The Job (31 page)

“When you make a mistake, acknowledge the mistake,” my father once told me, “then take your lumps in silence. Allen men don’t cry.”

Nor do they fuck up as badly as I had fucked up.

I resisted the temptation to steady my nerves with several shots of Jerry’s malt whiskey. And when I felt myself in need of a cigarette, I walked over to the kitchen, turned on the sink tap, and doused my pack of Winstons. No more booze, no more tobacco, and I was going to start jogging tomorrow morning. I thought about Jerry’s quotation from the collected sayings of Chairman Ballantine: “If you want to bounce back, you will bounce back.” True. The problem was: Would Lizzie ever give me the chance to bounce back again?

I spent the afternoon on Jerry’s sofa, browsing through the complete works of Jack Ballantine (which were displayed prominently on Jerry’s thinly populated bookshelves). You needed a serious sense of irony to wade through these self-empowerment gospels. Knee-deep in football metaphors, they appeared tailor-made for the guy I used to be-the slick, on-the-make salesman who wanted to believe that there was an actual recipe for success, a strategic formula you could use in order to maximize your goals and achieve optimum results.

But though I laughed at Ballantine’s endless gridiron references, I did find myself wincing when I read the following passage in the Great Motivator’s current best-seller, The Success Zone:

In business, we define ourselves by our ethical posture. The profit motive is a great motive-but it becomes an even greater motive when commingled with scrupulousness. The business arena is a tough one-so when you’re making a forward charge, always be sure to back it up with a strong zone defense. But believe me: If that forward charge is not played according to the rules-if you, as the quarterback, attempt to gain ground through illegal maneuvers-then any touchdowns you make will always seem like false triumphs. Because secretly you’ll know that one day, someone will figure out just how you scored those points.

At CompuWorld, I’d always tried to abide by the rules, to maintain an ethical posture. Until that bastard Kreplin offered me Chuck’s job, and Peterson pulled the rug out from under Ivan, after which I began to play things fast and loose. Legally speaking, I hadn’t been “unethical.” I’d never overtly blackmailed Peterson, and I was sworn to secrecy by Kreplin about my “promotion” to publisher. But I knew I had let my scruples slide. Once you dabble in the amoral, you lose your bearings. And drift. Right out to sea.

I only left the loft once that afternoon, to hike down to the local grocery store and stock up on fruit, vegetables, and fizzy water. By nine that night, after a hearty rabbit-food dinner, exhaustion set in. I climbed into the futon and conked right out.

I was out cold for eleven hours. When I finally awoke and made it to the kitchen, I caught sight of a note left for me on the steel dining table. Next to it was a crisp $100 bill.

Hombre:

Hope you slept. Here’s some extra cash, in case you need to buy yourself a new toothbrush. But try to hang by the phone this morning, just in case we need to speak with you.

Later, Jerry.

I read the note several times over, wondering what the hell Jerry meant by that just-in-case-we-need-to-speak-to-you line. Unless, of course, working for the Great Motivator had turned Jerry hoity-toity, and he was now using the royal “we.”

I pocketed the cash, feeling faintly embarrassed about accepting Jerry’s charity. Then I drank a glass of orange juice and went out for a run.

My plan was to jog straight up West Broadway and then do a fast circuit around Washington Square Park before heading south again. I got as far as the intersection of West Broadway and Houston (in other words, around five blocks) before I doubled over with a sudden sharp stitch in my chest.

No, it wasn’t a coronary. Just a stern reminder from my cardiovascular system that I was seriously out of shape… and that cigarettes are wonderful for your health.

I killed the rest of the morning cleaning the loft. It was something to do-and it also helped ease the guilt I felt at accepting my host’s charity. Around noon the phone rang. It was Jerry’s secretary.

“Mr. Schubert is tied up in meetings all day. But he’d like you to meet him for dinner at Bouley Bakery at nine. The address is-” “I know where it is,” I said, remembering that Lizzie and I had eaten there once, and that it was absurdly overpriced.

“He was also wondering if you wouldn’t mind picking up a couple of his suits at G & G Dry Cleaners, behind the SoHo Grand Hotel.”

“No problem. Any other errands he needs run for him?” I wondered if she heard the eager-to-please nervousness in my voice. Because, at this juncture, Jerry was the only thing standing between me and the street-and I was willing to do just about any reasonable task he requested to stay in his good books.

“That’s all he mentioned,” she said.

“He’ll see you at nine.”

Bouley Bakery was located in Tribeca-a mere ten-minute walk from Jerry’s loft. I arrived at nine. There were only ten tables in the restaurant. I was shown to the one booked under the name of Schubert. At 9:15 there was still no sign of Jerry, and I kept dodging the persistently pleasant waiter’s question, “A pre-dinner drink, sir?” because, after dropping $30 on groceries and paying $22 to the dry cleaners for Jerry’s suits, my entire worldly net worth was $148, and ten bucks for a martini would have reduced said worth by 6 percent. Since I didn’t know where the next $200 might be coming from, I had to be prudent.

So I politely informed the waiter that I’d hold on for my friend’s arrival. I kept my head buried in the menu to avoid eye contact with the maitre d’-because if Jerry didn’t arrive, I’d be forced into the embarassing position of telling him that we wouldn’t be needing one of his ultra-precious, five-week-waiting-list (unless you’re Ballantine Industries) tables for the night.

Or I could save face and order dinner.

With appetizers starting at $14, entrees at $29, and four bucks minimum for a bottle of water, I might just make it out of there for $65, including tip and tax. God, $65 a head for dinner was nothing to me a couple of months ago. I’d toss down a credit card as if it were a negligible $2 poker chip-and not think about the financial consequences. When it came to money, I wasn’t simply reckless, I was totally inattentive. I raced through cash; I never bothered to think about the implications. I never really saw beyond the next deal, the next designer suit, the next designer meal in an over-hyped restaurant. Here’s the true definition of a fool: somebody who is so busy struggling to get somewhere that he loses the very thing that gives his struggle some meaning.

“Looking sad, Ned.”

I glanced up from the menu and saw that Jerry had arrived.

“Just pensive, that’s all,” I said.

He sat down, called for some drinks, then asked, “This pensiveness-might it be due to your wife?”

“It might.”

“Are you missing her badly?”

“Beyond badly. It’s killing me.”

“Then do something about it.”

“Like what?”

“Like get back on your feet. I promise you: Once you haul yourself together, she’ll return.”

“Not after what I pulled.”

“Was that the first time you got caught?”

“It was the first time I ever did anything like that.”

“Jesus-are you a Boy Scout?”

“I love my wife.”

“Congratulations. But hey, such fidelity is pretty impressive, I guess. And believe me, she definitely knows just how much you love her….”

“After what I did, I don’t think that matters.”

“Look, all women know that men can be jerks. Especially in that department. And, hell, it was a one night stand after a friend’s funeral, and while the two of you were separated. I promise you-once you get yourself together again, you’ll win her back.”

The drinks arrived. I lifted my glass of Perrier.

“Jerry, I really can’t thank you-” “Allen, please-ease up on the indebtedness. You’re making me feel like Saint Jude.”

“Okay, okay-but I will say this: You are saving my ass.”

“You’re going to save your own ass, Allen. Know why? Because you’re a natural born salesman. And guys like you always come out on top.”

“Even with someone trying to kill your career?”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about this Ted Peterson guy.”

“Jerry-he’s like the Terminator. He won’t quit until I’m history.”

“Did you say he works for GBS?”

“Yeah-he’s head of their media sales department.”

“Want me to get him off your case?”

“I want him dead.”

Jerry laughed darkly.

“That service we can’t provide. But I’m sure Mr. Ballantine knows somebody in the GBS management structure. Mr. B. knows somebody everywhere. Anyway, after a call from us to the right person, I’m certain Peterson would be ordered to back down. In fact, I bet GBS doesn’t even know what he’s really up to.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I think the damage he’s caused is irreversible. I mean, Ivan’s dead, and so am I, vis-a-vis the computer business.”

Jerry stared down at the glossy surface of his martini and asked, “What do you like most about selling?”

“Talking somebody into a yes.”

“Does what you’re selling matter much to you?”

“Not at all. The selling game isn’t about the commodity-it’s about convincing. So, yeah, as long as the product in question isn’t illegal, I can sell it.”

“That’s good to know.”

“Why?”

“Because what I want you to sell for us is hardly illeeal. In fact-as anyone on Wall Street will tell you-it’s pretty cutting-edge stuff..

..”

“Sorry,” I said, interrupting him, “but I think you’ve lost me somewhere.”

He looked up from his drink-and gave me a sardonic grin.

“You’re not following me?”

“Not exactly.”

“Okay, I’ll cut to the chase. Would you be interested in a job?”

Perry Schubert was a master of suspense. After dropping that little bombshell about offering me a job, he then informed me that he never discussed business until after dessert. It was a cruel but shrewd stratagem, a way for Jerry to gauge whether I was someone who, when desperate, overplayed his hand-and would instantly make a grab for the dangled carrot.

I certainly was desperate-but I also realized that this was a test. Having spent much of the previous afternoon immersed in Ballantine’s self-empowerment gospels, I remembered several paragraphs from The Success Zone, in which the Great Motivator let it be known that he considered desperation to be a weakness, a cardinal business sin.

Never show the other guy that you think you’re fighting a lost cause. Consider this no-hope situation: There’s only twenty seconds remaining in the fourth quarter, it’s the third down, and you’re behind 14-10 on your own 30-yard line. Do you panic, do you give in to fear? Only if you want to lose. The true winner is the guy who eyeballs fear and doesn’t blink. Instead, he comes out of that huddle knowing that the next pass he throws is going to be a touchdown.

No doubt, Jerry also subscribed to this philosophy. So I didn’t commit the blunder of appearing overanxious. Instead, I let Jerry dictate the conversational agenda. When he mentioned that we’d talk turkey when the coffee arrived, I casually nodded in agreement. So, over three courses and a bottle of Cloudy Bay chardonnay, we spent the next hour catching up on each other’s lives. After I supplied him with the fast-forward edition of my last fifteen years, Jerry finally got around to giving me a few telling details about his time after Brunswick High (though not mentioning anything about the “thrown game” scandal for which he was eventually cleared). Following graduation, he’d won a full ice hockey scholarship to St. Lawrence University-but couldn’t hack it scholastically, and jumped at the opportunity to join a minor-league Canadian pro team in Alberta.

“I was just twenty at the time, and figured I had the world by the scrotum because I was a big swinging-dick pro hockey player. And even though I was only making three-fifty a week, I felt like Wayne Gretzky. Next stop: a million-dollar contract with the NHL.”

Of course, the million-dollar contract (and the move upward to the world of major-league hockey) never materialized. Instead, Jerry remained stuck on this nowhere Alberta team, playing against bumpkins, in front of crowds of bumpkins, in bumpkin towns like Sault Sainte Marie, Yellowknife, and Medicine Hat. Six years evaporated in a flash. So, too, did a marriage to a journalist in Alberta-which, according to Jerry, lasted all of about five minutes. Suddenly he was twenty-six. He was now being paid a whopping $600 a week to be head-butted by bozos on skates. His knees were starting to get wobbly, and the team doctor was predicting major orthopedic problems ahead if Jerry didn’t retire. Fast.

So he drifted down back across the American border, landing in Detroit, where an ex-player he knew from the Canadian minor leagues was now running a small corporate security agency.

“I was seriously bust, I didn’t have a college degree, and nada in the way of prospects. Though I didn’t exactly relish the idea of working as a freelance security goon in Motown, the money wasn’t bad. And I was desperate.”

For around a year Jerry played bodyguard to a variety of semi-high-level automobile executives-guys who lived in fear of getting whacked by some dubious union boss, or who had the usual kidnapping paranoias. Occasionally he would also be hired out to watch over a visiting bigwig, like Jack Ballantine. who spent ten days in Detroit during 1990. He was investigating a potential shopping complex project near Grosse Point, and wanted to be guarded by a local guy who knew the territory. Jerry hit it off with Capitalism’s Great Quarterback (“I think he liked my hockey credentials”), and about a week after Mr. High-rise returned to New York he received a call from somebody in the Ballantine organization, informing him that Mr. B. was in the market for a new bodyguard. Would he like the job?

“I was on the plane to New York within seconds of putting down the phone. That was seven years ago, and I’ve never looked back. Because Mr. B. runs his business on a very simple premise: If you look after him, he looks after you. I mean, even after his whole real estate empire went to the wall, he still kept me on the payroll. Know why? Because, as he said to me at the time, “When a quarterback gets tackled, he needs his best defensive guard by his side to make sure he doesn’t get sacked again.”