THE
BEST THING
The
large manila envelope was thrown to the floor when Will’s
white Corolla with rust spots on the fenders and the trunk,
squealed to a stop along side a Lexus, so he could back into
the parking spot on Wooster Street. It was such a sticky,
broiling August day that the tar around street repairs bubbled
up. The smell of sweat seemed to hang in the air.
Will’s floral tie was loosened and hung limply down
his rumpled yellow shirt. The air conditioning was turned up
high but he had sweated through his shirt leaving a dark spot
on his back. His seersucker jacket was thrown in a heap on the
back seat. His long brown hair was held together in a pony
tail but several wisps escaped and were hanging damply against
his thin face. Another few loose strands hung over his ear
covering a small gold earring. Dark stubble sprouted on his
receding chin.
Inside
the envelope were two memos to Will: “From: Walter
O’Malley, O’Malley Development Corp. “…in view of your
hesitancy and clear dissatisfaction with our aesthetic
judgement, we have decided to select another architectural
firm.” The second, from Will’s boss, Jack: “…you are
in deep shit over the O’Malley project. Be here tomorrow at
4:30
to explain—it better be good and don’t be late…”
Will
turned around quickly and was already part way into the space,
when a huge black Lincoln Navigator with headlights glowing
like the eyes of a monster loomed in behind him. He honked,
backed in farther so that both cars were now half way in. Will
opened the window, got a punch of hot air, and called out in a
controlled way, “Excuse me, I was here first. Would you mind
backing out! Please!”
“Hell
no, this is my spot! ” bellowed the voice from the
huge SUV.
Will
got out of the car; stood slightly up on his toes, “Come on,
let’s be fair about this--you know I was here first.” He
glanced nervously at his watch and then with greater urgency,
“How about it? Please just move your car.” His shoulders
sagged, making him look even smaller than five-seven.
A
tall athletic guy, shaved head, wearing a crisp gray Armani
suit, black tee shirt and a thick gold chain, got out of the
Lincoln
,
put his hands on his hips and mimicked Will in a high voice,
“Let’s be fair about this.” Then with a dismissive flick
of his hand and in his regular deep voice, demanded, “Get
out of my way and find your own goddam spot!”
Will
glared, squared his shoulders and crossed his arms, “I did.
This one,” pointing to the space.
He
laughed, “Suddenly you think you got balls.”
For
a split second Will’s jaw softened.
The
guy’s face turned serious; he pointed a finger at Will and
as he ordered in a steely voice, “Listen asshole, you a
retard or something? MOVE!” he threw out his big hands
against Will’s chest and gave him a hard shove
toward his car.
Will
stumbled backwards a few steps, grabbed the door to stop
himself from falling and yelled, “Get your hands off me.
You’re not going to get away with this,” quickly got in
and backed up to the Navigator’s bumper.
The
huge SUV gunned the engine and pushed Will’s car out into
the street.
Will
grabbed the Club lock, his face red and contorted in rage,
screamed, “Push
my car another inch and your headlights are history.”
The
guy in the suit suddenly loomed in front of him, sternly
ordered him, “Man, you got shit for brains. You don’t know
who you are dealing with. Just put that down and you won’t
get hurt.”
Will
took a swing at the lights, the guy grabbed the club and threw
it against the curb where it made a dull clank. He lifted Will
up and banged him down on the trunk of his car knocking the
air out of him and scraping his face on a rust spot.
Then he grabbed his arm, held it behind his back,
dragged him to the driver’s side and pushed him in, “Now
go! Get out of here before I really hurt you!”
Will
sat looking straight ahead gasping for breath, shook his head,
“Okay,” then put the car in gear and crawled up the
street. He stopped, then crawled a little farther, then
stopped again. Finally he stopped half-dozen cars up and out
of sight of the Navigator, turned and gave the guy the finger.
He sat for several minutes, his head down, hands firmly on the
steering wheel, then he reached up, felt his face and looked
at the blood on his hand. He banged the steering wheel crying
out, “Shit, shit, shit…” again and again. Finally, he
reached over the seat and pulled his brief case into the front
where he opened it, took out his cell phone and dialed 911.
Then, he called his boss, “Jack, I’ve had an awful time
this afternoon … I’ve been in an accident and my face is
scraped up…Yeah I think I’m okay. As soon as I finish with
the police, I’ll be there …No, no, wait for me, I’m very
anxious to talk to you… Oh, maybe a half hour or so… No, I
don’t want to wait until morning, just wait for me…Please!
I’m right near the office; all I have to do is find a
parking spot.
An
hour later, after making out a complaint charging the driver
of the SUV with assault, Will came into the office. The large
loft on Spring Street with high windows was bright and airy.
Huge sentry palms
thrived on either side of the door. Will walked directly into
the Men’s Room and looked in the mirror--he had a big scrape
on his right cheek and his right eye was puffy; he muttered,
“That son of a bitch, when the police locate him, I’ll
have his ass.” He washed his hands scrubbing off the blood
from when he touched his face in the car. He carefully washed
his face grimacing as he put soap and water on the scrape,
then patted it dry. He rubbed his shoulder and arm then
painfully took off his shirt and examined his shoulder, which
was turning blue and purple. He lowered the right sleeve of
his shirt and slipped it back on before he directed his left
arm around into the left sleeve. Will retied his tie and
attempted to smooth out his shirt as much as he could. He took
some paper towels and let the cold water run over them to make
a compress. He touched it to the scrape and swelling on his
face and pulled it away quickly, “Whew, that stings. “
Finally he held it firmly on his face, examined himself in the
mirror once more and walked down the hallway.
Jack’s
office was a large space with an oriental carpet, a big table,
two computers, a desk and photographs of buildings the firm
had designed. A cardboard model of a building labeled
“O’Malley Project” sat on a low table.
Jack
stood up—a tall, thin, elegant man in his sixties with
perfectly combed gray hair, “My God what happened to you?”
“You
should have seen me before I got cleaned up.” Will eased
himself onto the large table biting his lip in pain, while
holding the compress to his face. He took a breath.
Jack
came out from behind the desk with a concerned look on his
face, “Don’t you want to see a doctor—maybe go to the
Emergency Room and have them look at you. Come on, I’ll take
you, we’ll talk about the O’Malley business tomorrow.
Will
looked at him squarely, managing a faint smile said, “Jack,
just relax. I’m fine.”
“Well,
you don’t look fine—your face is swollen and I can see you
are holding your arm as it if hurts. What happened?”
“It
was just a little fender bender—I’m fine. Really,” he
said in
an
annoyed tone.
“Okay.
Okay,” Jack held up his hands, then arranged himself against
his
desk,
crossed his legs and folded his arms across his chest.
“I
want to talk about that piece of garbage,” Will pointed
derisively at the model of the O’Malley project.
“Well, I’ll agree it isn’t terrific but we need
the account and I’d hate like hell to lose you…”
Will
interrupted, “What do you mean, ‘lose me?’”
“Don’t
you realize that I don’t have another project for you.” He
looked intently at Will. Neither showed any sign of noticing
the sirens wailing on the street.
“So,
I won’t have a job,” said Will firmly, “but if I did it
the way O’Malley insists we do it, you won’t have a firm
with a reputation worth a damn. Would you really want to put
that monstrosity up on the wall with that other great work?”
Will gingerly slid himself off the table and walked over
closer to the photographs of the projects. “I know I
wouldn’t want my name on it.”
He winced as he slowly situated himself in a leather
club chair facing Jack.
Jack
paused, his eyebrows knit together as he saw Will’s pain.
Then in a friendly tone, “ Whoah, Will come on now,” he
leaned back against the desk, “I can’t believe that
you’re talking like this—you’ve always been a team
player. What’s gotten into you?” He paused for a moment,
“You sure you don’t want to go home, have a drink, calm
down and we’ll talk about this tomorrow?”
Will
raised his voice, “Hell no I want to talk about this now”
and pointed his finger at the model.
“Okay
my young friend if that’s what you want,” Jack had an edge
in his voice, “but let’s begin with a dose of reality. My
job and your’s I might add, is to keep this business going
which if you hadn’t noticed pays your salary and the
salaries of everyone else around here—and that includes
doing jobs like the O’Malley project. It’s time for you to
stop the idealistic grandstanding.” Jack reached behind him,
picked up a copy of O’Malley’s letter and held it out
toward him. “Listen
to me carefully,” Jack leaned forward and ordered, “I want
you to take him out to lunch some place special like The
Judson Grill or The
Water Club—your choice--get a good bottle of wine and
smooth it over; that’s all he really wants. And be careful,
don’t make him feel like the ugly developer.”
“I
think O’Malley would prefer the Paramount Gentleman’s Club
for a little topless dancing.”
“Oh
come on, be serious!”
“Jack,
I am serious, I can’t do it the way he wants it. And he is
the ugly developer. “
“Oh
brother. That accident must have scrambled your brains.
Firms are laying people off and you want to get up on your
high horse and blow the O’Malley job?” He raised his voice
and pointed his finger at Will, “Have you given even a
moment’s thought about the other people in this firm who
also depend on the project and what losing it will do to them?
Just think of John Harris—his wife just had a baby, and Joan
Lamata who is a single mom. ” He mentioned people who I knew
Will especially liked.
Will
turned the compress over and looked at the faint streaks of
blood on it. Jack walked over to the window and watched a
delivery boy pedal down the street as if he would tell him how
to calm both Will and O’Malley.
Will
looked at the compress again and in disgust threw it in the
direction of the wastebasket. He sat silently shaking his head
slowly from side to side and made such a deep sigh of
resignation that he appeared as if he might deflate.
Jack
watching him said firmly but softly, “Will, you can do it.
Remember you are very good at what you do, just try to stay
calm and stick to the design—you’ll be fine.”
Will,
his head down, his mouth firmly set, still slowly moving
his
head for side to side, sighed again, a shallower sigh, then
looked up without saying anything.
Jack
smiled, “Stroke him a little; that’s all he wants.”
Will
glared at him.
“I
said stroke, not grovel, okay?”
Will
took a deep breath and let it out unevenly; he managed a faint
smile, then got up unsteadily and said, “I’ll call him in
the morning.”
“That’s
my boy—I’m sure you will.”
Two
nights later while Will was in a deep sleep the phone rang.
The clock's red numerals glowed 3:10. After the sixth ring
he turned, grimaced, cried out in pain as he stretched out his
bruised right arm, fumbled for the phone and knocked it on the
floor. The receiver came off the hook and ended up under the
night table. Will finally got his feet over the side of the
bed, reached down with his left hand to grab the receiver and
said an alarmed, groggy and annoyed, “Hello?”
Will
cried out, “Who is this?” The phone went dead.
He looked at the receiver, dropped it, covered his face
with his hands and cried out, “Ohmygod!” then started to
shake. He stood up, paced in the living room lit only by light
from street lamps that crept around the edge of blackout
shades. He took deep breaths, stumbled over a pile of books
and steadied himself on the easy chair. He then ran into the
bathroom and washed his face with cold water. He paced quickly
from the living room into the bedroom alternately hugging
himself and running his hands through his hair. He was
panting, gulping air, hyperventilating and got dizzy. He held
onto the wall, and finally taking deep slow breaths he made
his way into the kitchen, sat down and put his head between in
knees. Then he got down on his hands and knees and rummaged
through the bottom cabinet where he found an unopened bottle
of scotch, pulled himself up, took a water glass and poured
himself four fingers. He took a big gulp and coughing, spit
half of it out into the sink. Then he took a sip, grimacing as
it burned its way down his throat, threw the rest into the
sink, muttered, “I forgot how much I hated that stuff,”
turned on the cold water, leaned over and drank right from the
faucet.
Will
put his head in his hands then sat up and slammed his fist
down in the desk. A dirty coffee cup rattled in its saucer. He
swept his hand over the papers and sent them flying across the
room, got up, paced muttering to himself, “Don’t be an
idiot; use your head.” He fell back into the chair then
called back, “I’ve decided…uh…to drop the
charges…” He shifted in the chair and leaned both elbows
on the desk holding the phone to his right ear and cradling
his head in his left hand.
“Because, well, you know, it was a brutal day, and
uh…the heat must have gotten to both of us…Yeah,
uh...I’m sure. Just tell the guy to forget it—that’s the
best thing.” He hung up slowly, covered his face with his
hands and finally took a deep breath. Then he sat up and took
a tissue out of the bottom drawer, wiped his eyes and blew his
nose. After a few
minutes, he muttered, “One down, one to go…let’s get it
over with.” He gulped some water, walked back and forth
taking deep breaths, then standing next to his desk he lifted
his heels off the floor making himself taller and dialed
again, “Mr. O’Malley, this is Will Sonaris…I’m sure we
can work this out to your satisfaction…” He covered his
face with his free hand, “Of course,” he took another deep
breath and swallowed leaning against the desk, “This is your
project…Good. Suppose…” he hesitated “…I make a
reservation for us at The
Judson Grill for lunch next week to work it out.”
