[ Summary of a Day ]
Scott
"I don't care if you could negotiate your way out of a paper bag. I said one o'clock, Tole, and that meant one o'clock!"
The words rang throughout my mind. They were sour, ridiculous. I had only been a few minutes late. One hundred and thirty four minutes late if you wanted to be technical, but it was still only a few minutes for all intents and purposes. I couldn't begin to imagine what kinds of lame-duck discussions I'd missed over the course of those two hours and fifteen minutes. There wasn't much excitement to be had in negotiating the PR of corn syrup and sugar products. It was easy to work that market and that system. Any politician on the face of the planet could have argued against candy bars and pop, but that wasn't going to stop any kid from over-indulging like the little gluttons that they were. Talking parents and families into sugar treats wasn't an issue. Once you learned to spin the fact, you learned to be done with it all - and if there was on thing I'd learned to do in business practice, it was spin a pretty sentence even if I couldn't spin a reliable word in conversation.
No one had ever asked me to, though, and it wasn't my job to be a wonderful conversationalist. At the age of thirty-five, I'd come to accept that I wasn't one. That was why I never manned the head of negotiations. My job was simpler than that. I sat on the side, a man of numbers, a face to stare at. The industry calls us muscle men. We're not really muscle, but negotiation is like a war: show up in numbers. You surround your prey in the form of a wolf-pack and you pounce. The leader will do the talking, you just stare at your papers, and spin a bullshit phrase, then you're done. How hard was it? I couldn't begin to imagine why it warranted my presence in a meeting, but, no matter my excuse, my boss was steaming out the ears. When I'd walked into that office, I'd walked right back out for fear of being blinded by his balding little red head.
It was worth it. That early afternoon had proven the beacon of fruition. It was like uncovering the sweet nectar of the gods, and if I had to be frank, my job was the last thing I really cared about. Whatever paid the mortgage, but it meant nothing compared to the real coup de grace. The real cream de la cream. The frenchy, hot, steamy, divine gourmet of life that was known as pure, unadulterated, classical entertainment. It was like an orgasm on sight, and the venture down to the old shop whose advertisement I had caught on tv had been well worth it. Better than an open invitation to a strip joint, better than a pay raise. Maybe. I'd just walked right in, and before I knew it, two blasts from the past were staring back at me in all of their antiquated glory. They were beautiful, straight of the 20s, the days of early silent, black and white movies before they uncovered the actual processes. It brought back memories. You know? Those things that are supposed to make us feel human. Memories of dreams that never came true. That's life, though - but even if you never live the dream, you can still connect and fraternize with its subjects. I couldn't resist myself. I found an old projector and a canister of film. It would have been money well spent if I'd actually spent money on it. The woman at the shop, for as odd as her management style was, sent them my way without my having to pay a cent. One word: sucker. That canister and projector? Probably worth a fortune, and I could only begin to imagine what great people had likely laid their hands on it and some point in time. Orgasmic, by far.
So I'd taken them home, propped them up against the wall and the expense of being late for a meeting. Never mind, though. I was fortunate that I could talk my way out of a paper bag - and then some. I could talk my way out of a paper bag, earn myself a bag of skittles, two drinks at a bar, and a trip to Gambinoland if I wanted to. It wasn't hard to kiss a**. If you know where to kiss, you know where to kiss. It didn't matter. I was home - and as I sank through that door leading into my condo, shutting it firmly behind me, I felt a sense of complacency and happiness as the waves of silence and static crashed over me. The television sat on its input, the remote twisted over a stack of magazines and newspapers lodged over the glass top coffee table, the film canister set on it easily and with care. I'd checked the film. Blank. No shame in that, though. There was a possibility it worked, and if I found an old enough camera, it would be worth shooting something on for kicks. Maybe a day in the life of Gambino if I ever met the man - and who knew? Maybe I would. The Tobacco lobby had appealed to him recently, and if I ever transferred hands to something more eventful than sugar and corn syrup, my odds seemed great to actually film something dynamic and cool.
My fingers unraveled my sloppy tie, tugging at the knot with force as I unhooked it, threw it to the side. My shoes had been kicked off, situated haphazardly next to the door. As I passed the mangy green sofa, I tossed my jacket over the side, grasping the edge of the couch and flinging myself around to sweep up the film canister. I was walking on sunshine, prancing with unicorns, if you wanted to get into elation, and the inner kid in me wanted to do something. If anything, I just wanted to have a look. It was like coming into the possession of a baseball signed by some legend - sure, there was nothing inherently special, but it was still cool. I could feel my heart pitter-pattering as I set the canister on top of the projector, kneeling down to examine the array of knobs and swatches. I didn't even know how to work the poor old thing. The model title was scraped and old, difficult to read - but I could always picture match. Picture match. Sounded like a plan.
"Beautiful." I felt my lips jerk, pulling off to the side and curling upward. My head was a balloon on the verge of bursting. Quietly, I'd straightened my back. My head had lolled to the side; my shoulders hand sank as I felt myself growing tired. I was exhausted, truthfully. A long day. As much as I wanted to stay up and stare, I couldn't do it. I'd just looked the unintelligible model number over, then looked off into the distance at the cluttered bookshelf. That told me everything I needed to know. The smile faded as I shook my eyes, pulling my phone from my pant pocket to check the time.
Bed. Three hours before the start of a new day.
The words rang throughout my mind. They were sour, ridiculous. I had only been a few minutes late. One hundred and thirty four minutes late if you wanted to be technical, but it was still only a few minutes for all intents and purposes. I couldn't begin to imagine what kinds of lame-duck discussions I'd missed over the course of those two hours and fifteen minutes. There wasn't much excitement to be had in negotiating the PR of corn syrup and sugar products. It was easy to work that market and that system. Any politician on the face of the planet could have argued against candy bars and pop, but that wasn't going to stop any kid from over-indulging like the little gluttons that they were. Talking parents and families into sugar treats wasn't an issue. Once you learned to spin the fact, you learned to be done with it all - and if there was on thing I'd learned to do in business practice, it was spin a pretty sentence even if I couldn't spin a reliable word in conversation.
No one had ever asked me to, though, and it wasn't my job to be a wonderful conversationalist. At the age of thirty-five, I'd come to accept that I wasn't one. That was why I never manned the head of negotiations. My job was simpler than that. I sat on the side, a man of numbers, a face to stare at. The industry calls us muscle men. We're not really muscle, but negotiation is like a war: show up in numbers. You surround your prey in the form of a wolf-pack and you pounce. The leader will do the talking, you just stare at your papers, and spin a bullshit phrase, then you're done. How hard was it? I couldn't begin to imagine why it warranted my presence in a meeting, but, no matter my excuse, my boss was steaming out the ears. When I'd walked into that office, I'd walked right back out for fear of being blinded by his balding little red head.
It was worth it. That early afternoon had proven the beacon of fruition. It was like uncovering the sweet nectar of the gods, and if I had to be frank, my job was the last thing I really cared about. Whatever paid the mortgage, but it meant nothing compared to the real coup de grace. The real cream de la cream. The frenchy, hot, steamy, divine gourmet of life that was known as pure, unadulterated, classical entertainment. It was like an orgasm on sight, and the venture down to the old shop whose advertisement I had caught on tv had been well worth it. Better than an open invitation to a strip joint, better than a pay raise. Maybe. I'd just walked right in, and before I knew it, two blasts from the past were staring back at me in all of their antiquated glory. They were beautiful, straight of the 20s, the days of early silent, black and white movies before they uncovered the actual processes. It brought back memories. You know? Those things that are supposed to make us feel human. Memories of dreams that never came true. That's life, though - but even if you never live the dream, you can still connect and fraternize with its subjects. I couldn't resist myself. I found an old projector and a canister of film. It would have been money well spent if I'd actually spent money on it. The woman at the shop, for as odd as her management style was, sent them my way without my having to pay a cent. One word: sucker. That canister and projector? Probably worth a fortune, and I could only begin to imagine what great people had likely laid their hands on it and some point in time. Orgasmic, by far.
So I'd taken them home, propped them up against the wall and the expense of being late for a meeting. Never mind, though. I was fortunate that I could talk my way out of a paper bag - and then some. I could talk my way out of a paper bag, earn myself a bag of skittles, two drinks at a bar, and a trip to Gambinoland if I wanted to. It wasn't hard to kiss a**. If you know where to kiss, you know where to kiss. It didn't matter. I was home - and as I sank through that door leading into my condo, shutting it firmly behind me, I felt a sense of complacency and happiness as the waves of silence and static crashed over me. The television sat on its input, the remote twisted over a stack of magazines and newspapers lodged over the glass top coffee table, the film canister set on it easily and with care. I'd checked the film. Blank. No shame in that, though. There was a possibility it worked, and if I found an old enough camera, it would be worth shooting something on for kicks. Maybe a day in the life of Gambino if I ever met the man - and who knew? Maybe I would. The Tobacco lobby had appealed to him recently, and if I ever transferred hands to something more eventful than sugar and corn syrup, my odds seemed great to actually film something dynamic and cool.
My fingers unraveled my sloppy tie, tugging at the knot with force as I unhooked it, threw it to the side. My shoes had been kicked off, situated haphazardly next to the door. As I passed the mangy green sofa, I tossed my jacket over the side, grasping the edge of the couch and flinging myself around to sweep up the film canister. I was walking on sunshine, prancing with unicorns, if you wanted to get into elation, and the inner kid in me wanted to do something. If anything, I just wanted to have a look. It was like coming into the possession of a baseball signed by some legend - sure, there was nothing inherently special, but it was still cool. I could feel my heart pitter-pattering as I set the canister on top of the projector, kneeling down to examine the array of knobs and swatches. I didn't even know how to work the poor old thing. The model title was scraped and old, difficult to read - but I could always picture match. Picture match. Sounded like a plan.
"Beautiful." I felt my lips jerk, pulling off to the side and curling upward. My head was a balloon on the verge of bursting. Quietly, I'd straightened my back. My head had lolled to the side; my shoulders hand sank as I felt myself growing tired. I was exhausted, truthfully. A long day. As much as I wanted to stay up and stare, I couldn't do it. I'd just looked the unintelligible model number over, then looked off into the distance at the cluttered bookshelf. That told me everything I needed to know. The smile faded as I shook my eyes, pulling my phone from my pant pocket to check the time.
Bed. Three hours before the start of a new day.
