Purely by Accident

by Jim Beegle

  Pat, by his own admission, had no such limitations. Pat knew he was a marketing guy. And as marketing guys went, Pat McDowell was the one the other marketing guys looked up to. Pat could, Mark believed, talk a fish out of his scales with nothing more than a sales call and a follow-up letter. Mark also knew Pat wasn’t all smiles and expensive lunches. Under that easy and charming outward appearance was a man of passion and compassion. Most of the ideas for the products Micronix had developed came from Pat’s desire to find some way to make the lives of the people he called on easier. “We have to design software that allows the computer to serve us, not the other way around,” he was fond of saying. While he was not able to write or even understand the arcane working of software code, he knew what people needed, and equally important, what they would buy. Pat had been the driving force behind Micronix’s focus on making software that did things well instead of software that just did things.

  “I’m just great.” Pat replied.

  “You in town for the holiday?”

  “No, I’m in town because Sissy made me come with her to visit her parents.” Sissy was Pat’s second wife. His first wife, unable to compete with his obsession for Micronix, had divorced him during the early days of the startup of the company when everyone was working eighteen-hour days and traveling across the country on a regular basis. “As a matter of fact, it is to this end, old buddy, that I am calling you. I need a favor and you are just the guy to do it for me.”

  “Oh?” Mark asked wondering what kind of trouble his old college pal was about to get him into.

  “Yep, I need a way out of going to the damn Founders Ball at the University with Sissy and her folks tonight.”

  “And how do I help you do this?”

  “Well, you see, if I were to tell Sissy that you called this afternoon, after you learned I was in town, and begged me to have dinner with you to talk about secret computer guy stuff, I just might be able to weasel my way out of this fine social experience tonight.” Pat had delivered this statement in one long breath as if he were blowing the words over the phone instead of speaking them.

  “And what if I don’t go along with this plot?” Mark asked, knowing fully well that he would.

  “Too late. I already ran the story past her before I called you. She’s madder ’n hell at you too by the way.”

  “I can imagine.” He said trying not to laugh. They talked for a few minutes more before agreeing on a time to meet for dinner.

  Mark finished the few things on his desk that required the least amount of effort, keeping in mind that finishing a lot of work that Sandy would have to log and ship off would not make her happy either. About three o’clock he decided to give it up for the week and head home before the traffic got too bad. He collected a few things and stuck them into his briefcase so he could work on them over the weekend. On his way out he wished Sandy a happy Thanksgiving, gave her a hug, and told her to go home as fast as she could carry herself.

  The drive home was easy and smooth. Mark smoked his pipe and thought about dinner with Pat, Thanksgiving with Amy, and once again the still unresolved plan for the money. It surprised and somewhat unnerved him to discover that he was parked in his garage without really knowing how he made the drive home. He did notice that Amy’s car was still gone. He was not sure if she was at work or just out, and it really did not matter that much to him whatever the reason. He stopped and examined that feeling and was sad to discover that part of him was not bothered in the least that he more than likely would not see much of her until the next day.

  He changed quickly and left Amy a note telling her that he had a business dinner that he had to go to. Well, he would talk business with Pat at some point. He was justified. He smiled at his little white lie. Mark did not even bother to ask Pat where he wanted to have dinner. He already knew as he slipped his car into the busy traffic on the Freeway that would take him to Ft. Worth.

  <<<<<<<>>>>>>>

  On May 7, 2004, at four o’clock in the afternoon, a man in a dark suit, white shirt, and red tie stood on the balcony that overlooked the floor of the New York Stock Exchange and rang the bell signaling the end to yet another trading day. That man just happened to be Pat McDowell on the first day of the IPO of Micronix. The Dow Jones Average had managed to create a small gain for the day. For the men and women who made their living trading stocks, it was just another day. For the five men sitting with their wives or girlfriends in the private dining room the next night at Del Fresco’s Double Eagle Restaurant in Ft. Worth, the closing bell meant something totally different. All five, including Pat and Mark, had just seen their personal fortunes take a major climb. The initial public offering of Micronix stock had opened at five dollars a share and closed an eighth of a point over fifteen. To varying degrees, each one of them could now be considered a financial success.

  They celebrated far into the night. The management of the restaurant, schooled in the care of new-money cattlemen and then of oil barons, knew how to treat the next generation of Texas’s maverick businessmen. They made sure the food was perfect, the wine was cold and plentiful, and finally that their guests all rode home that night in cabs. From that night on the Double Eagle had become the haunt of the Micronix partners. As one and then another cashed out their stock after the buyout by DECCO, they held going-away parties in the same room in which they had celebrated the success of their IPO. The final dinner had come two years ago. It was a private affair between Mark and Pat. The evening was filled with stories, not of business conquests but mostly of pranks played in college and foggy memories of girls they had dated.

  Pat was already at the bar when Mark arrived. He had spread out and taken up almost the entire end of the bar farthest away from the door. He saw Mark come in and met him halfway to the end, wrapping him in a bear hug and slapping him on the back.

  “Slugger, you look downright over-worked. And thirsty too.” Pat put his arm around Mark and led him to the end of the bar he had “rented.” As they walked he signaled the bartender who had a drink already waiting on Mark when he arrived. They talked about wives, cars, homes, and vacations for half an hour until they were shown to a table for dinner.

  As they ate Pat told his friend that the years off had caused him to grow restless. He was in the early stages of looking for a business to buy as a way of “getting back into the race again” as he referred to it.

  “What kind of business?” Mark asked over coffee as the busboy cleared the table. Each of the five had signed a non-compete agreement as a condition of the sale of Micronix to DECCO. As with most of the legal documents they had dealt with it was long and written in a language that only vaguely resembled English. When it was boiled down to its basic elements, the five partners agreed, for a period of several years, not to start a business that would directly compete with DECCO. The “time out clause” as Pat referred to it, would be up at the beginning of the following year. Mark was not surprised to see that his old partner was thinking about jumping back into the fray. After all, a marketing guy with nothing to sell was a miserable sort. The waiter appeared and both men ordered after-dinner drinks, preventing Pat from answering his question right away.

  “I was thinking of going back into the software business again.” Mark raised an eyebrow as he looked at Pat. “But this time I want to do it differently. I want to hook up with a hardware company like FitBit or Dell and see if we couldn’t play off each other’s strengths. It would be different this time because I wouldn’t have to start out on a shoestring budget.” Mark considered his friend’s response but did not make a reply. He was waiting to see where the conversation was headed. With Pat’s next question the direction became very clear. “How is life with DECCO?”

  “Oh, you know.” he said taking a drink from the new glass the waiter had placed in front of him. “Big company, slow to make decisions, and even slower to make the right ones.”

  “How’s the upgrade going?”

  “You know, for some
one who is out of the business you seem to be very well informed,” Mark said replacing the drinking glass.

  “Hey, it’s a small world you know. News still travels to Denver. The drums of the restless natives always beat the loudest.” Mark could not help but smile. He was sure that Pat still had friends all over Micronix who kept him posted on what was going on.

  “What can I tell you that you don’t already know? It’s late, it’s over budget, and it doesn’t work. Other than that, no problems.” Pat winced. He too had invested a lot of his life and one marriage into Micronix and its software. Mark was sure that Pat shared his feeling of hopelessness as they watched DECCO dismantle the most important work either had ever done in their lives. There was a slight pause before either spoke again.

  “I’m sorry,” was all Pat managed to get out. For his part, Mark needed no more convincing that his friend really was sorry about what was happening.

  “You know,” Mark said, after taking a drink from his water glass. “I stayed because I really believed that I could bring what we did and our attitude to DECCO. I thought I could change them. Now my biggest single fear is one day I will wake up and discover they have changed me.” Pat just shook his head.

  “I find that hard to believe. “ This time Pat used the water glass for a prop to slow the pace of the conversation. “How’s Amy?” To most people, it would seem the conversation had just taken a turn off the subject. But Mark knew that it was being steered and that Pat was in total control of the direction.

  Pat was the kind of friend who asked you how you were doing, not because he was making polite conversation, but because he was really interested. He really wanted to know and Mark understood why. Part of it was personal because Mark was his friend. The other part was not. Just as the question had been honestly asked, Mark felt, for one of the few times in recent memory, he could answer it in the same manner. Besides, polite conversation was not something Pat knew how to do.

  “You know, I don’t see much difference between DECCO and things at home right now; different players, same problem. More than likely … same solution.” Mark decided to be very straight with his old friend. “Things are rough right now.”

  “How bad?”

  “Bad enough.” Pat frowned, either from the news or the fact that Mark was being coy with his answer. He could not tell which. Mark let out a long sigh and continued. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think this marriage is going to last much longer.”

  “I’m sorry,” and he could tell Pat was. “What’ll you do?” As an immediate reply Mark just shrugged.

  “Don’t know, haven’t thought that far ahead yet.” Mark said as much to himself as to Pat.

  “Well, you know that if you need anything, anything at all, I’ll be there for you.” Pat told him.

  “I know, and I appreciate it.” Mark told his friend.

  “And if you want a change of scenery, Denver is a real nice place,” Pat said, after pausing to take yet another drink from his glass.

  “And what would I do in Denver?” Mark knew the answer before he asked the question, but it was fun to make Pat work at getting to where this conversation had been heading all evening.

  “Who knows? Kick back, polish up on the finer points of dating again. Lots of single girls in Denver.” He paused to take a breath. “Or you just might lend me a hand. You know, if I decided to do something with this software idea of mine.” He looked at Mark and smiled. Mark could hold it in no longer and burst out laughing. Pat joined in almost immediately and they laughed at each other for a good minute.

  “Geez, Pat you’re losing your touch. It took you a good steak, several drinks, and a good bottle of wine to get around to asking me to come to work for you. Again. In the old days we would have done this over ham and Swiss on rye at the deli.” Pat was wiping his eyes as Mark spoke.

  “It’s the age. I just don’t do things as fast as I used to you know. So what about it? Ain’t you tired of all this corporate BS yet? When are you going to go back to making an honest living?” Pat asked.

  “Oh, you would be surprised at just how close I could be,” Mark answered, all jest out of his voice. They talked for another half-hour. Pat outlined his new idea. Mark was impressed and could see that Pat had indeed put a good deal of thought into the project. When he finished he finally put the question to Mark in a form that they both knew constituted a job offer.

  “Just tell me what you need. Money isn’t a problem. We can get startup money pretty easy now. I figure you’ll want a piece of the action and that’s not a problem either. It would be great, just like the old days all over again.”

  “As I recall the old days weren’t all that great. Days without sleep, months without a paycheck. Doesn’t sound like fun to me.” Mark said.

  “You know what I mean. Butch and Sundance all over again.”

  “I forget. Which one was I?” Mark asked.

  “Butch, I think. It’s hard to remember things these days.” Pat made motions of getting up out of his chair. “Look, just promise me one thing?”

  “What’s that?” Mark asked, following Pat’s move.

  “Think about it, would you?” Mark looked his friend straight in the eye for a long minute.

  “I will. You have my word.” he told his friend in a way both men knew constituted a promise.

  They parted on the sidewalk as the valet brought Pat’s car. They agreed to talk in a few weeks. Mark promised once more that he would seriously consider what Pat had told him. Pat in return promised to send him a copy of the draft of his business plan that was going out to the investors in a few weeks.

  Mark played with the radio, switching through the stations looking for something that caught his interest. In the end, he turned the radio off and let his mind just wander. He had driven out of Ft. Worth and was heading through Arlington toward Dallas before he caught himself and realized where his mind had taken him. To his puzzlement, it was not to the Bahamas and the money, Cecil and his other personality David, Pat and his job offer; not even to Amy and the pending holiday at home. No, he found his mind, when left to its own devices, choose to think of the ranch and Marin Yates.

  Mark rose early the next morning. He was actually up earlier than he would have been if he were going to work. But with hungry guests due at noon he knew that he needed to get the turkey in the oven so that it would have time to cook. It took a good forty minutes to get the bird prepped, into a pan, and then finally into the oven. He had made a pot of coffee, as usual, before he got into the shower. As soon as he was sure the turkey was on the road to being cooked, he made toast and ate it while drinking the last cup in the pot and reading the paper at the breakfast bar in the kitchen.

  He was almost done with the sports section when Amy appeared in the kitchen wearing a robe over her nightgown. “Mornin’,” Mark said to her as she made her way to the sink. She did not say anything in reply, just nodded her head in his direction. She put water in the kettle and started it to boil so she could have tea.

  “Turkey in the oven?” she asked when the kettle was on the stove.

  “Can’t you smell it?” he asked in a playful way. She looked at him crossly.

  “If I could then I wouldn’t have to ask you would I?” Mark sighed and put the newspaper down.

  “Amy, look it’s Thanksgiving. Surely we could think of something we are thankful for between the two of us besides having handy sparring partners? Let’s call a truce for the day at least, okay?” Amy did not answer his question. Mark took that to mean she was in agreement with his offer. If she hadn’t been, based on past experience, he would have known it in short order. He decided that it was time to approach the other thing that he had been planning to do today anyway. If he waited too much longer they would have guests around. If he waited until later, there was no telling how much either of them would have to drink and if he could remember to tell her. Now was the best time so he plunged in with both feet.

 
“You said you were going into the office tomorrow, right?” he asked her in a conversational tone of voice as she turned off the burner.

  “Yeah, so?” She asked back at him pouring the now steaming water into a cup with a tea bag.

  “Hamilton’s going to be in as well, right?” Now Amy was curious and stopped fussing with the tea to face him.

  “Yes, he is, why?” Mark thought for just a moment, going over the lie he had been rehearsing for the biggest part of the week one more time in his head.

  “I have a client that we are doing some software for. He is very rich and very secretive. I think he may have some kind of tax problems with the government. I know he keeps most of his money out of the United States. In fact, that is how Micronix came to work with him. We are designing software to help him track his wire transfers. From what I can tell he is worth millions Amy.”

  Lying is a dangerous thing to undertake Mark knew. If you tell one lie you will have to tell another, it was inevitable. Where most people get tripped up is when they tell different lies to different people and then cannot remember what story they told to which person. Or they make the story so complex that it is hard to keep up with all the details. Mark had known all this for a long time and decided to stick with the original lie that he had used on Marin. It was much easier to tell an updated version of that story than to have to make up something completely new.