Not Always (Part 1-7): Cross Post

Since I have been lax on this site, I will put my recent short story-on-the-fly here in three exciting-if-bad-fiction parts. Enjoy if you come! (Each part is roughly 5,000 words, so be prepared…) From No More Mr. Nice Guy :

Part I

Not always, does it go so wrong, so fast, but just when the frail brightness of a supposed happiness longed for daily seems to dwell more around you, more consistent, much longer than ever before imagined, and the failures disappear for a prolonged instant, that is when BAM!!! CRASH!!! Everything goes black, and to dread, and you feel so much the foolish soul for the prolonged effort in trying…to get it right, finally, again. Turning over and over events in your head, in a proverbial irreversible grave if you will, the errors discovered in a life that was… not going right at all. This is technically is called: the point of realization that you fucked up royally. And the place where all stories begin.

I was 18, going on 40, or 35 going on 12…it doesn’t matter what age I was. I was working the 9-5 for quite a few years, making people things, selling ice cream, keeping the boss happy and the like. The time was also filled with tons of restless sleep, socializing with bar buddies at local watering holes and bad women picked up at the ‘last chance’ gully of despair. My biggest goals were to keep the rent paid, the ‘rents out of my hair, a fairly healthy appearance (so I could dwell on the glory days) and someone coming around to satisfy those other needs, we all have. After all, what is a person to do if they are not focused on other things: like community service, long-range security, kids or 401Ks.

I met people like that. Some I could understand their points, and agreed wholeheartedly with their beliefs, until, when I saw them slamming down 151, Hot Damn or Stoli or gossiping excessively about some Jennifer so-so, then I heard the truest words they ever spoke about themselves, “I’m am so fucked up and I don’t know where I am going.” I kept that in mind, and decided those other goals don’t carry weight, much, after beer thirty and liquor lunch. Rarely, but it happened, as you approach milestones, those fated anniversaries of emptiness, you ponder harder on those issues because you never thought time would catch you by the short and curly ones.

It had in my case and the pull was painful.

The experience of life is not connected by just days, turning months, then years marked by candles, liquor celebrations or mid-life crisis, but the relationships we settle into out of desire, necessity or the convenience to not be alone. And not just any one relationship; most of us see our problematic situations for years and years, we bottled them up in neat little packages of anger, frustration and insecurities waiting for a solution to come out or about, usually, and instead, we crave an insincere apology from the other side of the divide. We seek our due penance through new relationships- trying to exercise the demons of old- hoping this friend is better than our family was, or our teachers were, or some other missing element of growing up, or the lagging development of being an overstressed, under appreciated, near-do-well adult.

God calls too. The Big Man. The Creator. His Most High. And all the
futile pleas to find out why we wake up wishing we weren’t us. Some
people don’t have this, and I truly envy their positivism in the bleak world it often is. I bid them do great things. Fine a way to solve all the hunger, and violence and end all the suffering everywhere. We all should be so lucky. But the remaining persons (like you and me) have to wonder why Billy Joel’s “Captain Jack” speaks to us vividly and resonates loudly, and we laugh and cry along with Billy, for a brief moment. Then we just ponder it all. Just like God (or Billy) expects us too. And He (GOD) sees this whimsy moving in our heads like a fat hamster on the wheel, and probably appreciates it in us. Just hoping action follows bloated thought.

And for the countless times I thought it out, that I’ll put my better soled foot forward, and find a real way to make the right choices and forge new beliefs, using the infallible guidance of the Creator or what I thought was his calling to some goodness that must exist inside of me. (It must, or I’ll be damned to understand why the game.) True to form, I wander away after a few weeks, or someone comes around to “tempt” me back to the consistent B.S. I got a post doctorate thesis working towards. But the song gets play again, by another artist, and that is the depressing part of this story. (Note: The Bible was a source of inspiration too. But for artistic purposes, utilizing the symbolism of a song just works…or not.)

Later, if the same year, I don’t think so, the finally resting place of the
old, cynical, crab ass happens. A different inhabitant begins to take form. The first of it is to ditch the beer buddies. They are quick to exit and easier to contend with once I just don’t go to their bars. I lose my controlling interest in MGD incorporated, and find faith in something more useful: jogging around my neighborhood every night. I can hear you say, “I thought it would be the church, or AA, or community service.” Grand leaps of faith are a glorious thing. Just they are not for us all. Commitment is a freckled and fickled thing. But for anyone managing it, I commend it. Enjoy your 12-step program to enlightenment.

Next came the rush to find a new job. Pulling out a different mask: the
considerate, kind, energetic, team player, all that you wanted to be and should be, only practicing it takes time. Discouragement happens, but rebounding is easier without the negative vibes in life. Hangers-on to the old self are damned, and the better part of rejection is the knowing the right person is still available for that dream job: me. But it came, and the fruits came with it. You like what you do. The boss does not bother you. I make the effort to stay later and get in earlier. Hours in my life seem like minutes. Days click by. Projects never done, get done. The hum and drum start purring and soothing over me like a waterfall hitting rocks and enticing me to relax, take it in, see all the good stuff.

Finally, the best part of it all: a relationship that counts. By the way: I met others that counted on the way to this. Just the relationship that matters, is the romance lost in the gloaming of the springtime of youth.

Part II

She was once a curvy Hooters waitress where all the girls are measured by bra size first, panties second and intelligence fifth. Marissa was a total babe, the package magnificent, body taut and mind razor-like. She utilized her girlish assets under 21 to get a sugar daddy for 12 months. Fifty large, a black Lexus, cute kid and $2,000 a month in child support later, she was out the door to make her way in the nefarious power-drunk world.

After getting through the 6-year torture session that is college, with professors that drone on, and on, and on about their ideas, while never applying a lick of them, Marissa finished up near the top of the 2004 Kellogg Business class at Northwestern. She was out to make a name for herself – willing to set aside principles and morals for bullshitting and cash receipts – if only to have what others desire, but won’t pay the adequate price for.

I met her during the company introduction of new ‘imps’, as the H-N-I-C was apt to say, which usually comprised of quick run down of a resume of useless information, since none of it usually true or leaves out the real juice to squeeze. Somehow, she noticed me. Or at least wasn’t repulsed by any ogre-like tendencies most men carry around like their penises.
“So what do you do here?” she asked.

“I wash the cars of big wigs, maybe get them a call girl for the evening.” I nonchalantly replied. (At least I think I did.)

“That’s nice, at least the sexual innuendoes are out of the way. What do you really do? All these others are pretty staid.” The bullpen was nearly empty after the 9AM meeting discussing numerous particulars relevant to particularly no one.

“Gather and process information. Make someone happy by knowing
something they don’t, or anyone else does for that matter. Inside… it’s all pink.”

“So you think you know stuff?” Marissa asked.

“I know…lots of stuff. And little else.” As we finally packed up to leave
the bullpen of the 58th floor high rise.

“Guess I have a few nuggets to share…soon with you.” She strolled out
the door in a way that spoke to me. The magnetic pull of her ass to my privates was something of an embarrassment. I jerked it off to her before the clock struck midnight.

As the months went by, I saw Marissa manipulate her way into projects – with success and praise soon to follow – and soon she was my equal in everything. Our banter revolved around sex, numbers, Buddhism and lingerie models’ weight. At 5’7” and 115 lbs., her lithe body was toned on a Stairmaster workout midday. I’d smack a handball around with the H-N-I-C because I knew his ass was ample to kiss. Soon though, 7 PM meant we would recap some parts of the day, and talk sweetly about what little direction we actually had. (Or, I at least did.)

“Tom…Are you happy?” Sucking down her 3rd screwdriver without
skipping a beat.

“I wonder until the paycheck comes. Then the cycle repeats.” I take a
swig from my 4th Long Island. “How about you, expert mountain
climber?”

“Hey, I utilize my exceptional assets in a talent-poor market to increase my bottom line.” She half-stands, smacking her ass. I only wish I was the hand.

“Not at all against free-market…Milton Friedman, God rest his soul.” We clink our glasses.

Later, as I nestle her close in my bed, I feel something unreal – more
pressing than ever – the desire to profess my love to her. She lays asleep, or I think she is, or know that I must be crazy to think this smooth worker is actually interested in my 6-figure ass. She mumbles something in her dreamy state that sounds like a call order. I must be nuts…

We’ve spent the last 5 months figuring out the language of love and manipulation. I work overtime figuring out what she is trying to accomplish, cause that is what you do when you never speak the truth of your hearts. We fuck a lot. Not so much as to interfere with her ‘plans’ I suppose, but enough. We’re not exclusive…

As the year-end bonuses come, I am hoping to lock Marissa up for the
long-term. Her daughter Kate is a pistol at 5 years old. Always talking and saying something that matters. I wonder if Marissa was talking to her daughter in the womb.

Marissa knocks at the door, “Tom, are you ‘bout ready to go?”

Closing up the laptop, “Yeah, I’m done. How did you do?”

“Got what I needed…” Marissa doesn’t sound happy.

“What’s wrong? They leave off a zero?”

“Let’s talk about it at Breakers.” Referring to our bar in the financial
district.

Part III
 
We stroll north down the thinning evening crowd of haggard business types, young college kids out for a summer stroll and the dust they travel through at night while

those particular creatures look to same dreary tomorrow. The uneasiness of the trip reminded Tom perversely of the cartoon with Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny engaging Elmer Fudd in the “shoot him now!” or “wait to you get home” scenario. Each step seemed better made if the impending conversation could have been just the caricature of that episode. “Just shoot me now,” kept running through Tom’s mind.

We enter Breaker’s and head to a table at the back.

“So what is it?” Tom asked, as they sat down in the back of Breaker’s, an Irish pub, with scantily clad waitresses wearing of course green tapered outfits and kilts. Before Marissa started, a redheaded waitress comes over, takes the order for two scotches straight up and water and leaves us.

“I don’t know where to begin.” Marissa said meekly.

“Anywhere you like.” Confused by her fear of trying to do something she had done plenty in her life.

“It’s not that easy, because it…will change everything.” She rests herself closer to Tom, making eye contact that drew and repel him at the same time.

“Marissa,” taking her hands, “I can’t tell you anything that will change us. I truly care about you and am willing to do anything for you.”

Marissa perks up, but shakes her head, “Tom, it’s not that. I wish it was only that, but…” she trails off.

“Then what are you being so weird about?” Tom asks.

“I overheard something that affects the firm, us specifically,” Marissa takes a sip finally from her drink.

“What?”

“We’re being set up for a fall, and I can’t think how we’ll avoid it.”

“Why? How can it work now?”

“They’ve been watching us and Mr. Zitters is furious about our recent success or something.”

“So what are they planning?”

“I only heard so much – I was in the woman’s bathroom and that secretary of Mr. Hass came barreling in, making too much noise – and I ran out to my desk quickly to disguise my whereabouts.” Marissa pauses, then continues, “I think they’ll try to put an unusual trade or two on our accounts which they know will work out too good for someone they are targeting.”

“So what? We have control of the trades we make.” Tom feeling too confident.

“Do we? We make them, at the behest of clients and the partners, sometimes, but only if we stop trading are we completely safe.”

“Will go to the SEC. Tell them about it.”

“Tell them what? I got a hunch Hass, Zitters & Moss are setting us up, but don’t know what the stock is or when I am suppose to be in that large position. Not much to go off and why would a firm setup its own brokers?” Marissa explains matter-of-factly.

After a drag from his drink, Tom queries, “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes!” Marissa whispers an exclamation. “It just is too hard to believe Tom. Why us? Because we have sex?”

Trying to take it all in, Tom reflects finally, “Well it is not about why, it now about what we going to do to stop it from happening to us.”

Part IV – The Indy 500 of Business

It lasted only forty seconds. The same amount of time it takes an average Indy car to circumnavigate the 2 1/2 mile oval at Indianapolis Motor Speedway. While the thrill of reaching 240 miles per hour in the back straightaway reaches nirvana for those special drivers, this round of emotionless sex was becoming more a chore each time performed, Tina thought. But it had its uses.

Tina DeBois had grown up dirt poor in the backwoods of Tennessee. Her uncle ran moonshine, bought off sunglass-laden sheriffs and been too friendly with her. But she fixed him – Bobbit style – and escaped to the North, like a runaway slave on the Underground Railroad. After bouncing from shelter to shelter, passing through a dozen cities in three years, Tina met Bobby in New York.

Bobby was a semi-handsome, Gregory Peck look-a-like pimp, but a nice one, that took considerable interest in Tina for more than sex. She got a better deal than the rest of Bobby’s “non-exempt” employees in getting an opportunity to attend community college during the day. Majoring in business, Tina went through an associate’s degree at SUNY in a year with all A’s.

Her going rate at night was 1,500 dollars up front, 500 extra for kink, another 250 for special dress, the cop, nurse or cheerleader fetish. Bobby only took 10% back from her; his usual kickback was 25% to 35% from 50 different girls of lesser quality. Before long, she had a considerable bank account and a closer relationship with Bobby than anyone else in years.

After nine months, they parted ways semi-amicably. Even after their sexual-symbiotic relationship climaxed and faded away, Tina could call on Bobby. He no longer made attempts to get sex from her; only wondered when she would be running the place.

Tina finished up her bachelors at City University of New York’s, Brooklyn College, once again getting all A’s. With that, she opened the door to Wall Street’s Hass, Zitters & Moss Mergers & Acquisition Department as the international finance secretary for Mr. Hyrum Hass, an overweight legend from the 1980’s when Wall Street hummed along under the depraved dealings of Ivan Boesky and Michael Milken. Hyrum got his success the old fashion way: piggy backing on other peoples’ money train. Though never caught, he was making the most of the inside information game. And nothing ever really changed.

As Hyrum rolled off Tina, and the satisfied and contented man came back to his real purpose, Tina leaned over to the night stand, got a pill and swallowed.

“So you think she heard our plans?” Hyrum reached for a snifter of double malt scotch.

“Enough, I suppose. But not enough to do anything about it. When you want me contact Bobby?” Tina was gently massaging the salt-n-pepper hair on Hyrum’s chest.

“Won’t be too long — the Arabs are anxious to get this deal done.”

“I don’t like using her child in this — even as a bargaining chip — but we’ll do it all right.”

“It has to be done. Preoccupied people are careless people.” Hyrum reflects pensively. “Those Arabs are doing much worse.”

“Yeah, they really have a knack for chaos. Thousands of years of practice, I suppose.” Tina adds.

“Well, it will be worth it. It always is on the street.” As Hyrum closes his eyes to snooze, Tina smiles almost innocently.

Part V- Texas Tea

Thousands of miles away from New York in a bright midday sun rides a fully-loaded silver Binz S-class limousine at high speed down what would be considered an immaculate freeway. The temperature in the car was a comfortable 66 degrees, 40 degrees cooler than a normal Middle East day.

The tall, tan, athletic 40ish man in the back was dressed impeccably in suit costing five thousand dollars, without the shoes. He was a renegade in his world – a world filled with renegades. He had the discipline of very few of his ilk. Spent days thinking out things, that others made snap judgments in minutes or hours. That cost them their lives or the lives of others they cared about.

The misconception in the world is that all Arabian Muslims don’t care about life. They do. Even more than many Christians or Jews. The problem was the various sides were starkly influenced by religion, national pride and secular concerns that fiercely divided the people from Algeria to Bangladesh. And the warring factions made and broke treaties in such short order that trust and understanding was no longer a realistic option. Yet they survived in the most inhospitable lands, while controlling what every other country wanted: oil.

Suresh Mamghatti Husam’s father was a successful bazaar owner in India. Through the marketplaces, Suresh learned plenty from his father. Patience and neutrality in business being the most important. Because of that, Suresh did not let religion or country of origin bother him. He made deals. And smoothed over the minute differences he had with others by knowing their hearts and their ambitions.

He adapted to the scenario, even learning languages and dialects to fit the purpose. Even though Suresh never went to a university, he incorporated his father’s advice and his innate talents for language and a photographic-like memory to met the tasks at hand.

This task though ran counter to all of that.

His cell phone rang, after a brief conversation in Hindustani, Suresh tapped hard with his cane on the bullet proof dividing glass between him and the driver. The Iranian driver answered in very good English over the intercom, “Where to sir?”

“Head to Mahtenash Corporate. Call ahead to the switchboard for Mr. Yuri Gomach.”

“Yes sir.”

Suresh had finalized the details – 200 trained men, armed and loaded with explosives – were his to command. 500 million dollars was a conservative take on his “minor role” in this scenario. Suresh Mamghatti Husam was now in charge of blowing up the largest oil pipelines and refineries in the Middle East and Russia.

Part VI – Blame it on Rio

The fight had begun 500 years ago. When the Spanish ruled the seas and had visions of dynasty dancing in their heads. They landed ashore in the Caribbean, ran into foreign plants like sugarcane and tobacco, and were semi-disappointed they had not reached the Spice Islands where explorer Marco Polo had brought back from China plenty of wondrous things just two centuries earlier.

As the curious Conquistadors when forward into the continent searching for treasure and immortality, they found the Aztecs, Mayans, Incas and a few other worthy cultures of note. Is wasn’t long before they were fighting them for their treasures and plundering their great civilizations for booty. Their greatest weapon in this cause was their biology. Bringing foreign diseases from Europe, the Native Americans were soon dropping like flies and made it so much easier to conquer them. In a century, the once great societies of the Central & South America were decimated and offered little future resistance.

But the Spanish gradually lost their mistaken empire as the British, French and Dutch came on short word that plentiful booty, warm climate and enormous natural resources existed just across the Atlantic. After the British defeated the Spanish Armada in 1588, the scales of power tipped to Britain. Leaving the Spanish to scramble to South America to retain the most influence until Simon Bolivar brought about independence.

Portugal had its foray into the area. Pedro Álvares Cabral explored the New World, founding Brazil. Unlike the rest of South America, Portuguese is the main language, but that is of little consequence.

But once the exploration phase of the New World petered out, and the founding of the most powerful nation in the world history took place, the cards were reshuffled yet again. World Wars, Civil Rights, The Industrial Revolution and The Information Age brought them to the present.

Those abundant natural resources had rapidly dwindled, pollution increased and economics of the world lay in the hands of those that still had resources and nerve to use them.

Juan Pablo Calderone was such a man. As the new leader of Petrobras, he saw the short-term future of Brazilians tied to the bioethanol market and the exportation of its product to the highest bidder and largest user of fossil fuels, the United States.

Currently, that did not seem possible. The United States placed $.50 per gallon tariffs on Brazilian ethanol because the sugarcane processing in Brazil was cheaper by $.25 US, not counting the substantially subsidized part of the U.S. corn ethanol market. Worse was the inefficient nature of corn produced only produces 1.3 parts of energy for each one used, whereas, Sugarcane produced ethanol produced 8.3 units of energy to one.

This was completely due to the byproducts of sugarcane-to-ethanol process being bagasse, vinasse, and carbon dioxide. In modern sugarcane ethanol plants, bagasse is used for production of steam and electricity. Vinasse is the left over liquid after alcohol is removed (stillage). Vinasse contains nutrients such as nitrogen, potash, phosphate, sucrose, and yeast which could be applied to cropland as a fertilizer. Carbon dioxide could be collected for sale to beverage companies.

Bagasse is the real mover. The amount of electricity produced is then sold off to utilities. A very profitable residual benefit.

Petrobras currently produced 4.5 Billions gallons of ethanol. It provided 40% of the Brazilian motorist fuel in their endeavors. This though could be ramped up to 30 Billion gallons in five years, under the right market conditions and proper investment from outside.

Currently, the United States, as Juan Pablo saw it, was facing a two-fold dilemma: 25% of the worlds oil was being used by the U.S. but the production from non-OPEC countries would not increase in the future. OPEC had power because it was sitting on huge oil reserves the United States needed to get at. So now the United States would go on its exploration into the Middle East for oil (and war) – and the Middle East knew that. The Middle Eastern countries suspiciously eyed any U.S. involvement in their affairs, since the only substantial difference from them and African states was the oil in the ground. To get at the oil, ‘wars of economics’ were being fought. The terrorist attacks in 2001 were likely motivated by a fearful concern over the U.S. encroachment on sacred lands that just so happen to contain oil.

The nation founded by accident, abundant in a wide array of materials, was now out on the prowl for replacement resources.

The second dilemma was tied to the Heartland of America. Corn was abundant there; and could be converted to ethanol, as 15% all ready was, but only provided 2% of the gas needed. The input costs were going up and the crop yields at 130 bushels/acre were driven by over fertilizing, and thus not providing the environmental benefit the watchdog groups supported and were gaining traction in enforcing. Immigration workers were soon going to be hauled back in greater amounts, as the population was growing increasingly worrisome over people that don’t speak English thanks to the terrorism scare.

The U.S. Sugarcane crop is produced in Texas, Louisiana, Florida and Hawaii. Climatologists predict more hurricanes hitting the Gulf regions where the sugarcane was produced, reducing yields, and nixing the benefit. On top of that, the operating cycle of Gulf sugarcane is only 3 to 6 months compared to 9 months for the tropical Brazil. Hawaii’s climate would be optimal; but for the land acquisition price that has shattered that market option.

So, the United States could not produced more bioethanol without significant cost barriers, and Brazil still had one more ace-in-the-hole: The Amazon Rainforest.

Juan Pablo Calderone had convinced the recent advisory board of Petrobras that expanding operations into the Cerrado portion of the Amazon made sense. That the new deal with Nippon Alcohol Hanbai, the Japanese supplier of ethanol to all of Japan, the ability to supply them long term would require it. He smoothed over the environmental concerns with a wit and charm only a former street person could muster. Living in a Favela, he survived outside overcrowded Sao Paulo in his formative years and made his way out through the grace of God, prayers to Maria and killing when necessary.

Now at age 44, twenty years removed from that fray, Pablo could envision gas prices in the United States of $5.75-$6.50 a gallon, forcing them to take on 10 Billion gallons of Brazilian ethanol, if only they reached the tipping point quickly.

Waiting for the come on the river was not Pablo’s style. He’d rather fix the game and get the money and leave.

He did not care if the reports showed the Amazon was a key component to water vapor cycle in the world, and thus attached to all Global Warming projections. Or that the damage could tip the world’s climate so drastically that people in the freezing cold would be too warm and people in comfortable climates would face starvation. To him it was all too scientific and too much conjecture. By the time anyone really knows for sure, he’ll be somewhere else and rich enough not to give a damn.

Part VII – Taken

Bobby was silently considering just how it had all went so wrong. At that moment, the years behind him came rushing back to the present. It didn’t matter that a naked woman with perky ice cream cone pre-fabricated boobs was gyrating to ‘Fergalicious’ just 3 yards away. Or that Manny kept on asking him about Veronica, the new girl, as if he could give a damn about another lost soul at the moment.

No, Bobby had been doing fine until two hours ago. Now, he suspected it would be all about just how far he was willing to take his life of immorality and leeching off the shattered, confused and stupid. The money was there, all ready $250,000 placed in the bank, with $1 million upon successful completion of kidnapping. Kidnapping. That was the flaw to him.

He had never killed or directly robbed anyone. Assaulted and threaten, sure, that came with the territory. He’d made a living off of weaker people since he was 12 years old. He’d been an imposing kid and used his fists and tone of voice to get people to do things early on. Now 6’5” 245 lbs with old Hollywood looks, and considerable reputation, Bobby could just suggest things and people would dance. Being nice, initially, worked. There was an art form to getting your way.

Bobby could remember a more innocent time. He had loved art and could paint a passable copy of Renoir’s Mme. Charpentier and Her Children by age 16. He spent his “off hours” cultivating that knack for painting and found the innocence of it refreshing from the bullying of weak people. If only that had been his path, but artists did not get paid in accolades until after their death.

“Hey Bobby! How’s this one?” Manny, a low-level mob thug, was pointing out the strawberry blonde next to him. She had a nice face if the makeup wasn’t so damn hideous.

“Manny, whatever. I’m busy.” Bobby replied annoyed.

“Sorry Bobby. You letting that broad get to you?”

Bobby bolts up, and in a fraction of second is in Manny’s face, “What the fuck do you know? What the fuck?”

Now petrified, “Nothing Bobby! Just that call and your mood, that’s all.”

“What it is… is none of your concern.” Bobby breaths heavily on Manny, then backs away. The strippers are standing as far back as their other customers will allow. “Get me a fucking drink.” Bobby turns away and plops down again, as the song switches to Akon’s ‘I Wanna Fuck You.’ As the base kicks in, Manny heads up to the bar for Bobby’s vodka concoction.

Bobby is now determined to do it.

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Comments

  • jaypeefreely  On June 12, 2007 at 5:03 pm

    If you read this, then you are a glutton for punishment…I’ll punish you more later.

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