Accelerating Returns

by Peter Anthony

Chapter 9. Dry Labbing - 2022

   During the sweetheart days of Pelius, quite the opposite occurred within the halls of Talbot.  The image of Talbot as an evil corporation darkened with every passing week of 2020.  Several incidents involving accounting, harassment, and racism made them a corporate pariah. 

  Robert Lopez took the defamation of his company to heart, despite his crescendo of doubts about the florid Talbot mission statement.  Along with that, his heart suffered various inputs: anti-depressants, large meals, martinis, and pain killers for his back.  Anxiety drove him to consume excess amounts of almost everything.  He could tell the time of day by what was in his mouth.  Liquids marked his day like a clock, with milk in the morning, coffee at nine, wine at dinner, liquor at dusk, and water before bed.  Once he opened a box or a bottle, he found it difficult to stop until the container was empty.  The intake became problematic for his balance, his emotions, and the roller coaster did his anxiety no favors.  If he brought a small bag of M&M candies to work, he swallowed them in handfuls and once finished with the bag, he would march to the nearest vending machine to purchase more chocolate.  His nerves were shot.  He over-caffeinated, then tried to quell his nerves with sugar, excess salt, and at night he became thirsty and drank a bucket of water, so much that he could not complete three continuous hours of sleep without needing to use the bathroom.  Whether popping a cork, tearing a box-top, or twisting a lid, once he opened up a container, he could not suspend his appetite. 

  A younger colleague, Isaac, encouraged him to exercise at lunch, but Robert found the time outside did not relax him.  The lower lumbar in his back suffered from too many years of sitting on his wallet, and even though the solution was no further than his front pocket, he continued to sit on the lump of credit cards, receipts, and coupons.  The exercise consisted of walking with periods of shuffling.  Isaac encouraged Robert to jog in a manner that felt like continuously falling forward, orbiting the earth at his feet in a shuffle-walk. The aerobics seemed a bit lackadaisical to Robert.  Isaac kept telling Robert that the next day they would increase the tempo, but they never did.  They shuffled and walked at regular intervals, marking their distance by the telephone poles that lined the road.  While Robert shuffled, he struggled to speak, so Isaac spoke most of the time.  Actually, Isaac spoke all of the time, almost ceaselessly, discussing the far-reaching ramifications of their work, making interesting but outlandish connections between scientific progress and visions of apocalypse in the form of extropians, transhumanists, and the coming societal division of Cosmists and Terrans.  Robert listened to the eschatology with some doubt, but the more he heard, the more some of it began to make sense.  He listened without rebutting, offering no volley to Isaac.  Perhaps if he caught his breath at the end, he might have replied, but a few hundred yards from the office Isaac always said goodbye and ran ahead to stretch his legs out, and that ended their dialogue.  For the final portion of the walk, almost unfailingly, Marshall Ploof and his running partners sailed past Robert as he plodded along the sidewalk.  Ploof, a marathoner, usually put up his left hand as he passed, as if signaling a right turn.  The image of Ploof running ahead gave Robert food for thought, and along with the post-shuffle pain in his throat, a bit of vitriol piled up behind his molars and trickled down under his tongue. 

   Beyond health issues, Robert had to deal with company problems.  After so many years of success, he became a Talbot Fellow, a senior figure in the company, generally powerless, but his suggestions now had weight among the upper classes of Talbot, including Marcus Jovan.  However, another incident happened in a research experiment, under Ploof's direction, that nearly ended Robert's tenure at Talbot.   

  The experiment, a potentially high-profile press release, involved a controversial technique for post-transcriptional gene-silencing, which was expected to work on hemophiliac patients.  Like the infamous failed psoriatic drug test, the preparations and results looked good prior to the day of surgery.  All of the mouse-models surpassed expectations, or succeeded enough that the data argued for the next stage of trials. 

  Robert toured Jovan through the lab to show the equipment and the mice in action.

  Several mice ran on treadmills.  The sight caught Jovan's eye.

  "Are these mice overweight?" Jovan joked.

  "It's a fatigue test," Robert stated.  "They walk until they can walk no more.  Mice with the green ear tag do not have the drug.  The ones with the red tag have received the drug."

  A mouse with the green tag lumbered on the treadmill, unable to keep up with the speed. 

  Jovan said, "Looks like that one is near fatigue."

  "Probably, but not really," Robert said.

  "How do you know when he's done?"

  The mouse stopped running and let the treadmill carry him backwards to the end of the line, where he was dumped onto a flat metal plate.  The mouse squeaked and jumped back onto the treadmill.

  Robert said, "He's fatigued when the shock no longer motivates him."

  "I see," Jovan said.  "Now I remember why I don't visit the animal labs very often.  These contraptions were never my favorite."

  "I'd love it if we didn't have to use them," Robert said.

  Isaac worked under a nearby hood, wearing rubber gloves and holding a needle and a syringe.  Isaac said, "Just don't let PETA down here.  They'll call us killers."

  "They will anyway." Robert introduced Jovan to Isaac.  Jovan asked, "And what are you doing, Isaac?"

  "Administering the drug."  Isaac reached into a plastic container and lifted out a mouse by the tail.  With the syringe between two fingers, Isaac maneuvered the mouse between his hands to get a grip on the small torso and head.  Robert watched the injection with Jovan, who was fascinated. 

  Isaac squeezed the mouse's head between his thumb and forefinger, causing the eyeball to lift outward from the socket.  A thin needle went in behind the eyeball, deep inside, and Isaac slowly pushed the plunger on the syringe forward, inserting the drug into the rodent's brain. 

  Jovan said, "I see what you mean about PETA."

  "It's either Mickey here," Isaac said with a shrug, "or we test on humans."

  Jovan said, "Sad but true."

  "If people want drugs," Isaac said, without finishing his thought.

  Robert added, "I suspect some companies are still finding their 'mice' in the Third World."

  Jovan turned to Robert.  "Like Pelius."

  "Absolutely."

  Jovan lowered his voice.  "If they are, that's a hell of a competitive advantage.  That would explain their breakthroughs."

  Isaac said, "I know I'm out of my league here, Mr. Jovan, but I'm a fan of spy fiction and James Bond.  If we don't trust Pelius, why don't we send some people to work at Pelius, to spy?"

  "Who said we're not doing that already?"  Jovan smiled. 

  "Oh?  Yes, of course.  Like I said, I'm out of my league.  Anyhow, if such a program does exist, I would like to offer my services."

  "Isaac!" Robert scolded, "Do you think Mr. Jovan runs that kind of business, like some kind of government?"

  Jovan put his hand on Robert's shoulder and said to Isaac, "Thank you for the offer, but we are not in need of any spies. But I'll keep you in mind if the need arises. In fact, I know Pelius has hooks in us. They repeatedly have inside information on us."

   

  Later that day, as Robert walked with his boss down the hall, Jovan turned serious. 

  "I'm concerned that your lab is moving a little too fast," Jovan said.  "This human trial. I need to know that you are completely certain about this."

  Again Robert faced the option of exposing Ploof's continuous push for results.  "I'm one hundred percent on this, Marcus."  He caved in and lied.  "I think the data is there."

  "You're not just saying that to fall in line?  To present a united front?"

  Robert said, "Of course not."

  Jovan stared Robert in the ey
e and then laughed.  "There is no honest answer to that question."

   

  The day of the trial came.  Jovan spent the morning battling with the press over violations found at Talbot by the Joint Council on Accreditation, as well as the NAACP and NOW over personnel issues.  Jovan left behind enough sound bytes to satisfy the hoardes, and then he observed the operation on the first hemophiliac patient, which could make or break the research of Ploof and Lopez.  The patient was a terminal case who had signed his life over to Talbot, scribed and initialed his soul to the company, not in blood, but even worse, in ink. 

  The seasoned surgeons and nurses lined up to begin the operation.  They took great care in the preparations, but no matter how flawlessly the surgeons and assistants moved, Robert chewed his fingernails and cuticles down to the nerve endings.  The amount of coffee he drank that morning made his stomach slosh, and his neck felt like vulcanized rubber, stiff from his collar bone to his ear lobes.  His body felt pitted, without a core, and he wanted sugar to fill it.  He wanted chocolate and lipids to restore whatever was missing, but because he opted to observe the surgery within the sterile suite, he wore scrubs and could not leave.  He panicked, like he always did when one of his projects left the bench and entered the game.  Were it possible, he preferred all of his research to never reach human flesh, but to stay safely sealed inside liquid nitrogen and harmless journal articles. 

  The operation went according to plan.  The patient even responded well.  However, the fallout came in the follow-up.  The patient lived for another six weeks, making the drug something of a success, but also suggesting that the S24 data presented by Ploof and Lopez was not entirely true. 

  The results published by Ploof and Lopez could not be reproduced, and the worst kind of accusation went out across the science wires: dry-labbing. 

  The success of the surgery made Ploof's leap of faith an arguable success, but the falsified data from years earlier came back to haunt Talbot. 

  Enraged about the data, Marcus Jovan summarily killed the project, giving a death-blow to the relationship between Ploof and Lopez, who could not stand in the same room any longer without wanting to attack each other like wildcats. 

   

  There was a meeting.  Jovan wanted both of their heads.  He also wanted the head of Spiro Ling, the most talented but incorrigible scientist at Talbot.  The meeting was a private affair, with no secretary to record minutes.

   

  Jovan spoke in quiet accusations throughout the meeting. 

  "There's nothing quite like being lied to by your staff.  Don't think I don't remember the night at your house, Ploof, when both you and Robert looked me in the eye and claimed the results were for real.  But you hustled me, and I defended you.  Now look at us.  The worst part is, it's not you who suffers.  It's the whole company.  Thousands of employees share the burden, all for a single lie to get a paper published."

  Ploof said, "We did what we had to do."

  Robert seethed.

  Ploof added, "We would do it again if the moment were here right now."

  "You would," Robert pounded the table.  "You!  Not me.  I protested, but you brushed it off.  Do not say 'we' when it was 'you.'"

  "Don't try to point the finger at me."

  Robert pointed at Ploof.  "I will point my finger at you.  I've earned the right to at least have that pleasure.  This is one thing I can do after being trampled for a decade."

  "Is that true, Marshall?" Jovan asked.  "Did he object to going forward with the data?"

  "Why would it matter now?" Ploof said.  "His silence was a passive yes.  Not once in ten years has he stuck his neck out in the lab.  It's always me that encourages forward progress.  But Robert Lopez is always glad to accept authorship on every paper that goes out.  Make no mistake, Marcus, the lamb sitting next to you enjoys his list of accolades on PubMed.  So tell me, why reward his passive agreements of the past twenty years?  His 'I told you so' doesn't change the fact that we are where we are..."

  Jovan interrupted, and let his voice crescendo.  "...we are where we are because of lack of restraint, pursuit of self-interest, putting individuals over the good of the whole.  And it matters because it tells me where the cracks are in this place, where the rats are getting in, where the supplies are leaking out.  It tells me who sets a negative ethic from the top, so that we look second-rate, like shit, and that's why the name Talbot is in the mud!  The ethics training was meant to indoctrinate good practices into the company, but you spit on it.  What kind of example can be instilled into the younger generation if my senior researchers blow it off?"

  Spiro Ling said, "I don't think we've blown it off."

  "Oh?  Ling - you've blown it all off, point-blank."  Jovan stared Ling in the face.  "You are so far out of bounds right now...I don't even know where to begin, other than strangling you.  You've got balls, I'll give you that.  Your lab is like a God damn chop-shop in some alley.  Your employees flat out appall me.  I'd like to arrange a bus to take them all straight down to the Lincoln Park ape house."

  Ling said, "My employees don't need to be insulted."

  "No, actually they do.  They do need to be put down, like dogs."  Jovan lowered his voice.  "I've never met or heard of anyone, other than Kevin Warwick, so willing to hook electronics up to his body.  Your employees will probably all die of cancer."

  "So did Marie Curie's," Ling said.  "The employees know the risks of what they are doing.  They are well aware of all that.  Everything is done to further the project."

  "There is no project anymore.  Your project is done, understand?  There is no project."

  Ling laughed and pushed a piece of paper across the mahogany table toward Jovan. 

  "What's this?"

  Ling said, "A job offer."

  Jovan's eyes widened.  "From Pelius."

  Ploof leaned over to look at the sheet.  He whistled.  "That's a lot of zeroes."  He smiled and Ling nodded.

  Jovan slowly pushed the paper back toward Ling.  For a moment, he did not breathe, but sat silently with his hands folded and covering his nose. 

  "Good," Jovan said.  "Get the fuck out of here, Ling."

  "There's the old Marcus Jovan!" Ploof said.  "Where have you been these past years?"

  Jovan jerked Ploof's chair away from the table.  "You too, Ploof.  I want both of you gone. Go to Pelius.  I'm tired of cleaning up your mess."

  "That's ridiculous, Marcus.  So you're giving Robert a free pass?" Ploof looked stunned.  "Unbelievable."

  "It is, yes, I know.  This is very tacky.  And so is this."  Jovan shoved his chair back and walked to the corner of the room toward an empty Xerox box.  He tossed the box onto the table, where it rolled once and came to a stop on its side.  "There's a box for one of you.  Get packing, and get out of Talbot.  We can take care of loose ends via email, but after today, I will have your badges revoked and notify security to bar access.  Don't worry, I will have severance checks cut by the end of the day."

  Ploof said, "I will be taking this up with legal."

  "Wait," Jovan said.  "Hold on, Ploof.  I have an idea.  Even better than a lawsuit." 

  Leaning over the table, Jovan pushed a button on the conferencing phone in the center of the table.  The speaker on the phone emitted one ring, and his executive assistant answered.  The room was silent as they waited to find out what Jovan was doing. 

  "Yes, Cheryl, get me Arrica Pelius on the phone."

  "Arrica Pelius, sir?"

  "That's right."

  The secretary said, "I don't have her number on file..."

  "I have it right here."  Jovan reached for the piece of paper in front of Ling, who tried to grab it away but failed to reach it before Jovan did.  Jovan read the phone number to the assistant, and an assistant on the other end of the line answered. 

  "Hello," Jovan said, "Who am I speaking to?"

  "This is Aaron
.  How can I..."

  "Listen Aaron, I need you to notify Arrica Pelius that Marcus Jovan is on the phone calling from Talbot in Chicago.  She knows who I am.  I don't have an appointment, but..."

  Aaron said, "We've been expecting your call, Mr. Jovan."

  Jovan's jaw dropped.  "What?"

  "It's part of the training here, sir.  We've been expecting your call, ever since I started working here."

  All four men in the meeting room looked at each other.  Jovan said, "I don't understand.  How long have you been working there?"

  "For five years, sir."

  "What do you mean, 'part of the training'?"

  "It's part of the practice sessions.  I always thought it was a joke, that there was no such person.  It's an ongoing thing here.  If Marcus Jovan of Talbot calls, forward it to the CEO."

  Jovan said, "I'm flattered."  He looked sick.  He sighed and put his hand on his forehead.  "Do you know if Arrica is available?"

  "I will find out right now, sir.  Will you please hold?"

  "Yes, I will."

  Easy-listening music played over the phone speaker, a modern jazz remake of a recent pop hit.  The soft sounds only strengthened the tension in the room. 

  "The gall of Pelius," Jovan said.  "I simply cannot..."  He paused to push mute on the phone.  "I cannot believe that...fucking shrimp."

  "They are forward thinking," Ploof said.  "They're one step ahead of Talbot."

  "Quiet Ploof. You no longer work here."

  "Then I can say what I want..."

  "And I could murder you," Jovan barked, "and go to prison happy."

  Ploof started to rebut, and tempers flared, but before madness arrested the grown men, the soft jazz ended abruptly and a voice came strong over the phone. 

  "Hello, Marcus?" 

  "Arrica," Jovan said sarcastically.  "At last."

  "Hello?" Arrica said.  "Mr. Jovan?  Are you there?"

  "Hello?" Jovan yelled.

  Robert pushed the mute button to save Jovan any further embarrassment. 

  Ling laughed. "That might help." 

  Jovan gave the middle finger to Ling and said, "Arrica Pelius.  It's been a while.  Is this being recorded?"

  "It's been too long, Marcus.  No, I wouldn't dare record your voice.  That would be like recording the voice of God.  To what do I owe this occasion?"

  "Two pimples on my ass, Arrica.  That's why I called.  Two pimples looking for a new home."

  Robert heard the voices of two men laughing along with Arrica. 

  "Oh dear," Arrica said.  "You should see a doctor."

  "Believe it or not, they are both doctors, these pimples.  Both are causing a great discomfort for me.  From what I understand, you already took an interest in one of these whiteheads."

  Spiro Ling said, "Hello, Arrica."

  "Dr. Ling, is that you?  Will you be joining us?"

  "He will," Jovan spoke before Ling could reply.  "He's leaving on the next thing smokin', I assure you.  However, I also have another to offer you.  Marshall Ploof."

  "I might be interested."  Arrica paused.  "Is...Dr. Ploof, is he there?"

  "I'm here."

  Arrica said, "Give me one moment." 

  "Please hurry," Jovan said.  "The irritation is distressing." 

  The voices in the room with Arrica laughed again and then the line fell silent. 

  Ploof said, "Even though this is degrading, Jovan, to be honest, I hope Pelius hires me."

  Robert said, "That's where you belong."

  The line came alive again.  "I'll hire Ploof," Arrica offered, "on one condition."

  "Anything.  You name it."

  "That you consider a buyout option at seventy-two dollars a share."

  "That doesn't make sense." Jovan laughed.  "Better check your math.  Isn't Pelius trading around one hundred?" 

  "I'm talking about Pelius buying Talbot."

  The voices behind Arrica laughed again.  Even Robert had difficulty not smiling at the insult, until he saw how quickly Jovan's face turned red.   

  "Yeah, that's funny," Jovan said with his face flexed.  "So do you want Ploof or not?"

  "We'll take him," Arrica said, maintaining composure in her voice.

  "He's yours."  Jovan paused.  "And one other thing, Arrica.  That's the second time you talked about buying Talbot.  You might be wise to be a little more careful with your baby rattle.  You are leveraged debt-heavy right now.  Changes happen quickly.  You could come down with a case of Sarbanes-Oxley or Chapter 11 in a hurry. Don't think you are immune to the jackals, just because they're currently dining on my carcass. Make enough noise over there, and they will find you."

  "I doubt it," Arrica said, "but don't worry, Marcus, someday you and I will take down that Talbot sign together."

  "Someday," Jovan scoffed.  "That's right.  Someday over the rainbow. Talbot will be here long after your office is leased out as a call center."

  "Anything else, Marcus?"  Arrica spoke in a childish voice, pinning another insult on Jovan.

  "No, that's all," he answered bitterly.

  Jovan ended the call, and then told Ling and Ploof to leave the room.  They walked out without saying another word.  On his way out, Ling took the empty Xerox box with him.

   

  In silence, Robert remained in the room, sitting next to Jovan and waiting for him to clear the air. 

  After several minutes, Jovan mumbled, "What's the name of that young guy who thinks he's James Bond?  The one who works in your lab?"

  "Pardon me?" Robert asked.

  "The one I saw shooting up the mouse."

  "You mean Isaac?"

  "Yeah, Isaac."  Jovan rolled his chair backwards, away from the table.  He stood up.  "Isaac."  Without explaining himself, Jovan ambled toward the door, as if dazed.  He exited the room.

   

  Robert sat at the table alone, feeling wind-burnt from the speed of the meeting, and he mulled the words exchanged.  The old boys' club sounded more like a clubhouse of schoolboys than a business of professionals. 

  For five minutes, Robert sat there with his hands folded, trying to figure out where to go from here.  Then he heard footsteps coming back into the room.  It was Jovan again.  He pulled the door shut behind him. 

  When Jovan turned, his face looked necrotic, gray as ashes.  Robert studied the face of the old man.  Beyond gray, it was whitened, no longer sanguine and bouncy but pallid, shriveled, and wrinkled.  In five minutes, after seeming quite alive in the exchange with Arrica Pelius, he had aged ten years.

  "I'm sorry Robert, I..." Jovan looked down at the table.  "I need to be near an honest man for a moment, before I can go back out there. They were waiting for me. The press."

  "If you are looking for an honest man, then you've come to the wrong room, Marcus."

  "No, no, you are."  He sat down and patted Robert's hand.  "You are, Robert.  I've spent enough time reading people to know.  And if I'm wrong, then don't tell me."

  Robert asked, "I'm sorry about all of this."

  "They are out there again.  I can't handle it right now.  They want to eat me alive.  They never get enough and I just can't feed them any more today."

  "Then don't do it," Robert said.  "You have the right to sit it out.  You're in charge here, right? Where's your publicist?"

  Jovan laughed, but his voice sounded raspy.  "I'm in charge.  I'm charged with being in charge, and all that comes with it.  Lessons come hard when they come late."  He laughed, but the wrinkled smile seemed to shatter his face. 

  "Did I ever tell you that I was once an idealist?"  Jovan said and smiled.

  "No," Robert said, "but to create a company this big, you would have to be some sort of idealist."

  "Ha!  That's not true, but it starts with that misconception.  I was a young humanist.  A utilitarian, with the belief that entrepeneurs cr
eate the greatest good for the greatest number of people.  I remember my ideals. I was carrying them in my arms like they were parcels, with them stacked high, and in those days I was walking steady.  I knew I could keep them level, at least on even ground.  But then you take your first step into the gauntlet - say you get your first loan, or charter, expense report, whatever - and that's when the first box topples.  The highest box, the one easiest to drop, falls to the curb.  Then you go a little further, on a low budget, go into the cities, down longer corridors, to better hotels.  Then you go a long ways further, to better-looking wives and girlfriends, the finest dinners and parties, travel three quarters of the year, speaking in data and statistics, subtracting costs from gross income - and then you stop one day and look up, and you don't have to strain your neck to see the top anymore, because you're only holding two or three parcels.  And you wonder: where did they all go?  Where did I drop them?  I don't even remember.  Do you know why, Robert?"

  Robert shook his head.

  "Because the only way I can live with myself today is exactly because I forgot where I dropped them.  I dropped one the first time I screwed a customer, when it came down to him or me.  That's maybe the hardest lesson for your idea about business, life, fairness.  Whether you are an investment banker or a carpenter building a deck, after getting screwed once, you learn - ideals are for adolescents.  When you can see it coming down to you or him losing, you make your move.  Do you see what I'm saying?"

  Robert nodded.  "Maybe."

  "Maybe."  Marcus inhaled.  "Me too, maybe.  The parcels I am still holding, or more like clutching, are the ones that have what's left of my soul.  Yes, soul, I've gone from humanist to soul searcher. The only thing I can say that I've never done is kill a man.  Maybe I can't even say that.  If I have, it hasn't been on purpose.  Everything else on this earth, I've done it, wearing a smile.  I never thought I would be able to say this, but only when I reached the top did I understand dictators and despots.  Never thought I would understand Lenin or Franco, but I do now. I know what thoughts passed through their heads.  Before they took that last step, they must have sat on the fence, but when they let go, they had to forget their past, just to live with what they were doing.  That's the price of reaching the top.  A winner in life has more of a chance to be hated than to be loved.  By common perception, I'm a winner, yet for my victories, I now have reporters outside who cannot wait to rub my name in the dirt.  And then I have someone like young Arrica Pelius mocking my every move.  On top of that, a hundred auditors and bureaucrats crawl up my pant legs like snakes.  Just yesterday a documentary came out with a cartoon image of me.  They had me wearing a bib, eating poison, and spreading evil to children in Africa.  My name is reviled.  I ask myself, why?  Because I took chances.  No, not for that. I'm reviled because I succeeded!  My American dream, fulfilled, but with me drawn and quartered.  On his fishing boat one day, Dad told me, Take chances, Marcus. Don't ever look back.  I should have stayed in that town in Maine, the middle of nowhere, but I made it to the top, only to be polluted by everyone who can hurl garbage in my direction.  I am the oppressor.  Like I said, I understand the Stalins now, but I feel like Kenneth Lay or Nixon.  A guy works a lifetime to get somewhere and dies miserable."

  Robert cleared his throat and patted Marcus on the shoulder.  "You should consider retirement, Marcus.  Why kill yourself with stress any longer?  You've done enough for Talbot."

  "Yes, why kill myself."  Marcus tapped his knuckles against the desk.  "I'll tell you why.  For the company.  It's my life.  Ever since my wife and my son left me."  He stared at the wall.  "He's been gone a long time now."

  "Do you ever hear from either of them?" Robert asked.

  "Oh, I talk to June quite often.  We get together for lunch sometimes.  Believe it or not - she's moved into a house on my block.  She calls on Christmas and my birthday.  She was a good woman.  I made the mistakes."

  "Mistakes?"

  "Cheating."  Marcus cleared his throat.  "A ten-minute mistake - of great pleasure, to be sure - but an expensive one.  Cheating is the joy that taketh all away.  I wish I could say I was faithful to her, Robert, but being on the road got the best of me.  Oh, why bullshit now?  The road didn't get the best of me. I got the best of road.  I had a large appetite for women back then.  Obviously, I've had time to get over it, but when my family left, I quit screwing around. There's one of the great jokes of life - now that I can have everything, I just want my ex and my family. When I had a wife and family, I wanted everything else."

  Robert watched the old man's eyes rise and fall.  Marcus had a doggish look as he spoke about his wife.  Robert said, "I have heard the stories.  You used to be the ladies' man, the story goes."

  "For a while," Jovan laughed and then became still.  "But the last one caught me.  She was young.  I drank a bit then, too, but like a European - buzzed throughout the day - not drunk all at once like an American.  It's strange what moments define a man's life.  It's not the ten thousand days you washed the window, it's the one time that you crashed through it.  A few hours define a lifetime in the end.  I was looking for the devil when I met that young woman.  She sat down beside me in a pub and I hired her.  She wasn't the devil, but I turned her into one.  Bartered one of my parcels for a drink and I enjoyed her company in secret long enough to have my fill.  Then June and my son got involved, but I won't tell you about all that.  I remember the morning I woke up to find them both gone.  I woke up lighter that day and scared of my shadow, I think because my shadow knew the betrayal of myself, my son, my wife - my holy trinity that I had neglected.  I hope you never have to know, Robert, how to explain betrayal to your family.  I had unstrung every vow during that time.  I wandered with that parasite for a long time.  It's still eating me.  I tried to believe I was a decent man instead of how I felt - like a fiend, a ghoul, a passionate beast.  Losing control meant losing everything.  I don't blame Jude for leaving and I don't blame the girl.  Her name was Ione.  I was educated about revenge."

  Robert said, "What happened?"

  "You know, it's one of those things, Robert.  Life is long, I was still kind of young.  Well, I was forty, but that was still young to me then.  I had two loves: my wife and other women.  For a short time, both can be maintained, but two loves never resolve their inconsistencies of pleasures and needs.  In the end, the lasting love lost out.  I had to pick between Hera and Aphrodite. And when one love finds the other, you lose both.  Ever since then, I've put all of my energy into this company."

  "I understand," Robert said.  "That was one of those parcels."

  "That was a big parcel."  Marcus nodded.  "Yes sir.  A bad one to drop."

  "But you've still got the company."

  "Yeah, but the company isn't the same anymore.  All the original plankowners from the early days are gone, replaced.  They took bigger jobs at better companies, and now that Talbot is the biggest, I steal guys from smaller companies.  It's too fickle now.  I sometimes wonder what lives on in a company, other than the name, beyond the common pursuit of science, or rather, money and retirement.  Isn't that the only real common goal of the company, Robert?  Layers upon layers of people at different ages, pushing each other onward in the great scheme for something beyond money, for one goal.  Do you know what the goal of all this work really is?

  "What?"

  "To rest," Marcus said.  "The goal is to relax.  That's my ultimate goal.  I want a rest at the end of this ride.  The only problem is that in the end, I will learn that I can't rest.  I still feel like one of the newbies that start fresh each year, charging out of college.  I'm exhausted, but I can't sit still.  Even with my retirement on the foreseeable horizon, no more than five years away, I already know that I can never rest, never, not as long as my mind stays sharp.  A man cannot spend forty years racing to the bank and suddenly be content because the box is full.  No, when you work like a dog, you want to be with the
dogs.  It's confusing.  Rest is my dream, but it will be an adaptation I cannot conform to.  If I get into heaven, I hope it's just a place of rest, with special decompression tanks for the ragged souls of businessmen."

  Robert sat with Marcus in silence, as if in a spell or drugged, with only a clock ticking on the wall to indicate the world and its markets continued as usual.  Robert did not know what to say.  He had no advice to offer the old man, because his own demons had yet to be exorcised.  The stiff neck, anxiety, poor diet, and ideas about his future - nothing was settled, and the sadness of old Jovan, unfortunately, Robert translated to fit his own disenchantment.

  Marcus said, "I'm going to diversify the business.  I need something new.  You might not believe this, but the board and I have decided to invest in a service industry."

  "Service? What kind of service?"

  "Either I'm crazy or on the cusp again, the cusp of something new."  Marcus smiled.

  "What kind of service?"

  "Restaurants." 

  "Restaurants?"

  "We're getting hammered right now in biotech.  A stable restaurant franchise is steady money in this economy. And I want something new, and I'll do something new before I'm done. Something entirely new. One more time, something different, something that people will notice."

  "Restaurants!" Robert said.  He shook his head.  "That will surprise people.  I'll be damned."

  "You won't, but I might be."

  "Or you'll be the sage of Chicago," Robert said. 

  "Or the stockholders will tie me to the stake."

  Marcus's smile faded into the movements of his weathered and sandpapered skin.  He had divots and spots forming, like old wounds from punctured experiences.  Robert admired him for still fighting in the world.  The old entrepreneur had maybe one more trick up his sleeve.  The longer he looked at the old man, Robert felt pity.  Jovan had just poured his heart out to Robert, who was not much more than an acquaintance.  Robert observed the powerful man rubbing his hands together and staring at the floor.  It became obvious to Robert that Jovan, for all the celebrities, scientists, politicians, businessmen, and foreign VIPs he had met throughout the years, was lonely and without anyone close enough to be his confessor.  Marcus had poured his heart out to a man who was even more lost.