Sketches of Ron Gosip and Others, Page 3

  “I always thought he did his job well, sir.”

  “Yes, so he did. Which brings me to my point. Back then, before I asked you to come here with me, I asked Ron first. But he had other plans; he said no.” Befler paused again, then continued, “And then, Lou, he recommended you. I explained my doubts; you were very young -- more interested in sowing oats than in helping clients. But Ron assured me that you would grow out of that, and that your skills would make you an excellent choice in the long run. Turns out, he was right”

  “Thank you, Sir, I…”

  “If I could finish my thought here,” Befler interrupted, “it won’t be too long -- I know you have to get back. The year after I left, Ron moved on as well, to build his own business. Soon after that, Aster and Barnes dissolved -- not entirely coincidental, I’m willing to bet. You see, it takes people like Ron to give an organization its integrity, because while others are chasing dollars and promotions, it’s the Ron Gosips who always give you the straight dope, and who you can count on to do the right thing.”

  Befler went on, “Now, a few years ago, I learned that Ron retired with health problems, and I sent him my wishes that he get well. However he fares, he’ll always be remembered, more than anything else, for the many individuals he has helped. So, Lou, as you take the reins here, I hope you remember this; when you have the chance, do the right thing.” There was a brief silence, and then Mr. Befler concluded, “That’s all I have. I apologize for taking you out of your meeting.”

  “No problem, sir,” replied Lou, somewhat unsure. “And, thank you.”

  Lou headed back to the interview room. The others were ready, and they reconvened. “Let’s review the final candidate,” Lou instructed.

  The Director of Human Resources explained the score of the applicant who had left some thirty minutes earlier. “Her interview was great, puts her in third place. She lost points for her choice of graduate school -- although, as she noted, caring for her father limited her options”

  “Still, she’s not an Ivy Leaguer,” answered Lou. Not exactly what our high profile clients want. No, let’s go with the Georgetown man, “Hendrickson” was it?

  “‘Henderson.’ sir, I’ll make the proper notifications,” said the HR director, who then wrote a final note: “‘Yes’ to Henderson, ‘no’ to Smith, ‘no’ to Gosip-Martinez.”

  Showroom

  #6

  “I have so many memories of my grandfather’s Oldsmobile,” said Daniel Degrillo as he, his wife, and the car salesman viewed the new showroom model. “When I was just a kid, Granddad would take us for drives through the countryside. I recall when we would see cows in the field, he would say “Kids, look at the donkeys!”

  The salesman laughed politely, and then got back to business. “So, do we have a deal?”

  “Well,” answered Daniel, “we’ve been dickering with you for two hours…yes, this is the one.”

  “Great,” said the dealer. “Let’s get the paperwork started.”

  At the salesman’s desk they went over the details. Part way through, Daniel interrupted with more memories of his grandfather. “You know, when we got older, Granddad made us think a little harder. As we drove past a lone Holstein one day, he asked what it told me about the color of cows in Vermont. I replied that cows in Vermont were black and white. Not necessarily -- think again, he said. So, then I said that it showed that at least one cow in Vermont was black and white. Strike two. Finally, I said it proved that at least one cow in Vermont was black and white on at least one side. ‘Right!’ said Granddad.”

  “That’s a great story,” said the salesman, as sincerely as he could. Then he continued going over the papers.

  When they were ready for the final signature, Daniel had an idea. “Let’s go inside the car to sign the bottom line!” He said. So they returned to the car; Daniel and his wife sat in the front, with the salesman in back. “I’ll put on some music, Daniel said as he turned on the radio.

  “I’m glad your grandfather sold you on Oldsmobile,” said the salesman, making conversation. “He made my job easier today.”

  Daniel checked the time, then replied, “He was kind of my mentor, and you know, he instilled in me a good sense of logic. On one of our last visits to Granddad’s, he had just built a bird house and put it up. He said that two birds flew into it immediately. Then, after watching for a while, Granddad saw three birds fly out. Do you know how he explained that?

  “The two birds parented a third?” asked the salesman, now growing impatient.

  “Nope. Anyone else?” asked Daniel

  His wife helped out. “The birdhouse was not empty to begin with?” she suggested.

  “Good idea,” said Daniel. “But Granddad taught me to look at one more possibility: The two birds did not create a third; and the birdhouse was empty to begin with. ‘As soon as another bird flies in,’ said Granddad, ‘it would be empty again.’”

  “Amazing!” said the salesman. “I would never have thought of that.” Then, noticing the voice on the radio, he said, “Hey, that’s our ad! Now you can sign the papers while in the car, and listening to our radio commercial. How can you beat that?”

  “Hold on,” said Daniel, “this is your commercial?” He turned the volume higher.

  “DON”T WAIT,” shouted a voice on the radio, “COME ON DOWN! NOW! NOW! NOW! FOR A SCREAMIN’ DEAL!”

  Before the screaming had finished, Daniel turned off the radio. “I absolutely hate that commercial,” he said, “it is completely obnoxious. I would never buy so much as a windshield wiper from that place -- from this place. Honey, let’s get out of here.”

  Despite the best efforts of the salesman, Daniel did not reconsider, but went directly to the exit with his wife. As they got into their own car, Daniel’s wife spoke up. “Okay, I gave you two hours; now you owe me. And, I still think you could have simply complained about the commercial like a normal person.”

  “They would have only ignored me that way,” replied Daniel. “So I figured, why not make use of my friend at the radio station who knows the broadcast schedule? And besides, I’m always looking for a chance to tell Granddad’s stories one more time.”

  Museum

  #9

  Shhhck…3 seconds…Pshhh…3 seconds…Shhhck…3 seconds…Pshhh. The sounds alternated as the inmate first stabbed the small hill of gravelly dirt with his shovel, then tossed the mixture into his wheel barrow. His name was Hak Simpson; he was 60. He was helping landscape a county park during his “work release”. The program was for non-violent county jail inmates who, like Hak, wanted to get out during the day for supervised employment. Hak’s supervisor came to him now. “Hak, there’s a young man here to see you; says he’s your neighbor. I told him “okay”; but you keep working, all right?”

  “Sure,” answered Hak. He looked up to see his former neighbor approaching. The kid had grown up next door to Hak, and was now attending the local college.

  “Hi, Hak,” said the kid, “How are you doing…I mean, considering?”

  “I’m doin’ great, Kid -- Considering. It ain’t that bad. You can’t beat the fitness program here.” He resumed shoveling. Shhhck. “What’s up?” Pshhh.

  “Here, I brought you some chew,” said the kid as he handed over a tin.

  “Thanks, Kid.” Hak slipped the round container into his pocket. “You stay away from this stuff, now. Ain’t no better than smoking.” Shhhck…Pshhh.

  The kid then asked for a favor. “Say, Hak, remember those times when me and my friends would see you, and it seemed like you always had a story to tell us? I wonder if you could help me out.”

  “Sure,” replied Hak. “You need a story?”

  “Actually, that’s right,” continued the kid. “Damn English class.” He caught the glance from Hak for the four-letter word, then explained, “Well, I’m an engineering major -- it doesn’t make sense.” He loo
ked at the wheelbarrow, just over half full. “But, yeah, even if you just had an idea for a story, it’s supposed to be about relationships. You know, two people, I guess. ”

  Hak stood his shovel in the gravel pile and pushed the blade in with his foot. Then he grabbed the handles of the wheel barrow and lifted with a short grunt. “Yep, wheelin’ dirt has to be about the best workout you can get. Heart, lungs, all the major muscle groups…” He rolled the load across the grass, toward the trail under repair; the kid followed along. A dip caused Hak to sidestep, “And balance,” he added. A few more steps, and Wshhhhh, he poured the gravel onto the trail, then pulled the wheel barrow handles back down, and returned for another load.

  “Well, ya know, Kid, there was this friend of mine, years ago,”

  started Hak.

  “Great,” said the kid. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

  Back at the gravel pile, Hak spoke as he began to shovel again.

  “Yeah, let’s see. This guy was a guitar player. Pretty good one, had a little band, sold a ton of records. Real popular – and he liked to party, you know. “

  “So, I could write about him and his groupies, maybe,” interrupted the kid.

  “No, that ain’t what I was thinking,” said Hak.

  “You see, this guy was a rock star, yes, but he was also just a guy like you and me. And what most people didn’t know was that his family was very important to him. Even late in his rock star career, one thing he made sure of every week, was to visit with his father -- who was getting on in years, but who was still sharp, you know?”

  Shhhhk. “Yeah, maybe you could write a little story about that.” Pshhhh.

  “Like, describe what they talked about?” asked the kid.

  “Kinda. Here, I’ll give you an example,” offered Hak, as he stood the shovel upright next to himself, taking a break by resting his hands over the end of the handle.

  “On weekends, they would go to breakfast, then afterwards, they would go shopping or driving around. One particular Saturday, the rock star, who has been learning to paint as a hobby, takes his father to an art exhibit in town.“

  “Wait,” said the kid, “what’s the guy’s name – the rock star?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, exactly. You can make up a name. There was a time there, when the group was really more important than the individual.

  Anyway, at this exhibit, there are paintings by artists from a certain time period, say, two hundred years ago. And, as the rock star walks around the museum, he starts diggin….ahh, he kinda likes some of the paintings.”

  “Who are the paintings by?” asked the kid.

  “Yeah, I ain’t sure about that either. Not Picasso or Van Gogh, but famous painters like that.”

  The supervisor passed by without saying anything, so Hak continued his break, and his story.

  “So after the old man sees the rock star taking an interest in the exhibit, he says to his son, ‘Just imagine if you could travel back in time and have one of these artists create a painting for you to bring back.’ Then the rock star picks up on the idea and says yeah, Dad, that’d be cool.

  See Kid? You could write about how cool that scenario would be.”

  “Ok, I think I get it.” said the kid. “But how do I end it, then?”

  Hak looked around to see his supervisor was out of view, then retrieved the tin from his pocket and took a dip. “You stay away from this stuff,” He said to the kid, “Hooks you bad as smokin’. Now, the way it would end, I would say, is like this.

  After the rocker gets thinking -- about going back in time -- his dad says, ‘and imagine if you could find two of these famous painters back then, and have them work together on one picture. Then you‘d have something so unique it would be priceless.’ And the rock star is looking at one of the paintings on display, and he says, ‘no man.’”

  “Which man is that?” asked the kid.

  “It’s an expression,” Hak explained. “He’s talking to his dad. He says, ‘No man, I wouldn’t want that, because each painter would have to change his style to match the other’s. A painting done like that might be worth a lot of money, but it would be imperfect and incomplete, you know?‘ Or words to that effect,” finished Hak.

  “I see,” said the kid. “A painting reflects how the artist sees things, and no two painters would have the same view. Is that it?”

  “Yeah, Kid, you got it. Now, there is one more thing. You see, this guitar player had been performing since he was a kid, and in those early years, his father had taken care of his gigs, did marketing, all that. But after the rocker hit it big and could afford it, he hired a woman to be his manager, and she handled his career from there.”

  “So I should bring her into the story, too?” asked the kid.

  “Yeah,” said Hak, “See, after the weekend at the art exhibit, the Rock Star goes back to work and meets with his manager. They make small talk for a while, then he says to her, ‘By the way, you can scratch the idea for a ‘Duets’ album; I don’t think that’s going to work for me. Instead, I’m writing some original stuff, just for my fans.’ And she says back to him, ‘I’m glad you made your decision – may I assume you took your father to the mall again?’ And he just smiles at her for a second, and says, ‘Museum.’”

  The kid realized, after a moment, that the story was over. “That’s great, Hak. Really, you saved me. Hey, I should go write this up while it’s fresh in my mind.”

  So they exchanged good-bye’s, and the kid hustled off.

  The supervisor, who had been loitering nearby, walked over. “Hak,” he said, “you aren’t moving much dirt there.”

  Hak grabbed his shovel. “Sorry, I got a little carried away,” he said and prepared to stab at the gravel again.

  “That’s all right,” said the supervisor, “but tell me, where do you dream up these stories, anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hak. “Man, I really don’t know.”

  Shhhck.

  The Walk

  #10

  Her old dog was not much more than “skin and bones.” The veterinarian had informed the elderly widow that her pet was in pain and beyond help; it was only a matter of weeks, perhaps days. But the woman couldn’t bear to part with her companion right there, she said. So she had taken the dog home and asked her country neighbor, Noah Bremonn, to put the dog down while she was away. Noah, after all, had no relationship with the dog.

  He entered the pen with a leash in one hand, a small caliber hunting rifle in the other. He would lead the dog to the woods, maybe 300 feet, to where a shovel stood in the soil next to a freshly dug hole. It was a short walk, but one which would change Noah.

  The mutt was a lanky mix of Lab and Shepherd, and was named for the color of its medium length coat. An outside dog, “Blondie” was primarily there for barking at strangers from his pen, and it was surprising to Noah that his widow-neighbor had grown so attached to the animal.

  When Noah snapped on the leash, Blondie, sick though he was, seemed excited to be going somewhere. As they made their way across the grassy, flowering field, Blondie showed interest in every scent, (and left his own mark several times). Noah had not expected this enthusiasm. But it wasn’t what shook him.

  After a while, the dog no longer pulled against the leash; he began to respond to Noah’s lead. With a frequent glance back, Blondie would change direction or slow his pace to match Noah’s. And a simple “come now” would keep the dog moving. In a hundred steps, a bond formed between two strangers. That bond had one, ultimately haunting, element.

  Noah had shot and killed plenty of game. Putting a dog out of its misery would only be slightly different, he figured. But he had heard more than once of guys making a mess of it, or missing completely. So he had planned carefully how this would go. The shot would have to be sure.

  It was sure, and it went quickly – a mere second.
But in that second, the old dog took it hard, and his anguished snarl was an image for which Noah had not prepared.

  Noah shoveled the earth back. Generations earlier, the farmer who lived there had held a great appreciation for the land and for the creatures on it. Yet that settler had differentiated clearly between human life, and animal life. To him, animals were expendable. The same belief had been adopted by Noah. But now there was an exception to the rule; the most “human” of pets, man’s best friend, was not simply expendable, after all.

  When the old widow returned, Noah had two things to tell her. First, he wanted to break it to her gently that Blondie was gone. Secondly, he would ask her to use the Vet in future cases. He never got to the second point. After taking the news surprisingly well, she let it slip: “Fifty dollars to give a dog a shot? Ridiculous! In the old days we just took care of it ourselves.” Noah realized then that she had simply wanted to save money, and that she’d never had feelings for the dog. Noah felt betrayed and wanted to reprimand her, but how could he? He was the one who could not be trusted.

  Interviewer

  #8

  Young Curriel felt anxious returning, two days after her first interview. The employer wanted to see her again, about a different position, should she be interested. Not knowing what they had in mind, she was still hopeful that she could land a job at the research firm. The original opening had been filled by someone more qualified.

  “Someone more qualified,” they said. Probably, thought Curriel, the job went to the middle-aged man who had been waiting in the reception area for his turn as she was leaving from her interview. “Excuse me,” he had asked her, “can you tell me the exact time?”

  Curriel told him the time from her watch, and as he stood up to explain that his interview was in 30 minutes, she could not help noticing his necktie was horribly off to one side.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said as she impulsively reached to fix the tie, “you can’t go in there like that.”

  “Thank you,” he said, “that’s very kind of you. I can’t afford to look sloppy. It’s bad enough that I’m so nervous. You know, I have a Ph D. but I won’t be able to answer half their questions, just because of nerves. Sometimes it seems like I can’t even breathe.”