The Man from Savannah

By Richard Haddock

At age 50, Clifford Thomas has been writing for two decades to escape a boring job and marriage. But when Roget Press chooses one of his manuscripts to be their "discovery of the year" his life changes overnight. Cliff's book is a runaway best seller and he becomes a national celebrity. Offered a multi-book deal, he resigns his lifetime job at his father's bank and pursues his newfound career.

Cliff produces another bestseller and becomes close friends with his writing idol Arthur McKenzie. But when he meets movie star Melanie Maxwell, they fall deeply in love and Cliff is sure he's found his soul mate. He endures an emotional divorce and, encouraged by McKenzie to write "his own novel", rejects Roget's demand for another quick best-seller.

What ensues is the reality of art versus big business. Cliff is made to suffer for disrupting Roget's grand plan and is left penniless and blackballed. But when Melanie leaves him, his world is shattered. He wonders how simply doing "the right thing" has left such a wake of heartache and broken lives. Cliff struggles with his loneliness and tries to capture his feelings in a new novel. Then an amazing turn of events presents him with yet another twist that will test all he has learned and believes in.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 9, 2005
• ISBN: 9780595803477

Richard Haddock

Dr. Haddock is retired and lives with his wife, Marilyn, in Northern Virginia.

Book preview

THE MAN FROM

SAVANNAH

Richard Haddock

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Lincoln Shanghai

The Man From Savannah

Copyright © 2005 by Richard Haddock

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN-13: 978-0-595-35892-2 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-80347-7 (ebk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-35892-6 (pbk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-80347-4 (ebk)

For

Carlos

Derr Colleague, confidant, best friend

Now I understand

What you tried to say to me

And how you suffered for your sanity

And how you tried to set them free

They would not listen

They’re not listening still

Perhaps they never will

DON MCLEAN

Contents

PART I

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

PART II

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER I6

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER I8

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

PART III

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

PART I 

SEPTEMBER, 1985-MARCH,1986

CHAPTER 1 

September, 1985. Father’s long slender fingers trembled as he held his champagne flute aloft, but his voice was strong. To the new president of the First National Bank of Savannah. The dozen members of the Board of Directors turned toward me and raised their glasses as one.

He-ah, he-ah, said Morris Latimore in his thick southern drawl. The squat, balding man turned eyes encased in black circles towards me. To Junior no mo-ah, he said with a yellow smile.

Morris had witnessed this ceremony many years ago when father had been the center of attention and I wondered briefly what was going through that tired old brain?

To Junior no more, echoed the Board, resplendent in their dark suits, short-cropped gray hair, and what my friend Pick described as more chins than a Chinatown phone book.

In the tradition of the Thomas family, dating back to Clifford Thomas, Senior, founder of the bank, the nickname of Junior was attached to the youngest Thomas upon his entering service to the bank. In my case, that had been twenty-five years ago when I graduated from the University of Georgia. As with all my predecessors, the name of Junior was officially removed upon promotion to president. Hereafter, I would be known as Mr. Thomas. My father would now be known as CTS, Clifford Thomas Senior, another family custom already being practiced by the rank and file: Is CTS in today? or What did CTS say about the McCormick deal? Thus replaced in name and position, father would assume the more venerable, but less active role of Chairman of the Board.

I studied the dark blue CTS monogram on the cuff of his white shirt and considered yet another tradition that would one day befall me when I became CTS. Did that mean I too would eventually become a crusty, embittered, no- nonsense disciplinarian with a closet full of monogrammed shirts? I certainly hoped not.

As I glanced around the table I had one of those tumultuous moments of panic, like a groom at the altar seeing his life flash before him. Did I really want this? I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This was my moment, the pinnacle of my career. Of course this was what I wanted.

Father sipped his drink, signaling the others to do the same. He lowered his glass to the table and picked up the battered family gavel. He stared at it, turning it slowly, lovingly in his hands, then took a deep breath and began. As you all know, today is a proud moment for the Thomas family.

As CTS droned on, recounting the history of the Thomas clan, dating back to Oglethorpe and the colonial days of Savannah, I studied the portraits on the wall behind him. Clifford Thomas, Senior, the banking patriarch, had been immortalized in the splendor of his Confederate uniform, a Colonel in the Fifth Georgia volunteers, complete with splotchy gray beard and a stern glare. As a child, I imagined him squinting into the smoke and fire of Lookout Mountain, where he had been wounded. Later research revealed that he had been shot in the ass by his own troops; a testimony to his lack of popularity and the uncharacteristically sad state of Confederate marksmanship, their intended target no doubt a more fatal portion of his anatomy. The stories of the wounded war veteran’s struggle to subsequently establish the bank amidst the carpetbaggers of reconstruction were legend and he became the first Thomas to be recognized as truly important in the family tree.

His son, my great-grandfather, Clifford Thomas, Junior, although fortunate enough to avoid his father’s posterior trauma, suffered as did all Thomas sons, having to escape the shadows of their fathers and establish their own identity. My part in that oft-repeated journey was about to begin.

Clifford Thomas III actually smiled down upon our distinguished assemblage. A rigid disciplinarian who had passed those traits on to his son, he had mellowed in his old age, often sneaking me a piece of butterscotch candy when I visited the bank as a toddler.

When I gazed upon the deceased members of our clan I was reminded of the comment Yogi Berra once made when attending a Yankee old-timer’s game. Watching the names of teammates who had passed away since the last gathering flash across the scoreboard, Yogi commented to the player next to him, I hope I live long enough to see my name up there in lights.

Yogi Berra notwithstanding, these Thomas men embraced a destiny to serve the fair people of Savannah, Georgia as holder of their collective savings, mortgages and loans. It was noblesse oblige, southern style.

And so, CTS said, his familiar story thankfully reaching its conclusion, in keeping with our tradition in such matters, it is my honor to pass along the president’s gavel to my son. He paused. To be used in conducting the noble business of this bank until he, in turn, passes it along to young Cliffy, there. He gestured past the line of fixed smiles to the far wall where my family sat watching the proceedings.

My wife Irene wore a black two-piece suit, an outfit I had never seen, probably purchased just for this occasion. That would mean it was the latest fashion and several sizes too small, indicative of her unwillingness to concede an expanding waistline. Her dark brown hair was done up today, accentuating large, mournful eyes and a puffy face, skillfully camouflaged by Chanel and Clinique.

I shot a smile in her direction. This was her promotion as well as mine. In some ways even more so. There would be movement up the social ladder at the country club, reason to host a series of teas and parties, her specialty, and reinforcement of her belief that we had finally arrived. Irene viewed my job as a partnership, one that relied on her skills as a hostess and socialite as much as my banking expertise. I hoped, for all our sakes, but particularly for hers, that she was sober this afternoon.

To her side, twenty-one year old Clifford Thomas VI, heir to the Junior moniker, took in the proceedings with a seriousness that reflected his demeanor. A straight A student in Banking and Finance at the family alma mater, C-6, as his friends called him, had a personality more like his grandfather’s than mine. I shot him a wink and he smiled.

Beside Cliffy, my eighteen year old daughter, Sandra, stifled a yawn, no doubt bored to distraction. Unlike C-6, she was easy-going, spontaneous and would try anything that smacked of excitement or adventure. I wondered where the genetic misfiring had occurred in producing this lovely flower. Her failure to genuflect to Thomas family tradition had painted her as the family black sheep, a position I too had occupied in my youth. She longed to escape to college next year, a desire I shared with her in more ways than one.

I would ask, CTS said, that Irene come forward and pass the gavel from father to son as my beloved Susan once did for me.

My mother, Susan Belford Thomas, had passed away last year, prompting CTS’s earlier-than-planned retirement. Without her at his side, CTS quickly lost interest in the bank, accelerating my movement into the family limelight.

Despite knowing the tradition by heart, Irene expressed surprise at the honor being afforded her in this bastion of male pomp and circumstance. She raised a gloved hand to her lips, glanced at me, then rose unsteadily, moving forward gingerly to polite applause. She accepted the gavel from father as if handling crystal, then walked back across the room, holding the precious instrument out in front of her. She presented it to me, kissed me on the cheek and, her role in the ceremony complete, retreated to her seat.

The familiar smell of gin and tonic filled my nostrils. I should have known that not even today’s events would cause a departure from her daily afternoon stupor. Despite her inebriation, Irene had managed to carry out her duties with admirable poise. As I watched her wedge herself back into the tiny chair, I realized that feigning sobriety on such occasions, not holding tea parties, had become her specialty.

Despite our arranged marriage, the early days had carried a bit of magic, of tenderness, feelings that had long since been overcome by the slow march of a prescribed life. Would it ever be the same? I doubted it.

I placed the gavel on the table and stared down at it, reflecting on all that it meant, all that it signified in my life: success, tradition, accomplishment. I looked up at my father. The room was quiet, reverent.

I wish mother were here today, I said. She would be amazed, after all the bad grades I managed in math and accounting during high school and college, that I actually made it this far. The crowd laughed politely. And I know it was a struggle for CTS in my early years, what with my various non-banking exploits. Glances were exchanged and a few nervous laughs broke the sudden silence.

My wayward years had been initiated by a creative writing class in college. I exhilarated in the freedom writing provided me to express my feelings and emotions, a logical rebellion, I suppose, from the rigors and constraints of my banking curriculum. This unnecessary diversion, which grew stronger as I took more electives in literature and writing, added an extra year to my stay at UGA. Such a serious departure from father’s carefully orchestrated plan for my life had lingered as an unforgivable act of disrespect for years. I secretly pursued my writing, stealing time from by banking duties to enjoy the excitement and adventure of what I was convinced was my true calling.

I looked at Irene and smiled, deciding I could take a few liberties with the facts. I guess it took the firm hand of a good wife to put me back on the tracks and prepare me to drive the train. I closed my eyes, amazed at what bullshit I could produce. Well, after all, I was a writer.

He-ah, he-ah, Morris Latimore offered, clapping his fleshy hands together. Irene blushed and smiled and the Board applauded her like she had conquered world hunger.

I waited for the applause to die down, giving Irene her due, justified or not, then moved my eyes around the table, trying to look at each old man in turn. I want to thank all of you who have been my extended family all these years, for your patience, your kindness and your amazing desire to help me prepare for this moment, despite myself. My eyes moved to the last familiar face. Particularly to you, Morris. You’ve overseen more of my clumsy mistakes than Ulysses Grant did for his entire administration, I added, citing the man that was still blamed for the war of northern aggression and the South’s demise.

Morris shot me a sly smile. Talk about someone who failed math and accounting? The room enjoyed another round of laughter and spirited applause.

I reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. You’ve been like an older brother to me and I love you for it, Morris.

The old man lowered his head in embarrassment, his ruddy cheeks glowing redder than usual. I heard Sandra offer, Aw. Morris finally looked up, his eyes tearing and gave me a tight-lipped, thankful nod. He dug into his pocket for a handkerchief.

I picked up the gavel, weighed it in my hand and tightened my grip. And so, the business of this meeting having been thus concluded, I hereby signify that the September session of the Board of Directors meeting is closed. I slammed the gavel onto the block of matching wood in front of me.

Everyone rose and moved toward me, hands extended, smiles and cliches of congratulations flowing over me like a rising tide. In some ways, it did indeed feel like I was drowning.

Irene made her way forward, reaching for my arm to steady herself. We’re so proud of you, she said in a whisper. She stared at me with that familiar inebriated gaze.

Perhaps it was the emotion of the moment, but as I looked at her I felt a glimmer of those feelings that had consumed us so many years ago. This is your day too, I said.

Irene blinked and stared away, as if contemplating the meaning of what I had said. Then, her congratulatory obligations complete, she turned and moved toward the back of the room, no doubt seeking the comfort of the flask in her purse. I wished it was from me that she sought comfort, but that too, was a distant memory.

Sandra appeared out of the crowd, kissed me on the cheek, then stepped back and curtsied, head bowed. Mr. President, she said with a wide smile.

I bowed in return.

Does this mean we’re going to get a new car, daddy? she said.

Everyone laughed. What, so you can have the old one? I said with a wink. She deserved the car and much more, having taken on many of Irene’s household duties over the years. I smiled at her and touched her cheek.

Congratulations, father, Cliffy said, extending a hand. I can’t wait to start my apprenticeship next year. I grabbed my son and pulled him into an embrace. This was not a moment for such rigid formality and I’m certain I embarrassed him with my sudden show of emotion. Teaching Cliffy the family business was something I looked forward to; a luxury I had not enjoyed with CTS.

Over the young boy’s shoulder I saw father staring at us. The old man’s lips tightened, most likely about the memory of this occasion so many years ago. Despite fearing and genuinely disliking this man most of my life; I sympathized with the emptiness of his life since my mother had passed away. Go hug your grandfather, I said into my son’s ear.

We broke our embrace and Cliffy moved across the room and into the arms of his grandfather. The old man tousled the boy’s hair. I hope you paid attention, lad. He stared back across the room at me. I won’t be here to see it, but one day your wife will present you with the gavel too.

Yes, sir, Cliffy said.

The crowd worked its way to the far end of the conference room where a sheet cake emblazoned with To Junior No More sat ready for serving. Although custom called for Irene to do the honors, I knew that her present condition and a sharp knife were not a good match. So, as I had been doing for years, I covered for her. Sandy, would you mind doing the honors? I asked, holding the knife out to her.

Accustomed to the charade, Sandy smiled bravely and assumed her mother’s duties, cutting the cake into tiny squares and handing them out on blue and white china.

Now, lest anyone believe that being the President-in-waiting all these years had been marked by soft assignments and inflated compensation, let me quickly point out that is not how CTS runs his empire. I worked my way from the lowest position in the bank, spending far more time on each rung of the ladder than my peers. My pay was always less, my office always the smallest. Favoritism was never exhibited in any manner.

Even now, in my exalted new position, I have received but a modest increase in salary. Father believes in rewarding loyalty and longevity. More substantial benefits accrue only when reaching an age where most companies insist on retirement. Little wonder that the Board resembled role call at a nursing home. Still, we had led a comfortable life financially and I was grateful I wasn’t driving a forklift on the docks or hustling used cars for a living.

I refilled my glass with champagne and watched the group ebb and flow about me, glasses raised, smiles wide. It struck me that this entire scene: the promotion, the aging board of directors, the proud wife and family were all strikingly familiar. This was exactly how i had written a chapter in my current book, and today it was as if the assembled cast had used that chapter as a script. The emotions, the personalities, even parts of the speeches were so similar it was as if i was watching my chapter being enacted on a hollywood sound stage. I took a long slow drink of champagne and smiled at the irony. Now wouldn’t that be a dream come true?

CHAPTER 2 

August Roget swept into the conference room, gray Chesterfield coat draped over his shoulders, a leather satchel dangling from one hand, a cigarette holder clenched by teeth a beaver would kill for. At a lean one hundred and sixty-five pounds and six foot tall, with black hair combed straight back into a ponytail, Roget could have passed for a men’s fashion model; a thin face with a perpetual two-day beard, robins-egg blue eyes and a wardrobe of the latest fashions from Armani, Blass and Hilfiger.

Roget was the founder and president of Roget Press, the world’s largest privately owned publishing house. His twenty years of steady success had been built upon an uncanny ability to sense the mood of the public and to find authors, new and old, who wrote to that ever-changing interest.

Roget also owned controlling interest in a number of literary agencies, a movie studio, and directly represented a select handful of authors and actors. By coordinating the entire vertical flow of business from author to agent to publisher, and on to Hollywood, where his instincts for that audience were just as keen, Roget was able to transform an unknown work into a best seller and then into a Hollywood box office smash within the unheard of time span of a year.

But Roget was always looking to expand his swath of control and influence. And today would be the next step in implementing his current vision. He tossed his leather satchel onto the long shiny mahogany conference table and settled into his high-backed chair. The twenty-odd seats that were normally filled by his staff for weekly meetings were empty, save one.

To his right sat Lois Walters, his director of author representation. It was her job to keep the pipeline of raw material flowing from the sea of hopeful writers through the web of interlocking literary agencies into the machinery of publication, advertising, sales and distribution. Lois’s role was the key to the entire operation. Without a steady stream of new material, the rest of the complex machinery would grind to a halt and rust.

Lois shot her boss a tight-lipped smile. She was a handsome woman of fifty- five whose daily trips to the health spa kept her figure looking twenty years younger. Short brunette hair, dark eyes and expertly applied makeup always blended with stylish fashions from Paris and Rome. She was aggressive, bright and had a different man on her arm at every social outing. Morning, Auggie, she said.

Roget smiled. Lois. He placed his cigarette holder in the ashtray in front of him and got straight to the business at hand. Give me a quick rundown of our status.

Lois flipped her note pad open and began her report without fanfare. Rene is still working on the second part of her trilogy and she’ll just make this year’s cut. Jane is just finishing her newest, ditto.

Lois flipped the page. She took off her glasses and tossed them onto the table. Mary Beth has the first draft of her latest love story, but I’ve reviewed it and it will take several rewrites. She looked up. You know Mary Beth, she’ll be insulted at my suggestions, go off and pout for awhile, then do exactly as I say and we’ve got another winner.

Roget smiled and nodded.

We’ll get our yearly book from Arthur, of course, but I’m predicting flat sales, maybe even a decline. His popularity may have finally run its course.

Roget nodded in acknowledgement of their long-time superstar, Arthur McKenzie, the king of the murder mystery.

Lois flipped another page. We‘ve got a promising effort from that kid in New Mexico and the grandmother in Texas, one from the professor at Yale, and maybe a comer from General Weinstein. She flipped the note pad closed and pushed it away, leaned back and reclaimed her glasses, twirling them now between thumb and forefinger.

Roget stared out the window, apparently deep in thought. International?

We have the paperback edition of ‚Sally‘ ready for release in Spain, Portugal and Mexico, Lois said, referring to last year‘s biggest best seller. And of course our standard reprints.

Roget turned and leaned forward onto the table, tapping his chin as he considered the situation. We have several months before next year‘s catalogs are due, he said, referring to the annual catalog of book offerings that would be used for promotion at the yearly publisher‘s convention in Las Vegas. A similar catalog was distributed by most publishing houses to every book store, library, newsstand, school, book club and retail outlet where books were sold.

Roget continued. I share your concern about Arthur. It‘s time we groomed someone as his replacement. He tapped his chin as he stared out the window, then turned to Lois. I want to go with our standard portfolio, all the works you would normally profile, but I want a two page spread set aside for our discovery of the year, our candidate for a runaway best seller. The book will be released late this year with a film debut by next.

The room was silent. Finally Lois said, And this best seller would be?

Roget looked at her. That will be your job. I want you to pump the agencies for a fresh new talent; someone we can shamelessly promote and blitz advertise. The writing doesn‘t have to be Shakespeare, mind you, but we want an author who has an interesting background, heartwarming, maybe even mysterious. We‘ll get the public in an uproar of anticipation. The advance sales will be tremendous. Then we‘ll leverage a movie deal that can be consummated quickly.

Roget sat back in his chair and templed his fingers. So this book must be something that can be filmed quickly and cheaply, no extravaganzas, no war stories, no reliance on special effects. And it has to be appealing to Rex, with a role he will beg to do for its artistic challenge.

In addition to her other responsibilities, Lois was the exclusive agent for several of Roget‘s key authors and a handful of Hollywood superstars, including Rex Chapman, the reigning box office champion.

So, let me get this straight, Lois said. You want me to work the equation in reverse? That is, find out Rex‘s hot buttons, locate a story in the slush pile that comes close, then edit the hell out of it, coach our newfound author, she said, and promote him as the next Arthur McKenzie.

Roget jabbed a finger at her. Exactly. He reached into his satchel, pulled out a black and gold bound document and slid it across the table to her.

Lois read the title: An Analysis of Roget Press and The Steps Required for an Initial Public Offering (IPO).

Roget gestured towards the report. This says we have to show a ten percent compounded increase in revenues for the next three years. At that point we’ll be at the peak of our attractiveness to potential investors.

Lois looked skeptical. And our discovery best-seller will do that?

No, we’re on course to do that anyway. But our new discovery will be our ace-in-the-hole, our hedge against the uncertainty with Arthur. He shot her a knowing glance. It will have to be followed by a highly successful movie, of course, and then a second and third novel. He jabbed a finger at her again. "That will keep us on course for the IPO."

Lois sighed. Auggie, I still don’t understand why you want to do this IPO. She gestured around the room. We’re doing pretty damned good the way we are.

Roget frowned, accustomed to her reluctance to embrace his vision. For you maybe. But I want more. I want to get into a chain of video stores, the Internet, my own cable network. That requires cash and lots of it. The only way to raise that sort of money is to go public. Hell, Lois, you won’t exactly be in the poorhouse when the deal is made.

Lois shook her head. Auggie, you know I don’t need the money, dear boy.

Roget waved a hand at her. Well, money gives me the freedom to explore new ideas. It reflects success. And money breeds more money.

So you don’t care if our best seller is a piece of crap as long as it—

Makes lots of money. Roget stood up. You’re damned right.

Lois knew from previous discussions that her boss was hell bent on pursuing his vision and that further arguments were a waste of time. Her new assignment would not be easy. Finding a story that fit Rex’s criteria was one thing, finding an author that met Auggie’s requirements would be extraordinarily difficult.

Roget looked at his watch. I want a status report in two weeks. Prime the author pump here, then get to L.A. and start working with Rex. He shot her his magnificent smile and walked to the door. Come on, Lois, he said. We’ve done this before. After all, talent is in the eye of the beholder. If we move quickly enough and create enough fanfare, who knows, maybe the beholder will blink. He smiled again, then was gone.

Lois’s gaze moved slowly around the room and came to rest on the chair next to her where she had carefully placed her purse before the meeting began. She reached into the purse, removed a tiny tape recorder and clicked it off. Secretly recording all of her conversations with Roget had become a hedge against the unknown. He was a ruthless businessman who had been known to employ consultants to bring a few wayward clients and employees in line with his thinking via late night visits. It had even been rumored, though never proven, of course, that he had an uncooperative client killed many years ago. Lois knew that Roget was capable of anything when it came to achieving success in business and that she had joined him in crossing that line several times. Still, he was a brilliant man and inspirational leader who had allowed her to rise farther than any woman in the business and she remained steadfastly loyal to him, despite his sometimes questionable ethics.

She sighed, her thoughts returning to her newest assignment. They had indeed promoted an unknown author before, but they had never featured their discovery in the flamboyant fashion roget wanted. Finding a replacement for the fading mckenzie was a subject they had been discussing for several years, but to make it all happen in a few short months would be incredibly difficult. She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. Son- of-a-bitch! She mumbled, shaking her head. Son-of-a-bitch!

CHAPTER 3 

The lights along Bay Street flickered on, a string of dots that flowed, like the Savannah River beside them, east towards the dark Atlantic. I studied the scene from my new fifth floor office at the bank, reflecting on my first month as president. It had been a sad one. Two weeks ago Morris Latimore died in his sleep. He was seventy-six.

Morris and I had shared lunch that Friday and all the positive energy he had pumped into me about the future of the bank and my role seemed to have since escaped like air rushing out of a ruptured balloon. I would miss his advice and council, but mostly his friendship. I could discuss matters with him that would never make the agenda with CTS or the others. He had been a gracious man who had quietly shown me the ropes and was, through all our years together, the only true friend I had here at work. How I would miss him.

I wondered how many of the others at the bank, men who had been hired, groomed and cultivated by my father, saw themselves as more capable of being president and resented me my «gift» of primogeniture. In many ways however, the promotion that was my birthright was deserved. I had worked hard, been industrious and even been labeled a southern Renaissance man by a local magazine: «Well bred, properly educated and married, a pillar of the community, an example for his own son to follow.» I winced. That was father’s profile, not mine. Its attribution to me was just another example