Brushes with Life: A Checkered Journey

By Boyd Russell

Is a person’s essence shaped by self-determination and direction, or is it the blending of the persons, places, and events that shape the whole? In Brushes with Life: A Checkered Journey, we are permitted to stand at the side of Shaun McKenzie’s journey as it weaves its way through the fabric of his existence. We share the footsteps

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stratton Press
• Release date: Aug 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643457116

Book preview

Acknowledgments

My special thanks to each and every person who contributed to this novel. Every comment, no matter how slight, pushed me one step closer to completion. For better or worse, you helped make it what it is. I would name you all, but the list is too long and I would regret omitting even one of you.

Added appreciation to the staff at Stratton Press Publishing. The successful reformatting of a manuscript requires the pushing and pulling of a dedicated team of professionals against the oft times emotional views of the author. The team at Stratton Press Publishing accomplished this with courtesy, consideration, and expertise. I can’t imagine completing this task without them.

Chapter One

Shaun stood on the beach, toweling off his body bronzed and defined from many such days. Standing beside him his surfboard, a monolith protruding from the sand. Behind him the sun, an orange ball, its bottom edge resting on the horizon. Surrounding him were the remnants of the midday crowds. A diminished group of worshippers extracting the last delights from a day at the shore. To his left, half covered by a beach towel, lovers exploring their mutual proximity. To his right an older couple, he asleep in a lounge chair dreaming of his next business coup and she, wearing oversized sunglasses and hat, carefully marking her answers to the latest compatibility test. Before him at the water’s edge, a mother and child excavating for the next pyramid, and up and down the beach, scattered enclaves frolicking with themselves and the environment.

He’d spent the past two hours trying to think like a wave. The challenge—choose an incoming wave meeting the desired parameters, position himself so that with the fewest of strokes, his speed, and intent would match that of the rising mound, stand, slide down the face, turn his board parallel to the wall, initiate the mechanics of placement—each maneuver meant to position him a heartbeat ahead of the closing curl—and finally, having expended their mutual energy, pull out and do it all over again. This search for the perfect ride was an inherently unattainable goal—a moving target in and of itself, raising the bar with each new accomplishment.

Most surfers would describe the endeavor in terms of its thrills. To Shaun, however, it was a contemporary form of combat—requiring the delicate coordination of mind and body against one of Mother Nature’s apostles. Mistakes were punished—mentally by assaults on the ego, physically by sudden and forced collisions with objects harder than oneself. When man and wave were in tune, this singular adventure, marked by its individuality and ethereal plane, defied definition—and understanding could only be shared with like-minded combatants.

It was still comfortably warm and a soft breeze caressed his skin. He stood, squeezing the sand between his toes, content with himself and this place in time. As he bent forward to towel his leg, a sound…a movement…a wisp…? Something misplaced. A wounded moment.

He paused, but nothing distinguished itself. He continued drying, switching to the other leg.

There it was again, hiding behind the obvious…but what? He came to attention. He scanned the beach, then the border between ocean and sky. Unconsciously his senses coiled to a heightened level of readiness and reception.

A single word, weak and barely audible, slipped between the seaside clatter, Help!

But where? His senses strained for convergence. His eyes searching where his ears told him to look.

Finally, his eyes and ears met…confluence!

Beyond the outside breakers, maybe two hundred yards, two objects floated. He squinted, demanding focus. Heads marking two unseen bodies, bobbing up and down—a man and a woman. Were they embracing? Engaged in playful love games? Their shrill emissions lacked the resonance of pleasure. They were instead undercut by urgency and need. The woman’s head went under. The man pulled her up. She appeared to cling to him desperately…pleadingly.

Somewhere in Shaun’s brain, purpose met action—the trigger pulled and he ignited. In one fluid motion, he dropped his towel, captured his surfboard in both hands, and launched himself toward the sea.

I’m going to feel very stupid if I’m wrong!

He raced toward the water, dodging a couple walking the water’s edge. He shouted as he passed, Get help!

Startled by Shaun’s verbal intrusion, their heads snapped in his direction, and a loud voice questioned his fleeting back, What?

Using energy borrowed from his forward motion, he bellowed over his shoulder, GET HELP!

Had there been a reply? If so, it had fallen somewhere behind him.

Entering the ocean against a breaking wave is like running into the Broncos’ defensive line. Without split second adjustments to your intended path, you are not moving forward!

Carrying his board like a shield, he hurled himself over the shore break, clearing the top by calculated inches and skimming the surface on the far side.

He had barely touched down when his hands buried deep in the water and completed their first powerful stroke. Three more strokes and he glided up, then over the next ridge. Having secured a momentary breather, he assessed the remaining barriers—time and distance. They were symbiotic; shorten one and you shortened the other.

He resisted the urge to paddle hurriedly, choosing instead long smooth motion. With few exceptions, form invariably wins the argument with exertion and haste.

As he crested each arriving swell, his view of the couple sharpened. With each new sighting, his original assumption was reinforced. They were hanging by a thread, and it was unraveling at a lethal rate.

There was a sandbar one hundred yards from shore. Waves striking its outside edge were bunched into growing walls of turquoise. Stretched to full height, they could no longer support their own weight and crashed punishingly down upon the underwater plateau.

The next wave that broke, the largest he’d seen all day, churned its white water toward him. He slid forward to the nose, pulled himself to a sitting position, and wrapped his legs around the rails. Then with practiced efficiency, he placed both hands on the tip and pushed down…hard! This maneuver stalled his momentum, sinking him and his platform under the onrushing rampart.

There was a roar from overhead as the seawater boiled harmlessly by. Bobbing to the surface, Shaun dropped to his stomach and revisited his time-distance paradox. As his hands sunk deep in the water, a notion of The Quick and the Dead square danced down his spine.

He dug desperately to beat the curl forming before him. With more will than effort, he pulled himself over the top, and it broke harmlessly across his ankles.

Victories, no matter how small, produce bursts of euphoria. These bursts, no matter how tiny, are accompanied, more often than not, by decompression and a loss of attention.

Shaun’s head rested on the face of his board, and his arms drooped wearily in the water beside him. He inhaled deeply, but it caught in his throat, gagged by his lapse in judgment and his self-absorption. You can rest when this is over! For punctuation, he banged his forehead on the fiberglass facing.

Refocused, he looked ahead. To his relieved surprise, they were only fifty feet away. He plowed at the water again, but his arms and lungs burned in response. His two-plus hours of surfing, combined with this express trip, was seeking retribution.

He reached inside…but the tank was empty. He reached deeper…the gauge fluttered. Finally purpose and determination, riding the back of adrenaline, nudged the needle forward!

Reserves rebuilding, Shaun paddled the remaining yards.

The woman, a limp imitation of a human being, was the color of aged slate. Her pupils, no longer willing to watch, had hidden somewhere behind her eyelids while her head, barely attached to her neck, flopped aimlessly from side to side. Adding insult to injury, the passing wavelets slapped lazily at her face.

Shaun had seen death—not firsthand, but one station removed. Years before, he lost his father and, as a teenage boy, peered hesitantly into the open casket. But viewing a mortician’s model of the original had little relation to reality. This on the other hand was real. She was the face of death. Draped around her shoulders, like a black silk shroud, was the Grim Reaper. He whispered temptingly in her ear—his words coming as wisps of polar desolation. Shaun shook himself in a vain attempt to nullify the wraith.

The man, or what had been a man, stared forward blankly.

He was gripping her by the armpit and holding her, with limited success, above the waterline. His control of himself and his surroundings had, long since, been lost to this effort. He had been reduced to a single act of existence—keeping her alive. Without that mission, he would simply cease to be. They were now interchangeable—where she went, he was compelled to follow.

Shaun paled in the face of this total and complete selflessness. Mountains were moved with less. His own endeavor shrunk against the one being displayed before him.

A newspaper headline ticker taped across his eyes: Inept Rescue Attempt Drowns Swimmers!

He pulled alongside the couple, slid off his board, and asked, Are you okay? Can you make it?

The answer…an empty stare.

Exactly what we both need from me…meaningless questions!

Shaun shouted, Can you hear me?

Still nothing.

Cooperation would be in short supply. Shaun chose tyranny instead.

He grabbed the man’s free hand and clamped it to the edge of the surfboard. He slipped behind the woman and pushed her arm, head, and shoulders up on the board. He then demanded, I can’t do this alone!

The man’s head slowly turned and their eyes met. His reply tumbled forward in slow motion, What?

Shaun nodded at the woman, If I hold the board still, can you push her on facedown?

His dazed response, I’ll try.

Shaun secured the board with both hands. The man forced her onto the platform, but she was on her back!

No, on her stomach! I wanted her on—with no one else listening, he finished, murmuring to himself—her stomach so the water she swallowed can drain out of her.

Frustration blanketed Shaun. The broken shell before him was its own statement. He rebuked himself in silence.

Shaun swung the three of them toward shore, voicing aloud his hastily chosen strategy, I want you to lie on top of her.

He began inching the man into place. That’s far enough. You need weight near the tail to keep the nose up. Now I’m going to paddle us toward the break line. When the time is right, I’m going to push you off. Ride in as far as you can.

Shaun could see the cavalry gathering. People were splashing toward them and yelling excitedly among themselves.

There’s help waiting for you on the other side of the break. When you get in, send someone back for me. Do you understand?

A vacant lot gazed back.

I can’t send them in alone.

What he needed was a different plan. Plan B would do. Great, what the hell is Plan B?

Whatever it was, he’d better come up with it fast. The woman was moaning. Her mournful announcements echoed surrender.

Necessity is the mother of invention—or in this case…urgency was. Plan B would be the next wave!

The oversized swell building over his shoulder forced a minor modification to the now famous Plan B…he was going with them!

I can’t send them in alone.

Shaun knew what became of uncontrolled surfboards in the turbulence of crashing waves. They were high-speed bludgeons—and he’d seen the broken arms, legs, and worse to prove it! Besides, he chuckled nervously to himself, we’ve come this far together.

Deliverance towered behind them. Shaun reached under the board and grabbed its fin. The wave crested at eight feet. It picked them up like dolls, ripped the skeg from Shaun’s hands, and drove bodies, board, and hope to the bottom. In the ensuing somersault, he was struck in the side by some unidentified object. The stabbing pain that followed served as reminder of the frailty of their situation. He prayed he hadn’t made the wrong decision.

The tsunami drove on, reluctantly releasing its hold on him. His head cleared the surface and he searched…

To his left, ten yards in front of him, was his floating board.

To his right, the man was floundering but slowly gaining control. He was not more than a few yards from two swimmers reaching to claim him.

His heart stopped as he swiveled in quest of the woman.

She’d been under too long! Time paused as failure suspended his breathing—but then just as quickly, the universe moved.

There to his left, her head and shoulders breached. She gyrated convulsively in the foam and aftermath, alternating between fitful coughing and regurgitation of saltwater. Before she could submerge, an arriving lifeguard hugged her to him and held her firmly in protective custody.

As the three attendants brought the man and woman together in the waist-deep water, two more rescuers arrived to assist, and the group headed toward shore.

It’s difficult going from savior to afterthought in the blink of an eye! Shaun retrieved his board and begrudgingly relinquished his involvement.

Paddling in, Shaun could see the couple being deposited on the sand and a small group forming. In the moments it took him to reach shore, the small group had grown in size to a mall opening!

He marveled at this pornographic attraction for suffering. Someone had obviously sent out invitations to The Drowning. From Shaun’s perspective, it had become the social event of the season. Few people seemed concerned that steps away, two human beings lay near death. He shrugged disgustedly, wondering when the caterers were going to arrive. He wanted to bellow something about dignity and value of life but was too spent—emotionally and physically—to give their display more than a passing glare.

He turned his back on the obscenity and trudged, board under one arm, toward his belongings. Somewhere in the distance, a siren was wailing, and running toward the horde from the dune line were two police officers.

He half threw, half dropped his surfboard on the sand—unconcerned with the grit that dusted its surface—captured his towel, and began rubbing warmth into his exhausted limbs. He raised suddenly, jolted by a strange thought. He had just helped save—no, had saved—two persons, and he didn’t know their names. He had shared the intimacy of life and death, had placed himself in harm’s way, and hadn’t traded the courtesy of a Nice day. Was this odd or was he odd for thinking it was odd? Or was this just the way it was, no more, no less?

He tried to dismiss this conspiracy of contradiction. After all, what difference did it make? In their condition, they wouldn’t remember his name. Hell, they couldn’t remember their own!

Without his name though, who would they thank? He did deserve thanks…didn’t he?

A stinging sensation on his side intruded. Without looking, he brushed at the annoyance. Were his fingers damp? He pulled his hand lazily to his face. A set of red fingers answered. He lifted his arm and glanced down at the blood trailing into his swimming trunks.

Damn, he muttered as he probed and kneaded the wound. Satisfied it was superficial, he wiped the crimson residue with his towel. The twinge he felt as he scraped the three-inch gash clean opened an equally revealing gash in his understanding.

He joked out loud with an unseen cosmic force, I get it. This is some kind of a character builder…isn’t it. He scanned the lesion. And this soon-to-be scar will be the badge that reminds me every time I forget.

Had all this been part of the grand scheme? An exercise in pride, ego, and vanity—a way of exposing him…to himself? Was the universe really this devious? All of this to teach him that you try for yourself—the reward is in the attempt, in the accomplishment, and not the applause. That you do the right thing for its own sake…nothing more.

He understood the virtue of the act, the higher meaning. That all read well chiseled in the marble of a monument, but right now a part of him wanted credit—someone…anyone, to acknowledge his unselfish act.

He continued this ethical tug of war for several minutes—being saved, just short of schizophrenia, by divine intervention.

Excuse me.

The interjection was so genteel, it fluttered on the edge of existence.

Again, more forcefully, Excuse me!

He turned to find the source. Standing before him, a vision in a well-filled bikini.

I’m one of the people you yelled at as you ran into the water.

Yes, he whispered, there is a God!

With confusion creasing her brow, she said, I beg your pardon?

His cheeks reddened, Nothing… I’m sorry.

Her eyes went to his newly acquired badge of courage. You’re bleeding. Can I do something for that?

His cheeks darkened further, No…thank you. It’s nothing…really.

You’re sure.

Really. It’s nothing.

She smiled, Well, if you’re sure…

The answer he intended got lost somewhere between her eyes and her lips. He stood, mesmerized.

She finally broke the silence with, Are you sure you’re okay?

His heart restarted, Y-y-yes, I’m fine.

Has anyone thanked you for what you did?

Here it was! The reward he deserved. He wanted to puff up what chest he had, raise his head high, and offer a perfect imitation of Tarzan’s call of the wild. But he simply grinned and said, humbly, No.

What you did was very brave. Someone needed to say it.

He nodded acceptance, opened his mouth to speak, but before he could capitalize on his newly attained status, she turned away.

Within three steps, she was met by her companion…her very large companion. He was, obviously, the linebacker for a Big Ten university!

The linebacker smiled down at Shaun, tossed him a thumbs up, put his arm around the centerfold, and escorted her down the beach.

All that remained was the dissolving image of her shapely torso and a joke with himself, I wonder if he knows that’s my girl he’s got his arm around?

This had to be God’s way of making a point. There’d be no grand prize for deeds done well, or not, until his motives and ego were wise enough to deserve it!

He sagged. Character building aside, he still felt cheated.

Board and belongings in hand, he trudged heavily to his car.

Shaun.

His name started him back.

With emphasis, Shaun!

He completed the return.

She fired mock anger, Shaun McKenzie, you’ve lounged around long enough! Now stop daydreaming, get off your wrinkled, middle-aged ass, and mow the lawn!

Yes, dear, he teased back.

You’ve been in that recliner long enough. Every time you get in that damn chair with those headphones on, I lose you. Where did you go this time? And with whom? You had a very contented expression on your face.

I was just thinking about something that happened when I was in college.

She gave him an Oh, sure look as he continued, And, no, it wasn’t like that. Besides—easing away from the subject—what was that crack about my wrinkled ass?

He stuck his tongue out at her.

Her reply was a conspicuously raised middle finger!

He scolded her with a childlike grin, Oh, that was real cute.

She continued jabbing, With all the time you’ve spent sitting lately, it is getting wrinkled. I didn’t say…—as she finished, she leaned over and kissed him on the forehead—I didn’t like it.

He reached around and playfully squeezed her bottom, Okay, you’re off the hook this time.

She straightened, turned, and walked toward the door. As she left the room, she wiggled her buttocks, teasingly. "You got ten minutes. Then I’d better see your baby-smooth behind on that lawnmower."

Yes, Mother.

He stretched the laziness from his frame. In the few moments that remained to himself, he reached back for closure.

The couple had survived…hadn’t they? There’d been no report on the radio or in the newspaper indicating otherwise. He needed to believe they had walked away and lived happily ever after. Otherwise, what was the point?

I wonder where they are today?

Annoyed with himself for opening this door, he clenched his teeth in defeat. The truth was whatever he chose to accept, it could be nothing else!

In that case, he chose to believe they were alive…somewhere.

He left them on the beach, forced by the events of that day, to wrangle with a more personal issue—one that had nagged at him many times since…heroism.

Why did anyone, in the face of imminent danger, proceed? Shaun allowed for certain exceptions—defense, protection of home, loved ones, and those incapable of caring for themselves (children, elderly, and infirmed). His question, however, specifically targeted his own conduct those many years before. Would not a rational being (i.e., himself) evaluate the situation, weigh the peril, and then come to a logical decision? But if he had paused to consider the alternatives, would he have acted? He had ignored any consideration of the consequences and had, instead, responded by reflex. Is that it? Is bravery a reflex? An involuntary reaction that some people are born with and others are not? A gene, passed from generation to generation, waiting to be aroused by training and circumstance?

Are heroes and cowards acting as they must, with no conscious choice in the matter? Each driven by predisposition or genetic code? If this were true, it would rock the foundation of history and our view of the giants who made it.

He shrugged. This made a wonderful debate for a master’s class in philosophy or Darwinism. No matter, its resolution would have to wait for another day. Duty (his wife by another name) was waiting, and any delay would be met with summarily!

He left the den, hitching up his pants and wondering how fast he could finish the lawn. The sooner he did, the sooner he could have a beer. The taste in his mouth marked a comparison between himself and Pavlov’s dogs. He laughed loudly at the parody, I’m easy, offer me a beer and I’ll mow a lawn…any lawn!

Chapter Two

He depressed the numbers on the keypad. This started the dress rehearsal of his pitch. All great actors prepared, and his craft was no different. After all, being a gold-plated business broker meant research and planning—knowing not only the pros and cons of the deal but the pros and cons of the players. The other key element, and this was where his competitors missed it, was anticipation. They worked on having the answers. Wrong! He concentrated on anticipating the questions—all the questions. Answers were easy. If you know the questions in advance, you can always find the answers. How many times in the early years had he gone to a meeting with all the answers only to be crossed up, and left fumbling, by an unexpected question? Enough to realize he had to change his focus or look for other work. It was a subtle distinction, but deals were made and lost for less.

His closings were legendary. His peers had nicknamed him the Dealer. He accepted the nickname for the compliment it was, even basked in its hidden praise, but foremost, he reveled in their jealousy.

What would my competition think if they knew it was their envy that drove me?

The final component of his success was his understanding of the process and his sophistication in manipulating it.

Case in point, the term deal had such a negative connotation. He didn’t make deals—car salesmen and drug peddlers made deals. When quizzed about his unique ability, he would smile knowingly, then jokingly brag, I don’t make deals. I put people and opportunities together—the right people and golden opportunities.

They always laughed at this flip response, but they didn’t get it…they just didn’t get it. That’s what he did—exactly what he did. By the time he was done selling, it was a golden opportunity.

The ringing phone snapped him back. In preparation of the slightest script deviation, he raced through a litany of alternative responses. Before he could finish…Good morning. Ericson Enterprises, enveloped him with a captivating English accent.

Fantasies abounded. He gulped to himself.

Good morning. Ericson Enterprises. May I help you? Still English, still captivating, but this time with impatience.

He stumbled past his imagination, Uh, yes, of course. John Ericson, please.

May I say who is calling?

Jack Downs.

One moment please.

What a voice, launched a spirited effort to match the physique with this very proper timbre. Somewhere between her shoulders and her navel, Jack, John Ericson. Where have you been? I thought you were going to get back to me as soon as you had something interesting to discuss. What’s it been, three weeks?

A slight hesitation to regain his bearings and then, As a matter of fact, it has. You’re obviously counting.

Lucky guess.

Lucky guess, my ass. He’s making a point. Jack tensed. And so it begins. The opening thrust.

I said as soon as I had something worth discussing, I’d call. A couple of things did look promising, but when I broke down the numbers, they dissolved. You know I won’t bring you anything I haven’t pulled apart first.

Opening thrust parried.

John pushed, with an underlying edge, So nothing yet?

Jack stopped, deliberately, and counted to himself slowly. One, two, three… He knew Ericson was loading up to upbraid him for not finding something—preparing to take the misrepresented client stance. That’s exactly what Jack wanted, and the calculated pause was meant to deepen the trap… Four, five…NOW.

Quite the contrary, John, I think I’ve found a very promising opportunity.

Oh? Tell me about it.

The glitch in Ericson’s voice gave him away. Ericson was now regrouping to the interested client stance.

First, let me say, this business, in and of itself, is not the plum. It’s doing quite well, but it’s the concept and its expandability that has the potential.

Go on.

There are four small retail food and gift outlets owned by a guy named Shaun McKenzie. The first is five years old, and the fourth was opened six months ago. They’re located—

Ericson interrupted, What do these things gross a year?

Between five and six hundred thousand each with the promise of—

Ericson cut him short again, Jack, you know I’m not interested in anything this small.

John, bear with me. I told you it’s the long view that has possibilities. Think this through with me, and then if you’re not interested, I’ll can it.

Okay, but make it quick!

It was Jack’s turn to regroup. Ericson had little patience, but Jack deserved more than he was getting. Most deals started with a few salient points—the grabbers—the hook. That piece, or pieces, of information that got someone inching forward in their chair. But if he didn’t get legs under this proposal fast, it was dead—dead before it could take its first breath!

All right, John. This guy is selling apple pie, Mom, and America. I think he’s holding a straight flush, but he’s moving like he has two pairs.

What the hell are you talking about?

Patriotism, John…America.

Jack, you’re stretching my sufferance!

Give me thirty more seconds.

John’s silence said proceed.

The name of these outlets is America’s Kitchen. Basic food, using old family recipes. The gifts are made ‘only in America.’ The stores look like the inside of a colonial kitchen—the meals are prepared by elderly women outfitted in the clothes of the day. You’re served by authentic scullery maids. The signage keeps stressing American-made, American values, Mom is cooking for you. There’s more—Jack paused before wiggling the bait—but my time is up.

John conveniently ignored Jack’s teaser to continue his barrage, Jack, it’s the same old ‘Made in America’ bullshit, and that’s never worked. We’ve never produced products as good or as inexpensive as other countries. Our wage and labor structure won’t permit it.

That’s not true for everything.

Name one.

We lead the world in the quantity and quality of food. And there isn’t a close second.

Irritation blanketed John’s response. "All right, Jack, so the guy makes great tasting cheap food, and he sells overpriced trinkets to the locals. I’m very happy for him, but what’s in it for me?"

Finally, the magic phrase! All business discussions must ultimately boil down to that question. Hell, all discussions, business or otherwise, eventually got to this place. John had finally cut to the chase—and had unknowingly stepped into Jack’s web.

What’s in it for you? What took you so long?

Jack gave his most eloquent imitation of a spider’s smile and then resumed, Well, now that you’ve ask… The up-front investment on his first two stores is paid off, and each is throwing off seventy five thousand dollars a year. His third store is half paid for and throwing off a hundred thousand a year after debt service. The fourth is tracking to make a hundred and twenty-five thousand after debt. Their return is much higher than normal, and there are at least ten other great sites in this state alone. But owning fifteen or twenty stores is not where the real money’s at. The big picture is franchising. If this concept has the appeal I think it does, then at some point you franchise it! Imagine two thousand stores nationally, each averaging six hundred thousand a year and paying a 4 percent royalty to use the name. In addition, you supply most of the food, crafts, retail recipe books, and on and on. Is that big enough for you?

Jack sneered, Gotcha, you son of a bitch!

John’s was a begrudging acceptance, All right, Jack. I must admit you’ve got my attention. Send me your plan and pro forma.

The material will be in the mail tomorrow. I’ll call next week to see what you think?

There was a prove it! tone to John’s goodbye, Next week, Jack.

Jack laid the receiver down and inhaled. His chest muscles said he’d been holding his breath for the last five minutes.

Hello.

Mr. McKenzie, please.

This is he.

Mr. McKenzie, Jack Downs. I’m sorry to call you at home, but we’ve missed each other several times, and the last message I received gave me this number.

It’s all right, Mr. Downs. What can I do for you? By the way, please call me Shaun.

Okay, Shaun. Let me get right to the point. I have an investor who has expressed an interest in your company.

There was a brief delay before Shaun replied, Mr. Downs, I’m flattered, but I have no interest in selling.

Call me Jack, and my client is not interested in buying your business but expanding it.

Jack it is, but like I said—

Before you say anything else, I would ask that you please listen to our proposal. I think you’ll find it intriguing.

I appreciate what you’re saying, but I won’t waste your time with the belief that I’m pursuing this situation when I’m not.

Shaun, it’s our time, and I’ve made it very clear to my investor that we’re forcing the play, not you. Besides, I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised at what we have in mind. Let me send you a package outlining some of our ideas. If it makes sense, we’ll set a meeting and get more specific. If you’re not interested after reading the proposal, I promise there’ll be no further discussion.

Well, Jack, I’d be less than honest if I said I wasn’t curious. Pause. Very well, send me the outline. You have my address?

I sure do. I’ll have something delivered to your office tomorrow. Is a few days enough time to get through the material?

Plenty.

Good. I’ll be back to you on Thursday, and we’ll see if we can go to the next level. Thanks for your time.

Thank you.

Jack’s face glowed as he subliminally checked off item number 2 on his deal agenda, INTEREST BY SECOND PARTY.

He pictured himself in a surgical mask and gown, preparing to make the opening incision in a very delicate operation.

Good morning. Ericson Enterprises.

I hope this moves forward. I’ve got to meet this voice. John Ericson, please.

Whom may I say is calling?

Jack Downs.

Just one moment, Mr. Downs.

A quick cut away and then, Mr. Downs, Mr. Ericson is on a long-distance call. Can you hold for a moment? If not, he’ll call you right back.

I’ll hold, thank you.

Thank you, Mr. Downs.

More damn elevator music. Before Jack could list his objections, Hello, Jack. Sorry to keep you waiting.

Quite all right, John. Well, what did you think of my analysis?

Thorough. Very thorough. It’s obvious you’ve done your homework.

I’m assuming this means we’re a go to the next level?

You assume correctly.

Okay, then I’d recommend we set up a dinner or lunch. Put some of our cards on the table and see how the hand plays out.

Do you know if Shaun McKenzie…it is Shaun McKenzie, isn’t it?

Yes, it is.

Well, is he ready to sit down and talk?

Absolutely, he’s very interested. We just need to set a date to get together.

So I’m stretching the truth a little. McKenzie will jump at the chance to hear Ericson’s offer.

Wednesday a week, one o’clock, my club for lunch. You know Broken Stick Country Club, don’t you?

I sure do.

Do you know how to get there?

Yes, indeed.

Anything else?

I’ll get to McKenzie. Then back to you to confirm. Then we can discuss the specifics and a game plan for our meeting.

That works.

Thanks, John. Talk to you soon.

This is Shaun McKenzie. May I help you?

Shaun, Jack Downs. Took a chance you’d be at this store today.

Hello, Jack. Glad you caught me. I was just leaving.

In that case, I’ll be quick. What did you think of the package?

You certainly think in macro terms.

What else, Jack reflected. Well, there’s more if you’re ready to sit down and talk?

It can’t hurt to listen. When and where?

Great! How about lunch next Wednesday. One o’clock at Broken Stick Country Club?

Wednesday afternoon works. I just had something cancel.

Maybe that’s a good omen.

We’ll see. That’s a very nice club. What’s the dress?

Sport coat and slacks are fine.

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