To my few visitors and even fewer followers, along with anyone else that may be reading this entry let my offer a quick explanation of the text that follows. Recently, in an effort to improve my skills as a fiction writer, I consulted some references on the craft of fiction writing. How that endeavor lead to this entry can be, in more detail, explored here. Relevant to this blog is that this post is a revision of a previous version of Chapter 1. In short, if you have followed the story so far, this post will not impact the plot. However, it will be a better telling of the first chapter. If you haven’t followed the story, then this will be an excellent opportunity to begin. With nothing else to add, I’ll end this intro and let you read on.
Thank you for your time
On September 4th, 2013, life changed for me. Early in the morning a new desk arrived. Its arrival, alone, changed my life. Though it wasn’t the catalyst that brought forth life-altering change, it was merely a very appropriate omen. The arrival of the desk would become an allegory for the last 20 years of my life. But, I wouldn’t find that out until I was just about ready to leave for work…
I stood in my kitchen gazing across into the den and sipped my morning coffee. In the den sat my new desk. In that moment I was awestruck. That desk means more to me than anyone could know. And seeing it for the first time, light coming in through window, in the distance across my kitchen and in my den, was one of those few moments in life where one truly feels complete satisfaction.
The light illuminated the glassy finish. It was constructed out of antique cherry wood that had been salvaged from an old building down town. The tones of the reflecting light gave the desk the appearance of being a burning ember. I needed to put all the stuff from my old desk into it, and wanted to do so before work. Instead, an unknown about of minutes ticked away as focused on my dream come true.
Over the years, the building had been called many names but was locally known as the Pershing Hotel. In its heyday, it was DuBois’ grandest theatre as well as the area’s highest classed brothel. After the brothel closed, the theatre stayed somewhat popular while the rest of the building held various businesses and apartment, none of the businesses lasted and seemed to close as fast as they open. Over the years ownership changed hands many times. The varying owners did not take care of The Pershing. Toward the end, the theatre only showed porn and then closed all together. The building cultivated a sense of failure and its worn exterior made it look run down and trashy. Business didn’t want a front in the building and only the dregs lived in the apartments. Eventually, it fell in disarray and was slated for demolition.
Before they tore it down, the last owner stripped the inside of whatever was left of value and sold it. There wasn’t much; it was mostly junk.Since being vacant it had been the refuge of street kids and vandals as well as looters. All that was left to sale were the building materials that made up the interior;things like banisters, cast iron tubs, old tile, stuff like that.
The Pershing’s last owner advertised the sale of the material. I had no intensions on buying anything, I only wanted to see the inside one last time before they tore it down. Once inside, old memories flooded back. The sensation amplified when I saw some solid cherry molding with matching, inch-thick, solid cherry paneling. It used to line the walls of the main lobby and when I saw it for sale the compulsion to buy it was too strong. Aside from the memories, there were more mundane rationalizations behind my purchase. Simply stated, it was beautiful. There was something about the quality of the old-world craftsmanship and as I admired the cherry, a vision came to me where I use the wood to build an exquisite desk. That vision became a dream, and that dream became a project that never came to fruition.
The owner was asking way too much for the wood, and when I inquired about purchasing just the amount needed to build a desk, she insisted that it all went as one lot. It ended up costing me $700 and nearly lost the purchase because I couldn’t find anyway to pick it up. Two days before demolition I found a truck to barrow. After loading the last piece, I went back inside to make sure I didn’t miss any. The smell of mildew and dirt, stripped walls, busted glass, a feeling of loss and mourning, like a body deteriorating with age, inevitable colapsethese are the last memories I have of the Pershing Hotel.
For almost 20 years I lugged that wood around. At times, what was supposed to be a dream, became a burden. I never had a place of my own that had space to store. It royally pissed my dad offbeing that his place was where it was stored most of the time.
As moderate success enriched me financially and age matured me, I faced the inevitable conclusion that I would never get to the project. I commissioned the best carpenter in Pennsylvania, and gave him the drawings and doodles I had compiled over the years as a blueprint. There was more than enough wood for a desk, so an arrangement was made with the carpenter. Whatever wood was left over from the construction, he could keep in exchange for a discount. Even still, it cost $2,100 but was well worth it. The desk was a masterpiece and a 20-year-old dream come true.
I shook myself from the engaging thoughts. The Pershing and my history with it are an integral part of my life’s journey. In truth, if it wasn’t for that building I wouldn’t be who or where I am now. Many years ago the Pershing led me to success. But it was also there and then, at the Pershing, the seed of change was planted, and for the past [NUMBER OF YEARS SINCE FIELD TRIP]it grew. The growth was about to give forth fruit and right before it did, I began to move the stuff from my old desk to its new home.
There was room for everything and then some. Many of the drawers and shelves were empty. All the vacant space had me re-evaluating my life. It was like after all my success there was little to occupy my reward. These thoughts were aggravatingand had me fishing for an escape. The warm smell of the coffee assuaged my dynamic mood and I took solace in pouring another cup.
Aimmee entered the kitchen.
“Bonjour mon amour,” she said.
“Good morning” I replied without looking up.
Our relationship is unique. For all intent and purpose, we are boyfriend/girlfriend. We met in France a few years earlier where we fell in love. When it was time for me to go home, she wanted to stay with me, and I with her. However, neitherone of us were interested in getting married just for her citizenship but, if she was my employee, she would be able to get her work visa. So I put her on payroll as my secretary and, ever since, we’ve been together. If you asked either of us the nature of our relationship, we would say we were in love, but are not boyfriend/girlfriend, she’s just my secretary. This has always given our relationship the sense of being forbidden and has kept things exciting between us.
It was the Pershing that led to my success. It was my successes that lead to Paris. In all fairness, it’s the Pershing that led to Aimee. That thought had me fixated again on the glowing ember in the den. My concentration was interrupted when Aimee spoke.
“I must go,” she said in her thick accent. “Or I’ll be late. And you better get that cute littledoopah of yours in gear or you will be late too.”
“I know. I know,” I said. “I’m gonna finish this cup and I’ll get going.”
“D’accord,” she said. “I will see you there. Je t’aime mon petit chou.”
“I love you too, babe.”
She left.
When I signed my employment contract at the radio station, I made it contingent that Aimee would be brought on as my personal assistant and secretary. It was her job to get there before me to transcribe the days dialog and manage my phone and email messages. In truth, her job wasn’t that involved. She was pretty much there as eye candy for me.
All-in-all, it was one of the cushiest of jobs either of us have had. Typically I’m eager to get to work and get started, but on that day all I wanted to do was spend a little time at my desk. After all, it had been nearly 20 years in the making and I wanted to bask in my dream come true.
At noon I had to be on-air, but there can be 1 to 2 hours of preproduction before air time. The work load from the day before was light and I assumed the day ahead would be the same. An hour of prep was all I planned on.At 10:55, I knew I should be leaving, but again the desk held me.
With my cup of coffee in hand Imade my way to the desk.The ambiance of the desk roused an urge to be productive. It wasn’t my job that inspired me though, instead, it was there at that desk I wanted to work. My job was just a distraction.
Unfortunately there was nothing to do. It was necessary to conjure work in the form of checking my voice messages. There were only two. With the phone on speaker I placed it on the desk and leaned back in my chair. The sipping of the coffee, conjured work, and the feel of the desk induced immediate gratification.
The first message played…
“Hi. This is Chris and I’m the… um…I mean, and I’m with the Essex Group, and ah… today I’d like to talk to you about the best deal around… um… today,… I guess. It’s a good opportunity for me… No. Wait. I mean, it’s for you and will, um… benefit me. Er, you. Well… actually, it’ll benefit us both… and will be lucrative too… for us both… Also… and, um, the Chris Group and I-er, The Essex Group and I can manage it all for you… … … … Gawd! I hate doing this part! I never know what to say. So, um, yeaaah, if you wouldn’t mind calling me back I would really appreciate it. Have a great day… Oh! And I thank your time. For time, I mean. I thank you for time… er… your time, for your time. Um… Have a nice day and re-wait… I meant great day. Have a great day and remember… … … … I forgot what I was going to say. … … … Bye.”
You could hear him say “shit” in the background as he hung up. Experiencing his inexperience was excruciating. This was probably his first attempt at a cold-call acquisition. He didn’t even leave his number, the poor bastard.
I deleted the message. 2nd one was from a pro.
“Mr. Baxter. This is Abram Edelstein with Creed Productions. I believe we have a mutual friend, Pamela Kelly. She mentioned that you were finally considering making a movie and, I must say, that got us all rather excited over here at Creed. All the board members, myself included, would be honored to put your story on the big screen. Our company’s history and past successes ensure that the film will be as beautiful as it is profitable. You’ll have a top-shelf director, top shelf actors, a very generous budget, and most importantly, only our reputation can ensure that the integrity of you story will be maintained. We are willing to offer you complete creative control as well as production credit if you want it. I’ve sent a couple proposals to your attorney. Of course, they are just proposals. We’re willing to negotiate any detail and are receptive to any proposals you may have to offer. Your attorney has all the contact information. I look forward to hearing from you.”
I deleted that message too.
The messages were an omen, a red flag indicating that the day was going to unusual I just didn’t realize it. Whoever Pamela Kelly was, she wasn’t a friend of mine and it had been a long while since I had gotten any offers let alone two. And what was really weird was the one from Creed Productions. Weird not just because of the timing but also because it was the best offer I had ever gotten. Unfortunately, my story wasn’t for sale. Even if I was willing to sell it, whether or not I could do sowithout implementing myselfwas a risk my attorney warned me not to take. Anyone interested in buying my story knew that. I could understand why a rookie like Chris from the Essex Group would make a futile attempt, but I couldn’t understand why a pro like Mr. Edelstein would.
Pondering all of this, I was about to call my attorney to have him disregard and dispose of any communiqués from Abram Edelstein and Creed Productions when the phone began to ring in my hand, the vibration slightly startling me.
“C. H. Baxter,” I answered.
“So how’s my favorite client?”
“Ronny. What’s the word? Did they file an appeal yet?”
“They’ve settled, Chad.”
In a split second, the out-of-the-blue offers made sense. Word of a settlement had reached some before it had made its way to me. The case Ronny spoke of was the only thing preventing me from telling my story.
The news was as exciting as it was stunning. The night before, I had heard an expert on NPR say it could be as long as five more years before a settlement. Even my own attorney warned me not to hold my breath. The plan had been to finish my contract with the radio station before the settlement and, hopefully, have an additional year or two to prepare before going public.
“I can’t believe you haven’t heard yet,” Ronny continued. “It came across the AP over an hour ago. TMZ already has it on their home page. The only reason I didn’t call you sooner is because I’m dealing with a cluster fuck right now. How could you not have heard? Aren’t you supposed to be a legitimate news broadcaster these days?”
Overwhelming emotions were keeping me from thinking clearly. I started to ramble. “We need to get ahold of [P],” I exclaimed. “We need to contact the publisher. Jesus Christ! The Box! We need to get the box! I need those notes, Ronny. You gotta call…”
“Relax, Chad,” Ronny said. “I don’t need to contact the publisher because they already contacted me. Along with three others so far, all claiming they’re willing to out-bid the others. Same for [P]. His attorney already got ahold of me. The interview is on”
“The interview is on,” I repeated, half reaffirming what he had just said, half coming to terms with the reality of it.
“When,” I asked.
“In 2 days at 10 AM.At his house.”
“What about the box? Where’s it at?”
“The box is coming. It should be there before the end of your show. Despite being caught with our pants down I was ableto arrange it being sent to the station. I assumed you’d want to see it as soon as possible. Now, take a few breaths and relax. I’m taking care of everything.”
“You’re right. I can’t lose my head, at least not now. The box though, it is coming? You’re sure of it?”
“Ab-so-lootly,” he assured. “I’ve got a private carrier making the delivery. One of the best.I promise.”
“Thanks Ronny. You know, two days isn’t a lot of time before an interview. It’s going to be a little sloppy.”
“Don’t worry about, Chad,” he said. “I heard you like it sloppy! HA!”
“Funny, yadick.”
“Seriously though, I’m sure [P] was aware of the time frame. It’s my guess he doesn’t want you having too much prep time going into this. He’s probally worried you’ll see dollar signs and go rogue. Personally, I don’t think the two of you will have any shortage of things to talk about, and as long as it’s coming directly from him, nothing else matters, right?”
* * * * *
Aimee was right. I was late. When I finally made it to the station, there was only 35 minutes to prepare before air time. I needed to get to my office and needed to get there quickly. It’s the last office at the end of a long hall on the third floor of the station. But to get to the stairs required walking past VicAiello’s office.
Vic’s the station manager at WDUB. He, along with the pissed-off look on his face, was waiting for me as soon as I entered the building. He started to jump my ass for being late but I interrupted him and told him about the settlement. He quieted but it was evident he was still pissed. The gears were noticeable grinding in his head. The only impact on him and the station would be related to contract. Or so we thought.
After my quick run-in with Vic, I rushed my way to my office. It’s the largest in the building, even bigger than Vic’s, and is actually made up of two offices; an outer office that serves as a small reception-like area, and the private office where I do my work.In the outer office there is a desk were Aimee’s sits. Out of everybody, she was the only one I was excited to tell the news to. However, as soon as I saw her, I forgot all that was going on.
I hadn’t paying attention when she left the house earlier and I didn’t notice how pretty she looked.Never have I, nor ever will, find someone as beautiful. Jet black hair done up like a retro, 50’s secretary, only sexier. A cross between one of those women on Mad Men and Dita Von Tesse. Her foundation was light, her eyes bright green with dark lining. Lips, matching thedeep red blouse whose buttons were pulled taught across her chest. I had a plunging neck line that would’ve been completely inappropriate for an office environment. Fortunately, I’m her boss and don’t mind how risqué her attire is. In fact I encourage it. When your secretary is also you’re live-in, the risk of a sexual harassment suit is minimal.
“Good morning Monsieur Baxter,” she said with a smile.
“Good morning Miss Martineau,” I said. “Any messages?”
“Qui! Beaucoup,” she said. “I have not even finished going through your emails. There’re so many today!”
“I bet, and there’s going to be a lot more, so I hope you are prepared for a grueling day with your wicked boss.”
“Mmmmm,” she said with sultry eyes.“You know I like it when you get wicked.”
“Indeed. And as inviting as that enticement sounds, I’m afraid we won’t have time today. Ronny called after you left with news. [nn] vs. [nn] was settled this morning so it’s only gonna get busier.”
“Oh, mon Cheri! I am so happy for you,” she said.
“Thanks babe,” I said. “We’ll talk more later. If I don’t get a fire under my ass, I’m gonna miss air time.”
I entered my office, grabbed the day’s material, and exited with haste it to make it to the broadcast booth. Preproduction was hurried through and air time was just made.
News travels fast. The fans may be few, but what amazes me about technology nowadays is they can receive information and congregate ideas at the speed of light. At 1:00 PM,after we return from commercial break, we do our call-in segment:What’s On Your Mind, DuBois. It’s a chance for the listeners to call in and voice issues or concerns regarding the community. If a caller is chosen to be on-air, they get a prize. Callers are screened by the receptionists to ensure FCA guidelines and interests. The first caller, a regular, lied to get past the screening…
Chad: And weare back. I’m Chad Baxter and this is The Chad Baxter Show. I want to say a big thank you to all our sponsors who make this program possible. And remember, if you want tickets to the Reitz Community Theatre’s production of Comedy of Errors, contact the box office directly. But if you want two tickets for free, all you got to do is call in and be one of the lucky listeners chosen to speak on-air. We got 10 tickets to give away and the first two are going to caller number 1. Tell me DuBois, what’s on your mind?
Jim: Hi, C. H. It’s Jim.
Chad: Well hi back at ya Jim. listen up, DuBois. It’s our old friend Jim Elias. What’s on your mind today, Jim?
Jim: Oh, I think you know why I’m calling today.
Chad: I’d guess you’re talking about last night’s city meeting. You got rather worked up there, Jim. They had to ask you to leave, didn’t they? What was that all about?
Jim: Ha! Yeah, that was fun but that’s not what I’m talking about. I heard they settled [nn] vs. [nn.] Your fans have some questions for you. Like what exactly happened that night when…
Jim: (I disconnected the caller in a panic) Thanks for your interest Jim, but I just found out a couple of hours ago myself. Enjoy your Tickets and we look forward to hearing from you again. Next caller, what’s on your mind?
The next caller did the same, as did three more before we cut to a commercial break. We had to end the segment early and eliminated all others that involved listener call-ins. It was the first time in the program’s 3 years that there was no audience participation.
The show was a complete disaster and even though we have always maintained the highest quality in our broadcast, and even though a show that bad would have normally had me concerned, my thoughts we’re preoccupied with the box.
No sooner had I exited the booth Aimee stopped me. She said Vic wanted to see me right away. I was pretty certain his mood hadn’t improved since earlier. My hunch was comfirmed when I entered his office. He had daggers for me.
“You wanted to see me, boss,” I said.
“WHAT THE FUCK CHAD,” he yelled. “How in the hell am I supposed to run a God damn radio station with all of this attention on you? There’s no way we can do call-ins. You said the case wasn’t gonna be settled. You told me not worry about.It’s only been three fucking years! What the hell am I supposed to do now?”
“I’m not sure, Vic,” I said. “I haven’t even had a chance to maul it over myself.”
“Well,” he said as he stood up, his face getting red. “You better figure it the fuck out because I’ll be God damned if that shit that just went out of my station ever happens again.”
“I agree. If it comes to it, I’d understand if you terminated my contract.”
“Ha,” he said in a sarcastic tone. “If firing your ass was an option, I would have pulled you the second Jim brought it up. But you know, just as well as me, if you’re gone, so are our sponsors.”
He stared at me for a while. I was the proverbial deer in the headlights. His look was something similar to anger but more like the look of a predator preparing for a kill. I wasn’t sure if I should wait for him to say something, or start running.
His expression relaxed and he sat back down.
“Alright,” he began in a somewhat calmer tone. “This is what we’re gonna do. Tomorrow you’re going to do the show but with limited call-ins. We’ll have to ramp up the screening process somehow. Tell that secretary of yours that she’s going to be helping with that.”
“That won’t be a problem,” I said. “But if we cut call-ins what will we do to fill the gaps.”
He leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, and looked at the ceiling. This was his typical deep-thinking pose. After a minute or two, he leaned forward and gave me a look of self-satisfaction.
“The listening area has increased since TheIncident,” he said. “And the population has too. There are plenty of listeners who haven’t heard the story in its entirety. Instead of avoiding the subject we’ll address it. You’ll write three or four narratives telling the story. I know you won’t want to say anything about your involvement in it and that’s fine but come in early tomorrow and we’ll pre-record what you come up with. We’ll air them in place of the call-ins. We’ll present it as a special in honor of the [nn] vs. [nn] settlement. At some point during the show, you’ll announce you’re taking a temporary leave of absence. Once this has all died down, you’ll come back. I’ll suspend your contract until then and adjust the end date to reflect your hiatus,which, by the way, will be without pay. Hopefully, this’ll keep the sponsors happy enough to prevent the station from going bankrupt.”
“Tell ya what, Vic,” I said. “I’ll do ya one better. When I return from my hiatus, I’ll do a second special. During the second special, I’ll offer full disclosure. I’ll tell all the details of my involvement. I’ll also sign an agreement stating that I won’t share the story with anyone other than this station. I’ll announce it when I announce my leave of absence. That should be enough to hold the listeners and keep the sponsors happy. Marketing, might even be able to dig-up a couple new sponsors. How’s that sound?”
His stare turned to an expression of paternal affection.
“You know Chad,” he said. “I always considered you an arrogant prick who thought he was entitled to more than he’s worth. But you proved me wrong, kid.”
He put out his hand and we shook on it.
“Don’t mention it, Vic,” I said. “You’ve always tolerated me and have always been there when needed. It’s the least I can do.”
I left his office but one step out I turned around and popped my head back into his office.
“Vic,” I said. “One more thing.”
“What’s that buddy,” he said still glowing in paternal pride.
“My hiatus,” I said. “I would like that with pay.”
His expression melted back into its previous grimace. He made offered no response and I felt it best to make my exit. But just as I started to leave I heard him call.
“Chad!”
“Yeah boss,” I said.
“I take it back,” he said. “You are an arrogant prick who thinks he’s entitled to more than he’s worth.”
“Thanks, Vic,” I said in my most sarcastic tone. “I’ve always thought highly of you too.”
Metaphors as Mirrors; Similes, Reflection 