to toggle. Craig Gregory, Human Issues Group Team Leader, who came to me years ago in the company weight room, reracked the barbell I was struggling with, gazed down into my clear young eyes, and said, “It’s a recession, it’s official. Axes are falling. Much stench. Much fear of plague. I know you’ll want back into Marketing Group someday but right now the king’s army needs some undertakers to sanitize the gore. You say you’d love to? Abracadabra: I grant you better insurance, complete with vision care coverage. Go with God.”
Craig smiles at me now, just one hand pocketed. The other will join it the moment I ask for something.
“You stood up our Texas client. And that’s okay. Life moves so slowly down in the Lone Star State, beneath those humbling skyscapes, that red sun, that I’ll bet you could amble on in a year from now and those lazy cowpokes would still be at their grub. Also, they’ve written some wobbly checks of late, so I say screw ’em. I say hang ’em high.”
I slice a look at Julie, who need not witness this. She stands. The old family telepathy still functions.
“The ladies’ room? Do I need a key or something?”
Both pockets now. Craig Gregory locks and loads. It’s like him to ignore a stranger’s presence until he can actively nullify it. “A password: ‘Open sesame, really gotta pee.’ ”
“Ask my assistant,” I tell her. “My sister Julie, Craig. Proof I was born of woman, not spore, like you.”
The two of them brush hands and Julie flees. She’ll make it a long one, I trust.
“I’m serious, Ryan, you called it right on Texas. Those boys aren’t downsizing, they’re capsizing. We don’t take Monopoly money at ISM. The full faith and credit of Parker Brothers State Bank just ain’t gonna butter our bagel. Old policy. No pro bono until Jesus tells us otherwise.”
“Is Boosler still back from his trip 9/21?”
“Affirmative. Caught many tuna. Dallied with many maidens. Sucked much synergistic bigwig dick. The question is: when will
“I’m here.”
“Fractionally. I sense brief layover. I’m going to stroll to your love seat over there and sacrifice my commanding height advantage in return for some teammate-to-teammate pillow talk. Walking now. Sitting now. Relating now. What the fuck’s up with you, asswipe? They phoned, you know.”
“Excuse me if I don’t join you in repose. Fresher air up here. Who phoned?”
“Them. The Brain Trust. Operation Gamma Ray. The Seven. Whatever it is they’re calling themselves these days to mask the absurdity of their worthless methods. The Omaha Illuminati.”
“MythTech?”
“They swiped our big milky nipple this week, CoronaCom. There goes the lap pool we’re building up on nine. There goes the Broncos skybox with the wet bar and honor-system humidor.”
“Good for them.”
“Good for you, if you join them. ‘This Bingham?’ they ask me. Bold as that, like we’re swapping fucking baseball cards. ‘What can he do for us? Is he a comer? Rate on a ten scale: Emotional lability. Bilateral orgasmic dexterity. And by the way, since we’re speaking frankly now, how does he do taking orders from female Negroes?’ ”
“Who made this call? This isn’t their procedure.”
“I am strength and silence. I am Khan.”
“Lucius Spack?”
“Is that the quiz-kid pederast? The queer little pink guy with the propeller beanie?”
“You don’t have a pocketknife, do you, by any chance?”
Craig Gregory licks his lips. They dry out quickly. “No one called.”
I set the briefcase down.
“I’m fishing, Ryan. I’m covering my flanks. They raided Deloitte. They’re raiding everyone. I’m going up and down the halls today in search of potential deserters. Don’t think you’re special. We’re an old-line firm, and we take pride in that, but we realize that novelty sings its siren song.”
“You’re lying. I say they did call.”
Again, both pockets. Craig Gregory laughs. “This is fun. It’s fun, my job. The Art of the Mind Fuck. You’ll be at GoalQuest, surely?”
“I’m speaking there,” I remind him. “Please come listen.”
“Before or after Tony Robbins? During? Sorry, can’t make it. Must touch my guru’s robes. Must wash big Tony’s feet in thanks and praise for turning wormy me into king cobra.”
I cross my arms. “What’s Faithful Orange? Tell me.”
Craig Gregory cups his knees and slowly rises in lobster-like, hinged stages from my sofa. “Behind you,” he says. “Your sister. Waiting sheepishly. Intimidated by Gregory’s musky pheromones.”
I turn. We all look so gray in here. Turn back.
“Faithful Orange. A soda pop, I think.”
“Is the Marketing Team consulting for Great West Air?”
“I’d like to think we have corporate Denver covered. I certainly hope we are. Listen, you look like hell. Nice boots, but from there on up you’re Guatemalan. If I was a fag I’d reach over and fix your hair. And your ‘I’m too busy to floss’ thing just isn’t working. That may go over fine among the Navajo, but this is white America. Colgate country.”
