Officer . . .”

  One giant flaw in my list of life skills is my inability to play poker due to my face full of expressions. I wear every thought, emotion, and reaction on my face. Therefore, the first impression only got worse when I stood up to greet him and caught an eye full of his shiny, metallic braces. Danny, am I being punked?

  Unfortunately, I haven’t yet met anyone here that has a sense of humor. We’re trying to cure cancer, so the atmosphere is more subdued. So, with the most forced, awkward greeting ever, I utter, “Oh, Doug, so nice to finally meet you.” I’m not even sure I created a picture of him in my head when we spoke over the phone, but I can guarantee it would not have looked anything like this.

  I am saved by the bell, or should I say Katy Perry? He steps out to answer his cell phone, only now I’m overcome with inappropriate laughter because his ringtone is “Roar.” I switch to my improvisation training and start thinking about kittens and puppies being murdered while biting my lip as hard as I can without drawing blood. Based on my astute people skills, I’m certain Doug is not in tune with any of my social cues, so I’m confident he didn’t pick up on my mistaken identity. The only thing I am sure of is that he was bullied on every school playground he stepped foot on.

  He pops his head back in when he finished with his phone call only to say, “Apologies, I have to run. The ERP system is down. I’ll see you at the staff meeting at two o’clock.”

  “Great. See you then.”

  Phew. I recovered. Thank you, Danny.

  I pick up my phone and text Red.

  Ummm, my boss has B-R-A-C-E-S. Emergency. Happy. Hour. Lantern @ 6?

  I’m in.

  #

  There is still one more colleague I have yet to meet. Christopher Peters. He’s the director of the infrastructure team. He was attending the conference with Doug overseas when I was interviewing so I didn’t get to meet him either. I arrive for our staff meeting five minutes early. In walks whom I assume is Chris Peters since I don’t recognize him. I stand up, extend my hand and introduce myself.

  “Hi, you must be Chris. I’m Olivia, the new director.”

  “Hi, Olivia,” he says in his British accent.

  “Oh, I hear an accent, England?”

  “Yes, Southampton to be exact.”

  “Cool. How long have you lived here in Chicago?”

  “Since 2012. Doug was my college roommate. I stayed in the US to work for him at his startup, and we’ve worked together ever since. He sold it, and we moved over to Hellyxia about eighteen months ago.”

  “Wow. That’s great.”

  In general, I try not to make a habit of judging people, but Chris has this ridiculous arrogance and false sense of confidence about himself. I could tell by the way he carries himself that he thinks he’s the shit. My first instinct is to say, “Do you know you have two first names? In my experience, only douchebags have two first names.” It’s also not lost on me that he’s British, and his teeth are dreadful, crooked, and yellow. It looks like he brushes his teeth with coffee grounds marinated in soy sauce. Good Lord Danny, has this guy ever heard of whitening strips? My internal bullying session comes to an end as the meeting commences. It occurs to me that this is my first leadership meeting ever, and I’m the only woman sitting at the table. Not bad. What goes down in these meetings? The sharing of top secret information all the lay people aren’t privy to? Instead, Doug drones on, belittling the group to a pile of pathetic losers for seventy-five minutes. He describes how unacceptable the team’s performance is; how
we are late on almost all our deliverables for each of our five key enterprise initiatives. It’s like observing a pap smear. It’s awkward and uncomfortable. I’m sure he even toned it down because he didn’t want me to start off with the wrong impression of him. Umm, too late. As I look around the room, all I can see are grown, cowardly men staring down at their notebooks, picking at their cuticles, and taking the beating like abused children. It’s pathetic. What is happening? If I were here with the guys from Blue Fish and this was a client handing us our asses, we’d be kicking each other under the table and would have drinks post-meeting to discuss the elephant in the room, which would be this prick. That was the advantage of working in consulting. You had a game face, but once you hit the parking lot, the roasting began. I realize just how much I miss those guys. Who am I going to turn to now to air all my grievances? Is there a comedy writer lurking around here, documenting this material to create a sitcom? There is nothing funny about cancer so why am I finding these characters so hard to take?

  #

  Doug Hemsworth or “Doug-bag” as I like to call him because it’s the closest thing to douchebag continues with his violent outbursts. The project I’m working on is a new interactive website for our trial patients to connect them with the product team and pharmacists. It allows them to document their journey. Patients document how they are feeling and any side effects they are experiencing. It also has a blog and chat room so they can share their experiences with other patients Since patients are all over the world, Hellyxia wanted to provide a centralized network outside the typical medical network. This will ensure a simplified and seamless process for them.

  Patients who meet the designated criteria to receive Brcaxia are eligible to receive the treatment in early stages of diagnosis, Stage I and II. It’s an alternative to chemotherapy and radiation and has a high success rate. It’s still in the clinical trial stages, which goes through multiple iterations because we have to meet a minimum success rate with limited complications for the FDA to approve. The new website will integrate with the trial patients’ current medical systems to include disease diagnosis, on-going test results, monitor vitals, medications, and recommended follow-up appointments. We are launching what is called a “pilot” over the holidays to minimize the impact of glitches. The pilot will last sixty days and will be composed of a random sample of the patient population, up to fifty users. It will contain a mixture of pre-cancer treatment, post-cancer treatment, and a handful of women being monitored through frequent mammograms.

  #

  I wake up on the wrong side of the bed today, so these idiots better not mess with me. I’m in no mood. The technology servers are due at the end of next week, so we can start migrating code. I need to meet with Chris Peters to get a status on their arrival. For whatever reason, he continues to be elusive. You can’t pin him down on anything, and he refuses to answer email, probably so he doesn’t leave a paper trail of his ignorance and incompetence. Walking down the hall, I see him return to his office, so I corner him.

  “Good morning, Chris,” I say as cheerfully as I can muster as I enter his office.

  “Morning, Olivia,” he responds.

  “I’m just checking on the status of the servers for the Portal project. When are they due in?”

  “What servers?” He answers with a glazed over, clueless look.

  “I sent an email several weeks ago with three vendor quotes, and my cost center information requesting three servers for development, testing, and production.”

  “Never got it,” he cooly states, never looking up from his computer to engage me. My posture shifts to defensive mode, and my voice is firm.

  “Chris, I need these servers. The Pilot is dependent upon these environments. Do we have any servers in the interim I can leverage while we wait on the new equipment?” I finish as Doug approaches.

  “Good morning,” he mutters as Chris’s face lights up, and he stands up to greet him.

  “Morning, Doug. Olivia needs to order some servers for the Portal Project.”

  “Olivia, you’re six weeks late on this request, not to mention we’re going to get slammed with rush fees at this late date. How did this get away from you?” he inquires, rendering me speechless. “Chris, please work with Olivia to get these ordered today.”

  “Will do,” Chris responds as Doug exits with me in tow, blood boiling.

  Danny, who does this guy think he is? Is he trying to sabotage me? Threatened by the only female on the team or making a sport out of trying to show me up? Well, he better buckle up because it’s on.

  The afternoon starts off with our weekly directors meeting with Doug. If possible, my eyes would burn a hole straight through Chris Peter’s head with my death stare. The last item on Doug’s agenda, which I have labeled the “Dictator Digest,” is the impending holiday season and the informal departmental holiday party. Wait for it. The big celebration he is suggesting is ordering in Subway. We’re approaching a billion-dollar organization, and you want me to sell a party sub to people that work sixty-eighty hours a week? Does he realize every employee sitting in cube-land has zero desire to spend one additional minute in this dreadful building, especially if it involves spotting left over food particles in his braces? Clueless. Now I’m one hundred percent sure there is a ghost writer amongst us. If I could just find the mole, maybe that will be my ticket out.

  Not sure how the other officers handled it, but I send an email to my team informing them the party is cancelled and they should all work from home that day, and take the afternoon off. Feliz Navidad.

  I manage to not kill anyone and make it to five o’clock. I call Garrett to tell him all about the ridiculousness, and he humors me as usual. I am so envious that he has his own business. How amazing to be so creative and inspired. What I would give to not work for the MAN.

  “Please tell me you quit, and you’re on the next plane out here to live with us?”

  “I wish,” I respond.

  “Well, I have some news. Tristan and I are headed up to Palm Springs to sign the lease for the new store.”

  “Oh my God, that’s great. That makes me so happy. How exciting.”

  “I’m shooting for a St. Patrick’s Day Grand Opening. You WILL be here for it, right? No excuses.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, I wouldn’t dream of missing it.”

  “Okay, well, I’m heading into the gym, call you later.”

  “Okay, love you.”

  Our tradition is to spend New Year’s together. I don’t know how I will swing two trips early in the New Year. I know he’s anxious for me to book my plane ticket, but I can’t commit until I get my feet under me here. I’m running with the big dogs now. I can’t waltz into a new job and start demanding time off. Garrett is a business owner, so he doesn’t exactly get the concept of a boss.

  Chapter Eight

  (Finn)

  “Don’t worry about bitin’ off more’n you can chew; your mouth is probably a whole lot bigger’n you think,” Jimmy says as the judges laugh while being presented with his dish. He made gourmet short ribs with a risotto milanese. I can already tell he’s going to be my stiffest competition, which only further motivates me. I love competition. I can tell just by the look on each face. One of the female pastry chefs specifically chooses course one to take on a stiff challenge right out of the gate. She ends up cutting her finger so badly she has to remove herself from the competition. Her team is automatically disqualified for not completing all four courses.

  I’m up next. I made roasted Chateaubriand with pan jus. I’m hopeful and confident but not cocky as they critique, “The meat is cooked to the absolute perfect temperature. It’s so tender it actually melts in your mouth, and the bitterness of the celery root really balances out the natural flavors.” After a bit of deliberation, course three is down to Jimmy and me, but I win out for my course. They shuttle the four winners over to the Met to begin our preparations. They have all the ingredients on-site fo
r us. My biggest concern is serving medium-rare beef to two hundred people at the same time, but I’ll give it my best shot. After an exhausting four hours, the sponsors are thrilled with the results. Guests rave about the delicious food, a huge success all around. We return to the brownstone and throw ourselves into bed.

  #

  Today is a free day since they only have competitions four days a week.

  “Hey, Scottie,” Jimmy calls to me. “You mind if I call you that?”

  “Not if you don’t mind me calling ye Tex-Mex,” I respond.

  “Deal. I ain’t ever been outside Texas, so I promised myself I’d get cultured while I’m here. As they say in Texas, go big or go home, so I thought I’d start with the 9/11 Museum. You game?”

  “Aye, sounds good,” I agree as we make our way, blind leading the blind, on the subway system to the memorial. It’s overwhelming but peaceful and a beautiful tribute to all those people who lost their lives that day. We make our way through the crowds and pay our respects. We spot a food vendor, grab some lunch, and sit on a bench nearby. Sun is out, birds are chirping and crowds are bustling as we sit in silence, soaking it all in.

  “I reckon that was sadder than I was prepared for. It brought back a lot of memories,” Jimmy says.

  “Aye, how so?”

  “Well, I ain’t one to share my dirty laundry, but since you agreed to come here with me, I reckon that makes you a decent human being so I’ll make an exception. 9/11 was devastating, but three days before I lost my twin brother Jack in an accident on the ranch. We were nine. He got caught between some cattle and a machine, and the machine won,” he states in a very matter of fact way. He’s not looking at me so it’s hard to see the emotion on his face.