“Roll the bill over to those HMO guys—they deserve it. Denying cripples crutches. You on your way there?”
The subject of my call. Why even tell him, though; I owe him nothing.
“California today. A little meeting.”
“Profiting whom? Not more freelancing, let’s pray. Get this: I was in the skybox Sunday aft, grabbing some rented ass that we trucked in for what’s-his-face, the mobbed-up solid-waste king, and my guy in Internal Travel lights a Partagas and tells me ‘This Bingham of yours is on a spree; he’s taking us for a ride, hoss—shut him down.’ So I say . . . What do I say?”
“No idea, Craig. We’re nearing twenty bucks now, with connection charges.”
“Wherever our Bingham goes, the money follows. Let the man plant his seeds. They’ll grow to oaks.”
“I’m thinking of putting Texas off.”
“Unwise. They’re laying waste to their whole top floor, those boys. There’s gold in that there lake of steaming gore.”
“I’ll see.”
“I just set my shiny balls to swinging. Isaac Newton, I thank you. My man in Travel told me he thinks you’re gunning for big round numbers at his and my and the janitor’s expense, but I said ‘Lay off, he’s earned it.’ Hey, I crapped today. My first since the operation.”
“What operation?”
“A hush-hush female problem. My teenage steroid abuse grew me a uterus. None of your damn beeswax. Important thing: I crapped.”
“That’s me, applauding.”
“That’s me, passing blood.”
“This is costing us, Craig.”
“It’s costing all America. It’ll show up in next year’s productivity figures.”
“Are you threatening to cut my travel off?”
“We missed that boat. That boat left port five years ago. We’re going to let you sail and sail and sail. Send a postcard if you ever get there.”
“I’m hanging up on you.”
“Good. I love that sound.”
The reporter looks over; he’s been spying too, it seems. “Your office?”
“For another couple days.”
“You say your profession is dismissing people?”
“That’s how it ended up, not how it started. I also give talks on discovering inner riches. I met a fan last night. She bought my shit.”
“Maybe you’re right and there’s a story there. Sorry if I seemed rude before. I’m Pete. Tell me what you were going to tell me.”
“Later.”
“This is your chance,” says Pete. “We’re going to land.”
“Sorry. Moody. Don’t feel much like talking. Another big shooting? I peeked at your computer.”
“I can’t seem to find the words this morning. Stuck.”
I open my case and hand Pete the morning paper. He’ll get the same results but get them quicker, and he’ll be able to enjoy his cocktail. We all like to think we can add that special touch, and some of us can, perhaps, just not Pete and me. I order my own drink. The flight attendant hustles. For all she knows her morning is my night.
seven
not every profession is fortunate enough to have a founding father who’s still alive, let alone available to visit and do business with. In management analysis—the good side—that man is Sandor “Sandy” Pinter, a Hungarian who came over in the forties and called upon his training as a philosopher to grapple with the new realities of American business. His first full-length book,
And that’s what I’m doing. I have a small proposal. If Pinter accepts it, MythTech will take notice.
The concept is simple: allow a corporation to endow its physical environment, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, with the philosopher’s inspiring presence. Muzak-like recordings of Pinter’s lectures will play in the hallways, lavatories, and lobbies. Ticker tapes composed of Pinter’s epigrams will run at the bottom of company computer screens. The product-package will be all-encompassing, including “Pinterized’” calendars, coffee mugs, ballpoint pens and other office supplies. Even its carpeting, should the company wish, can be woven with Pinter’s trademark “dynograms,” from the lightning-struck infinity symbol (Perpetual Discovery) to the star of five crossed swords (Team
