Read Online Russell Wiley Is Out to Lunch by Richard Hine - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Hine
Tags: Fiction
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send Ben an instant message telling him to call me. I want to explain to him how important it is to keep Jeanie sweet, how she should always get a leftover robe if he has one, or even be added to the guest list for a special event once in a while.
I bump into Henry on my way to the kitchen area. He looks approvingly at the company-issued mug I’m holding, emblazoned with the purple and yellow Ghosh Media logo.
“What did you think of this morning’s meeting?” he says, following me into the kitchen area. He seems a little jazzed up.
I study the buttons on the machine and make my selections cautiously. Coffee. Caffeinated. Medium strength. Full cup. The machine whirrs into action. The display panel reads: PLEASE WAIT.
“Well, I think it was terrific,” says Henry. “A great exchange of ideas. I was really impressed with the way Judd articulated his thinking.” Henry seems a bit like his old self again. As if he believes having Judd around will actually help him get things back on track.
I try my best to smile and adopt a positive air while wondering if Henry has any hope of ever rejuvenating his career under the current regime. He’s still under forty-five, but his thick head of gray hair makes most people assume he’s older. The gray adds an air of maturity to his boyish features, his almost artificial blue eyes. I’ve seen photos from Henry’s first management training course. Back then, he was virtually indistinguishable from the other handsome Ivy Leaguers who used to dominate the company. If he hadn’t gone gray—people once suspected him of using some kind of reverse-Grecian formula—it would have been easy to dismiss him as just another pretty-boy lightweight. These days, no one questions the authenticity of Henry’s hair color. At work, he’s lived through three mergers. At home, he’s fathered three kids he still has to put through college.
“He certainly made a strong impression,” I say.
“Exactly,” says Henry. “He’s sharp. He’s confident. He’s aggressive.”
I put my mug on the counter and open the fridge to look for some milk. The only thing inside is a homemade sandwich with a note stuck on top that reads: DO NOT TOUCH. I’m baffled. There were about seven unopened quarts of milk in here on Friday. Someone must be taking it home. I close the fridge and turn back to Henry.
I sip from my steaming coffee mug. I’ve never liked black coffee. Since I gave up sugar, it tastes more bitter than ever.
“Like I said Friday, I’m counting on you to look after him,” says Henry. “Take him around. Show him the ropes. Make sure he gets everything he needs to complete his project.”
“What exactly is the project?”
“Just some data gathering to start. Some analysis. Let’s see what he puts together before we decide where it leads us.” Henry pats me on the shoulder and walks away. He pauses at the kitchen door. “I’m counting on you,” he says then disappears.
I stare for a moment at the dark brew I’m holding, then pour it into the sink, wash and dry my mug, and head outside to treat myself to a triple-shot extra-foam latte.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I’m on the phone with Sam when Judd arrives at my office. He walks right in, clutching a manila file folder, oblivious to the fact that I’m engaged in a conversation and fazed only for a split second by the clutter that surrounds me, the piles of folders that litter the floor, the layouts and printouts and spiral-bound presentations that cover every available surface. He takes the one clear path to my guest chair, sits, then holds his body tensely in a way that conveys his urgency and purpose. I hold up a finger to let him know I’ll be just a minute.
“Tell me again why we should do this,” I say into the phone. On the other end of the line, Sam repeats to me all the reasons why the patterned rug Shila has just brought into her store will work perfectly in the corridor between our bathroom and bedroom.
I sit
I bump into Henry on my way to the kitchen area. He looks approvingly at the company-issued mug I’m holding, emblazoned with the purple and yellow Ghosh Media logo.
“What did you think of this morning’s meeting?” he says, following me into the kitchen area. He seems a little jazzed up.
I study the buttons on the machine and make my selections cautiously. Coffee. Caffeinated. Medium strength. Full cup. The machine whirrs into action. The display panel reads: PLEASE WAIT.
“Well, I think it was terrific,” says Henry. “A great exchange of ideas. I was really impressed with the way Judd articulated his thinking.” Henry seems a bit like his old self again. As if he believes having Judd around will actually help him get things back on track.
I try my best to smile and adopt a positive air while wondering if Henry has any hope of ever rejuvenating his career under the current regime. He’s still under forty-five, but his thick head of gray hair makes most people assume he’s older. The gray adds an air of maturity to his boyish features, his almost artificial blue eyes. I’ve seen photos from Henry’s first management training course. Back then, he was virtually indistinguishable from the other handsome Ivy Leaguers who used to dominate the company. If he hadn’t gone gray—people once suspected him of using some kind of reverse-Grecian formula—it would have been easy to dismiss him as just another pretty-boy lightweight. These days, no one questions the authenticity of Henry’s hair color. At work, he’s lived through three mergers. At home, he’s fathered three kids he still has to put through college.
“He certainly made a strong impression,” I say.
“Exactly,” says Henry. “He’s sharp. He’s confident. He’s aggressive.”
I put my mug on the counter and open the fridge to look for some milk. The only thing inside is a homemade sandwich with a note stuck on top that reads: DO NOT TOUCH. I’m baffled. There were about seven unopened quarts of milk in here on Friday. Someone must be taking it home. I close the fridge and turn back to Henry.
I sip from my steaming coffee mug. I’ve never liked black coffee. Since I gave up sugar, it tastes more bitter than ever.
“Like I said Friday, I’m counting on you to look after him,” says Henry. “Take him around. Show him the ropes. Make sure he gets everything he needs to complete his project.”
“What exactly is the project?”
“Just some data gathering to start. Some analysis. Let’s see what he puts together before we decide where it leads us.” Henry pats me on the shoulder and walks away. He pauses at the kitchen door. “I’m counting on you,” he says then disappears.
I stare for a moment at the dark brew I’m holding, then pour it into the sink, wash and dry my mug, and head outside to treat myself to a triple-shot extra-foam latte.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I’m on the phone with Sam when Judd arrives at my office. He walks right in, clutching a manila file folder, oblivious to the fact that I’m engaged in a conversation and fazed only for a split second by the clutter that surrounds me, the piles of folders that litter the floor, the layouts and printouts and spiral-bound presentations that cover every available surface. He takes the one clear path to my guest chair, sits, then holds his body tensely in a way that conveys his urgency and purpose. I hold up a finger to let him know I’ll be just a minute.
“Tell me again why we should do this,” I say into the phone. On the other end of the line, Sam repeats to me all the reasons why the patterned rug Shila has just brought into her store will work perfectly in the corridor between our bathroom and bedroom.
I sit
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