Mickey McNaughton poured himself a bracing gin and tonic and stood at his hotel room window looking out onto the Persian Gulf, or the Sea of Arabia, as the Emiratis call it. The weather was turning warmer, heralding the incoming heat missile barrage that made summers in Houston seem temperate by comparison. His patience was once again wearing thin—not only with the weather but also with his Dubai-based clients.
Normally, he could go into a meeting, spew a bunch of Ivy League/East Coast platitudes, and leave his audience dumbfounded but rarely enlightened. Clearing things up always took a back seat to stirring them up, Mickey’s theory being that, as long as he was the stirrer and continued to be sought out for counsel, this mode of operation was good for business—not necessarily for his clients’ affairs, but most certainly for his own. But this job was different. Mickey’s time-honed techniques did not faze the consultees, who continued to ask probing, substantive questions.
Their foray into the dialectical didn’t suit him. After all, Mickey was trained to act as a consultant and believed his role was not to actually solve problems but to point them out with as much moxie and theatrical spark as he could summon. The problem-solving bit was the work of a turnaround CEO, and Mickey could serve as a gating mechanism, a recommender of such an expert at most, but never one to step into his shoes. All the arrows now pointed in the same direction; it was time to fly. He freshened his cocktail and began to rehearse his exit speech in his mind. “So, I do diagnostics of organizational inefficiencies. I’m not a turnaround specialist, per se, right?”
After sinking a two-foot putt, Tite Dûche strode to his golf cart and took the scorecard from the little clip at the center of the cart’s steering wheel. “This is how clipboards were meant to be used,” Tite mused with the unwavering sanctimony that had come to distinguish the Dûche brand. Etching his score for the hole into the confines of the little box on the card with the short, eraser-less pencil, Tite simultaneously etched a plan for the forthcoming club newsletter in his mind. This one was obvious: a lay-down, hand as the card-playing members would say. It was time to tighten the bolts at Bayou Boughs Country Club, and Tite Dûche was ready to assume the role of wrench-wielder-in-chief.
• Ten
Despite Lyudmila Sukhova’s initial skepticism, Captain Dirk Kajerka’s flight attendant gambit was successful. This win was in no way attributable to any silver-tongued powers of persuasion on the part of the pilot. Instead, while they were talking, Ms. Sukhova had an idea. A younger relative of hers had recently moved to Houston and needed work. She realized this role might be well suited to her cousin, a former finalist in the annual Sturgeon Queen pageant in a small town on the northern shores of the Caspian Sea not far from Astrakhan.
Additionally, Ms. Sukhova was sure that with her solid Russian backbone, her cousin would have no problem rebuffing the pilot’s inevitable advances. Pitching the idea to Svetlana Slahtskaya was really no pitch at all as the new arrival to the inland concrete-covered prairies of the Upper Texas Gulf Coast had no prospects other than that of a retail position at a national chain store in a mall on the city’s outskirts. The possibility of getting to fly in a blimp excited her. In her trademark terse and humorless fashion, Sukhova ended their conversation, “Okay, you will be at blimp base Monday morning at eight. Wear heels and skirt—not too short.”
Svetlana’s arrival at FUBAR created a frisson of excitement. The mechanics and ground crew did their best to catch a glimpse of the striking young Slav, like long-incarcerated inmates craning their collective necks to see a barely visible woman passing in a vehicle outside a prison’s perimeter. Regardless of the novelty of her arrival at FUBAR, Svetlana’s presence lent an immediate and palpable sense of lightness to the air at the base. Yes, she was attractive, with straight blond hair and crystalline blue eyes that bespoke Siberian ice floes, but it was the surprising unvarnished warmth of her personality that lightened the atmosphere around the facility. It seemed that a new and optimal equilibrium had been reached—just like when Dirk Kajerka held the blimp in a static hover on an almost windless day.
Merlin found Svetlana thoroughly fascinating, having never been in such close proximity to a woman of such physical appeal and charming personality. On meeting her, he had a hard time mustering a verbal greeting. After a long, wide-eyed pause, the stunned giant finally stuck out his paw and uttered a nervous “Nice to meet you,” as Svetlana returned the gesture by lightly clasping a portion of Merlin’s hand with the most delicate and poised female hand Merlin had ever remembered touching him in his adult years. Although he looked at it for a moment too long while they exchanged greetings, Svetlana did not seem at all disturbed when they regained eye contact to complete the introduction.
Merlin was unaware of the grumblings of the mechanics about his getting to work in the office next to the newly arrived client relations specialist, and after recovering from the initial shock of his close encounter with what seemed to his eyes Svetlana’s blinding beauty and effervescent charm, he began to work efficiently with her to create an ideal experience for blimp passengers from near and far. After getting comfortable with her new environs, Svetlana added some of her own cultural touches to the sterile FUBAR office atmosphere. She brought an authentic Russian samovar to work and initiated a welcome ritual that included a cup of tea and sweet stuffed blini she served to each blimp passenger around a conference table as Captain Kajerka debriefed the blimp riders on a few aspects of lighter-than-air aerodynamics and the flight’s route.
Of anyone at the base, the finer points of Miss Slahtskaya’s appeal were least lost on that swaggering swain of dirigible dirigisme, Captain Dirk Kajerka. Realizing that he would need to be circumspect in his strategy and tactics with Svetlana, given her relationship to marketing director Sukhova, Dirk hung fire, restraining himself as best he could from amatory efforts to close the deal with the new arrival. And so, for the first time in the frequently stormy history of FUBAR, in relatively short order, operations achieved a previously unreached high level of excellence. Word of this positive new state of affairs at FUBAR made its way back to the corporate overlord himself, Mr. T. Rex Mondeaux III. Mondeaux met the news with a tentative sigh, as by now, he had come to view the blimp as an endless source of tedious headache-fostering personnel problems, although it had become a critical aspect of the company’s public identity. At least for the time being, the blimp, it seemed, could remain off the radar screen of organizational issues that merited attention.
Over the ensuing weeks, Merlin experienced something he had never known—being a part of a well-functioning team in the workforce. He was a part of the football team in high school, but there he always felt like an outsider—uncomfortable to join in the locker room banter with its egotistical talk of status and girls and physical prowess on and off the gridiron. Merlin felt he was looked upon as a necessary, but strange and maybe even repulsive part of the St. James’ offense. Not so in his new station in life. It was as if for the first time his world was opening up, and the constraint of his financial challenges had actually served to bring him to this surprisingly satisfying place.
It was in this environment of a smoothly humming FUBAR that Dirk Kajerka could contain himself no longer. He had to make his move, or at least get the prop spinning so a move was makeable. Once again, the pilot addressed Merlin in another seemingly chance encounter in the coffee room at the blimp base. Merlin was almost done filling his teacup with hot water when Captain Kajerka sidled into the room and angled toward the coffee maker next to where Merlin was standing. The pilot was holding his favorite coffee mug, an oversized all-black corporate promo piece featuring white Playboy bunny ears. Merlin looked at the pilot and quickly focused on the mug, allowing Kajerka the perfect entrée to start a conversation.
“I got this back when Playboy decided they wanted to start an airline—you know, to ferry whales to Las Vegas and to parties at the mansion in L.A. It was pretty short lived, but let me tell you, it was a boatload of fun while it lasted.�
��
“Oh, yes, I’m certain it must have been,” stuttered Merlin.
He was once again terrified at the captain’s casual reference to what must have entailed some thoroughly illicit, if not illegal, mischief. Seeing this, Kajerka changed his tack and sent the conversation in the direction he had rehearsed.
“So you know, with things going so well here at the base, I’m thinking this might be a good time for you and Svetlana to learn a little more about airship operations. That is, if you’re interested.”
On hearing this, Merlin’s guarded mood did a 180, and his eyes remained wide—not in fear, but with a sense of fascination.
“Operations?” Merlin replied tentatively.
“Yeah, as you know, a big part of blimp life is flying around the city on advertising missions, whether it’s to sporting events or festivals, or just around town on a nice day where people can see the Airmadillo, and after sunset check out the messages on the big screens on both sides of the ship as they light up the night.”
“Yes, I know there are a lot of advertising missions.”
“You got that right.”
“And at night the blimp puts on an awe-inspiring aerial show with its state-of-the-art screens. I have researched them and learned that Fandango Utilities spared no expense in purchasing the very finest technology.”
“And you got that one right, too. Mr. Mondeaux figures that if you’re gonna have a blimp, you might as well get the most out of it.”
“Yes, I understand. Very logical.”
“So that’s kind of where I’m going with this idea. Kind of making the most of the ship for some key employees while I make the promotional runs without guests of the company.”
Merlin was now doing his golden retriever cocked head quizzical look, which gave Dirk Kajerka all the permission he needed to continue.
“Yeah, so what I’m thinkin’ is that there’s no reason you and Svetlana shouldn’t spend more time in the blimp. You know, when your schedules permit.”
“You mean flying … in the blimp … around Houston?!”
Merlin couldn’t believe his ears. Here was a chance to observe his woebegone hometown’s vortical energy from the sky and from various angles at different times of day. How could a more perfect opportunity arrive to help his great project along its way? His silence was of the enraptured variety, as his head inclined upward while he envisioned himself aloft above the city.
“So, what do you say? Are you in?”
Merlin snapped out of his reverie.
“In?”
“Yeah, what do you think about my idea?”
Merlin’s thoughts returned to earth, and he uttered with uncharacteristic force and resolve, “I’m in!”
“Good!” The corners of Kajerka’s mouth curled fiendishly toward the outer perimeters of his pilot’s mustache as he could not contain his glee that his plan was underway.
With his unwitting accomplice in the bag, Dirk turned his attention to the svelte Slavic ingénue. He was surprised that she seemed even more enthusiastic and naïve regarding the prospect of comprising part of his flight team than Merlin. “This is like slicing a hot knife through butter,” Kajerka mused.
• Eleven
Merlin was on another high after his first night flight on the blimp. Although he wasn’t able to discern any traces of the city’s spinning energy vortex, he was thrilled to see Houston at night from the relatively low altitude of the blimp. The city lights dazzled him as the Airmadillo flew above some of the most populous parts of town toward the Oz-like majesty of downtown. It wasn’t a huge world city like New York, Shanghai, Paris, or Mexico City, but it was what Merlin knew, and he took it all in while listening to Captain Kajerka’s running commentary with mute, wide-eyed amazement.
Back in Bayou Boughs he neared the hatch-style door into his observatory cradling a full stack of mail in one arm. He pushed open the door and stepped up into the room, flipping on a light switch. Once again, the club newsletter slid out of his grasp and fell onto the floor before he could place the mail on the table. He still hadn’t become accustomed to seeing Tite Dûche’s photo on its cover next to the president’s letter, but he picked it up and started to read anyway:
As you know, it continues to be the Greatest Honor of My Life to serve as President of Your Club. Getting married was important and kids being born was great, but this is Truly Special. In a continuing effort to provide you with the Premium Private Club Experience, Your Board and I are addressing problems and advocating for a change in Club Bylaws as Counsel advises. Counsel assures me that we can address most of the issues under our current Bylaw, Rule, and Regulation structure.
Of Immediate Concern is an issue that affects many of us: Reading.
Specifically, I am referring to the Types of Materials that are appropriate for Club Members to be seen reading while on Club Premises. It has come to Your President’s attention that Certain Members have deemed it suitable to bring onto Club Property looseleaf papers precariously secured to common clipboards you might encounter on a Construction Site. Besides being materials unbecoming of Club Members (we should have Other People carrying clip boards for us, shouldn’t we?) this type of activity poses a Safety Threat to other members should an Accident Occur and the Papers Go Flying—scattering like so many Illegal Aliens during an INS raid. Such papers could land on a noncarpeted surface, making it slick and an Automatic Falling Hazard. Additionally, they could fly up into the faces of Club Members and cause their sight to be dangerously occluded. All of this said, I think you will agree with me that Clip Boards are not acceptable to be in Members’ Possession while on club property. Your Board will take action to Sternly Discipline any member found in violation of this rule.
This discussion caused the Board to consider the more General Topic of appropriate Reading Materials for Club Members while on Club Property. Besides the ban on reading from any electronic device anywhere on Club Property, the types of reading material appropriate for Club Members to be seen with needs to be addressed. For men, the business or sports sections of the newspaper are appropriate in the Locker Room or on loungers by the Pool. For the ladies, fashion and decorating magazines are highly appropriate in the Ladies’ Locker Room or Poolside. More serious news magazines are a gray area and will be addressed in future newsletters on a publication-by-publication basis.
Novels are another difficult area—some are appropriate, but in this Day and Age many are not. Your Board has determined that Staff are not equipped to make this determination, so in the interest of consistency and a peaceful and merry Club Environment, we are henceforward banning the Reading of Books on Club Property. Books can be good—especially when they are the kind you read in school to get a degree that will Generate Capital—but many can cause unrest.
With this concern in mind, I have instructed Staff to confiscate all books that they find left on Club Property. Once every quarter, to encourage a festive atmosphere, we will have a small bonfire for ‘smores near the lake in front of the 18th green. Any books found during the preceding quarter will be shredded, doused with lighter fluid, and set alight beneath Specially Dried and Split Logs—providing the kindling and flame of heart-warming authenticity only a Real Fire can impart, and making s’mores cooking such a memorable part of Family Life. Your Board and I thank you for your compliance in these new regulations and extend to you and your family a warm invitation to attend our quarterly inappropriate reading materials burning/s’mores roast as Your Busy Schedules permit.
Yours in solidarity,
Tite
P.S. A longtime friend was complimenting me on my newsletter writing and humorously offered, “Remember, a message from the Head of the Club is better than a Club to the Head!” I know you will all take my urgings to heart as we strive to make the Club a Better Place for All Members.
Merlin held the newsletter in disbelief and felt the blood drain to both of his supersize feet. He wondered what would be next. Maybe this was evidence that the
energy vortex of Houston was indeed spinning more tightly and rapidly than in times past. He wanted to consult his instruments, tables, programs, and website references, but sleepiness overtook him like a freight train, and he barely had time to get undressed before it took him to a land where no institutional overlords dictated what he could wear or read or constrain how he conducted his person through his days and weeks in the spinning energy vortex that whirled over his hometown.
In another part of the neighborhood, Mac Swearingen, M.D., was reading the same newly arrived missive. As he finished, he let out a sigh of untempered anguish along with several shakes of his freckled head. “What in the sam hill is the world coming to?” he thought. Resigned that the ancien régime had been thoroughly vanquished, he reminisced about the days when the club had a comfortable, family-oriented atmosphere—always nice, but a family place with genuine connections of friendship and kinship. Now it seemed the old guard was being systematically overthrown by an invasive species of nouveau riche peacocks and generously compensated corporate robots.
He thought back to his own youth at the club—the smell of cigar smoke at the first-hole tee box, the worn leather chairs in the grill, and the families together with kids and grandkids running around like the place was a giant family room, which it basically was. It had become progressively quiet, and he wasn’t sure, but he thought he discerned fear or at least uncertainty in the eyes of some of the longstanding employees the last couple of times he had been there. He pursed his lips and shook his head again.
Merlin of the Magnolias Page 7