Father Everlasting

By David Ruggeri

When forty-five year-old banker, James O'Brien, loses the only job he has ever had, he discovers a number of harsh facts: his age and educational limitations reduce his value in a tough job market where many companies are downsizing, he has lost the esteem of his wife, unemployment compensation is an inadequate and finite resource, and the only thing genuinely important to him is his children. His fifteen-year-old daughter is exquisite, but her beauty conceals the mentality of a five-year-old. Her brother, is a bright twelve-year-old, but too young to fully comprehend what is happening to his family Jim and his kids are so devoted to each other that when the physical and legal loss of his children is imminent, he decides to take desperate and extreme action to resolve a seemingly hopeless situation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Ruggeri
• Release date: Jun 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476260013

David Ruggeri

Mr. Ruggeri spent over 35 years in commercial banking. The US Air Force sent him to Yale University to study Chinese for Cold War assignments after a lengthy stint studying for the priesthood. His recent decision to leave the workforce and its constant downsizing and merger upheavals came easily after having raised his two children and rediscovering the joys of writing, one of his first ambitions. He is the author of 12 published books. His adult two children, Kelly and Sean are successful in their personal and business enterprizes and are a source of unending pride. Mr. Ruggeri currently lives in Anaheim and spends quality time baby sitting his grandchildren.

Book preview

FATHER

EVERLASTING

A Novel

By

DAVID L. RUGGERI

Father Everlasting by David L. Ruggeri

Copyright 2012 by David L. Ruggeri

Smashwords Edition

DEDICATION

To my children Kelly and Sean:

This was a very difficult book to write,

not because you might be mistaken for

the role models of the children,

but there are as many truths as fiction,

and because, like the father in the novel,

my love for you is without limits.

"Most men lead lives of quiet desperation

and go to the grave with

the song still in them"

--Henry David Thoreau

CHAPTER ONE

I wait.

I have no choice but to wait.

I wait for the other shoe to drop.

I am absorbed by the cliché because I know that I am about to become part of the modern American corporate cliché. Ever since the merger, we have all been waiting for the other shoe to drop, the one, which will spell out our fate with the new organization.

Why should I complain? Life is waiting: Stop lights, elevators, checkout lines, movie lines and restaurant lines. Life has a hold button for everything except the minutes, hours and days that eat away at the limits of my future.

I should be in the office, not here. But this is a command appearance. My new masters have called for me, so I have come to the Head Office half an hour before my appointed time lest I be late and make a poor impression.

God forbid I should make a bad impression.

The secretary in this outer office is young and Japanese. Japanese-American. She has no accent, no polite subservient demeanor in her obvious lack of embarrassment at having to keep me sitting here in anticipation. We are both captives in the small, stuffy room, the antechamber to the man on the other side of the door, the one I have been called to meet.

Mr. O'Brien, Mr. Tsunamoto will see you now.

The secretary doesn’t look me in the eye as she ends my twenty-minute torture.

I look at my watch. It is straight up ten o’clock: the time for my appointment. The secretary’s perfunctory permission is automatic; she requires no notification from the office she so judiciously guards.

The dapper little Japanese, Hiro Tsunamoto, looks lost behind his large, executive desk. I wondered if they have imported him from The Land Of The Rising Sun.

Good Morning, Mr. O'Brien, please have a seat.

No, his English is too good, unaccented and filled with California's neutral, flat tones—a Los Angeles local.

He blinks behind the latest modern affectation of too-small wire-rimmed glasses and fails to smile as I pull out the straight-backed chair in front of the desk.

The rumor mill has run rampant since long before the merger. I should have a good idea why I am here, but the word on the street is that they will keep many of the bank’s employees so that they don’t lose the Anglo customer base they have acquired. I’m hoping that I will be one of those saved. I have experience, skills and banking knowledge, which would help any bank.

Tsunamoto's quiet officiousness makes me nervous. He avoids eye contact as assiduously as the girl outside and flips through a folder in front of him.

You have been with California State Bank for twenty-one years... he begins.

And Sakura National for a month, I add needlessly, reminding us both about the recent acquisition of my long-term employer.

He nods. Yes, of course. Since the merger.

I fail to correct him. It hadn't really been a merger. A merger is a combination of equals. Sakura's takeover of California State was an acquisition, a completely different animal, especially when it comes to who is left in charge.

Tsunamoto buries his head in the file for a few silent moments as if he might discover something in there he doesn’t already know.

Mr. O'Brien— The black eyes are out of the file and fixed on my own. I’m sorry we have to meet like this. His words have no relationship to his steady, practiced gaze. But they are as chilling.

We both know that he isn’t sorry; no more so than the chairman of the board who sits behind his desk in Tokyo, setting policy for his new amalgamated bank in America.

As you are aware— Tsunamoto continues what sounds like a familiar spiel. When Sakura National bought California State, it was understood that there would be some downsizing and a number of branches would be culled from the flock. Not only does it make good business sense, but the State Banking Department and Justice Department made that a condition of the merger. A matter of competition, you know.

No, I didn't know.

Like hell I didn't!

I stare blankly at my judge, jury, and executioner.

Don't give him anything, I think. Don't let him see you sweat. Don't agree to or acknowledge anything. Make this as hard for him as it is for you.

Tsunamoto smiles.

I am suffused with his artificial sincerity.

Unfortunately, your branch has been targeted to close. He rushes on, afraid that I might fill any void with embarrassing and ineffectual protest. And of course this will require a certain number of job eliminations.

Of course!

Although I have had my suspicions about why I've been called down to the hallowed halls of Japanese power, I had hoped the news might be otherwise. Now I am not prepared to interrupt this small, all-too commonplace murder of careers and hopes.

"Your branch will be closed in ninety days, after the minimum regulatory posting to the general public. Of course, we'd like you to stay on until that time. If you do, you will qualify for a very liberal severance package.

Beggars can't be choosers, I think. How much would my ninety-day care taking and twenty-one years, three months and fourteen days of service be worth? What is the going rate of exchange for two decades of hard work and loyalty?

I nod, noncommittal as I absorb this offer.

We would also expect you to assist the branch manager and an officer from the personnel department in informing the other employees regarding the decision to close the branch.

Ah, so we will all share the same knife! By the time my turn comes, it will be hara-kiri and the blade will be sufficiently dull to reward me for my complicity in the massacre.

It's going to be difficult, I point out, to operate the branch properly as people start to bail out. And they will leave as soon as they get another job.

Our experience has been that most employees want their severance packages so they hang on. With great morale, no doubt. And then they find new employment concurrent with the end of their tenure. It's human nature to want to eat your cake and have it too.

I don't comment on his cynical corporate opinion of greedy underlings. As it is, I am already trying to figure how to work the system to my best advantage, last long enough to get my severance package and step immediately into another job.

We expect any employee, Tsunamoto continues, who is getting paid by Sakura National Bank to continue to dedicate all of his efforts to the company with no diminution of responsibility or energy. One can be fired just as easily now as at any other time during employment. And, of course, there will be no severance package if that happens. In short, we don't want or expect any attitude problems. The example you set will establish the temperament of the entire staff. We are relying on you and your maturity Mr. O'Brien.

I look around the office during this little speech, the majority of which is delivered by Tsunamoto with his head buried in the file before him. Evidently, constant eye contact with the victim of eventual joblessness is not a prerequisite for his job.

The small room is cold and impersonal. Sterile Japanese landscapes hang on the walls, their colors so muted and contained that even in the direct beam of morning sunlight they bleed boredom into flat, white walls.

The desk behind which Tsunamoto sits contains only a nameplate: Mr. Tsunamoto. No first name, title, initial; just the surname—and a small stack of file folders—potential victims, I assume, isolated from the paperwork of their peers for sessions similar to mine. Tsunamoto’s desk is totally unlike my own work station, which is littered with the detritus of years in banking: silly gadgets, office supplies, in and out boxes, computer reports and a small shrine of family pictures to remind me why I have put up with so many years of corporate indifference.

It strikes me that this office is an impersonal battlefield: Advantage to Tsunamoto; it is his turf. He and the others like him with the burden of laying off people and downsizing the new consolidated corporate giant probably share the office, take turns as they each confront their case-load of victims.

I wonder if they get together over a beer at the end of the day—or would it be corporately warmed Saki—and commiserate with each other about the difficulties of eliminating positions and displacing so many people. Do they feel sorry for themselves because it is stressful, confronting the desperate faces of so many who are suddenly aware that soon they will have no paycheck or benefits?

Just exactly what does comprise the severance package? I ask, hoping that the practicality of my question will mask my sudden fear about the future.

Of course, it varies, depending on title and length of service. As an Operations Officer—

Operations Manager. Vice President and Operations Manager, I correct.

—You are entitled to four weeks salary, plus a week's salary for every year of service—

Mentally I add it up: twenty-five weeks, a little over six months of salary continuation—half a year.

Needless to say, your benefits, such as health insurance will continue until the severance package runs out.

Not needless to say at all. Say everything! I want to hear it all, every straw of survival I might eventually have to grasp.

No! This isn't the right mental attitude. I’m not going to let desperation become a factor in my life. It’s inconceivable that I won't find another job within a twenty-five week time frame, especially with my many years of banking experience. Perhaps, if I play my cards right, I’ll be able to get a little paid vacation out of this whole experience, save a little of the severance, and cap it all off with another job in a higher position at a larger salary.

One way or another, I intend to turn this to my advantage. How many times have I heard it: when one door closes another opens.

CHAPTER TWO

What the hell are you doing, Jim?

I'm cleaning the pool. Seven o'clock, Saturday morning. I push back and forth on the long-handled vacuum as it sucks up crud off the bottom of the pool. The aluminum pole leaves a dark residue on the inside of my hands.

I hate cleaning the pool. But if I do it myself I can save sixty-five dollars a month. And right now that seems important.

I can see you're cleaning the goddamn pool, but why the hell are you doing it? Clare is not a morning person. We have a pool service.

Not any more. I let them go last week.

Why?

They were doing a lousy job. Besides, I reach down and through the cloth of my shirt, grasp the skin just above my hips, I'm turning into a couch potato. I need the exercise.

I am out of shape; probably twenty to twenty-five pounds over the ideal for my six-foot frame. That will come off quick enough, bringing me back down to a good, solid 185. Fighting weight! It won't hurt my job search.

I haven't told Clare about the pending layoff. I figure, with a little bit of luck, I should be able to find another job, either through the job posting program in the bank or somewhere else before I'll have to let her know. No sense both of us worrying. Clare's level of anxiety over anything that might impact our financial security usually overflows into frustrations that soon become my own, and I don't want to bear that extra burden until I absolutely have to.

What happened to the theory that the pool service was cheaper, considering they included the chemicals, she asked.

I figured it out. It wasn't. Besides, I was probably just rationalizing to justify a little laziness.

Clare grunts, and for a few silent moments stands, hands on hips in the still cool morning as I slide the vacuum up and down, the blue water rippling with the intrusion of its cool surface.

I try not to look my wife in the eye, knowing she will see my small deception, and I will have to tell her what's happening. Even though I still have almost two more months at the branch and then another twenty-five weeks of salary continuance, I am already scared shitless.

I canceled the yard service, too, I say with a big grin as I work industriously and keep my concentration on the flat head of the vacuum that leaves long streaks of clean blue plaster in its wake.

You don't like exercise that much.

It's the new me.

Clare reaches over and pats the small spare tire I have been slowly cultivating over the past few years. It looks like the same old you to me.

I smile again and glance in her direction. The new me is starting on the inside.

Jim, you're so full of shit it'll run out your ear if you tilt you head.

After nineteen years, I still find it difficult to accept profanity from such a perfect mouth. In the rumpled morning, Clare's lips are formed into a delicate little pout that looks almost as perfect as they will later with artfully applied lipstick.

I shrug away the suggestion that my motivation isn't purely for the improvement of my health. Let's just say it's a first step back to basics.

Why?

I am beginning to store monetary nuts for the possibly long winter ahead.

'Smatter, I grin. You don't want me to get back into shape?

Jimmy, you were never in shape.

This is the first I've heard that opinion. You've never complained.

She reaches over and plucks at the exposed chest hair sticking out of the old flannel shirt I like to wear around the house on weekends. At forty-eight, my chest hair is already starting to turn gray.

It's not a sensuous gesture, but I respond with a sly grin. Hey, a minute ago you were complaining about the condition I’m in!

You'll know when I have a real complaint, she says.

I'm sure I will, I think as the vacuum gurgles in my hands. Clare is never hesitant to express her criticism—about anything.

Amanda's fixing breakfast. You'd better come in, she says, nodding toward the house.

Amanda. Mandy. Our daughter. Seventeen, with the mind of a five-year-old. My love. My heartbreak.

Okay. I've got a few more strokes here and I'll be right in.

Don't waste those strokes, Jim; it's not as if you have any to spare, she says as she turns and heads toward the house.

With any other woman this might be a teasing double entendre of promised sex, but for Clare such small intimacies have long ago been dropped from her repertoire. Our sex life isn't the greatest, and although she takes little interest in reviving it, she makes occasional snide remarks to remind me that my recent performances have left a lot to be desired.

Maybe that’s because I have been masturbating too much lately—relieving my tension. Is that what she means about wasting strokes? Does she know? So what? What does she expect me to do? I’m forty-eight, not dead, for Chris' sake!

I watch her move off toward the covered patio.

Even in a terry cloth bathrobe she looks regal. Her bearing exudes the haughty demeanor that attracted me to her in the first place. As she walks through the rose bushes in our small backyard she looks like the figurehead of a sailing ship, cleaving its way through the waves, leaving lesser souls like myself awash in her wake.

* * * *

The first time I saw Clare Hoffman, I thought she was out of place, that the time and space she occupied were much too mundane to be shared by such incredible beauty. She caressed the air with a perfection that caused the rest of the world to step aside whenever she passed.

I was at Cal State, Northridge. Just out of the army, I had decided to put the military out of my mind with education. I didn't know what I wanted to major in, but whatever it was, I planned to immerse myself in books to rid myself of the stench of shoe polish and Brasso.

I had been in the US Army just long enough for it to screw up my head because I had that hangdog, shell-shocked look of the typical vet that appealed to the girls. If they didn't get the hint that I was a real veteran, I made sure they knew that I was one of the six thousand troops who invaded Grenada in 1984. No matter how much some sweet young thing protested our country's involvement in that stupid skirmish, she could never resist the little-boy-lost expression that had become part of my conscious psyche. I think it brought out the mother instinct, harbored in warm little breasts. After all, when you came right down to it, for them, that little war was something only as real as the six o'clock news and the administration's rhetoric, but I was living evidence of genuine heroism and survival in distant places.

My GI paperwork must have validated the haunted memories in my eyes because it immediately caught Clare’s attention. She was helping with registration in the school's administrative offices, part of her business administration requirements—easy credits.

The first time I saw her, I thought Clare was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Her auburn hair curled around the soft edges of her chin, framing a perfect nose, blue-green eyes and translucent skin, glowing with health. Her tall, naturally thin body exuded sensuality and hidden invitations I couldn't resist.

I asked her about the various classes available although I had already made out my schedule. Knowing that I had little to offer this beauty except the mysterious air of a soldier of fortune, I really played up my gratitude at having a survivor's opportunity to continue my interrupted education.

One thing led to another: an informal lunch, movies, dinners, bed. Before you knew it we were living together.

I have always been slightly intimidated by Clare. She has the cool, disdainful, perfect good looks we have come to expect from fashion models, the slim, hip-less, small-breasted body that America worships on its magazine covers. I know people look at us and wonder: Why is she with that dork? But that too has always been part of the attraction: knowing I could have something other men desire.

Whereas my roots are California mutt, Clare's are deep eastern money. The family tree long ago disenfranchised its western branches, beginning with Clare’s now-dead mother, who had the effrontery to run off and marry beneath the family's standards—a sin which would be eventually repeated by her daughter.

Regardless how financially and emotionally distanced Clare remained from her grandparents in the East she still had that inbred demeanor that seemed to belong in the marbled halls of Boston's upper crust. She never lost it, not even after twenty-five years with me, living for the last fifteen in the San Fernando Valley, over the hill from Los Angeles.

* * * *

I take my time coiling the rippled hose attached to the vacuum head. At a dollar a foot, I don't want to wind it too tight and cause the old plastic to crack. From here on in, conservation of resources will have to be of primary concern.

I'm not