An Informal Boston Education: Boston Boomers, Beaches, Buddies, Broads, Bars, Beer, Baseball, and Barbells

By Michael A. Connelly

CPA Kevin "Rocky" Collins needs his formidable sense of humor more than ever. He's still reeling from the sudden death of his charismatic but demanding and disappointed father, and his caustic wit and quirky Boston Irish personality have cost him his job. They've also sparked dangerous run-ins with a huge Mafia hit man and a biker strongman, and fostered a decided lack of way with women.

Fortunately, Rocky's old friends from the neighborhood-a power-lifting bouncer, an alcoholic Vietnam vet and aspiring author, a struggling gym owner, a philandering salesman, a disappointed ex-professional baseball player, and one pain-in-the-butt, got-it-together business superstar-are as supportive as always as Rocky gains rejuvenation in the gym, on the ball field, and at the bar. But he finds his greatest comfort at a near-palatial summer house on Cape Cod, where there's a wild, summer-long party going on.

To find his own happiness, Rocky knows that he needs maturity, empathy, and perspective. Throw in a new job and a good woman, and he'll be all set. But getting to that point might be the most difficult challenge of all.

An Informal Boston Education humorously explores the Boston singles scene in the seventies, male bonding, the difficult relationship between fathers and sons, and life's endless trade-offs and transitions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 28, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595868629

Michael A. Connelly

Michael A. Connelly grew up in a blue-collar Boston neighborhood, graduated from Northeastern University with a Masters in Accounting, and enjoyed a successful business career. Retired to Florida, he remains a “Gym Rat,” and an avid Red Sox and Patriots fan. His other novels are: An Informal Boston Education; One Batter One Pitch; Mandate: A Man for The Times; Blue Collar Boston Cool; and The Schraft Street Historical Preservation Society.

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Copyright © 2008 by Michael Connelly

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Contents

Career Derailing and Borderline Tourette’s

Refuge: Billy Rossetti’s Hyde Park

Severe Setbacks

Irish Jimmy’s Hyde Park Tavern

Potential, Anxiety, and Style

April: Tommy B’s

Renting the Chateau from Cheryl

Close Calls

Fenway Park

Memorial Day Weekend

Overdue and Second Effort

Gym and Tavern

Kelly and Kelly Field

July Fourth Weekend

July Fourth Aftermath— Thoroughly Derailed

Corrective Actions

Ralphie and Fred

Fenway Park and the Combat Zone

Work, Baseball, and Alien Life Forms

Tough Guys

Salesmen and Saleswomen

Labor Day Weekend

Dennis’ Pittsburgh Reunion

Epilogue Two Years Later

1

Career Derailing and Borderline Tourette’s

Dammit, I already explained those accounts to you twice. Gonna collect ‘em. End of story. You’re not gonna embarrass me by interrogating my customers! Are you saying I’m lying? If you’re not the dumbest auditor I’ve come up against, you’re damn sure the most unprofessional. Anyone at that overrated firm ever explain about actually serving the overcharged client who pays your salary? And showing the proper respect? Either get this audit wrapped today, statements as is; or I’ll fire Peters and Cutler! Seven other Big Eight firms are chasing me all the time.

The senior auditor, Kevin Rocky Collins, replied icily in much quieter voice, You know I’m just following procedure, Mr. Taveras. Can we talk about it in your office at a more appropriate decibel level? I think you’re scaring these pretty young ladies all out in the open like this.

Taveras, chief financial officer of Gloucester Industrial Equipment, thirty miles north of Boston, stormed into his office. He held the door for Collins, slammed it with a resonating flourish, and continued in yet angrier tone, Believe me, pal, you’re in no position to be telling me how to act in front of my underlings or anything else. Ironically, I told Cavanaugh I was looking for a controller before this bungled audit started. He actually told me you were a bright guy, but probably not cut out to be an auditor. You’ve pissed me off enough I’m entitled to tell you that you’re in the shit over there even if they haven’t. And I’ll be kickin’ Cavanaugh in the balls for even thinking I’d consider someone like you for the controller job here. After I get him to overrule you and sign the Christ off! He knows I need those financials for the fuckin’ bank yesterday.

Taveras continued, And get a damn haircut! And a suit and shirt that fit! At least try to look like a professional. If you’re trying to impress those young babes out there with your muscles and stupid banter, it’s not working. Among the lot of them they must have some sense. I bet they want your smart mouth out of here almost as much as I do.

Thanks for the career counseling and pep talk, Mr. Carnegie. Cavanaugh did mention something, but I’d have to agree our chemistry might be off just a nick. What can I say? Those so-called receivables are way past due, not even partial pays, no response on the two confirmation requests, and you won’t let me call those customers. Properly reserving would definitely be a material impact to those financials for that loan. Auditing 101. Not sure where you’re coming from. The fact that you figured out where to put them on the balance sheet, then got the statements to tie out doesn’t quite cut it. All I can do now is punt up to Cavanaugh; thrilled though he will be.

Jesus, ya young lunatic, you must have a helluva new job lined up or plenty of family money, working at a hot-shit firm and still mouthing off to an important client like you do. Quite the muscle-bound young wiseass, but no real balls I bet. Surface smart but no true insight. And incredibly irritating. Not just to a hard-assed old Greek like me, but even to my preternaturally good-natured boss Flaherty. We’re done here. But you can bet I’ll be getting Cavanaugh to certify those statements just as they are. And I’ll enjoy making it crystal clear that I better never see you again. That’ll look great on your next evaluation.

Rocky, red-faced, jumped to a position of mock attention, taking the much smaller Taveras slightly aback. Yikes, I don’t usually attract anywhere near this much damn interest and emotion. Not the best audit wrap-up conference I’ve had, I must admit. But that’s auditing. Sometimes, you just have to take the bad with the really, really confounding.

He abruptly turned and left, wisely not offering the traditional end-audit handshake.

On his way to the conference room, audit headquarters for the past four weeks, Rocky noticed the sexy, young accounting clerk Tara smiling at him and slowly shaking her head. He stopped at her desk. Jeez, wrapped right on schedule, but I guess in all the excitement the Great Man forgot to invite me to his manse for the traditional post-audit dinner. But that does free me up tonight, if you’re finally ready to dump that no-account boyfriend of yours.

Tara replied, Yeah, no-account all right. He doesn’t even have the guts to insult his pesky customers when they deserve it. Some VP of sales he turned out to be. She chuckled. But I must admit, we’ve all enjoyed from way afar your unique method of dealing with our beloved Mr. Taveras. Good luck in the unemployment line.

In the conference room, Rocky started to call Cavanaugh to warn him of the impending furious call. He hesitated and put the phone down. He knew Taveras had already gotten to Cavanaugh, and he wanted the drive back to the office to think through how he’d explain the whole ordeal and Taveras’s irrational demands and perverse, personal dislike of him. And to get as calm as possible for the face-to-face meeting. He picked up the phone to get his assistant out to Gloucester, as planned, to help clear loose ends, organize the workpapers, load them into the huge trunk, and help carry it out to his car; definitely a two man job. But then he decided he’d best leave quickly. Taveras had a nasty habit of unexpectedly storming into the conference room for short bouts of inexplicable venting, which seemed to give him great pleasure. Rocky knew he was now well past the point of giving even a modicum of professional tact in response. He quickly tossed the binders into the trunk, wrestled it to his waist, and awkwardly began carrying the two hundred pound load out through the front office to his car.

Tara jumped up and said, Don’t do that! My boyfriend just got a hernia from lifting something too heavy. Let me get one of the guys to help.

Not nearly as quietly as discretion would dictate, Rocky replied, Don’t spoil it. I’m imagining I got him in a great headlock, and the tiny tyrant is about to cry uncle. And don’t hesitate to give me a shout if that hernia slows Sir Salesmanship down too much for ya.

Careful! she warned. And you forgot to say good-bye to Marilyn and Eleanor.

At the moment I don’t think their muted euphoria would help much. And I do have my noble but misunderstood heart set on this so-clever quick exit here. But thanks for all your help. And you I will most definitely miss.

Back at ya; although why I have no idea. And you know they’d only be pretending to be euphoric, because you give them no choice.

Rocky drove to the downtown Boston office of Peters and Cutler, cruising south on Route 1 past the Banana Club strip joint, the upscale Ship seafood restaurant, and the incredibly popular Giuffrida’s Hilltop Steakhouse. Each stirred memories that brought short-lived smiles to Rocky’s face. He pondered painfully why Taveras had taken such an ever-increasing dislike to him. Taveras had actually been overly friendly in the beginning—even taking him to lunch the first three days—but had thereafter not even tried to hide his growing general irritation. Even before the issue of the questionable receivables had blown up.

Unquestionably, Taveras was a self-centered blowhard, who didn’t seem bright or even sane enough for the position he held. But he was undeniably the chief financial officer of a reasonably profitable hundred-million-dollar manufacturing company. Even peers, not just subordinates, jumped when he often barked. And the CEO surely seemed to depend on him. There had to be more to him that the unseasoned Rocky hadn’t been able to see, and Rocky had initially done his absolute best to appear suitably impressed by Taveras’s animated description of his wondrous business acumen and deeds.

But on the way to their last lunch together, the day an unusually mild early April New England sun-drenched clear and dry beauty, after Taveras had put the top down on his new powder-blue Corvette convertible and exuberantly extolled the joys of his car and the spring sky matching its color, he’d then become almost comically dismayed by the way that Rocky’s long-for-an-auditor and too-fine hair had been thoroughly tousled by the wind and then totally resistant to being patted back into place. The always impeccably groomed Taveras had actually appeared embarrassed to be with him at the restaurant as a result. Despite the incriminating timing, Rocky could hardly imagine something that trivial had actually been the unfortunate first straw.

And if Taveras was gay, he was an incredible actor. He’d been as boastful and passionate in describing his exploits with beautiful women as he’d been about his business successes. Rocky had an even harder time pretending to believe those astounding tales, but he still thought he’d put on at least a halfway decent show. Admittedly, Taveras had looked at him quite quizzically when he’d responded to the animated boastings with his own most humorous and notable missteps with women, both attractive and ordinary. Apparently, short, stocky Greeks abjured the Allenesque outlook. Added to the potentially career-derailing mix for Rocky that Taveras posed was that it was not only Rocky’s opinion but also many of Taveras’s subordinates, and even Cavanaugh’s if he were honest, that Taveras, standing only five and a half feet and markedly pear-shaped but with that impressively inflated ego he never even tried to hide, was a virtual poster boy for short-man’s disease. In any event, Rocky couldn’t deny that something had sure changed after that bizarre lunch.

Recalling frequent commiserations he’d had at the office with other seniors, who’d seemed truly dismayed by a mere harsh word or just a cool attitude from senior financial executives at their client companies—and again replaying Taveras’s bitter diatribe—he could now do naught but chuckle self-mockingly, shake his head, and sadly grin at himself in the rearview mirror.

When he tentatively peeked just his tilted head, from eye-level up, in the open door to Cavanaugh’s huge corner office, and then mock-hung himself with his tie, the scowling, hardly-amused senior partner jabbed his finger at the oversized leather chair in front of his immense mahogany desk.

I warned you all about Taveras. Last client in the world to mouth off to. It doesn’t seem like you’ve tried very hard if at all to smooth out those rough edges and hold that reflexive caustic tongue. I’ve swallowed light years more of his bullshit than you ever will. I’m a partner for Chrissake, but I don’t begin to think that I have the luxury of responding in kind. If we lost even a quarter of our clients that were abusive at times we’d have to lay off you and about a hundred other staffers. This is crazy, you’re one of our brightest young guys, and on top of that, most of the time butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. But the instant that things get a little confrontational, it’s almost like you come down with a temporary case ofTourette’s or something. Your wiseass sharp wit only makes it worse. I don’t know, Kevin. I’m beginning to think that your personality doesn’t exactly fit the blueprint for the ideal public accountant.

Rocky responded, Of course I feel terrible. I do understand the unfair position it puts you in. But I swear I did work hard on it. Going out to lunch every day, oohing and aahing all over the place at all the right times. Then somehow just started to rub him totally the wrong way, almost like a switch was flipped. Didn’t understand it at all. Maybe I do have a little Tourette’s and I’m pretty sure that he’s seriously bipolar; not a match made in heaven that. But damn, how could we just accept those old receivables with no payments, confirmation, or phone calls? I know he’s the client, but I still think I’m the good guy here.

Cavanaugh said, "Dammit, that’s just it! Now you got me between a rock and a hard place with him, and we talked about this. He’s got the proof of delivery saying the customers owe the money, and he’s got the D&Bs saying they have the means to pay. With just some ordinary calm discussion, there has to be a fairly easy resolution here. Which you as the damn senior absolutely should have either gotten or been close, even with that knucklehead. Not just dump this angry confrontation in my lap. With threats of firing us on top of it all!

Cavanaugh continued, Didn’t you take to heart the discussion we had about the pressure that business was in, and especially Taveras? Agonizing every month over the orders coming in, the P&L, the cash flow, and suppliers climbing his ass. We’re supposed to be more than pure auditors. We’re supposed to find ways to make his life easier!

Rocky stammered, All due respect sir; he just wouldn’t give me the chance.

Yeah, the strange SOB did tell me that you have absolutely no style on top of being a wiseass, and admitted that combination does particularly rub him the wrong way, for what that’s worth. Shit, you can’t help now. Just give me that write-up of how you cleared all my other issues, which better be brilliant. See Melman tomorrow for your next assignment. And probably another quarterly evaluation; which you should be plenty worried about. And see Dunfey first thing in the morning. I asked your good buddy to counsel you before you see Melman. Believe me, if you weren’t really good at everything else, we wouldn’t be bothering with any of this. And you still should be giving some serious thought to where you want your career to go. Let the door hit you hard in the ass on the way out. Save me getting up and probably breaking a couple toes.

Style? Rocky asked. Now that you mention it, Taveras does have quite a style himself. In a nattily-attired pumpkin sort of way.

Out! Cavanaugh yelled.

2

Refuge: Billy Rossetti’s Hyde Park

Stuck in traffic on Boston’s infamous central artery, Rocky pondered his three-year career at Peters and Cutler. He was heading toward the suburb of Hyde Park, his adolescent home, and to old friend Billy Rossetti’s new Hyde Park Gym. Most nights after work, he’d alternate between furious muttered curses at the traffic in general and more aggressive of his fellow hapless Bostonian motorists in particular, and eager anticipation of his impending workout. Or, in season, of his Town League semi-pro baseball game. Even seriously frustrating workdays were normally set aside with the distraction of the infuriating drive and the offsetting uplift of the prospect of ninety minutes of intensely invigorating weight training. Usually with several close friends in equally enthusiastic attendance, joyfully trading insults and updates between sets.

But his precarious situation at Peters finally seemed to be coming to a head. His financial safety net wasn’t complicated or comforting; couple grand in a savings account and a few hundred in checking. Nowhere near what he should have after three increasingly well-compensated years as a CPA. Far too many overpriced drinks at the singles bars, he thought. Especially the hundreds, or maybe even thousands, he’d bought for women he should have known weren’t really interested or weren’t worth pursuing. Or both. Of course, those drinks had been the direct descendants of the too-many beers he’d earlier bought for himself.

While sitting in near-standstill traffic that he barely noticed, with clarity born of crisis, he wondered why, as his vastly more successful roommate, Jack Curley—a young executive on the fast track—was wont to ask, hadn’t he been earnestly looking for his next job long before this? Say back when he’d first realized beyond doubt that his days in public accounting were numbered, eventually their choice if he didn’t first make it his. Luminous Jack had innumerable clever and irritating ways of couching his opinion, that Rocky was for the moment stuck at about the maturity of a sophomore in college, where time at the bars, on the ball-field, at the beach, in the gym, and chasing—or more accurately stumbling—after women was much more important than the mundane issue of the future. But poorly begun is half-undone, the world waits for late bloomers only long enough to deliver a sharp kick in the butt, and a sloppy start could linger long and engender a truly regrettable diminishment of all that expensive and painful education, not to mention the waste of unusual potential that everyone had been warning him against since the first years of high school. Christ, what have I been doing? Rocky thought.

His mother had sold the small house he grew up in shortly after his father died unexpectedly last year, and then she’d moved into a small one-bedroom condo, he had one and three-quarter feet out the damn door at Peters, and then if he didn’t get a new job within a few months he might literally be sleeping on a cot at Billy’s gym! Unforgivable. He’d positioned himself with no choice but to chow down and ask for seconds in a shit-swallowing session with Melman, of all people. He pictured the meeting. No matter how much he might psych himself beforehand, with pending financial disaster in mind, he honestly couldn’t be sure how he’d react in the heat of the moment. Yikes! Maybe I do have Tourette’s.

Melman, he thought. Christ! And certain business assholes like Taveras thought I was irritating? And style? Goddamn style. Superficial slick snake oil!

But then, Superstar Jack and even more gratingly another friend, Ray Doucette, strikingly handsome and an unusually successful young salesman, often preached the importance of style, as well as personality and attitude, in business. Perhaps even matching in importance brains, balls, persistence, and the nobility of pure long, hard work. Damn! Maybe the world does run on bullshit!

Thoughts of heartthrob Ray dredged up memories of high school before he could get himself switched back to the comforting distraction of the impending session with the iron. Rocky thought sardonically, Jesus, Taveras doesn’t think I have style now. He should have seen me in high school with those damn coke bottles, before the contacts.

He chuckled bitterly. And his thoughts drifted to his late father, who, even before Rocky’s incipient nearsightedness had become noticeable, often cautioned him that reading so much would ruin his eyes. And didn’t do all that sensitive a job of holding the I told you so’s later when the glasses got embarrassingly thick. Probably the only father in Boston who got on his kid for reading too much.

Frank Collins had grown up poor and hard, with an alcoholic and abusive Irish immigrant longshoreman father, in the tough Boston suburb affectionately known as Southie.A very average student, he was an exceptional athlete who starred in baseball, football, and hockey for South Boston High in the mid-thirties. He grew into a big, raw-boned, tough, ruggedly handsome Irishman; tall for that persuasion at slightly over six feet. In between high school sports, he found time, mostly by not wasting much effort on that boring book-learning, to do some serious boxing training at renowned Donnelly’s Gym, which was down the street from his family’s small apartment. He’d been talented, fearless, and ferocious enough to win a New England regional golden gloves tournament as a light heavyweight while still in high school. Not to mention decidedly convincing that future would-be grandfather destined to die of cirrhosis well before Rocky was born to vent his frustrations far from home.

But baseball had been Frank’s real love. The Red Sox signed him out of high school, albeit to the lowest level of minor-league contract. He was a somewhat long-in-the-tooth minor leaguer, hoping against hope for a last-chance invitation to the Red Sox spring training camp in 1942, when everything fell a part in December 1941. He was damn near four years in the Philippines, in for the duration. When Rocky was born a few years after Frank finally got out of the army, Bronze Stars and Purple Heart in hand, Frank sometimes referred to him as my little atomic bomb, one hundred percent convinced that absent fat man and little boy, there’d have been no more Frank and consequently no Rocky. And that it wouldn‘t have been a damn Jap soldier that would have gotten him, he’d have continued to take care of all of those who came his way—it would have been one of the little kids with the poisoned bamboo spears, who too many GIs wouldn’t have the heart to expeditiously dispatch. Through the years, he remained loudly adamant that if Groves and Oppenheimer had started a little earlier and worked a little faster, he‘d have had a nice long career with the Red Sox. If any of his listeners knew enough about his minor-league career to dispute the claim, they also knew enough about his skills as a fighter and willingness to use them not to bother.

Rocky turned out to be a true blend of mother Gracie and father Frank; in some facets the best of both, in some ways not. Frank was a classical rough-and-tumble man‘s man, totally comfortable in the tough Southie bars and with his fellow Boston policemen. And, so it seemed, with himself, despite the major career disappointment. There wasn’t much mystery to Frank. He stuck by his strong opinions and voiced them loudly but they weren’t particularly complicated or controversial for the milieu, and most men in his circles liked him. They’d better. Not all women were attracted to him, but enough were that he didn’t feel short changed in the least in that department. Rocky’s parents were generally considered sterling examples of the theory that opposites attract; and that that was a good thing. Rocky’s mother was unusually bright, witty, pretty, and petite, of calm and sweet nature, and Frank was thrilled to have her. And hardly for lack of other options.

Rocky inherited his mother’s side of the family’s intelligence and wit and then some, and split the difference in size, leaving him a couple inches shorter than his father and significantly less rawboned; much closer to average in natural size and athleticism than was Frank. Compounding the sharp curveball that Rocky’s thick glasses posed, the blend of his mother’s pixie-like attractiveness and Frank’s rugged good looks hadn’t averaged out as aesthetically pleasing as might be expected.

The particular incident the travails of the day brought to mind had happened in Rocky’s first year of college. Following in his father’s footsteps, albeit quite a way behind, he was an amateur boxer. He’d come up to join his friends, Frank, and a few of Frank’s fellow police officers in the stands at Boston Arena after Rocky had barely won a very hard-fought and bloody golden gloves light-heavyweight bout. He had to don the thick specs to have any chance of finding the group in the crowded stands, and as he sat down his father said too loudly, "Sort of a nice fight, son. Especially if ducking and blocking are considered for sissies only. Damn, even with the blood wiped off, you still look like a cross between Carmen Basilio and Wally Cox playing Mr. Peepers!

Rocky’s friends thought it might have been the first funny thing they’d heard his father say, and several had taken to calling him Peepers for awhile. The other boxer in Rocky’s crowd, James Bruno McCarthy, a formidable young heavyweight already bigger than Frank, had been the first (besides Rocky) to encourage everyone to drop it. Future star salesman Ray Doucette had been the lone holdout until he sneered it around some former cheerleaders, and Rocky had grabbed Ray’s face with his left hand, squeezed it down to about a quarter of its width, and asked him ifhe liked his pretty face the way it was.

That memory stirred up enough adrenaline to focus Rocky on his impending workout. A hard, widening grin replaced the perplexed scowl he’d worn for most of the drive and most of the afternoon. He was in Hyde Park, and now Billy’s gym was only ten minutes away.

♦ ♦ ♦

Yeah, I think with my height and looks, this weightlifting gig is just what I need. I don’t want to get as extreme as that giant on the wall, but that silhouette, a little toned down, would be impressive as hell on me. Figure I work out for a while, I’ll cut a pretty wide swath around here, hey, Billy? Lucky for me that bodybuilding stuff looks much better on a tall guy! The prospective gym member was pointing to a picture of Arnold Schwarzenegger, indisputably the world’s greatest bodybuilder. He was about the same height as Arnold; but he was also flabby and small-boned for that vaunted height.

Billy Rossetti, the gym owner and an accomplished bodybuilder himself, although only about five-eight, nodded slightly while thinking, Yeah, ya egomaniacal slob. After a few months in the gym, you’ll be looking just like Arnold. Old Arnold Plotsky, the deli owner.

Normally Billy was not only honest to a fault but also too respectful of weight training in general to let such overblown expectations stand unchallenged. But he knew this guy from the neighborhood, albeit several years older, as a notorious swanker; and Billy’s new gym desperately needed members. Billy’s natural honor also usually made him loath to even mention his five-year membership option to prospective neophyte members. Not so much because he couldn’t help having doubts the gym would be open that long, but because he knew most beginners didn’t last five weeks, never mind five years. But this egotistical fantasizer had brought height into the equation and was now fair game.

Billy said, Right, I think you’re one of those lucky guys who’ll benefit more than most from weight training. Just might take a little longer than you’re thinking to get exactly where you want to be. Then you’ll have to stick with it to keep the great changes you’ll see. I’ve got a super deal now on a five-year membership; only half the annual cost of a one-year. The membership commitment really seems to help the new guys stay with it. Plus with the five-year I give you all the one-on-one instruction you want. And if you seem to be slipping at any time, I call you for a pep talk.

The guy surprised Billy by readily going for the five-year, and then even more by bringing up Diane Doucette, the gorgeous sister of Billy’s long-time friend Ray. Turns out this delusional dreamer had been chasing Diane for years, along with about half the guys in Hyde Park near her age, and had somehow concluded a more imposing physique was for him the only missing piece of the puzzle. Billy stepped away for a moment and rolled his eyes. He knew Diane was now getting some real modeling work in New York and dating a male model who’d recently gotten a steady role on one of the daytime soaps. But the fantasist had his checkbook out, so Billy just said, Yeah, Diane is an incredible fox. Bust it long enough to get that Arnold look, you’d make a head-turning couple to say the least.

Billy’s gym had been open for six months. Most of his friends and some of his former high school classmates were members, but attracting other new clients had gone much slower than planned. For Billy and several of his friends, weight training, boxing, and running were second nature, and to a couple near obsessions; but spreading the gospel of bodybuilding and fitness to develop a general membership was proving an extremely slow process. Even with the recent surprising success of Pumping Iron, the book by Charles Gaines and George Butler, and then the movie; both featuring the transcendent Schwarzenegger and grimly over-sized Lou Ferrigno.

It was a Wednesday evening in late April. The guys would be in soon for one of two weekly upper body workouts. Billy was planning to ask Rocky to review the numbers again after the lifting, since Rocky had been so encouraging about Billy opening the gym in the first place. Of course, all his friends had been excited since it would provide a vastly improved venue to work out together. Several even donated equipment from their small home gyms. Most had paid two years up front without asking for any old friends discounts, and a couple, including Rocky, had even helped with small loans. Regarding repayment, Billy thought, they’d have to be, in the manner of very good friends, extremely patient.

At the age of fourteen, Billy had started lifting weights for football. Despite his below-average height, he made quicker gains in muscularity and strength than anybody else on the team. He’d soon gotten much more interested in bodybuilding than football, but stayed on the team for the camaraderie, not to mention the improved success with the young ladies that football players were rumored to enjoy.

He’d subscribed to the muscle magazines of the mid-sixties with great enthusiasm, including Bob Hoffman’s York, Pennsylvania based Strength and Health and Muscular Development, and Joe Weider’s California based Muscle Builder/Power. He’d saved every magazine, his mother eventually insisting he chuck his abandoned nineteen-fifties baseball card collection to make room; a decision now proving, amazingly, to have been financially agonizingly short-sighted. He now had blown-up framed pictures from those magazines, providing a history of bodybuilding and power lifting in the fifties, sixties, and seventies, lovingly arrayed on the gym walls. One wall was devoted to the Hoffman AAU Mr. Americas, what Rocky dubbed the normally testiculated smooth guys, including pioneering John Grimek and famous Steve Reeves from the forties, massive guru Bill Pearl from the fifties, and Joe Abbenda, Tom Sansone, Vern Weaver, Val Vasilieff, Dennis Tinnerino, Boyer Coe, and Jim Haislop—whose astonishingly flared muscular thighs each looked bigger than his tiny waist and hips—from the sixties. He had the incredibly muscular and defined Harold Poole, a black man who finished second in the AAU America in the early sixties which at that point had never had a black winner, and then trashed his second-place trophy, amid charges of racism that Billy and his friends, looking at the contest photos, could only conclude were all too true. And who Rocky opined was truly a muscle-sport visionary, looking and even behaving like he was on steroids before the damn things were invented.

There was huge Pat Casey, the first man to bench press an incredible 600 pounds, in the late sixties. Monstrous Paul Anderson who won the 1956 Olympic weightlifting heavyweight gold medal and then went on to squat with more than 1,000 pounds. Phil Grippaldi, the man with four legs, who was an Olympic weight lifter who could standing press more than 400 pounds, over twice his bodyweight; and had muscular arms bigger than any bodybuilder.

Billy had another wall devoted to the Weider and International Federation of Bodybuilders (IFBB) competitors, which Rocky christened the small-sacked savvy supplementers. There was Dave Draper, Weider’s first superstar and the doomed Sharon Tate’s typecast dumb blond muscle bound boyfriend in the nonsensical beach-scene romantic comedy Don‘t Make Waves with a slumming Tony Curtis. He had Larry Scott, the first Mr. Olympia. There was Sergio Olivia, Arnold, massive TV Hulk Lou Ferrigno, and Arnold’s close friend Franco Columbu, who was significantly shorter than even Billy. Billy had a huge picture from Hercules in New York and a funny picture from Muscle Builder/Power when Arnold first came to the United States, showing a very boyish and bleary-eyed Arnold nonsensically chewing on the necklace of Sandy Nista, bodybuilding model and daughter of Weider bodybuilder Joe Nista, at the Weider Christmas Party. Rocky labeled these pictures as debunkers of the myth that weight lifters are dumb.

Billy also had the incredible before and after pictures of Dr. Terry Todd, a one-time 180-pound, tall, slim college tennis player who became an exercise doctor, weight training chronicler, supposed steroid pioneer, and 350-pound bearlike champion power lifter. Rocky said these Todd side-by-sides were proof that steroids, properly applied, could not only help build muscle, they could also change your whole skeletal structure and bone size so your own mother not only wouldn’t recognize you, she still wouldn’t believe it was you even after you’d described every family vacation you’d ever been on in mind-numbing detail. No matter what the doctors said about the limits of the power of steroids. What else could explain those mind-boggling photos?"

It was unusually warm for late April in Boston; sixty-five degrees even now at six PM. Billy wandered briefly outside to revel again in the air still blessedly soft even though the sun was almost down; and savor his great relief at the end of another interminable Boston winter. Despite his financial anxiety, he couldn’t resist a solitary widening smile at the magical citywide attitude adjustment becoming apparent with the promise of spring in New England. Thinking of the Weider Wall, where many of the pictures had the California beaches as backdrop and knowing that most of the builders pictured had used their bodybuilding success to make the westward move to eternal summer and year-round tank tops and shorts, he resolved to work harder than ever. But then thinking of the friends soon to arrive gave him pause at the thought of moving so far on his own.

The gym was located on one of the two main thoroughfares in Hyde Park, a suburb of Boston populated primarily with working class Irish and Italian families. The immediate surrounding area was mostly comprised of small manufacturing companies in old rundown buildings. The gym occupied a modestly refurbished corner of a former factory building. An electrical-supply company took up the remainder of the building.

At six-fifteen, in rumbled James Bruno McCarthy, by far the biggest and strongest of Billy’s close friends and fellow mid-sixties Hyde Park High School graduates.

Bruno, isn’t Wednesday a good night at Tommy B’s? Thought you’d be big-bellying behind all but a few inches of the bar by now. Stinking up the joint after a hard and heavy this afternoon.

Decent. Lot of the regulars’ night-out to break up the week. Goin’ in later, need the dough. But I wanted to workout with the punemeisters tonight and watch the Sox. Need a capable spotter on the bench. Maybe even a little encouragement if Rocky’s in a generous mood for a change. And got half a damn C on old Luis.

Christ, fifty! Billy said. What’s the big deal about tonight’s game? And what’s up with your burly bench?

First night game on TV. Tiant twirling, Bruno said. My boss Tony’s been a dickhead lately. Baseball’s slow as the old monsignor’s sermons, even the Sox are boring without a few down. And I’m gonna get that 450 tonight!

Damn degenerate gambla fat fuck. Four and a half! Man I’m stuck at three eighty-five! Fuck can I do to get that four without putting on a bunch of shit-weight? No offense, big fella. Or gettin’ some ‘roids. And baseball’s slow but you bet even more on football. Got my own money problems, but at least I’m not just pissing it all away on purpose. Ya big donkey.

Wanna bench over four, you shoulda been born a big Mick ‘stead of a little Guin, said Bruno. What’s wrong with putting on a few pounds or an interesting wager now and then? Drink a few brews with the boys while you’re at it, ya unsociable tight-ass.

Right, I should be shaped like you at my height. Be going for five if you could bench with that gut. And how many cases make up a few beers, ya damn Mick alkie?

Hey, Billy, yelled Rocky, entering, don’t be bringing up that beloved beverage or we’ll be bellying up at Irish Jimmy’s before we get the workout in. Least Bruno and I will, being the nonobsessive maniacs currently keeping your poor gym from being heartbreakingly lonely.

Lonely all right, ya lyin’ incompetent fuck, said Billy. Ya certified prick and asshole, your numbers suck! You said I couldn’t miss, even Hyde Park needs one decent place to work out, Arnold and Pumping Iron getting everyone into it. But where are the goddamn new members? Awake half the damn night over my cash flow, as you bean counters call it, or empty fuckin’ pockets as normal people would say. Better stick around after, help me figure out how to make some kind of meager living from this ball-breaker.

If ya weren’t always harassing those beginner equipment-hogs ‘bout perfect form on every rep when all they really need is a little damn discipline to come here instead of the diner and Jimmy’s, some would keep showin’—or at least keep paying, said Rocky. Anyway, seems you’d be better off getting your financial advice from my good bud Taveras. When we update those projections, pencil me in for ten bucks a month rent for a cot in the locker room.

Like everything in this world, worth doing, worth doing right. Especially for out-of-shape beginners, said Billy. Don’t wanna know who Taveras is. Guess your job isn’t getting any better either. What a surprise! Got a workout here, so let’s skip the poor Rocky update. Ballgame gonna show?

Stevie Ballgame, aka Steve O’Brien, was another mid—sixties Hyde Park High School graduate. He’d been an All-State high school baseball player, signed by the Sox, eventually reaching Triple-A Pawtucket, before an inability to hit the blinding speed and speed changes of near-major league pitchers forever derailed his dream. He was now a diffident business student at Northeastern University, extremely short of money since his signing bonus and minor-league pay were modest; and still crushingly disappointed with the prospect of a business, instead of baseball, career. The last couple years he’d picked back up with his old Hyde Park friends, joining in the routine of working, working out, participating in the Boston (Cape Cod in the summers) nightlife, drinking plenty of beer, following the Red Sox and Patriots, and, for a few, playing a half-decent brand of baseball in the Boston Town League. Steve had hit the wall with Triple-A pitching, but found Town League somewhere between high school and Single-A. He’d easily led the league with a .550 batting average and eighteen home runs in thirty-five games the prior summer.

But the task at hand was a weight lifting workout, where Steve still trailed behind his three more dedicated partners despite his superior overall athleticism. In the bench press, the accepted albeit woefully incomplete single lift measure by which relative strength was generally gauged, Steve’s best was right at 300 pounds, at an extremely athletic six foot and 195 pounds, while Rocky was at 340 at five foot eleven and 195. Billy, a legitimate competitive bodybuilder at five foot eight and 200 pounds, was at the 385 and obsessed with 400, and Bruno, at six foot two and 250 pounds, led the pack at an impressive 440; and going for the 450 tonight. Of these four, only Bruno had any noticeable excess weight and only Billy had any business in a real bodybuilding competition, even at the local level. And even if Rocky were to give up beer and Steve to continue with the regular workouts.

Not only did the compact gym have an impressive—although far from new and somewhat cramped—array of free weights and dumbbells, squat racks, leg extension machines, flat and incline benches, T-bars, lat machines, and the new Smith machines, it also had a small boxing area with heavy and speed bags. It even had a little space for sparring, although there was nowhere near enough room for an actual ring. The building was old and dreary, but Billy was of notoriously fastidious nature, and with the business dear to his heart despite the worrisome financial prospects, kept the gym and small locker rooms immaculately clean.

Bruno had done some serious heavyweight amateur and, for a short time, professional boxing; training at Donnelly’s Gym in South Boston with the best of the area’s pros. He’d also been an extremely capable bouncer at some pretty rough clubs before moving behind the bar. Summers he still manned the door at the popular Casino by the Sea bar and restaurant on Falmouth Heights Beach. Even while hanging out with some very tough guys in the notorious South Boston bars, he’d never come close to losing a street fight. This, coupled with his natural good-natured, easygoing, competent, big brotherly manner, now ensured that he would not get into many. He endured and responded to many fat, dumb, and ugly insults from his friends with relaxed extraordinary humor, partly because, although there was a grain of truth in the comments, his personality and presence favored him with more women than most of them. And many more friends than all of them.

Steve burst in and slammed his five in the late jar. Ignoring the loud harassment, he protested, No way I’m starting with that damn 225! Shoulder’s still sore from combining lifting and ball. Rocky, you want me playing with you for Jimmy’s Tavern or not? The on-time-trio grumbled, but they readily stripped the bar down. All had experienced the mental agony of injury-forced layoffs resulting from lifting too much too fast. And Rocky and his Town League teammates definitely didn’t want new Town League legend Stevie missing any games for any reason.

Bruno growled, What is it with you puny, frail-boned girly boys. Always whinin’ about shoulders, elbows, knees, every damn thing. Shut the hell up! Move some manly weight for a change!

Rocky yelled, Bruno, you’re poster whale for the latest from Harvard Med that ability to push ridiculous weight with no fear of injury is inversely proportional to brains, good looks, and penis size. As it should be, ya gloopy, gamblaholic, gargantuan Japanese-movie-phony-monster-looking, fat, dumb, illegitimate son of an unusually ugly old hound dog.

Fuckin’ midget’s literally oh for his entire career at Tommy B’s; he’s makin’ fun of my looks. I’d never deny bein’ an ugly burly bastard, but I wouldn’t know what to do with any more broads. And don’t plan to start playing the damn skin flute. So no harm, no foul.

Still a pretty big foul! Rocky retorted. Man, are women dumb!

Billy said, Only been a couple years for the Rock. Don’t nitpick, Bruno.

What a support group! griped Rocky. Shut down by sixty scornful women; suck one dick. Whatta my sadistic friends remember? The sixty fuckin’ scornful! Speaking of gamblaholic, Reggie just crushed one. Hometown perennials are losing again.

Don’t be updatin’ on the goddamn Sox when I’m ‘bout to go for a new max, moron. That depressing shit would suck the strength out of anyone, grunted Bruno, positioning himself on the bench. He quietly psyched himself up for the tremendous effort it would take to move the huge weight. True to everyone’s expectations, he carefully lifted the bar off the uprights of the sturdy old York flat bench, lowered it to his massive chest, and with no bouncing or lifting of his butt, smoothly pressed and locked it. Billy and Rocky helped him gently replace it on the uprights.

Rocky whistled in amazement. Christ, ya damn sandbagger. Coulda done another rep! You need to go for 475 right now. Looked like you had Taveras up against a brick wall and were gonna push the condescending little tyrant right through the damn thing. Sammartino’s been callin’ and threatenin’ to take his name back if you don’t start showin’ some balls! Burlu-blubbery as you are, he knows you should be well over five by now. Rocky was referring to Bruno Sammartino, the famous strongman and wrestler, who had been one of the first, if not the very first, to honestly bench-press 500 pounds. Sammartino had been a boyhood hero of Billy, who’d given the nickname Bruno to Big Jim in high school.

Right, Little Rock, Arkansas, I should be like you, said Bruno. Always tryin’ to lift weights you can’t make, stumblin’ after women you can’t get, drinkin’ gallons of beer you can’t hold, and gettin’ into fights you can’t win. Then whinin’ ‘bout torn muscles, bruises, and scornful ladies. Taveras, did you say? What now?

Misunderstood genius. As usual.

Misunderstood all right, said Bruno. Those high-level eye shades think you’re out of control at noon on Wednesday? They should get a gander at midnight on fuckin’ Friday.

Well said. Let’s not have the travails of Rocky slow us down here; that’s what Irish Jimmy’s is for. Congratulations, Bruno. Least I appreciate you, said Billy, shaking his head. Goddamn, am I ever fuck-stuck. Let me see if I can get two with 365. Might be a start.

Billy just missed the second and paced for a couple minutes, swearing under his breath.

When he calmed, Rocky said, To make matters even worse, Billy, you must’ve done a sloppy job greasin’ your noggin this mornin’. When you were straining for that second, a hair fell out of place. It’s back now, but I know what I saw.

You wanna talk about hair, Rock? asked Billy. Pretty surprising, especially since we’re surrounded by goddamn mirrors.

You know, Billy, said Rocky, I read in Iron Man that if you’re really stuck, you’re supposed to take ‘bout two weeks completely off, torture though that would be for you. Then start with a light weight you can easily do eight to ten, and keep adding 5 pounds every workout until you plateau at about five reps. Then add some heavy singles. Either that, or take your inevitable ‘roid route sooner rather than later.

Yeah, I try those steroids, said Billy. and I’ll start acting like you, without even drinking. But maybe I will try that idea of resting and building back up. What I really need is more members. Worrying about this catastrophe is keeping me awake and screwing up my digestion. Although, hey, I did sign up a five-year today. Remember that older guy Smoke Screen? Plans to look like Arnold in a couple months and then go on maintenance. And hustle up Diane Doucette in the process.

Rocky yelled, Smoke Screen for a five-year? Guy’s a world-class asshole, natural and then passionately practiced. If assholism was bodybuilding, Arnold would be trying to look like him! That idiot needs to spend six months live-in at the Carnegie Institute just to get promoted from cunt to prick. You know, with that official signed certificate saying, ‘Congratulations, Smokescreen; You Fucking Prick. Best, Dale.’ If that fool paid up front, let’s make it our collective sworn duty for the salvation of our beloved gym to drive him way the fuck out in record time!

Don’t any of you dare. I feel guilty enough taking his money as it is. His expectations are so outrageous that he’ll get discouraged soon no matter what I do anyway. Be nice to him and all the eventual no-shows so I can get at least a little sleep once in a while. If it wasn’t for guys paying and not coming, no gym would make money anywhere.

Rocky said, I bet. And if it wasn’t for about a million York hundred and ten pound beginner sets bein’ used for nothing more than training young spiders to spin architecturally sound webs in basements all over the country, old Bob Hoffman would have declared bankruptcy years ago.

Bruno said, Screen after Diane? That’s likely all right. But, hey, when we were in high school he was nailing that older divorced woman. Pretty chubby, but huge tits and appropriately slutty looking. Don’t mind admitting to being jealous back then. Something about her always got me going. But now I hear she’s real fat and kinda crazy.

Billy said, Still see her around. Not exactly petite, tits bigger than ever. But plenty friendly, seems okay to me. Can’t deny a wild fleeting thought myself now and then. Why do you think she’s crazy?

Rocky interjected, Bruno, what got you going way back then was an older, divorced broad who seemed actually interested in teaching the younger set an important thing or three. But now, the ‘a’ theory she’s bonkers is she always dresses, even when there’s muddy snow all ‘round these grimy streets, like she’s going to a ball at the Ritz in clothes she bought 50 pounds ago; ‘b’ is she has sex with that little poodle she’s always carrying around hugging. My bet is both a and b, adding up to just Billy’s speed, so go for it. Just best not forget to put the dog out before commencing. Unless ya have a hankerin’ for a ménage a mutt.

Billy muttered, Thanks for bumping me off the proverbial fence when it comes to even thinking about that quick one-time tap, even if I don’t believe a word you’ve said all night. This Taveras thing to look forward to; wish more than ever I didn’t have to listen to you drunks in action tomorrow night.As Rocky was finishing a set of heavy T bar rows, Billy said, Great set! Couple extra reps there, and good snarling. But please watch the drooling on my beloved bells.

Damn, I’d sure hate to ever have to do a heavy set of T’s absent a fresh asshole to imagine strangling—but not much to worry about there, I’d guess.

Bruno said, That attitude, plus I suspect wanking with old Hugh too often—distorting your whole sense of reality, Psycho.

Too often doesn’t compute; plus I must confess I’m actually a Guchionne man myself. Clinging to that sensible middle ground between Hugh and Larry.

Bruno brought up the all-important subject of their summerhouse on the Cape, where a good portion of the Boston nightlife would be migrating beginning with the Memorial Day weekend. Goin’ in late again tomorrow. Meet at Irish Jimmy’s early, come up with those few more aficionados for this new four-bedroom, half a damn mansion I’ve been telling you mugs about. Then goin’ to Falmouth on Saturday to finalize with the sexy real-estate broad and have you peasants look the palace over. Rock, your imperial roomie Handsome Jack gonna favor us again?

His Arrogance casually pulls the full five out of his dresser and says, ‘Here, what the hell. Even ifI don’t make it down much, I’ll help you losers out.’ You shouldn’t have gone on to him about the real estate goddess. Now he does want to come on Saturday just to cut your big-bellied, tiny-dicked wires. So three bloody-eared hours in the car to look forward to.

Still glad he’s coming, even if he does snake me. He’s such a dedicated, if grumpy Rocky-sitter, in the shank of a Saturday evening.

Steve asked, Rock-a-Billy, what’re you guys gonna do now? To Tommy’s with Burly? Grab a couple at Jimmy’s to catch the rest of the Sox?

Not me, said Rocky, drinkin’ at Jimmy’s tomorrow night, again in town on Friday, and then to the Cape Saturday; definitely more than enough. Plus, I got a stormy sea of cock-knockers and ballbreakers to navigate tomorrow. And hell, Billy drink beer on a Wednesday? Lately it’s hard enough to get the compulsive Spartan to relax and have a couple even on the damn weekend. Now look at the neurotic madman, moppin’ hell outta the sparklin’ clean floor there. Hey, take a relieved whiff, Billy; odd blessed session Bruno stayed ever-mindful of the muscle-control subtleties twixt strainin’ with the bells versus au commode!

3

Severe Setbacks

Normally after pumpin’ and bustin’ long and hard with the buds Rocky would wake up the next morning hardly remembering any time in bed before falling asleep. But he’d been awake for hours last night, anxiety increasing the more he tried to stop thinking about the upcoming meetings. The problem was exacerbated by his conviction that poor sleep slowed his thought process down significantly the following day, and concern that even his best probably wouldn’t cut it with Melman.

With his educational credentials—bachelors in math from UMass, a master’s degree in accounting from New England University, GPA over 3.5 through-out—and having passed the CPA exam first try, and then the three years with a prestigious Big Eight firm, he’d always figured he could get another job as soon as he put his mind to it. Now that the clock actually seemed to be ticking, his confidence eroded. He knew he hadn’t interviewed well coming out of New England University with his master’s degree tailored to a start in public accounting. He and most classmates had interviewed with all eight of the top accounting firms; almost all the others had gotten several offers while he’d just gotten the one from Peters. Even then Melman, his assigned partner advisor, had told him during his initiation—with disconcerting condescension actually—that he had a lot of work to do on interpersonal skills. His interview had been marginal and they’d taken a chance on him because of his grades and SAT’s and mostly because they needed an unusually high number of juniors.

So the personality and style issue. He thought back over the reviews he’d gotten on the maybe thirty audits he’d run since very quickly being promoted to senior accountant. Admittedly, plenty of clients really liked him; but then some definitely didn’t. None of the others anything like the Taveras debacle, but there weren’t supposed to be any that didn’t; lukewarm was the worst expected, and not many of those. If he did get fired, no telling what kind of reference Melman would give him. On the other hand, ifhe could just hang on long enough to find a decent job, he wouldn’t be expected to have a reference from a company that still employed him.

Jim Dunfey was one of the audit managers Rocky had clicked with, done his best work for, and even gone out with a couple times after work for dinner and a few beers. Dunfey had married in college, kids right away, four now, and didn’t get out with guys much. He had a good sense of humor and enjoyed Rocky’s funny and sometimes hairy stories about the Boston and Cape single life that he’d never experienced. Rocky was confident that Dunfey hadn’t shared any of this with Melman or the other partners; staff consensus was that Dunfey, a manager for five years, was well outside the inner circle of the firm’s senior executives. He was never going to make partner, so he’d soon be leaving himself.

Rocky knew that Dunfey had made a major mistake about ten years ago, when he’d been a staff accountant, that surprisingly hadn’t gotten him fired but probably had permanently damaged his career. This was well before Rocky joined the firm. Dunfey was a tall guy some thought looked a little like James Stewart in his Mr. Smith days, and at an audit the secretary of the CFO, who was engaged to marry the director of marketing at that client company had taken a shine to Dunfey as her last fling; naturally unsanctioned by her future husband. She was an extremely seductive girl, and Dunfey, having married young, felt he’d missed out on a great deal; in a moment of weakness, he took her up on the offer. By sheer devilish misfortune, an associate in the marketing department saw them going into a motel. He told her future husband, who had the chief financial officer raise hell with the audit partner. Somehow, Dunfey, who was unusually bright and had been something of a rising star back then, had survived; probably barely. As far as anyone knew, his wife had never found out. Rocky’s falling into Dunfey as his closest thing to a mentor wasn’t helping the management team’s perception of either of them.

Dunfey began, Cavanaugh’s a pretty straight shooter as far as partners here go. He actually liked you there for a while. You know Melman’s hardly a fan. Got something in the old fire, I hope I hope?

Believe it or not, I’ve been trying hard to make a comeback, but I’ve had some really bad luck on this one. I’m sure Cavanaugh gave you the details.

Comeback? You’re either a much worse listener than I thought, or you’re planning to live off some inheritance while you screw around down at the Cape all summer. You never said you had family money, you sly dog.

I’m serious, Rocky said. I don’t have anything. I’ve got to rally here, at least for a while. Snap to attention for Melman. Get on a couple of jobs where the controllers are at least halfway sane. Maybe something with you, if you can swing it. Buy some time to look, and a decent reference for when I get close.

You’re gonna need a very un-Rocky-like performance. Too bad you don’t have time for a quick lobotomy. That connected SOB is too dumb to have a clue about what he doesn’t understand. Then he boasts he makes it a point of honor, as if he had any, to give honest and unbiased references; no sugarcoating for his highness. Your one plus is that the firm’s got more off-season business than they expected, so they really need experienced seniors. So maybe … if you can bring yourself to grovel. Jesus, that thought even hurts my feelings, you shortsighted knucklehead.

Any specifics on the groveling? Rocky asked. Not that I’m implying you’re an expert.

"Maybe not an expert, but I’m still here, so I can’t be too bad. Take what he’s been bustin’ your balls about all along, polish it up with a bunch of un-Rocky like sincerity, and hand it back with effusive apologies. I know you’re smarter than most of the seniors we got and do a good job, and you have to keep trying to get that across; but you also know you have to act the part of a professional a lot better. So look him in the eye and say it; through unclenched teeth if you can somehow swing it. Too many of these guys here and at the clients don’t know substance when they see it, so they focus on style, image, and smooth-talking bullshit. It’s just auditing, not rocket science; actually is half a sales job from the get-go, numb nuts. You’re a Boston neighborhood guy like me; I still need plenty