Reputation

By Barton Jones

Three brothers, Whammy, Zeke and Benny, are becoming adults in the present-day world of miserably unhappy, scheming, badly-coifed, fashion-felon social justice warriors. The boys must protect their reputations and characters in much the same way as Victorian ladies fought to maintain their virtue and honor--albeit without being allowed to faint

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beet Press
• Release date: Nov 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798989234103

Book preview

Reputation

Barton L Jones

Copyright © 2023 Barton L Jones

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

Beet Press—Madison, WI

ISBN: 979-8-9892341-1-0

eBook ISBN: 979-8-9892341-0-3

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023921045

Title: Reputation

Author: Barton L Jones

Digital distribution | 2023

Paperback | 2023

This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real.

Dedication

To: Ted, Nancy, Colette, Melva Lou, Gary and Jennifer.

Special thanks to Dalene Johnson, my editor.

Contents

Reputation

Dedication

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

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

About the Author

Chapter 1

It is a truth universally reviled, that a single woman in possession of a good income, solid investments and nearing thirty or beyond, must be in want of a husband. MINE CRAMPS: Critical Gender Theory for the Fatherless Land, Pg. 207

B

ennet Kruppz, a recent university graduate, ‘Benny’ to his friends was kneeling in the doorway and crouched over another damaged, chestnut floor board in the foyer of his family’s impressively substantial home. The entryway was speckled with boards marked with penciled lines and bits of blue, painter’s tape noting their need of replacement or other substantial repairs. He was currently marking where to carefully cut the last board in need of attention, when a voice from the open front door interrupted his calculations and consideration.

Excuse me! said a female voice from behind him with a significant tone of irritation and a much larger portion of demanded entitled-ness. "I have an appointment with Frederica Belford-Kruppz, and you’re blocking the door!"

Boy! Benny exclaimed as he jumped, scrambling to his feet thereby clearing the doorway. I don’t think she’s here.

By this point he had landed, turned and could now observe his brusque inquisitor. She was closer to stubby than her female companion and might have been pretty, but for her feminist uniform of oddly colored, badly styled, half-shaved and absent-mindedly coifed hair, a surfeit of piercings and her immediately recognizable I-majored-in-gender-studies scowl. Some might have described her coiffure as ‘boyish,’ if they didn’t mind insulting juvenile males everywhere. Her dungarees – actually farmer’s bib-overalls– had artfully worn and torn spots. They also prominently displayed a designer label, even though being a straight knock-off of Oshkosh B’ Gosh’s best. No doubt her clunky, ‘workman’s’ boots had a couture label as well.

Her companion, standing a step behind her, had a more pleasant expression and mien, despite also facing Benny, a blot of patriarchy obstructing the front door. She was willowier in dimensions, albeit without any of the weepy, drooping components common to such trees. She was dressed and coifed in a more traditional feminine fashion, but in that Japanese school-girl comic book style, whose designer had high-fashion and couture pretensions. One expected to see a My Unicorn or Hello, Kittie motif on her modest sized shoulder bag, but it merely screamed Coach with its understated plainness and. taste.

Well, Ihave an appointment with her! announced the overall-clad one as she brushed past Benny and entered the foyer. She gave him a look as if to say ‘what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it,’ since he was clearly a much lesser being, at best a hired minion, who must be associated with the parked, converted deliver truck. The words ‘Floor It’ were painted on the truck’s side with the requisite speed stripes after them, in case anyone was slow to grasp the double entendre.

Are you sure? Benny asked. Because she rarely, almost never, has morning appointments or meetings. He graciously indicated that her companion should also enter.

You seem to know a lot about your employer, came her sharp reply and intended put-down.

Ah—well, I, I— Benny began.

May I be of assistance? Grandpa Kruppz said, as he entered the door. He was carrying an orange, plastic construction bucket half filled with flower and shrub clippings in one gloved hand and his clippers in the other. He, like Benny, was wearing vaguely tan, but sturdy Carhart trousers, which, though freshly laundered, were stained from rough use. Their outfits only differed in the color of their tee-shirts and the knee-pads, which Benny was wearing. I’m Jack Kruppz, and you are—? He was holding out his hand after liberating it from glove and clippers.

I’m, uh—, I’m Rebecca Karon, she replied, except she pronounced her family name ‘Kay-Ron,’ despite her being an undeniable Karen-type, in fact the very model for dictionary illustrations of that belligerent, social justice blister. She looked more than a bit flustered and in awe.

Benny’s Grandpa Jack was a fine-looking man of medium height even while wearing rather scruffy apparel, since he was powerfully built with broad shoulders and well-muscled arms. He looked a bit like one of those slightly dwarfish, Viking fellows, who had made pillaging in and about the Baltic States and Scotland their business model, but in the past century had discovered the much more profitable venue of Wall Street, stocks, bonds and all things financial. He was also somewhat of a ‘big name’ if not an investment community legend, although now mostly retired. Meeting him would be like going to the local karate center for an introductory, one-on-one lesson and finding Chuck Norris filling in as your personal instructor.

I’m sorry, but my daughter-in-law is at an appointment for the next hour at least. Perhaps I could discuss things with you and generally answer your questions? he said in the same way that General Patton and his army would have offered Custer and his troops some modest assistance at Little Big Horn. In truth, he was just living up to his and his daughter-in-law’s motto, as written on the Belford-Kruppz ersatz coat of arms: Numquam discedere auri, which roughly translates to ‘never let the money walk.’

Grandpa Jack led her to their small, discrete elevator. Her friend didn’t follow, but waved her onward. Moments later the two re-appeared on the second-floor balcony. Benny had continued to watch, because lately it seemed to him that his older brother, Whammy, had developed the ability to smell un-invested money on its owners. As expected, Whammy appeared within seconds, and Grandpa Jack introduced him to Ms. Karon.

Ah! This is my grandson, Hamilton Jackson Kruppz, III, our comptroller, Grandpa Jack proudly introduced Whammy with his complete name, position in the family business, and numeral, which for some reason oddly impressed would-be investors. Maybe it was that their numbers guy – accountant, really – came already pre-packaged with his own, personal numeral, and that was somehow re-assuring or immediately inspired outright confidence. Whammy was a youthful version of Grandpa, but with more hair color, and was currently wearing dark slacks, a white shirt and a tie. He had the same shoulders and arms, which were ever so much the sort ready and equal to deftly wielding a battle ax and a war shield or effortlessly hefting five reams of quarterly reports and tax returns, depending on the firm’s current needs. After greeting Ms. Karon and shaking her hand, Whammy escorted them through another door in the manner of a warrior chieftain’s personal guard.

Benny had followed this interaction partly to confirm Whammy’s ability, but also to give his knees and back a bit longer rest. He turned back to his last board.

What are you going to do with these boards – the ones with blue tape? The willowy one asked and pointed to the various boards. What kind of wood are they?

They are American chestnut, which is very hard to find and expensive, when you can find it, Benny began. I’m trying to figure out, if I have enough re-claimed boards to fix or replace all of the damaged ones without making it look like someone trying to cheat at Scrabble. So less scabrous— or Scrabble-ous.

What about that area just inside the door? Every board seems ruined or quite worn. She sat down on a nearby, padded bench.

Yes, that’s the big problem area. I have enough to completely replace all of those, but then nothing left for all the other bad ones. I’m thinking of completely cutting these out and replacing the whole area with a darkish, complimentary tile. Then there’d be enough to fix all the rest of the floor, said Benny, who by now was back on his knees near the doorway. He indicated the extent of the tile portion with his spread arms. He was moderately encouraged by his attractive audience’s interest.

It’s really nice to maintain these old mansions, where one can, she said glancing about room.

At the word ‘mansion,’ Benny realized that he never thought of it as such, merely as ‘home,’ and nothing special at that, since he’d grown up right there and had never known another. He knew all its defects and oddities from the full, stone-walled, concrete floored basement to the fourth floor, former servant’s quarters.

Yes, I suppose so. It is a rather attractive old mausoleum of a barn, isn’t it? Benny said, sitting back on his heels, while looking around and trying to see it for the first time with a newcomer’s eye.

I doubt your employer would appreciate your description of it as a ‘barn’ or a ‘mausoleum, she said frostily, as she abruptly stood up and walked out before Benny could explain.

He shrugged at her prickliness. Third-wave feminists had obviously given up on being pleasant and dispensed with most social graces as being too patriarchal. He went ahead with his measurements. He laid out a cut around the damaged area just inside the door with more blue tape. Then he calculated its total area. He counted up the other boards and checked that against the total of his reclaimed boards. It was just barely enough with a mere five percent overage for mistakes. He would have to be very, very careful with his cuts and fittings.

He noted the time on the hallway clock, which showed him that Ms. Karon and Grandpa Jack would momentarily come out from their conference. So rather than be in her way again and earn the predictably frosty result, he went out and sat in the shade to rest and watch the coming spectacle.

He knew from experience that Grandpa Jack had his introduction to investing, a sales spiel and it’s closing constantly prepped. He could drop his entire 30-minute, prologue to wealth within 30 seconds of a half hour in his sleep. After hearing it, new investors, such as Ms. Karon, often had a bit of a glassy-eyed, dreamy look such as one, who has just been shown a glimpse of a financial paradise, which could be theirs. At least they had been personally introduced to a financial version of the angel Gabriel and thereafter handed over a monumental check. All those Old Testament prophets and patriarchs probably looked the same way after their assorted visions and heavenly revelations and had required carefully watching to guide them around open pits, cliffs, deep wells and other such hazards for an hour or two afterwards. Thus, did Grandpa Jack escort Ms. Karon to her car door. He probably would have opened and held the red, sports coupe’s door for her, but by then her quill-bristling, feminist persona had begun to regain the upper hand.

As her car made its slow turn in the circle drive, Nathan George Belford-Kruppz walked out of the house with two lattes and handed one to Benny. The two young ladies were staring open mouthed at this because Nathan George B-K was instantly recognizable from any number of adventure programs and glossy magazine articles, wherein the intrepid adventurer explored and risked all sorts of extreme danger in exotic, remote locales in 12-minute time-blocks or 2500 words depending on the medium. While he was simply ‘Dad’ to Benny and most often ‘Nat-Geo’ among his brothers and close buddies, to others he was a larger than life, heroic figure totally unsuited to indulgently serving lattes to lazy, young carpenters lounging about in the shade.

Hey! Thanks, Dad, Benny said taking the offered caffeine restorative. Then, indicating with his eyes, he called Nat-Geo’s attention to the two, goggling young ladies: Your public, he half sang.

Nat-Geo raised his latte to the two young ladies in a thankful acknowledgement of being recognized and admired. This caused them to realize they were moving at less than a crawl, while gawking open-mouthed like a couple of rubber-necking rubes.

You didn’t bring me one? asked Grandpa Jack standing with his back to the receding car.

Juanita told me you were out someplace in the underbrush trying to kill the rest of the roses, said Nat-Geo, pointing to the orange bucket and clippers.

Hmph! She may be a good cook and housekeeper, but she doesn’t know anything about gardening!

I take it you’ve picked up another client for our firm, said Benny. He pulled the subject away from Grandpa Jack’s questionable gardening endeavors and back to the more important business matters. Thus, he avoided the never-ending dispute about whether those ‘gardening’ efforts were at all beneficial to flora or fauna. What’s her line that she has money to invest? Heiress?

She’s just gotten an advance for the second edition of her textbook on ‘women’s studies.’ She teaches that at ____. Grandpa Jack named a local college and made a face at ‘women’s studies.’ Apparently her first edition became the standard text. She said she wants to invest with a firm headed by a woman—of all the stupid nonsense—instead of on the basis of solid returns. As if investments care about gender! But with Fredi-Jo at the helm, we seemed to have squeaked over that bar, so far as Ms. Karon is concerned. With that, Grandpa Jack hefted his bucket and resumed his depredations among and against the foliage.

Grandpa Jack was clearly old school enough to be generally courtly to all ladies and totally impatient with the current fad of feminists screaming ‘patriarchy,’ when any of their slightest whims were hindered or impeded from instantaneous gratification. He probably could even have been their poster child for their mythical, all-purpose bogey man, ‘the patriarchy,’ except for the fact that Benny’s mother, Frederica Josephine Belford-Kruppz, was his business partner.

She, Benny’s mother, had arrived at Grandpa Jack’s Wall Street firm from one of the more benighted areas of a southern state as just Fredi-Jo Belford. She began as an under-under-level clerk commensurate with her much-sniffed-at community college associate’s degree in business. She took night classes for three years and completed her bachelor’s, all while avoiding wasting time on dating. As Grandpa claimed, She’d caught the scent of money and instantly understood the thrill of that chase. With her newly minted degree, she gained a slight promotion, from which she began to plot her personal rise and her bank account’s parallel, but exponential growth. She spent most of her lunch hours cruising the halls of the firm getting to know who was what and what they could teach her. Being somewhat of a ‘looker,’ as Grandpa Jack described her when he told the story, didn’t hinder her efforts at all.

Fredi-Jo at a mere 5’9" was the runt of her family. But where most of them had gotten substantially greater height and breadth, she’d taken all the looks of her family and a larger share of the brains, or so they claimed. All of these talents and a lot of hard work she put to good use towards her intended career. Several of the juniors, who had immediately taken notice of her, began to orbit her desk. A few even got a dinner date, but they were chagrined when such social occasions were more like an oral exam about their investment philosophy and most recent stock picks. She had often done significant research on their most recent picks, especially the wrong ones. She wanted to know what had convinced them it was a good bet in the first place, what had they missed and why and how had it cratered. Did they miss or overlook something when it began to drop value? Several of them reported to the circle of her admirers that her questioning, though ever so sweetly put, was more pointed and probing than when they had to justify themselves to the various internal, investment review committees. Moreover, few men with amorous intentions like to have their failures dissected by anyone, let alone a comely secretarial associate with a lilting, slightly southern voice.

About this time, a personal disaster struck in Grandpa Jack’s life. His wife, Ellie, died in a freak accident. She had been his perfect life partner. She had balanced his mostly sedentary, cerebral career with a vigorous life style that kept him from developing an unattractive paunch and the muscle tone of cooked linguini. It was from her side of the family that Nat-Geo got his stature and his propensity to love sports and physical activity. This inclination toward sports and strenuous physical activity led Grandpa Jack to often claim that Nat-Geo lettered in everything but the alphabet in high school.

While Nat-Geo had the necessary muscles, weight, speed, stamina and height for high school team sports, he wasn’t quite up to par for any of those same ones in college. Hence, he turned to individual sports, where mental focus, stamina, and flexibility were more important than pure muscle or bulk: Bike racing, rowing, mountain and rock climbing, skiing. While he was most often the captain of the team, he was rarely the stand-out star, but still no more than 1-2% behind the top dog. Grandpa Jack had hoped that Nat-Geo would follow him into a financial career, but by the end of his second year in college had resigned himself to Nat-Geo teaching P.E. in some high school. He was totally surprised, when during his fourth year, Nat-Geo said he wanted to take a fifth year to complete a second major in linguistics and a totally unexpected and unnecessary minor in economics. Of course, his wife, Ellie, had no objection to a fifth year and took up his cause as soon as she thought there was even a whiff of paternal resistance. Actually, Grandpa Jack had been stunned speechless at the idea that Nat-Geo was willing to go so far as economics classes to get what he wanted.

Well, he said, when he could get a word in edgewise over Ellie’s voluble support. You don’t have to take economics classes just because you want to finish linguistics.

No, that’s not it, said Nat-Geo. I’ve only got two classes to finish linguistics. Mostly this is to cram in all the economics classes, I can.

Who are you? And what have you done with my son, the ultimate jock and would-be explorer?

No, no! Dad, it’s not like that at all! We had a faculty sponsor for the ski team last winter from the economics department, but he was always spouting the most idiotic, Marxist nonsense and dogma as being the ‘perfect’ economic system. Anyway, I borrowed and read your Milton Freidman and Thomas Sowell books just to get some solid ammunition to counter his arguments. Then I took the basic economics course and really enjoyed it. The statistics are a bit dry, but less trouble than keeping track of the whole teams’ points for the season.

After graduating, Nat-Geo found a job teaching English in Argentina and then in Chile. He wanted to have some adventure before settling down, he said. Besides, even if Grandpa Jack retired right then and fully supported—paid for—all of Nat-Geo’s hoped for adventures, they couldn’t spend all of his money in their combined lifetimes, Ellie and Nat-Geo both argued.

Teaching in South America nicely polished his Spanish and more than paid his way. Then he took another teaching job in a remote part of China becoming mostly conversant with the culture and decently competent in Chinese. Along the way he fell in with a group of journalist adventurer/explorers stumping around looking at buried terra cotta warriors, dinosaur bones in the Gobi Desert and then surveying other remote places and Mongolian places for future treks. Not only could Nat-Geo pay his own way and act as an informal translator, he also appeared to the locals as a charming, towering god, which eased their way and fully endeared him to that first team.

He was in the background of almost all the first article’s pictures, but at least twice as photogenic as those in the foreground. If he indicated that he wanted a picture with something or someone locally notable, even the government officials and shadowy security goons were happy to oblige. They often even crowded in to be part of the shot, all the while grinning and mugging for the camera, as if they had good sense. As such, N. G. Kruppz was always in the illustrations, even though the last one identified in the caption, but clearly and consistently in the part of the group where everybody was having the most fun. After the first article, editors—and soon video directors—realized that they had a ‘golden boy’ for getting their most iconic shots and scenes, even if later he had to be cropped out of the image. If one wanted some nomadic herdsman to push his wheezing, aged nag up to a full gallop, while holding his moth-eaten, ‘hunting’ eagle perched on his wrist, get Nat-Geo to show interest in learning how to do it. If one needed some dreary, shop-worn and scruffy troop of sullen, indigenous dancing girls to really show a bit of true spirit, shove Nat-Geo forward as the corresponding male for their rhythmic, mating shamble. Even animals seemed drawn to him.

Nat-Geo’s physical abilities also went a long way in helping the various productions. Basically, he could keep up with, if not surpass, the hardiest of the exploring trekkers and still have breath and energy left to describe the action or interact with locals in his nicely moderated baritone. Rough living and a week’s beard didn’t make him look absurd or menacingly criminal, but rather more like a cheerful, Norse-y marauder on a working vacation, where food, mead and other drinkable spirits were in plentiful supply.

When Ellie, his mother, died, Nat-Geo was someplace in a mountain range, but on which continent Grandpa Jack couldn’t recall until he called the production company. He couldn’t get a message to him. So, Grandpa Jack had no one to lean on and help with all the arrangements. True, some of Ellie’s friends clustered about, but he was without anyone to give him any real, emotional support beyond Juanita making sure that he at least ate something and had clean clothes. Her death threw him for a big loop and left him immobilized with his grief. Everything seemed extravagantly pointless to him, and he didn’t bother to go to work for more than three and a half weeks. Even after that he found it hard to concentrate and focus on anything at first.

Three weeks before this, Jack’s assistant had taken maternity leave, so he’d been sharing another fellow’s when he couldn’t keep ahead of things himself. But with the crushing destruction of his home life and being unable to keep himself on task, the human resources department searched about for someone to temporarily fill the gap. Fredi-Jo jumped in with both feet and quickly kept up with the day-to-day stuff and the inevitable calls from clients spooked by the latest financial quivers, sags, jumps and stalls. Normally, new clients were doled out among the partners on a strict rotational basis unless they asked for a specific broker. While Jack was out on compassionate leave, they skipped his turn. When Fredi-Jo found out, she went down and raised a huge stink. She got them to give her the next three newbies as ‘compensation’ for Jack. Not only did she get all three of them to hand over large checks, but within another week, she’d signed on two more of their friends. When Jack began to come back to work and be able to focus, Fredi Joe was at his elbow with the right files and updated notes about his clients and those five new ones she’d brought on board for him. He’d expected to be swamped with calls from nervous clients and even some defections. Instead, his ship of capital growth was sailing along rather smoothly and even gaining ground.

Bit by bit Fredi-Jo chivvied him back into mid-season form. She kept track of his assistant’s progress with her baby and sent along several baby gifts from ‘Jack.’ So, she was the first to know that his assistant had decided not to come back to work. As soon as she learned this, she lobbied Jack for the position. For Jack this was a no-brainer: Fredi-Jo was smarter and quicker on the uptake than his last three assistants combined. She had a great way with his clients, so that there were rarely any ruffled feathers along with their market influenced jitters.

About three months after he’d really gotten back to work, she proved her absolute loyalty and total worth: The ‘word’ had gotten about that Jack was widowed, and everyone had always known he was something more than successful. Thus, a small, but persistent stream of ‘eligible,’ single matrons began making appointments to ‘discuss’ their financial ‘options’ in the same way that one stakes out a goat as bait for a bothersome, solitary financial tiger in need of further socialization and womanly care. As bait goats go, they weren’t the pride of the herd or even close to the first rank. They were not an inspiring assortment—collectively massing about the same as a professional football team’s defensive line, but without the speed and muscle tone. They ran the gamut from would-be vamps in sheep-dressed-as-mutton garb to church ladies channeling their inner, empress dowagers.

Fredi-Jo was able to deflect most of the spinstered, divorced or widowed leftover malingerers in cupid’s quiver. When that wasn’t successful, she scheduled them just before lunch or just before closing. Then after giving them their half-hour, she’d interrupt with reminders of lunch appointments out of the office, meetings in the office and once bringing in a note from his ‘girlfriend’ changing the restaurant of their ‘dinner assignation.’ Once she even dragged him into a taxi, when she spotted one of the more persistent of cupid’s questionable marital-mares lurking about on the sidewalk in front of their building.

Very soon Jack realized that Fredi-Jo was much more of a gifted collaborator and eager pupil than a mere clerical assistant. She kept up with the mundane stuff, but also brought an unusual focus and drive to the business of finding places to grow the value of their clients’ investments. While it often seems that investment advisors mostly sit in their offices, there’s much necessary travel to visit and investigate companies on site. Nothing can replace putting one’s wingtips or sensible pumps on the company’s factory floor in order to gauge their trajectory and potential future growth, no matter how promising their balance sheets, yearly reports and other filing puffery make them appear.

Fredi-Jo, I’ve got to go look at these three companies, Jack said about 4 months after he’d really gotten back to work. They look good on paper, but something causes niggles about either the management or the production on each one.

This wasn’t really news to Fredi-Joe because they had been discussing the three companies for the last several days and comparing research and whatever insights they had been able to glean.

I checked on flights this morning, answered Fredi-Jo. Those two that are south of Chicago you can easily get to with a bit of driving. But there are no good flights between Chicago and the third one. It’d be faster, if you drove and spent a night on the road or came back and flew out from New York the next day.

No, I don’t like either option. So, you’re going to take that southern one, while I’m trying to keep from getting lost in Illinois or confused by more CEO song and dance, razzle-dazzle.

Really?!? This was a marked endorsement of her growth and understanding under his tutelage and his belief in her reliability.

Yep, and that way I can spend an extra day with Nat, while he’s ‘re-fitting’ for his next excursion. Plus, he hasn’t been back since—, well uhm-m, before Ellie passed. Uh—-, you know.

Yes, you should spend as much time as you can with him. I think it’ll do you both a lot of good.

The next day Fredi-Jo was several states west-southwest of the Big Apple and being shown around an industrial park and the attached, corporate offices. The president of the firm was a wizened, elderly man somewhere between the ages of 79 and 131. He seemed to be hanging on to control of the company for dear life, while showing a marked penchant for autocratic control even in front of Fredi-Jo. The factory was far from modern despite having substantial cash reserves and competitors yapping at their heels. Their packaging was archaic, but their product patent had several more years to run. The research and development spending was virtually nil, while the various departments were all headed by senior staff, who made the president look young-ish and spry, except for their CFO, the VP of finance. He was the 30-something nephew of the president, who could just barely keep his eyes from rolling, when listening to his uncle proclaiming the company’s continuing bright future. It seemed obvious that as captain of this industrial plant, the aged president was planning on going down with his commercial ship.

Afterwards Fredi-Jo had driven back towards the airport. With several hours to kill before her return flight, she stopped at a roadside diner. She ordered a modest snack and some coffee and was surprised to see the company’s CFO come through the door. He admitted he had followed her to give her some further information about his uncle and the business. The uncle was having serious health issues but refusing to step down, even though this was the first day in two weeks that he’d actually made it into the office. The company board was meeting that very afternoon about it, and he believed they would force his uncle to step down and promote him, the nephew, to president. Afterall, he had been keeping the place running in his uncle’s increasingly frequent absences. If promoted, he would clean out the walking-deadwood staff, modernize the plant, improve marketing, update their packaging, and quadruple the research and development budget. After he left, she felt a whole lot better about the company as a viable investment. She realized that his news had lifted a pall of gloom that had been hanging over her since encountering that relic of a factory and all those superannuated managers.

With nothing more to do than make a few notes and while away the hours before her flight, she looked through one of those glossy, ubiquitous real estate advertising magazines. Idly leafing through it, she came to a half-page display with lots of bright red, superimposed claims: Development Possibilities!! Bed and Breakfast?!?! Acreage!! Tons of Potential!!  In other words, an unmitigated money pit of the first order. It did have a rather nice setting, an impressive, attractive façade and close to 40 times the square footage for less than the cost of a cramped, two-bedroom condo in New York City. After a quick call to the real estate agent, she found her way to the address well outside the city limits. The house was even bigger than she expected from its picture. As she walked through it to the non-stop commentary from the real estate agent, she calculated it would take at least one year’s salary just to furnish the main floor and one bedroom. After making some non-committal noises about looking for investments possibilities and exchanging business cards with the agent, she caught her flight home. While in the taxi from the airport back to her apartment, the CFO called Fredi-Jo and confirmed that he was the new president. This brought her back to earth and started her thinking about business instead of dreaming about that almost derelict, old house, its grounds and out-buildings.

The next morning Fredi-Jo was late getting to work. Through some mysterious process the metro transit authority had shut down her line. Furthermore, in accordance with some secret, arcanely linked protocol, all the taxis in the city had also disappeared. Thus, her normal 20-minute ride vanished and was replaced by an hour and half trudge. She arrived late, and while not quite disheveled, she was far from her normally neat and tidy self. The administrative staff, 95% female, was clearly in a stir from something. In fact, Fredi-Jo hadn’t seen this much lip-stick on display and being applied since the last time her mother hosted an Avon party, or was it a Mary-Kay event?

What’s going on? she asked one of her water cooler confidents. Have we been sold to an escort service, and there are going to be auditions?

Oh—You missed him! came the breathless response.

Who—? Him? Him who? Fredi-Jo said trying to get the syntax right.

Nathan Kruppz, Jack’s son!

Oh, brother! Are we still in high school? Fredi-Jo dropped her shoulder bag and changed out of her commuting shoes.

You haven’t met him yet, have you?

Never seen him. I couldn’t pull him out of a police line-up for love nor money, she tossed back.

She walked over and popped her head into Jack’s office to let him know she was now at her desk. Jack was on the phone apparently having a conversation with an excessively dithering client. As she started to pull back, he waved her in and motioned for her to sit. The call lasted for several more minutes, which she tried not to overhear, nevertheless she heard give it a 6-month trial and measure the results and then 11:30 in the boardroom.

I’ve got to go to a partners’ meeting, Jack said as he hung up the phone. We need to pick a replacement for our last retirement. He looked at the clock and then uttered a mild oath regarding the lack of identifiable parentage of all the partners in general. You’ll have to take Nat to lunch, because those blasted idiots can’t make up their minds or add without their mummies holding their hands. I’ll join you as soon as I can — or not, depending on the how long it takes.

It was well after desert before Jack arrived. He was clearly provoked and exasperated. Up to that point the lunch had been rather convivial, since Nat-Geo and Fredi-Jo sitting in the restaurant really lifted the tone of the place. Nat-Geo’s personal magnetism seemed to make lights brighter wherever he went anyway. But with Fredi-Jo as his foil and equal in physical attractiveness, their banter was as intoxicating as champagne, even to those who couldn’t hear their verbal sparring. Here you had a moderately well-known, media personality, who looked more than capable of slapping a lion, tiger or jaguar – pick your continent— silly for trying to bite, claw or scratch, intently focused on and enjoying the company of a mysterious beauty, who was verbally giving as good as she got. Their obvious chemistry and the energy being produced between them was enough to wilt flowers and tarnish silver.

That’s it! I’m quitting and starting my own firm! Jack announced as he slumped into one of the chairs. Those _______ Here he again made insulting remarks about the partners’ collective lack of provable parentage. They’re going to promote _________, one of the more preening prone of the junior hyenas, instead of Fredi-Jo because they said, ‘she is from the clerical pool.’ They sniffed at her schools, and they don’t really ‘know’ her people. If they are so block-headed and idiotic, the firm’s reputation is going to crash. So, I’m getting out. Today! Then looking at Fredi-Jo, You wanna to come with me? As a partner?

No, you’re not quitting today, said Fredi-Jo in a calming, but decidedly firm voice. You’d lose too much just for the pleasure of slamming the door in their faces. You wouldn’t even get more than a paragraph in the Wall Street Journal talking about shake-ups at our firm. Then there’s the non-competition agreement, which means losing most of your clients and being dead in the water for twelve months. Also, you’re making a huge decision on an empty stomach. She beckoned their waiter. Bring him the manicotti, asparagus and a dinner salad, but trim it up like a Caesar, just not as big, with blue cheese. And a pot of coffee.

See what I mean about her, Nat? Jack sputtered a bit before resigning himself to his lunchtime menu and fate. Then turning to Fredi-Jo, he said: Okay, I was being unduly hasty. This needs a bit of calm consideration and planning. No use grabbing for the bank draft, if it isn’t signed, huh?

While Nat was seemingly forgotten or seriously ignored, Jack and Fredi-Jo mapped out a plan to shift their future partnership out of its present location. First step, Fredi-Jo would start subtly sounding out his clients on Jack’s ‘retirement,’ which would skirt much of the non-compete issues, and see if they would follow Jack. He would sponsor Fredi-Jo’s licensing. Jack wouldn’t announce his ‘retirement’ until Fredi-Jo was licensed. They got stuck on where to locate their partnership. Jack wanted to stay in the City.

I don’t want to raise my kids where they only see grass in parks or on roof-tops, said Fredi-Jo.

You’re having kids?!?! said Jack. But, but… You’re not married…, are you? I mean, I’ve never heard you talk about a husband… He was astounded that his perfect, all-business-all-of-the-time assistant – future investment partner – suddenly, without any warning at all changed into an actual female – a woman and a would-be mother, to boot! It was truly unsettling to spring that on a fellow in the middle of a very serious business lunch.

Well… I’m 28, and… and… Well, there’s…, there’s a bit of a time limit on these things, you know! She glared at him for a moment until she remembered Nat was still with them and turned down the wattage.

Dad, said Nat. I have to agree with her.

About children? Jack asked just like Caesar yelling, et tu, Brutus?

No, no, but well…, maybe. But for sure about the environment here not being ideal. Every time I come back from the mountains or someplace, I think I should carry an oxygen bottle.

Well, you turned out okay growing up here! Jack pointed out.

Yes, and now I spend most of my time far away from here in as pristine a wilderness as I can find.

Oh, you just have thing for poison darts. Jack dismissed him with an oblique reference to his first Amazon River trip.

Jack began to look thoughtful. But you know, they can’t bitch about us competing with them, if we were 250 miles outside of the City, Jack said thoughtfully while turning back to Fredi-Jo. Most of our clients never come to the office anyway. With email, phone, and text, they all use online banking now.

********

When Grandpa Jack tells this family legend, he claims that Fredi-Jo then said she had one more condition before agreeing to a partnership with him: Nat-Geo had to marry her, and that their prenuptial agreement and marriage contract would require Grandpa Jack to pay her one million and Nat-Geo five hundred thousand for each grandchild. Then she pulled out that real estate advertisement and explained how they were all going to live in the same big, old house with offices on the second floor, nursery and bedrooms on the third, and even a bedroom suite off the kitchen for Juanita on the main floor.

So, boys, Grandpa Jack would always end the story. You each cost me a cool one and half mil.

After rolling her eyes, Fredi-Jo would always tell them, That’s not exactly how it happened. Your father and I dated, and we fell in love.

And when you finally prodded him into asking you to marry him, you shrugged and said, ‘Okay, sure. Why not? You won’t be underfoot that much anyway.’ And you can’t deny that the money part is true, Jack admonished her. Then turning to the boys, he continued: A true bred Kruppz is always, always honest about money.

Chapter 2

N

at-Geo and Fredi-Jo eventually had three sons, Whammy, Zeke and Benny, who were raised jointly by Grandpa Jack, Fredi-Jo, Juanita and Nat-Geo — listed in the order of their overall interactions with the boys. During the boys’ younger, nappy years, there was a rotation of nannies and other such helpers, but at mealtimes and bed, Grandpa Jack and/or Fredi-Jo were always in attendance. Grandpa Jack was a great favorite at bed times because he told or read them wonderful, marvelous stories of all sorts of adventures and brave deeds. He could almost always be convinced to read longer with pleas for just another page, even though they fell asleep before he finished it. It became his habit the next time he read to start off by quizzing them about what they remembered of the story. In a tale about cowboys he’d ask, if they’d gotten to the part about the dragon or the princess in the castle. If it was about knights and kings, he’d ask if they remembered the Indians attacking or the spaceship arriving. Grandpa Jack refused to call their room ‘the nursery,’ but referred to it as ‘the boys’ room’ or when they got older and fully ambulatory ‘the barracks.’ If one boy arrived without the other two in tow, he’d inquire about where the ‘rest of the troops’ were.

By the time Whammy entered first grade, Grandpa Jack had ceded most of the business and certainly all of the day-to-day operations of it to Fredi-Jo. While he spent several hours a day at his desk, he undertook the delivery and retrieval of ‘the troops’ to and from school. He also went to the parent teacher conferences, when Nat-Geo was away, which was at least ninety percent of the time.

His interest in his grandsons’ education neatly dovetailed with his awareness and the tracking of social trends and other matters, which affected the markets. When he noticed the beginnings of the school’s steady promotion of females and obvious bias against males, he raised it with the school’s principal as being less than even-handed and certainly not equal to producing the best, well-rounded results he expected for his grandson.

The principal—like so many publicly funded, pocket-domain tyrants—was blind, deaf and dumb to his complaints. She more than tacitly promoted this blatantly anti-male, creeping feminism because ‘their school’ was ‘politically correct’ in and to every iota. The principal was unforgivably dismissive of his concerns. She was already committed to several ‘stakeholder’ feminist groups, and he was a ‘mere’ grandparent. This was entirely the wrong tack to take. Fredi-Jo appeared soon thereafter and made it abundantly clear that anything raised by Jack was the same as if coming directly from God Almighty or herself. Nevertheless, even the slightest challenge from an uppity, former ‘big-city’ parent or grandparent was clearly intolerable according to the union rules for minor, public school tyrants, as well as totally running against the grain of her over-inflated, personal pomposity.

Whammy was quietly removed from that public institution of ‘woke’ indoctrination and enrolled in a private, nondenominational Christian elementary school for the next term. There the staff and teachers weren’t nearly as prone to slight or allow any denigration of the son or grandson of paying families on the basis of gender. The younger brothers followed him at one and two-year intervals.

When it came time for high school, Grandpa Jack interviewed all the local high school principals, inspected the schools and researched their graduation and college admissions rates. He was not pleased, and appallingly he found that much the same pattern in all the nearby schools. The gender imbalance between high school graduation and subsequent education was awful. There were more and more strident calls for gender ‘equity’ for all the cushy careers, to ‘believe the woman’ in any and all circumstances, and an overall, overt gynocentric promotion of the estrogen fueled. The denigration of males was obviously blatant and seemingly continuous without any regard for the educational results of or psychological impact on boys or society at large. Additionally, every teaching staff was increasingly female dominated, if not exclusively estrogen centric. Grandpa Jack quietly, but firmly insisted that Fredi-Jo duplicate his research. After which, she came to the same conclusion: The local schools would not do for their boys.

As well as rigorously supervising and reviewing their homework, Grandpa Jack always drove them to and from school. Once at least two of them were attending school, he would greet them with the question, Who had the best day? Whoever had had the best day of the three or four of them — Grandpa Jack included—got to pick out the coffee and donut place for their afternoon snack. Any sort of pastry qualified and counted as the ‘donut’ part of the equation. Grandpa Jack had the coffee; the boys took care of the donut side. The ‘best day’ was decided on the basis of any and every triumph, academic or not. Grandpa Jack even got it once for the most dandelions ever removed from the lawn. The boys often won for a perfect or the highest quiz or test scores, an outstanding play in a recess game or the best joke played or told. Of course, just because one boy got to choose his preferred shop didn’t mean there wasn’t a lot of kibitzing, chafing and wheedling among them: No fair! You won yesterday! Aw, they don’t have any scones, just glazed stuff! Eew, nobody likes carrot cake! You’re a muffin head! Additionally, the winner often engaged in much unnecessary, taunting celebration.

However, before they could reach their designated snack spot, where one coffee and the assorted treats could be ordered and devoured, they often had a ‘Juanita list.’ Ordinarily one would call it a grocery list, but for the boys it was a tactical and strategic order to retrieve supplies hidden and possibly lost in hostile territory, wherein time, speed and accuracy were the main concerns. If they could get all the items on the list into their cart within the allotted time, Grandpa Jack increased their next allowance by five dollars each. For up to five items, it was just a practice or reconnoiter run. But if it was more than five items, they had a minute per item plus five minutes to get everything into the cart. They weren’t allowed to run inside the store. Once he had procured their grocery cart, Jack gave them a countdown and kept the time. As soon as Jack showed them a ‘Juanita list,’ the boys began studying it and mapping out the best way for each to travel for their self-assigned items. They also had to keep the total list in mind in case the merchandize had been relocated, which earned curses heaped upon marketers’ heads and their ploys unto the seventh generation.

Grandpa Jack also doled out their weekly allowance along with those grocery store earned additions. Instead of just handing over the entire amount though, he required them each to put half of it in the locked, ‘savings cupboard.’ He kept the key. At the end of every six weeks, each boy was allowed to spend or use the accumulation on whatever his heart desired. Furthermore, Jack bought them small spiral notebooks for these enforced savings accounts, wherein the boys did their own math – checked by Jack — to track and record their balances. In fairly short order Juanita accused Jack that the three boys had become a kind of Scrooge cult or at least a pre-miser’s club. Jack vehemently denied this, but he would grudgingly admit to directing them toward sound fiscal practice and possibly—just possibly—trying to create budding investors.

Hamilton, said Grandpa Jack, lowering his coffee cup. Whammy had just begun eighth grade, but the use of his formal, first name signaled something important and very likely quite serious. Hamilton, repeated Jack, which even caused his younger brothers to suspend chewing.

Whammy’s in trouble. Whammy’s— Zeke began a quiet singsong chant.

No, he’s not, said Jack. I want to talk to him about high school, which will affect you two, as well – in a couple of years. He gave all three his no-more-nonsense-now look. Your mother and I have been looking at schools for you for next year, as you know.

But I want to go to high school with my friends, Whammy asserted somewhat pugnaciously.

Of course, you do, agreed Jack. But I don’t think it’s a good idea, or rather a bad scholastic investment for you and your life.

Nothing was worse than a bad investment in Jack’s mind. It was the ultimate evil to him, since it wasted time and especially money. Secondarily and almost as bad was underperforming by an investment, person, or thing.

We think that too many of your classmates are underperformers, who might drag you down, hold you back or distract you. Jack continued. He took a glossy brochure from the inside pocket of his jacket, laid it on the table and slid it across to Whammy. This school looks pretty good. Your mom thinks it’s really the best option. It’s a bit of a military kind of place: For formal occasions you have to wear uniforms — suits for less formal things. Their academics are top-notch, they’ve got more activities and sports than the Olympics, and they stress leadership training.

Whammy opened the brochure with little interest until he saw pictures of the sports, activities and events offered: shooting, fencing, archery, sailing, team sports and a crisply uniformed squad officially welcoming the wife of a former President. The campus bordered a large-ish lake, as well.

Ooh, cool uniforms, said Zeke looking over Whammy’s shoulder. Hey, they don’t show any girls.

The President’s wife is a girl, temporized Jack.

You mean it’s an all-male, boarding school? asked Whammy looking directly at Jack.

Mostly. There are some female day students, admitted Jack. And that brings me to what I really want to discuss with you.

Your girlfriend will really hate you going away, but she’ll really like it that you won’t be around any other girls, said Zeke along with some nudging from a convenient elbow.

I don’t have a girlfriend! Whammy strenuously refuted this aspersion cast upon his proto-manliness and masculine character in general.

Well, I saw you kissing her at that party! asserted Zeke quite righteously.

We were eating an apple on a string!

You were spending more time chewing on her lips than that apple—

Zeke, that’s enough. You’re not helping, said Jack and holding up an admonishing hand.

Well, I was just sayin’… Zeke subsided behind his piece of carrot cake.

Besides, I remember you needed three dozen Valentines last year yourself, said Jack, who was never averse to twitting any one of them.

No! Four! defended Zeke.

Okay, four dozen—

No, no!! Just four, only four. Not dozens!

Hey, isn’t that Greaser, the girl from your class? asked Benny in all innocence, while not wanting to miss his chance to get in a dig at Zeke, as well.

Wh—where? asked Zeke, showing real concern. That girl was always following him around and trying to stay near him, which half annoyed Zeke. He ducked down and swiveled his head around in a panic — simultaneously trying to be furtive and to locate the threat. After a few necessary looks to survey the area, he said: You little jerk. She’s not here!! He took a mild swipe at his younger brother from across the table.

Made ya’ look, ya’ dirty crook, stole yo’ momma’s pocket book! sing-songed Benny, while easily ducking away from Zeke’s half-hearted strike.

What’s wrong with her? Greaser, did you say? Jack asked Zeke, but Zeke just frowned, clamped his mouth shut tighter and sunk down farther on the bench. Jack looked enquiringly at Benny.

Greaser told the whole class that Zeke kissed her, an’ now they’re boyfriend ‘n girlfriend, Benny said.

She’s a big, fat liar! Zeke exploded. But now all the girls believe her and half the boys! Even Mrs. Logrem seems to believe her. It’s just awful. I never touched her, and I wouldn’t even with a ten-foot pole!

He calls her Greaser for some shiny stuff she put on her hair once, Benny again clarified.

Did you get into trouble with Mrs. Logrem? asked Jack.

No, but I don’t think she—or anybody! — believes me!

Well, that’s exactly why Whammy is going to this boys-only boarding school, said Jack spreading his hands to show just how simple and understandable it all was.

Huh?!? Whammy questioned, showing real confusion on his face.

Greaser said something about Whammy? Zeke bristled. The Belford family size was most pronounced in him, and he had a healthy, strongly protective nature toward his brothers with the mass to back up his instincts.

Who’s Greaser? asked Whammy showing some real alarm. I never heard of any girl called Greaser. He looked at Zeke.

She’s that annoying, red-haired girl in my class. Greta. Greta, Greaser, Zeke explained with disgust dripping from every syllable of her name.

Oh, but she’s kinda cute, responded Whammy, then hastily added at Zeke’s deepening scowl, stiffening sinews, and clenching fists: If you like curly hair, freckles and— He was going to continue with ‘a tomboy with skinned knees,’ but Zeke’s stormy looks stopped him.

But why does Whammy have to go away because of Greaser? What did she say about him? asked Benny with honest curiosity.

She didn’t say anything about Whammy, Jack answered.

But you said—

She merely represents the problem men face. One that you—all of you—should be on guard against. Jack encompassed them all by making a circle with his index finger.

I thought you said the red-haired girl in your class was the only one that could throw worth a hoot. It sounded like you almost liked her, said Whammy.

Well, maybe I did ‘n maybe I didn’t. But that was before she started lying about us — ME! Zeke rapidly corrected and subsided into a dark, scowly sulk.

Grandpa Jack listened to Zeke and Whammy with an amused smirk until Benny tugged on his sleeve.

I still don’t understand why Whammy has to go away because of Greaser and what she didn’t say about him, Benny said genuinely puzzled.

She just illustrates the problem: The danger and the risk of girls or women to boys and men, said Jack.

Is this about cooties? asked Benny.

No, worse than that, Jack said.

Greaser’s always been worse than cooties, asserted Zeke and affirmed it with some vigorous nodding.

Seriously, Grandpa, I don’t get it. Would you explain? Please? Whammy said, while Benny nodded his head in agreement.

Well, you see, Greta – Greaser, Jack nodded toward Zeke, just represents the problem men – us guys — face with girls nowadays. See, Zeke sorta liked Greta because she could throw fairly well. He held up his hand to stop Zeke from interrupting. Or maybe not. But Greaser thought he did, and she liked it. She like being admired by Zeke for whatever reason. But then maybe Zeke didn’t pay enough attention to her, and she got mad that he seemed to be ignoring her.

Yeah! You can’t just hang around with girls every recess. They just want to talk and talk all the time and never want to go do fun stuff or play in any of the games, Zeke asserted this eternal truth and universal wisdom, albeit from a lower, middle school perspective.

Exactly, nodded Jack. "But it is a bit more complicated and much, much more dangerous. Greta liked being admired by Zeke. Then he ignored her, which made her angry at him. But she still wanted him to like her, only her and not any of the other girls. So, she made up the story about being his girlfriend. But