Tommy intuited, correctly, that he was about to be fired from his job selling industrial supplies in downtown Manhattan. Imminently. Missed days and drunken afternoons with no sales. Nuts. He had to buckle down. After all, he was 26 now, in the winter of 1996.
So he went out at lunch in his suit and tie, with his resumes and files for potential clients in his briefcase, and walked up Broadway. He intended to talk to these people about a job, not a sale, though he would be making a sale at interviews, where the product was him.
Into the lobbies, up the elevators, and into the reception areas. He’d ask for the client contact from the file. Sometimes yes, most times no, but sometimes he walked in, got the right person and whipped out the Catholic-school charm with a direct look in the eyes and a firm handshake and a smile, and, just like that, he had another job. Commission-based, though, which meant he would be paid on his performance, but Tommy believed in his abilities, so commissions were fine by him
For some reason, they never checked his references, thankfully, since they were Steve and Timmy from high school. Both of them had the catholic-school charm as well, but god knows what they’d be doing if someone called to check a reference, probably smoking a joint or sucking down a beer funnel someplace.
So now he got a job selling law books to law firms. He worked at 120 Broadway, one floor below the New York Law Institute.
This was great. Manhattan. He worked with the best of the best. Tom proudly walked up Broadway. He didn’t particularly like his hour-and-a-half commute or the fact that he had to wear a suit every day, but there was booze served on the train, which made the trips easier, and he was used to wearing dress pants with a tie and jacket for school.
But this job would be different. Okay, he was still drinking, but he’d keep a lid on that. He just needed to control his drinking and act like a normal person. He had been on the last job for almost a year without any major disasters, until the end. That had been a world record for him. This latest job, though, would have no disasters. Controlled drinking, with the emphasis on controlled, but once he started, he couldn’t stop, so he’d have to watch out for that.
Feeling awesome about himself, Tom walked from the World Trade Center PATH train, up Broadway to work.
Mornings, it’s true, had always been rough, but they were a monster now that he had to get up at 6 am. But he did. And he learned to pace himself a bit while drinking, and go to bed early, which was hard, because he normally didn’t sleep unless he passed out from alcohol, which he still did, just earlier. Normally, he had a built-in forgetter every night, so he’d pick up that first drink while overlooking what always resulted, but he’d been on this job for three months already, so he felt he was doing ok. He’d still look at himself in the bathroom mirror in the morning and say, “You’re an alcoholic.” But he’d always shrug his shoulders. What was he supposed to do? It was his lot in life, he guessed.
So he didn’t feel well on the morning train. Big deal. So it goes.
The only thing notable about this morning in December was that he had to see a client at 10 am. That seemed to be the standard time for morning meetings in the City, which was ok with him.
This morning, Tom made it to the building on 57th Street and 7th Avenue, near the Russian Tea Room, on time, but not feeling great. However, he looked good in his suit and tie and polished black dress shoes. He never wore an overcoat.
Up to the 34th floor, out and into the receptionist, “Hi, I’m here to see Mr. Blades.”
“Sure, your name?”
He told her and took a seat and opened the day’s New York Times, where he read more about the O.J. Simpson murders and about Bill Clinton’s re-election. Tom viewed Bill Clinton mainly as a jerk, but he could tolerate him. As for the murders, Tom secretly rooted for O.J., who he hoped would be found not guilty. At the movies, Tom always hoped the bad guy would win.
So he sat there and waited for the product manager, whose assistant eventually came out, and led him to a conference room somewhere in the back of the office. Tom waited in the empty white room with a round table with a shiny fake-wood top. He resisted the urge to lean back and cross his legs, so he sat forward instead and waited.
The door opened, and an older, bald, fat guy walked in. Tom stood up with a firm handshake, said ‘hello,’ and they sat back down.
“Hi Tom, you and I haven’t seen each other in quite a while.”
Tom’s eyebrows raised, and he looked at the man quizzically, but did not recognize him at all.
He cleared his throat and said, “Oh yeah, how you been?” Smoothly, he hoped because he felt panicked inside. He hated things like this. No surprises, please.
The man smiled. “Tom. I’m John Blades.”
Tom’s eyebrows lowered, and he said, “Oh yeah, how have you been?” Tom didn’t know this guy at all.
“Tom. Your Dad used to call me the Bear, don’t you remember me? We used to have fun playing basketball,” and Tom’s eyeballs shot forward, and the back of his head came to the front, and then he descended back into the room from his flashback nightmare, with the Bear looking at him.
The Bear. His dad’s friend. Tom flashed to the Bear’s lap, where Tommy would squiggle around while the Bear would grab at his penis with his giant hand. Tommy got away from the Bear then, he thinks, but he sits there paralyzed with shame and fear now.
“Bear in the air.” That was his dad’s joke for the huge, tall, fat guy who launched himself into the air for rebounds, where few could stop him on the way down. It was after the games at the wild parties at the house, though. For whatever reason, his dad always encouraged Tommy to sit on the Bear’s lap, though Tommy would squiggle and squirm to get away. At five years old, he was a package of muscle and sinew, so he usually wormed away quickly, but he didn’t really remember now, and that scared him shitless.
“We should have lunch,” said the Bear, but Tommy said a quick ‘no thanks’ and a quick goodbye and backed out of the office and into the reception to the elevator, where he realized he was alone. His breathing came in shallow puffs, and he practically ran out of the elevator once it hit the lobby. Then he was out of the building in the bright sunshine, and he walked down 53rd Street to catch the E train back to Fulton Street and his office at 120.
Tom found himself thinking of his father, full of fear and worry, and tried to calm himself. He hadn’t thought of the Bear in 20 years, and he didn’t know his real name until now.
Tom reached into his briefcase as he walked on John Street and pulled out the file for the Bear’s company. It was thick with contracts and notes, and plans with strategies to sell the products sold there. It looked like Tom’s company had done a great deal of business there and wanted to do more.
Tom slid the file into a garbage can as he walked passed.//
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Patrick Geraghty is a writer and a maritime lawyer who lives in Bayonne, New Jersey, USA. He has been writing all his life.
Patrick is currently working on a novel called ”The JUG,” about a young man involved in a murder that chases him through alcoholism and ultimately to jail.
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About the Author
