Malcolm From A Distance

By Edward H. Garnett

Malcolm Merrill is a successful executive at a prestigious advertising firm in Los Angeles. He has a beautiful wife, a gorgeous home, expensive cars, and power at his disposal. In short, Malcolm Merrill seems to exemplify the American dream. So what could possibly possess someone who has it all to attempt suicide? This question is the premise of Malcolm From A Distance, a novel that chronicles the life of a man whose perfect world suddenly crumbles beneath him—a man forced to come to terms with all he sacrificed on his rise to the top: his family, his friends, and his soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 11, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469702162

Edward H. Garnett

Edward H. Garnett has been involved in screenwriting, fiction, and other forms of writing since 1986. Mr. Garnett’s work has been published in magazines such as Haunts and The Write Thing. His short stories have been accepted for publication in Thin Ice, Crossroads, and The Circle magazines. A script he co-authored was optioned for pre-production by an independent film producer. In addition, Mr. Garnett’s original screenplay, The Ties That Bind, was judged to be within the top 6% of the 3,514 scripts submitted to a Nicholl Fellowships in Screenwriting competition. Mr. Garnett resides in Southern California and is currently working on his next novel.

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All Rights Reserved © 2001 by Edward H. Garnett

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

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This book is a work of fiction. All events, names, characters, and places are either inventions of the author or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to places or people, living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 0-595-19842-2

ISBN: 978-1-4697-0216-2 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

This novel is dedicated to my family. Thank you for your assistance, support, and for believing in me as I followed my dream.

Things do not change; we change. Henry David Thoreau

CHAPTER 1

The keys felt good in Malcolm’s hand; in fact, they felt great. The Mercedes dealer stood back and allowed Malcolm to relish the sight of his new 400 SEL—freshly washed and filled with a full tank of gas—as it glistened in the afternoon sun. Joe Hendricks had been a Mercedes Benz dealer for over a decade and always managed to get a kick out of his customers’ euphoric reactions after a purchase. Some customers equated the experience with sex and it was no surprise for Joe to see a new Mercedes owner immediately light up a cigarette.

Is that it? Am I finished? Malcolm asked eagerly. Any other paperwork or anything?

Mr. Merrill, Joe said with a huge smile that showcased a mouthful of perfect, white teeth, this beauty is all yours! Take it and enjoy; you deserve it.

Malcolm nodded in agreement. Yes, I do deserve it, he thought. Originally, he planned to purchase a Mercedes Benz when he turned 50 as a birthday present to himself. Today was his 48th birthday and Malcolm just could not hold out any longer. This way he would have two extra years to enjoy this treasure, at least that was how he rationalized this sizable purchase to himself.

Malcolm carefully sat in the leather driver’s seat and tried to get the feel of his new car. He was almost reluctant to touch anything, as if this $80,000 car was made of crystal and would crack at the slightest bump.

After he, yet again, studied the interior of the car, Malcolm took a deep breath and fully enjoyed the smell of his new Mercedes. Finally, with a little hesitation, he turned the ignition key and was greeted with the perfect purr of this finely-tuned automobile. Satisfied, Malcolm shut off the engine and stepped out of the car.

Pleasure to do business with you, sir, Joe said, reaching over to shake Malcolm’s hand. You made a very wise purchase.

God, I hope so. This is almost a year’s pay.

Joe handed Malcolm a business card, and then started to walk back to the showroom. As he turned to look back, he could see Malcolm light up a cigarette and take a long, satisfying drag; Joe grinned, noting another customer true to form.

Malcolm pulled out of the dealership, lowered the windows, and felt the cool ocean breeze on his face. He had traveled all the way to the coast to make this purchase. After all, Joe Hendricks came recommended by several high-level executives from Davidson & Gentry, the advertising agency where Malcolm was employed. Although he had originally considered other dealerships that were closer to his home, Malcolm felt that—as the firm’s creative director—it was necessary for him to follow suit with his contemporaries. Somehow the acquisition appeared more legitimate this way.

The Mercedes rolled to a perfect stop at a four-way intersection leading onto the Pacific Coast Highway. Malcolm removed a pair of prescription sunglasses from his shirt pocket and switched them with his regular eyewear. He glanced at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Not bad, he thought, for an old man. Actually he liked the way he looked behind the wheel of his new car. Though not handsome in any classic sense, Malcolm possessed a well-chiseled face with silver sideburns that blended nicely into wavy, brown hair. A scattering of gray streaks gave him a sophisticated look that pleased him; at 48 years old, a man should look distinguished, he was fond of saying. Malcolm often used this criteria to describe the character lines forming around his eyes and forehead, but Joanne, always the pragmatist, simply called them what they were: wrinkles.

It seemed awkward for his wife not to be with him at this momentous occasion, yet a business opportunity had presented itself and Joanne felt compelled to follow through. The downturn in the real estate market had taken a rough toll on all Southern California agents, thus any chance she had to show a house to prospective buyers was welcomed with open arms. As for the present situation, some things in life, like the purchase of a Mercedes Benz, were somewhat existential in nature and deserved to be treated accordingly. Malcolm was truly enjoying the moment, especially the looks of envy he was getting from his fellow motorists. Yes, life was good.

After several miles on the P.C.H., Malcolm took a slight detour and headed toward the ocean for a quick walk on the beach. Unfortunately, a glimpse of the Pacific was all he got because the beach was packed to capacity with the usual summer fare: the ever-tanned hunks, showing off their muscular forms on the volleyball court; the bikini-clad beauties, soaking up far too many ultra-violet rays, as they lay statuesque in the sand; and, of course the kids, lots of kids, running to and fro in an attempt to seek out the perfect patch of earth for a sand castle or the best wave for boogie boarding. Although slightly disappointed, Malcolm really should have expected this mass of humanity; after all, it was a Saturday afternoon in July.

Malcolm’s detour was enough to remind him how badly he missed the ocean. The beach was 50 miles from his home in Acacia Hills, roughly the same distance it takes to reach the office of Davidson & Gentry in Century City; however, the trek into the Los Angeles area continued to dominate his time, while the pleasures of the coast were continually put off. He flashed back to the days when late dinners at seaside restaurants were commonplace. Such dinners were followed by an evening stroll along the beach with Joanne who, being slightly chilled by the misty air, pressed tightly against him as they watched the lights of distant ships glimmering against the waves. Malcolm wondered how the priorities of life could get so perverse, how people could knowingly allow the glory of nature to be sidestepped by deadlines and commitments. In an attempt to keep from getting too philosophical, Malcolm removed the new jazz compact disk he bought just for this occasion and relished in the exceptional sound quality emitting from the stereo. As he merged onto the freeway, Malcolm realized that, as a new Mercedes owner, he should expect nothing less.

Due to a multiple-car accident—an accident further complicated by spectator slowing on both sides of the freeway—Malcolm arrived home 40 minutes later than he expected. Also adding to his frustration was the fact that he had not been able to use his cruise control, for traffic rarely got up to a cruising speed above 30 miles an hour. These events seemed trivial when Malcolm got a glimpse of Joanne’s smiling face as she jogged out the door to greet him. In her cut-off jeans and tee shirt, Joanne looked more like a sorority girl than his wife of 25 years.

It’s gorgeous, honey, she said, her eyes wide with excitement. I really didn’t expect it to be so…perfect!

Malcolm stepped out of the car and Joanne gave him a hug. I’m so happy for you, she said. It’s like a dream come true.

He took her hand and gave her the grand tour: engine, trunk, interior, exterior, tires, stereo—the works. Joanne was hardly a car buff, but she was amused by his enthusiasm, and Malcolm’s demeanor was a nice contrast to the tension he expelled during his most recent ad campaign, a multi-million dollar account for WestCoast Airlines, when he was so distant that Joanne often forgot she had a husband at all. But that episode was over, her husband had treated himself to a stunning new car and, starting tomorrow, they were both on a week’s vacation, a well-needed rest to culminate with a trip to Las Vegas the following weekend with their closest friends, Brooke and Stephen Dreyfuss, to celebrate Malcolm’s birthday.

So, Joanne said coyly, do you think you’ll keep it?

I guess it will be all right for awhile, until something else catches my fancy.

She grinned. Well, I’m sure they’d return your Cadillac if you asked them to.

Not a chance.

Or I can keep the Mercedes and you could drive my Volvo.

Before Malcolm could reply, his attention shifted toward the house where a loud howl flowed from the living room. Within seconds, the screen door flew open as Malcolm’s eighteen-year-old son, Jason, stood in a somewhat hypnotic trance, obviously imagining himself behind the wheel on a Friday night.

Oh my God! It’s awesome! I’ll get laid in this for sure.

Joanne glared at her son.

Sorry, Mom, Jason said as he approached the car. I just didn’t think Dad had it in him.

Malcolm playfully placed his arm around his son’s neck, putting Jason in a wrestling headlock. And what’s that supposed to mean?

Nothing, Jason replied, struggling to break free. It’s just that, well, with you being so old and stuff, it just seems like a waste of machinery.

A waste of machinery?

Look, Dad, can’t you just picture me, cruising along with a car full of babes who think I’m a rich stud? I’d be the envy of everyone I know. You’ll just drive it to work, then drive it home, then drive it to work, then drive it home. This fine car will die of boredom.

Joanne laughed. Well, he does have a point.

You too?

Malcolm released his grip on Jason, who promptly fell to his knees and started to gasp in mock exaggeration. I guess…I’ll…just have to sue for child abuse. I’ll be awarded this baby for sure.

Perhaps, if you don’t mind living in it, Malcolm said, pausing to see if his son understood this threatening logic.

Jason nodded, knowing that arguing was futile. Okay, so how about a ride?

Malcolm jingled his car keys. I thought you’d never ask.

Cool. But I gotta’ use the head first, Jason said as he ran toward the house.

Malcolm took Joanne in his arms and together they watched Jason disappear inside their home.

He’s your son, you know, Malcolm said.

Joanne smiled. I know; but he learned all his bad habits from you.

From within the house they could hear a faint ringing and both groaned in unison, hoping the call was not for either one of them. Before they could verbalize their thoughts, Jason yelled out the window: Daaaaad! It’s for you. Sounds important.

Joanne refused to relinquish her embrace and maintained her hold on Malcolm. After several seconds, she reluctantly let her husband break away to answer the phone. Folding her arms across her chest, Joanne sighed as she watched him walk across the lawn.

As the afternoon unfolded, Malcolm managed to take a long drive in his new vehicle; however, this drive was a solitary one—a drive, not to the local mountains or Palm Springs with his wife and son, but rather to Century City en route to his place of employment: Davidson & Gentry Advertising.

Being the weekend, the traffic into Los Angeles was congested but tolerable, and Malcolm was thankful for the reprieve from the normal grind of motorists and their daring maneuvers during bumper-tobumper traffic, antics that could unnerve even test pilots and stunt drivers. It felt good to cruise and Malcolm took a little extra time to notice the eclectic array of buildings, businesses, and restaurants he generally overlooked from his freeway vantage point during his travels. Actually, in a latent way, he enjoyed the serenity of the drive, for he anticipated the tone of his wife’s attitude upon his return later that evening, especially since his business dealings had already disrupted, and dominated, their lives for the last few months. In fact, his family’s daily routine was in a constant state of flux, based on Malcolm’s deadlines and overtime schedule. All aspects of life were affected when he was involved in such a project: sleep, food, sex, travel, an entire spectrum of pleasures was reduced to the bare minimum; such luxuries were often nonexistent when he had a large project. Malcolm understood Joanne’s resentment; he shared it, including the added burden of actually doing the work involved.

When he reached Century City, Malcolm pulled off of the freeway and drove through the exclusive portions of West Los Angeles as he approached the office. After all these years, L.A. was still an enigma for him. Somehow this city, even more than the other large cities he had seen, proved to be a dichotomy with vast crevasses separating the inhabitants who encompassed this western mecca. Within the city limits dwelled a cross-section of people from every walk of life: the ultra-rich with limos and mansions in the hills, to street beggars with can-filled shopping carts, who bedded down on park benches or cold concrete and faced the elements inflicted by both man and nature each night. This spectrum of humanity, linked by the arteries of freeways, sometimes forced Malcolm to wonder how his circumstances allowed him to travel on the Avenue of the Stars rather than downtown on Florence or Manchester. Yet, one look at his new automobile solidified what side of the crevasse Malcolm was on and, though it made him feel shallow and hypocritical, he could only hope that fate would allow him to keep things that way.

Malcolm pulled into the underground parking lot and parked next to a silver Jaguar convertible, the only other car in sight. Malcolm turned on his car alarm, then keyed in his personal access code allowing him into the building. The metal door slammed shut behind him and Malcolm was taken aback by the strange echoes that filled the empty parking structure. He quickly got in the elevator and rode to the eighth floor which, combined with the ninth, housed the offices of Davidson & Gentry.

The majority of the executive offices were dark with the exception of a lamp at the receptionist’s desk and a faint illumination coming from beneath the door leading into Jerry Ford’s office. Knowing what to expect, Malcolm stopped by his office and grabbed a thin sweater—Ford had a reputation for liking his surroundings cold, around 64 degrees, and he refused to adjust the thermostat unless clients were scheduled to meet there. The staff learned to either rough it, or keep extra clothing around for these occasions. Malcolm paused in front of Ford’s office, buttoned up his sweater, then he slowly opened the door.

Jerry?

C’mon in, Malcolm. We have a lot to discuss.

The traditional decor of Jerry Ford’s office offered a stark contrast to the contemporary design of the other executive offices. Maybe it was his way of making a statement, or maybe he was just from the old school when such styles were in, but Ford refused to conform to the overall design of the firm, a design worked up by some of the most prestigious interior decorators in Southern California. Thus, 99 percent of the offices, including Malcolm’s, were sanitary and modern, colored with a blend of grays and pastels for a fresh, airy feeling; Ford’s office, on the other hand, was much like stepping into a mountain lodge with dark wood paneling, shaggy green carpet, and overbearing leather chairs that wanted to swallow up each person who sat in them—all that was missing was a moose head and fireplace. Ford’s choice of style, and the mere fact that management allowed him to deviate from the corporate design, was a testimonial to his skill and stature in the industry.

Ford, Vice President of Creative Affairs at Davidson & Gentry, was a heavy-set individual with white curly hair and a bright pink complexion. Although he looked friendly, Ford was a man perceived as cold and aloof in some circles, ruthless in others, and an exceptional ad man by all those who knew him. Yet, the passing years, combined with the grind of advertising, were taking their toll on the 62-year-old ad whiz, and everyone at the firm knew retirement was in Ford’s near future. For Malcolm, Ford’s leaving could mean a major career boost, and a substantial increase in his far-from-meager salary, plus the lucrative perks and bonuses that the entire company knew about but nobody, except for an elite few, would discuss in any detail. Malcolm was hardly alone in this lofty ambition and the in-house fight for Ford’s position could prove to be ugly.

Was a trip to the office really necessary, Jerry? Malcolm asked with a hint of resentment in his voice.

I’m afraid so,Ford replied.Malcolm,we’re faced with a situation that could prove to be either advantageous or disastrous for the company.

Malcolm’s resentment was replaced by curiosity. Go on.

BKO Manufacturing is planning to expand their product line, Ford said, adjusting his trademark suspenders. They’re adding an entire sports clothing line to augment their market share in the athletic footwear realm.

That’s fantastic, when?

Ford walked over to the corner of his office and opened a large wooden door that exposed a mini-bar. Yesterday, he said, removing two glasses and pouring Scotch for Malcolm and himself.

I’ll get Carl Wilcox and Beatrice O’Hearn on it immediately.

Ford took a sip, pausing a moment to savor his drink. Not so fast, Malcolm. BKO is also shopping other agencies. I hear Eastwood-Morgan, Associated Advertising, and Pacific Design all have their noses up Carol Chambers’ ass.

Malcolm rose to his feet. That’s crazy! he cried. I’ve worked with Carol for eight years. She loves the campaigns we’ve designed for her.

Times are changing, Malcolm. BKO wants to expand their market and for the last year it’s been decreasing. Sales are down about 30 percent.

Malcolm strolled toward the window and stared at the panoramic view of Los Angeles. How come I’m just hearing about this now?

Maybe you should’ve had your nose up Carol Chambers’ ass too; maybe you’ve neglected the client’s needs.

That not fair, Jerry, Malcolm said defensively. You know I’m working on five other accounts right now.

Accounts with 75 million dollars in billings?

Well…no.

Ford leaned back in his chair and stared at his protégé. Then I suggest that you get your priorities in order!

Malcolm adjusted his shirt collar, his face flushed with thoughts of the avalanche of trouble the footwear manufacturer’s departure could entail. BKO had been the second largest account at Davidson & Gentry for years; only WestCoast Airlines drew in more billings, topping 100 million dollars last year. Having clients switch agencies is nothing new in the ad game, but this year Malcolm’s firm had lost several established clients. Fortunately, for his sake, Malcolm was able to commandeer a large wine company and an auto manufacturer from the competition to help offset the losses. Even so, BKO was in a different league, a league in which securing such a client could make an ad firm; conversely, losing such a heavy-hitter could just as easily break one.

Maybe their campaign is tired. Ford said. Hell, I don’t know. What I do know is that BKO wants the most for their money and our new ads had better be right on the mark, because if they pull out, it’s both our asses.

Malcolm retook his seat. He was silent, considering the many implications of Ford’s words. Ford would not take the heat for losing BKO alone; he’d look for a scapegoat in which to divert the attention. If the ax were to fall, it would fall on the neck of the creative director; in fact, Malcolm was originally promoted to creative director after Dillon Bergan lost the Steak Haven Restaurant account to Eastman-Morgan years earlier. Malcolm suddenly felt sick and very alone.

I want two creative teams on this, Ford continued. You can use Carl and Beatrice if you like, but I also want Leonard Bolander and Donald Johanson.

Bolander! C’mon, Jerry, you know we don’t work well together. Carl, Beatrice, and I will crank out several distinctive approaches. You’ll see.

Carl’s in a slump and everybody knows it. I know he’s your pal and, because of that fact, I’m willing to give him a shot. I want Bolander, also, Ford said sternly. He’s young, aggressive, and God knows he has the credentials. I think he’ll be moving places in this company and I want him in on this one.

Malcolm nodded that he understood.

Ford placed some files in his briefcase and snapped it shut. I don’t have to tell you how critical this is, do I, Malcolm?

No sir, Malcolm replied as he watched his boss start for the door. Jerry, he said, hesitation in his voice. What happens if they really pull out?

Unfortunately, we’ll have to prepare ourselves for the worst. I’d suggest getting ready for some changes around here. Malcolm was riveted, but he was afraid to question what Jerry Ford knew. Now, make some phone calls, Malcolm; design us a winner.

Before the creative director could respond, Ford was halfway down the hallway. Malcolm gathered his belongings and went to his office, knowing that a long night was ahead of him.

CHAPTER 2

Joanne pulled her car into a tight opening amongst the line of cars parked in front of Brooke Dreyfuss’ house. She sat in the car and checked her watch as she assessed just how late she was to her best friend’s lingerie party. Originally, Joanne was really looking forward to attending; after all, it was all that Brooke had been talking about that week. But Joanne’s frustration toward Malcolm continued to fester throughout the day until she debated missing the party altogether. Deep down, Joanne knew it wasn’t her husband’s fault that he was called into work; yet, she could sense it was all going to begin again and she would, as she had so many times before, become little more than an ornament for Malcolm to place on a shelf while he was swept away by the deluge of work and stress that would soon engulf him. Sure it wasn’t his fault, but it wasn’t hers either, and Joanne was getting tired of being inconvenienced by matters totally out of her control. She decided that a little fun was in order and opted to attend the party and, if possible, overindulge a bit and have a good time.

As she walked toward the porch, Joanne could hear music and laughter coming from inside the house. She rang the bell, then turned her attention to the dying flowers in a ceramic pot near the doorway. Moments later, Brooke opened the door, wearing a very revealing nightgown that exposed her curvaceous body. Brooke held a glass of wine in her hand and appeared to be very tipsy. Joanne, taken aback by the