The Gift: A Novel

By Mohsin Hassan

Ed Kaminsky can sense the slow, inevitable unraveling of his life. He is about to turn forty-seven, his career has stalled, his boss despises him, his wife is no longer interested in him, and his kids consider him irrelevant and uninspiring. But in the midst of this gloom, he discovers he possesses a unique gift which can bring him all the power, riches and acclaim his heart craves. The trouble is, this gift doesn't come without certain strings attached.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543978452

Book preview

EPILOGUE

Chapter One

I’m getting old…

I scan the face that’s staring back at me warily from the bathroom mirror. I see the pinched latticework of crows’ feet around the shrunken, puffy eyes; the deepening, angry laugh lines around the mouth; the burgeoning swell of flab around the chin seeking to erode whatever contours it may have once possessed. It’s a grim, desolate face, as if on the brink of dissolution.

Truth be told, the rest of my body hasn’t fared any better either. My stomach is no longer as flat as it once was. My thighs have grown fleshy and flaccid. My chest, shoulders and biceps are not as taut and muscular as they were when I was in my twenties and early thirties and had the time and energy to work out on a more regular basis. (Not that I was ever truly committed to the task to begin with, or that the effort would have succeeded in sculpting my physique into a svelte, strapping form: I have been blessed with what I like to call a curvilinear body type, which among its other dubious attributes, has always been doggedly resistant to the effects of physical exercise. I believe I have my late father’s genes to thank for that.)

I sigh, reach for the razor and proceed to shave off the day-old stubble on my chin and neck. I’m not particularly thrilled about the day that looms ahead. It will be a day like any other, to be fair, in an endless chain of indistinguishable days stretching back I don’t know how far. I will throw on some clothes in a minute, go to the kitchen, try to grab some breakfast while attempting to make small talk with my wife and kids (if they are in the mood for that and not grouchy and curt, like they tend to be more often than not), and then jump in my car and embark upon the hour-long drive it takes to get to my office, where I will soon find myself immersed in the everyday minutia of busy work while a sense of fraught nervousness hangs in the air around me, like a pall of dense fog, making me feel that at any moment some random command or missive will come tearing out of the haze, enjoining me to take on yet another boring, distasteful or pointless new task that I would have no desire to perform, or worse, the discharge of which would lead to some terrible and expensive mistake which, in turn, would require feverish defensive maneuvers on my part to clear my name and keep my job safe.

Corporate America can be a jungle, a Darwinian, no-holds-barred battleground on which competing agendas, egos and ambitions fight for dominance like so many species of predatory fauna.

A knock sounds on the bathroom door and derails my train of thought. Laurie, my wife, wants to be let in, so she can have a go at her own morning ritual of toilet, grooming and dressing.

Ed, she calls out. Open the door. I’m getting late.

I grab a towel, wrap it around my waist and unlock the door.

She bursts in looking peeved, as if by delaying her entry to the bathroom I’ve subjected her to an appalling injustice. She’s wearing a white terry-cloth bathrobe, stained at the lapels with what I infer are streaks and smudges of makeup and sundry other facial appliances. (She always puts on her make up clad in her robe, prior to dressing up, and from its condition I can see the reason why. However, I do sometimes wonder why she won’t go out and buy a darker colored one, at the very least, so the stains won’t stand out as grotesquely as they do on the white one that she has on.)

It’s not just your bathroom, you know, she admonishes me as she brushes past me. (She’s always admonishing me. It’s become her self-ordained role in life.)

Sorry, honey. I say. (I’m always saying sorry to her. Or I am most of the time. Perhaps that’s come to be my role in life.)

I’m annoyed at the intrusion as much as she’s annoyed for being locked out, because I hate sharing the bathroom with her, even though it’s big enough for both of us, with two his and her sinks, a stand-up shower stall and a Jacuzzi bathtub, a separate closed-off alcove for the toilet, and two good-sized walk-in closets.

She glides over to her side of the bathroom and starts brushing her teeth. She uses one of those electric, rotating toothbrushes. I can’t stand the buzzing sound it makes.

I dive into my closet and shut the door.

It’s my sanctuary, this closet, my little bastion of harmony and cohesion amidst the general chaos of my wife’s presence. (She’s a messy person, one of the messiest I’ve ever met, which is largely why I resent having to share the bathroom, or any other living space for that matter, with her.) It’s neatly arranged, logically organized, and conveniently constituted. I’m proud of what I’ve done with it. Dress shirts, polo shirts and suits hang on the top rack, slacks and jeans on the bottom. My t-shirts, shorts, socks and underwear are in a dresser in the left corner, a shoe rack with four pairs of dress shoes, two sets of sneakers and a couple of casuals sits on the right. Everything’s in its place, and there’s a place for everything. My mom would be proud.

I pull out an undershirt and boxer briefs from the dresser and put them on. I want to dress in a polo shirt and a pair of khakis. It’s September, the weather is hot, and my office faces the sun, which makes it stuffy in the afternoon. But as I reach for the polo, I recall that I have a meeting with my boss today. An important meeting, perhaps. I can’t be certain. Because there was no agenda attached to the email invitation I got from his admin yesterday. (Corporate America has unanimously decided to do away with the secretary designation among its ranks; instead we now have Admins, short for Administrative Assistants; the only exception to this rule is the title of Executive Secretary - which is considered both politically correct and respectable, presumably because of the prefix Executive attached to it. As far as I’m concerned, secretary is a perfectly appropriate job title. Why not call a spade a spade?)

I choose a pair of light grey business-casual slacks, a solid blue shirt and a navy blazer. I want to look serious, professional, dependable, though I’m not sure doing so will change the perception my boss has of me (which, he’s made sure I know, is not very favorable).

I step out of the closet and catch Laurie snapping on her bra. The robe is lying discarded at her feet. And I know there it will remain for the rest of the day until needed again at night, unless I happen to pick it up prior to that and hang it on the clothes hanger, which, incidentally, stands naked and forlorn not two feet away from the abandoned robe.

Behind her, the sink is a disaster, cluttered with various grooming paraphernalia: a flat iron, hair dryer, nail polish bottles, cotton swabs, mascara box, eye liner, God knows what else. The mirror is splattered with spots of flying tooth paste from her rotating brush. There is hair in the sink; hair clinging to the brush she has just run through her hair.

I used to find it cute and endearing, this slovenliness of hers, back when we were dating in college. It made her seem helpless and overwhelmed, unable to come to grips with her surroundings- someone who needed to be protected and guided through life’s harsh realities. I once thought I could change her, given time and some empathetic coaching, and eventually prevail upon her to abandon the trait. I’ve failed miserably at that.

I consider saying something to her about cleaning things up then decide it’s not worth the effort. I am up against four and a half decades of habit. She is a slob and will remain one until she dies, or becomes incapacitated in old age, in which case she will finally have a legitimate excuse to not clean up after herself. (I secretly dread that day; I would hate to be the person responsible for taking care of her. I dread being responsible for taking care of anyone. My mother is approaching that age and I will have to figure out how she will be looked after when she no longer has the ability to carry on by herself.)

What’s your plan today? Laurie asks me, as I try to sneak by her and out of the bathroom.

I screech to a halt. Why? I ask.

Can you pick up Jenny from her basketball practice?

Why? I say again.

I have a book club meeting tonight.

I can’t help snickering cynically.

Ah, I say. Your book club…

These book club meetings, as far as I’ve been able to gather, are nothing more than glorified party nights, an excuse for my wife and her friends to get together once a month to gossip and drink. And put on airs and boast about how happy, rewarding and fulfilling their lives are; how satisfied they are with their marriages, their jobs (if they hold down one, which for this crowd is the exception rather than the rule, most being housewives - or rather, stay-at-home moms to use yet another politically correct term), how proud or crazy or exasperated their kids are making them, how demanding and remarkable and hectic their husbands’ careers are, how much they care about their community and how involved they are in charitable causes and how much joy and peace and satisfaction this brings them. I doubt if the book itself, which is supposed to be the main topic of conversation, is discussed for more than ten minutes, if at all. I wonder how many of them take the time to read the prescribed books in their entirety (for the record, I’ve never seen my wife reading any of them - although she does purchase them religiously).

Do we have to go through this every time? she says. Can’t you just do something without bitching about it first?

I stare at my wife.

Only a couple of years younger than me, she is still a strikingly pretty woman. Which isn’t to say the ravages of time haven’t asserted themselves with her: her face has become thinner, gaunter over the years; her cheeks have hollowed out; the eyes have retreated into their sockets; the hips have widened, the waist has thickened, the breasts have begun to droop. But she has fared better than I have. She can still turn heads dressed in a mini skirt, high heels and a push-up bra. (She owns several of those.) And her legs are to die for: slim, supple and muscular. She is in much better physical shape than me and takes better care of her body than I do. (She also has more time on her hands to do so because she doesn’t work – hasn’t done so since our daughter, Jenny, our second child, was born.) She works out on a regular basis – participates in yoga and cardio and kickboxing and various other strenuous and provocatively named exercise programs offered at her gym.

She has her brow furrowed and her lips drawn at the moment, her head tilted to the side. And as I watch her, a warm, and simultaneously, mournful memory stabs at my heart. It’s a look I remember well from days gone by - one of little-girl-lost bewilderment, mingled with a sort of supplicating exasperation. It used to turn me on, this look, and I’m surprised that it’s doing the same now. There is a stirring of desire inside me, a need to take her in my arms and kiss her lips and bend her backwards on the cluttered sink and make love to her right then and there.

A decade ago, I would not have hesitated. I would have ripped off her bra, torn away her panties and taken her without a second thought. But those days are long gone. Intimate contact between us is rare now, and feels mechanical, awkward when it does happen. There is no spontaneity (or continuity) in our love life. She only consents to having sex maybe once a month. It always takes place in bed, only in the missionary position, on the express condition that no fellatio be involved, and all through the episode I get the distinct feeling that a huge favor is being conferred upon me. The act itself never lasts more than 10 minutes, from start to end, sometimes including the post-coital cleanup period.

I would like to have sex with her more often, more vigorously, with greater abandon, but feel it would be vexatious and incommodious rather than exciting and fulfilling for her. I no longer have the heart to press her on that issue.

Sorry, I say (there I go again, playing my part). I’ll pick up Jenny.

She grunts something inaudible under her breath and hurtles by me toward her closet. I catch a glimpse of it as she pulls the door open. It is as unkempt and disorderly as the sink. The floor is littered with shoes and clothes. The hangers swing aimlessly on the bars, bare and unused. A wave of disgust washes over me, throttling the desire I’d felt for her a moment earlier. I step out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, where I find the bed rumpled and unmade.

My house is typical of what you would find in any middle to upper middle class suburban neighborhood in the larger metro area around Houston, Texas (we live in the city of Sugar Land, twenty or so miles South West of Houston). It’s a double-storied structure, with an attached two-car garage, and a big yard in the back – big enough to accommodate a pool, which we wanted to put in when we bought the place seven years ago, but never got around to doing.

The first floor has a lounge, a kitchen, the master bedroom, a study and a formal dining room. The second floor has a den/sitting area for the kids, as well as three bedrooms with attached bathrooms.

My two kids, Jenny and Josh, occupy the upper floor of the house. In fact, they rule over it like lord and lady, and occasionally get into pitched battles over the territorial rights they both feel they exercise over it. Josh is seventeen and in his senior year in high school. Jenny is fifteen, going on sixteen, and in her junior year. They both go to the same public school.

Josh takes after my wife in both looks and mannerisms – he has the same sleek, angular good looks and dark hair and an easy, fluid way about him. Jenny is more like me – sandy brown hair, a more rounded face and physique, and a somewhat plodding, reserved personality, though unlike me she is quite tall for her gender, almost as tall as Josh. This makes her a good fit for the girls’ basketball team. But only in terms of size, because she is an indifferent player, at best, and not as effective as she could be if she worked harder. (Or perhaps, she’s just not cut out to be an athlete and is miscast in that role, much as I was when I was her age and used to think I could be a good baseball player.)

Both of my kids have an air of languidness and lassitude about them. They seem to lack the drive and the zip and the determination my generation used to have when we were their age. They spend too much time on couches and chairs, glued to the TV or their computers or their hand-held devices. They are more comfortable existing in the digital realm, prefer to experience the world vicariously via Facebook, Twitter and other social media web sites, and rely on cryptic, acronym-heavy text messages instead of face to face or telephonic conversation to communicate with their friends. (Lately they’ve even started to show a tendency for using text messages to communicate with us; instead of asking his mom whether dinner is ready, Josh now sends her a text – from his bedroom upstairs.)

They do have it a lot harder than we did though, I will admit that. The world is so much more complex, competitive and specialized than it used to be back in our day. It’s also in much worse shape. Our generation has failed them at least in that sense, I believe, by degrading and destroying everything they will inherit from us: the economy, the politics, the education system, the social and physical infrastructure, the ecosystem and the environment, the list is long and endless. (I don’t know what our generation can do to stop this from happening; we are so set in our ways, so used to doing things the way we’ve been taught and encouraged and indoctrinated to do. I often get this uneasy feeling that something about the world isn’t right, that humanity has somehow gotten its priorities mixed up and is headed down the wrong path, at the end of which lies not peace and salvation but disease, bloodshed, destruction and, ultimately, extinction. I don’t have a lot of faith in our species’ ability to set things right either, to correct its course, so to speak. Nor do I know how to bring about that change. I have no alternatives to offer. I have no big ideas, grand designs or bold visions. I’m just an average Joe. All I can think to do is go with the flow, stay on the look-out for a toe-hold somewhere, so I can get through life without having to confront too much pain. I guess we can’t arrest this process of global, planet-wide debasement any more than I can hope to arrest the aging and disintegration of my own face and body.)

I find Josh and Jenny having breakfast in the kitchen. I look at my watch. It’s almost 7:30. They need to be in school by 8:00. I need to be at work by 8:30. And in a meeting with my boss at 9:00.

I hurry over to the counter to pour myself a cup of coffee, and realize I’ve forgotten to make it. The coffee maker is programmed to start brewing automatically at 7:15. All I have to do is put the coffee in, fill it with water, and press the auto button before going to bed, which apparently I’ve forgotten to do the night before.

We have to get going, dad, my son declares.

I curse under my breath. I’ll just have to wait for my caffeine fix until I get to work. No time to swing by a Starbucks either. (I’m addicted to Starbucks coffee; even the coffee we make at home is Starbucks brand. It’s expensive but worth every penny. It’s the only thing that can wake me up, kick-start my day.)

Alright, I say. Let’s go.

I grab a banana from the fruit basket (it will be my breakfast today) and notice the sink is full of dishes. I remember wiping them off and rinsing them. Laurie was supposed to load them in the dishwasher. Clearly, she’s neglected to do that. Yet again.

I cringe inwardly and make a bee line for the garage, which connects to the house through a laundry room situated just adjacent to the kitchen. The kids follow my lead.

Hey, dad, Josh says. Can I drive us to school today? Please?

Josh got his driver’s license a few months ago and since then he has made it his life’s mission to force Laurie and me into letting him drive our cars every chance he gets. He’s also been asking us to buy him one of his own, so he can stop bugging us. His strategy is beginning to work; I intend to put him in a car the moment I have some extra cash.

Not today, Josh, I tell him. Maybe tomorrow, OK?

He grunts and mumbles something I can’t understand. (Inaudible, disgruntled mumbling seems to run in our family.) Like mother, like son.

I step into the garage, press the button to activate the hoisting mechanism that raises the garage door, and glance with a sort of glum irony at my decade-plus old Ford Explorer, its battered and faded gray exterior providing a sharp contrast to the sparkling blackness of my wife’s new Mercedes CLK 230 Convertible parked next to it. I can almost feel the poor vehicle quivering with shame and envy as I unlock it and mount the driver’s seat.

I don’t really know how I’ve ended up driving this ugly metal hulk of a vehicle (appropriately dubbed The Beast by Jenny some time back). We’d bought it for my wife to lug the kids around – from home to school, from school to their various activities, and then back home again – when they were younger. I used to drive a Honda Accord, and was quite content doing so – it’s a decent, practical, and cost-effective means of transportation. Then last year Laurie decided we needed to upgrade our lifestyle, as she put it, perhaps taking a cue from her Book Club friends, and talked me into trading in my Honda for the Mercedes. Then through various twists of circumstances that I still haven’t been able to get my head around she took to driving the Mercedes and The Beast fell into my hands. I’m now thinking about selling it and getting back into a Honda, but that would mean an additional monthly car payment, and I don’t have the budget for it. At least the Beast is paid for.

I don’t begrudge my wife her desire to drive a nice car. It makes her feel good about herself. I get that. But I do mind having to pay through the nose for it, because in my opinion the damned thing is over-priced, notwithstanding the shallow sense of self-importance it imparts to its owner.

But then again, one can’t really put a price tag on vanity - which my wife has come to possess in generous proportions.

I hear myself sigh yet again as I back the Beast out of the garage.

I need some cash, dad, Josh says as soon as we’re on the road. I asked mom and she said to get it from you.

Sometimes I feel I’m nothing but a walking, talking ATM for my kids. They push my buttons, extract dollar bills and move on. That’s the extent of their interest in me. The only use they have for me.

Didn’t I just give you $50 bucks on Sunday?

That was for the movie and the new back-up drive we needed for mom’s computer, he says, sounding truculent. And I couldn’t even buy a hot dog at the movie, because the drive cost me like forty bucks.

I look at Jenny in the rear view mirror.

Do you need money too?

She shrugs. I guess…

She says this like she will be doing me a favor by taking my money.

I pull out my wallet from my back pocket, squirming in my seat, and hand it over to my son.

Divvy up whatever’s in there.

He opens the wallet expectantly, looks disappointed with what he finds.

There’s only $30 in here.

Then take twenty, and give Jenny ten.

He does, with the air of someone who’s been asked to swallow hemlock.

Why don’t you get a part-time job, so we can all afford your expensive life-style? I say, put off by the churlish way he has gone about the whole process of taking and distributing the money.

He slams the empty wallet down on the console between our seats.

"There are no jobs, dad. I’ve tried."

Not hard enough… I say.

But I know he’s right. He has tried. He had applied at Kohl’s a month back, when they were opening up a new store in the area. He’d told us there were one and hundred fifty applicants for two openings.

Like I said, things are a lot harder for my kids than they were back in my day.

We drive in hushed silence rest of the way to school. I pull into the long, slow-moving line of cars that will eventually sidle up to the entrance and release their payload of semi-dazed, bleary-eyed kids whose petulant faces always betray their complete lack of interest in their destination.

I pull up at the entrance. My kids jump out.

Jenny turns to me and says: You’re picking me up today from practice…don’t forget.

Yep.

I’ll be done by six. Please don’t be late. I hate it when you guys don’t show up on time.

It’s a genuine complaint. My wife is not the most time-sensitive person in the world. Deadlines are suggested start times for her. And on the odd occasion that it’s my turn to pick her up, I’m usually fighting traffic and never make it there until after everyone on her team has gone and she is the only one left, sitting on the steps of the school gymnasium, huddled and angry.

I’ll be on time, I say.

She stares at me with knitted brows. You better be, she says, and slinks off, body hunched, head lowered, as if she’s headed to the gallows.

I drive off and wonder what worries, demons, wants, misgivings and fears Jenny is harboring silently. She is not a very pretty girl, nor is she blessed with a particularly sunny disposition (maybe one attribute feeds off the other). She is socially awkward, has few friends and struggles in her classes. She has never been asked out on a date, even though most of her classmates and friends go out with boys on a regular basis. A few of them are in a relationship- which, I believe, is a euphemism for sexually active.

Jenny is not sexually active, and I don’t want her to be. I know it will happen one day. It is unavoidable. I just don’t want it to happen on my watch, while she is living under my roof. When she goes off to college she is free to do with herself as she chooses. Which isn’t to say she will turn promiscuous overnight as soon as she sets foot there. She is a good girl. And I should be thankful that she’s a good girl. She doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, doesn’t do drugs. Doesn’t even ask for a lot of money, or clothes, or shoes, or jewelry or other such things girls are always clamoring for. Perhaps that’s a reflection of her anemic social life. Perhaps things will change once she finds a boyfriend, or surrounds herself with a gaggle of materialistic girlfriends, or stumbles upon shopping as a means of psychological therapy, like Laurie has.

I’m concerned about her, though. She has become brooding and withdrawn lately. There is a permanent grieving, morose look on her face. She seldom smiles, wears the constant air of someone who has allowed herself to be weighed down and addled by everything that’s going on around her.

I want her to be a happy, balanced, well-rounded person; I want her to be popular and do well in school. I want her to, when she grows up and finishes her education, have a good job, a successful career, and a fulfilling family life. I want her to meet, fall in love with, and marry someone who cares for her. But sometimes I find myself wondering if she’ll succeed in attaining these things. Maybe she will find her true calling, her raison d’etre, in college. Although, with her grades being what they are, I don’t know if she will be able to get into a decent one. Two years at a community college or a lesser campus of the University of Texas system might be on the cards for her. Which isn’t such a bad thing in and of itself - given the fact that I can’t afford the cost of an elite college anyway.

Thank heavens I don’t have too much to worry about with my son. In certain ways he’s the exact opposite of Jenny. He makes friends easily and has an active social life. He is loved by his teachers as much for his intelligence as his helpful nature and good behavior. He’s witty and talkative with an irreverent streak of humor, particularly around his peers. His conversations with them (from what I have overheard) are replete with laughter and jokes and light-hearted put-downs. (He’s not as forthcoming or gregarious with Laurie and me; sometimes he can be as taciturn and brusque as his sister.)

I know he will get into a good college. His GPA merits that. His involvement in extracurricular activities (clubs, community service, Student Council) merit that. He scored close to 2100 on his SAT’s. He is currently in process of applying to the universities he wants to attend and should know where he will be going in a few months – and I have to ensure I have the cash available to support him as needed. (I’m hoping he will qualify for a scholarship which will cover part of the expenses.)

My guess is he will sail through life without too much fuss or bother (barring disease, disability, or some other stroke of misfortune). He will find a pretty wife, enjoy a reasonably smooth married life, will be a responsible, if somewhat uninterested, father.

His career goals are unclear at the moment. He is handy with technology, is good at setting up wireless networks, changing disk drives on his computer and cleaning our PC’s of the various viruses and malware programs my wife and daughter keep downloading from the internet. I think he will gravitate toward computer engineering or telecommunications, perhaps specializing in hardware and network management.

But I could be wrong. For all I know he will choose to major in Literature and Philosophy and end up teaching creative writing in some small, private, liberal arts school on the East Coast.

I will admit that I’m not good at reading my son, or my daughter, or anyone else for that matter. Including, especially, my wife. People are a puzzle for me. No matter how well I know them (or think I do) I can never figure out what makes them tick, how to get through to them. I can never unravel their motives; their needs and desires are a compete mystery to me. I’m often wrong-footed when I try to connect with them, am apt say the wrong thing at the wrong time. My EQ, I’ve been told, is low.

But this much I do know: my family no longer thinks much of me. I’m not a big source of inspiration to them; I’m not someone they can look up to as a role model, or rely on for personal advice and emotional succor. (If one of them wins an Academy Award or the Nobel Prize, I doubt they will mention me even in passing during their acceptance speech.) I’m certain they don’t feel close to me.

There’s a part of me that craves that closeness. What father doesn’t want to be the lodestar of their kids’ lives? But the truth is I couldn’t do it if I tried. The effort has become too much for me. It takes an intense coaxing of raw willpower on my part these days just to engage them in the most routine and trivial of banter. Being constantly present in and attentive to their daily lives, hanging on every word they have to say, spending protracted periods of time in their company would be an almost herculean feat of conviction and commitment. Not least because of the fact that they are just not interested in seeking this sort of association with me to begin with. (The last time we went out together as a family was two years ago – to watch a movie, which required minimal interaction and was, as such, a relatively painless exercise, although there were moments, especially when I tried to engage them in small talk before the movie started and was roundly rebuffed, that I did wonder what in the world I was doing there.)

But I somehow manage to fumble and cheat my way through the tricky, enigmatic web of my family obligations, hoping against hope that they won’t see through my act. I pretend, with as straight a face as I can maintain, that I understand their emotional compulsions and needs, am dedicated to the realization of all their dreams and hopes, that I’m there for them, hovering watchfully on the sidelines like a zealous coach, at the ready to dispense pearls of wisdom, or to catch them if they fall, while secretly I wish they would all just get on with their lives, and leave me alone to grapple with my own.

I wish I had the strength of mind and body to be all I once wanted to be.

I wish I didn’t feel so damn old.

Chapter Two

The company I work for is in the retail energy business. Energy retailers are the little-understood, and at times, much-maligned, off-springs of the ethos of free market economics and privatization which swept across the nation in the ‘80’s and ‘90’s. A consensus had arisen amongst the country’s policy makers of the time that regulated, monopolistic industries like telecom, airlines and energy had become too staid and complacent to be efficient. They fleeced consumers and were coddled by local politicians because of their market power. There was no incentive for them to innovate. Thus began the process of opening up these perceived paragons of socialized central planning to forces of competition and consumer choice – with the expectation that the once plodding, inefficient behemoths would either transform themselves into nimble, progressive, forward looking corporate gazelles, or perish in the face of the challenges posed by savvy, upstart entrepreneurs armed with superior technical and managerial know-how.

My company came into being some ten odd years ago to take advantage of this very opportunity (energy deregulation was implemented in Texas in 2002). It was founded by a couple of smart and brash men of considerable verve and vigor, who weren’t afraid to jump into the hitherto unchartered waters of a brand new industry. Texas has a proud history of producing ballsy, trailblazing entrepreneurs who have shaped the economic, social and political landscape of the state – and in some instances, the entire country - through the sheer power of their visions, wills and, of course, egos. Our founders are cut from the same cloth (or believe that they are, and carry on as such). And they’ve certainly given the former monopolistic behemoths in the Texas energy industry a run for their money.

There is a creation myth behind all start-up companies and ours goes something like this: the Founders were once young, ambitious executives working for a large, soulless energy company, which had no interest in the Founders’ fresh and tantalizing ideas. With the inevitable result that they grew tired of being constantly short-shrifted by their superiors and decided to start their own venture. They raised $500,000 from a combination of personal and friends and family funds and launched a retail energy company from a small one-room office in a run-down building on the outskirts of downtown Houston. They were at the right place, at the right time and had just the right mix of connections, experience and chutzpah to make a go of the business. Which took off straight away and hasn’t stopped growing since. We now have over 100 employees, hundreds of thousands of customers across Texas and a revenue base which is comfortably in the hundreds of millions of dollars. Our goal is to reach $500 million in sales in two years, and I have no doubt we will get there.

My job at the company is unexciting and monotonous but important nonetheless. I manage Operations, which means I have to oversee bland and tedious every-day tasks such as billing, customer service and collections. It’s a job which is, by its very nature, thankless. When everything is humming along like a well-oiled machine it’s taken for granted that it should and I get no accolades, but when something goes wrong, the machine sputters, misfires, or belches, or breaks down temporarily, everyone throws their hands up in despair and opprobrium and turn on me as if I were a common criminal. Every once in a while (if the machinery experiences a malfunction which has dire monetary or regulatory consequences or involves a VIP customer) I am publicly dragged into the Founders’ office suite and subjected to a sobering lecture on attention to detail, commitment to quality and timeliness and primacy of customer care. On these occasions it is deemed incumbent upon me to act remorseful, contrite, show willingness to own up to my mistakes and aver to being more vigilant and (if specifically asked to) offer some ideas on how similar situations can be avoided in the future. (Usually these ideas are summarily forgotten or dismissed the moment I leave the room.)

I wish I had a better boss. It would make my job a little more pleasant.

The guy I report to, Rudy Taylor, is anything but pleasant. He exudes the persona (either genuine or manufactured, is hard to tell), of the mythological Texan: gruff, rugged, an unwavering proponent of straight talk, practicality, and good old fashioned horse sense. What he is in reality is a monomaniacal, petty-minded jerk who takes enormous pleasure in throwing his weight around and evoking fear, uncertainty and doubt in the minds of those who work for him. He likes to think he is tough and fair-minded, but is just plain mean most of the time. His biggest kick is to watch people grovel and kiss his ass and sing his praises while he magnanimously deigns to dispense small, grudging dozes of recognition and rewards upon those he wants to.

His official title is VP of Operations and he reports to one of the Founders. (The Founders’ titles, by the way, are Chairman and CEO, and President and COO respectively; Rudy reports to the latter of the two). He manages up very well, so the Founders think of him as the best thing to come out of Texas since chicken fried steak (it’s an apt comparison because I like chicken fried steak about as much as I like Rudy).

I’m not looking forward to my meeting with Rudy today. For one thing, it’s just him and me, mano a mano. There will be no buffer between us. No respite from his laser-focused malevolence. I have yet to have a meeting with him which didn’t eventually become confrontational, rancorous or manipulative (even if it started well). Worse, irrespective of the validity of his position, he always gets his way, because he is a bully.

There can be two possible subjects for today’s meeting. One, it could be a routine dressing down about some arcane operational or personnel issue in the department: something has gone awry somewhere, a malfunction or snafu has taken place, or he has caught some error or observed or sniffed out some small measure of independent thought or action within the team and is ticked off about it. (He is suspicious of employees who display initiative and individualism, and singles them out as potential threats against his authority. He hates it when managers in other groups praise his people for things they’ve done without him knowing about them ahead of time. Just last week Accounting needed some help with data entry – they had implemented a new accounting software and had to key in a lot of information which could not be migrated automatically from the old system. I had volunteered someone in my Account Receivables team to help them out. I had failed to inform Rudy – mainly because it was such a minor matter. Or so I thought. When Rudy found out what I’d done, he proceeded to ‘rip me a new one’, to use a popular phrase for describing such incidents. His reasoning: he wanted the request to be raised through proper channels, from the head of Accounting to him, and from him, if he approved, to me.)

The second possibility is more vexing. I hope to heaven that’s not the reason why he’s called the meeting.

There is a position open in the Sales and Marketing Department. Our Director of Business Development resigned a month ago to go work for another company and his spot is still vacant. Even though it would be a lateral move for me, I would like to throw my hat in the ring for that role. I’m tired of working for Rudy and I’m bored with my current job. I’ve been doing the same thing for six years now, without any promotions, significant pay raises or other perks coming my way. Even though I’ve never worked in Sales, I feel I have enough of a grasp on the industry in general and our business in particular to help develop new strategies, new channels and new partnerships to grow our business. I did not mention this to Rudy. I went straight to Paul Jones, the VP of Sales and Marketing, and told him if he felt I’d be a good fit for his group I’d be interested in applying.

I haven’t officially applied yet for the job, mind you. I have only spoken to Paul – in confidence. But if somehow Rudy has gotten wind of my intention to bail out on him, I’m in big trouble. He may see it as disloyalty on my part, an indictment of his leadership, a resounding slap in the face after everything he has done for me. Not to mention, a threat to his authority.

I’m thankful for the heavy traffic on the highway – a permanent fixture of the Houston lifestyle. Rush hours turn freeways into sprawling parking lots, and that’s the case today as well, with cars rolling and stopping, moving bumper to bumper, speeds barely topping 30 mph. I pass an electronic sign that informs me it will take 45 minutes to get from where I am presently (on Highway 59 & Dairy Ashford, heading North East out of Sugar Land) to our mid-town office located near the Galleria area, off of Westheimer Road, one of the city’s main thoroughfares. I’m glad I have a little time to re-group, get myself mentally ready for the inevitable strain that accompanies any encounter with Rudy.

Our offices are on the top level of a five story building on a street called St. James Place. It’s tucked among a long row of other office buildings, all of similar character, which, predominantly, constitutes a sort of enervating colorlessness. (The street itself is one of the more sleepy and quaint ones, by Houston standards; unfortunately that, in and of itself, isn’t saying much.) In our building, the front lobby is small, indecorous and plebeian. The floor is of faux marble tiles, and more than a little worse for the wear. The walls are bland and bare, in dire need of a fresh coat of paint or two. The lobby’s main feature is the twin-elevator shaft, where, at this hour of the morning, hapless occupants of the building mill about impatiently, gawking at their smart phones, grunting muted hello’s to coworkers, averting eye contact with others they don’t know, as they wait for a ride up to their offices.

That is precisely what I’m doing right now.

It’s five minutes to nine and I’m getting antsy. Rudy doesn’t like it when people are late to his meetings. Even though he himself is always late to those he is invited to and never apologizes. (Perhaps it’s another one of the many ways he tries to project his importance, to show how many demands he has on his time. In reality he is rarely busy, unless there is an Executive meeting or a Board presentation he has to participate in, or if he has to deal with some sort of emergency, which happens rarely and when it does, he doesn’t really do anything himself and asks me and my team to clean up the friggin’ mess.)

The elevator arrives and the waiting throng steps forward expectantly. It’s a tight fit, but all of us are able to squeeze in as the doors shut. The smell of various perfumes, hair products and body odors begins to accumulate and congeal in the cramped air around us as we make our way up. We stop at every floor, and as people egress, they mumble excuse me, sorry, coming through as they twist and weave past fellow passengers.

My floor can’t arrive fast enough and I bolt out when it does, making a bee-line to my office, taking a couple of deep breaths along the way to shake the lingering effects of all the different odors from my senses.

I breeze past the receptionist, Penny, a harried, shrewish, slightly overweight woman of non-descript age who has no discernible