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Authors: Robert Boswell
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be, but it certainly wasn’t a legitimate one. Nor was it likely to be a life-threatening one, she reasoned, and she returned it to the drawer.
When the door to Candler’s office opened, it was not the War Vet but John Egri.
“I told G.I. Joe out there to wait.” Egri took a final bite of a doughnut and licked his fingers. He was a boy-faced man in his fifties, graying at the temples. “I said I’d be a minute, and I won’t be more than twenty.” He displayed a lopsided smile as he sat on the corner of Candler’s desk. He had an absolutely commonplace face that people liked, the attraction having to do with the careless expressions that fluttered across it like burning slips of paper. “So . . . no to your internship plan. It’s a good idea, boyo, and no way in hell’s ten acres I’m agreeing to it. You want to get bombed at lunch? It’s Friday, and I’m not coming back after chow—the lame duck advantage. Gives you the fifty-minute hour with Tommy Tonka-gun, an hour or so to clear your calendar, then we get an early start on the weekend.”
“Hi, John,” Candler said. “It’s Thursday, actually.”
Egri squeezed his eyes shut. “Okay, why won’t I approve your intern ship plan? Because it’ll work, that’s why, and then you’ll be fucked, my friend. See, if a man has one brilliant idea, he’s generally regarded as lucky. That’s what we thought about you and this evaluation hub. The lucky schmuck. But if a person has two brilliant ideas, hell, he’s considered actually fucking brilliant. Okay, the sheltered workshop put you in that category. All the puffers and huggers on the board agree that the Candler boychild is brilliant. That’s a good goddamn place to be, but here’s the reamer: if a man has three brilliant ideas, he’s screwed. They think he’s a motherfucking genius, and every ordinary thing he does thereafter looks like failure. What I’m saying is, ride out what you’ve done, and quit having ideas.”
“That’s a definite no, then? Or are you just being colorful?”
“Wait until you’re director and then pretend it’s Hao’s idea. Let him worry about being a genius. Now, how’s ’bout that liquid lunch?”
“No can do.” Candler took perhaps his first full lungful of air since seeing the flyaway pole leap into the air. “I’ve got this thing called work, and because it’s Thursday, I have more work tomorrow, which means I don’t want to start drinking at noon today.” It was not Egri’s friendship or good humor that momentarily settled Candler but the outrageous futility of him—yet he had been a successful director for eight years, and was stepping down to take a corporate position that would make him rich.
“If you quit having ideas,” Egri said, “you’re a shoo-in. Ideas make you controversial. Front-runners traditionally say nothing and kiss babies. Not babes, babies, though the board is crazy hipped on your getting married, correcting your only fault—this free-living lifestyle you got. Here’s some advice: think of the board as an actual two-by-four and understand where they want to stick it. They want to see the proper preliminary chains on you before they offer you their cuffs. That’s why I’ve decided to throw a party when your Dolly—”
“Lolly.”
“—arrives, so the board members can imagine the little Candlers you two’ll produce. It doesn’t hurt that she’s a knockout, assuming this photo is lifelike.” Egri yanked the picture from the desk.
“I love her.”
“Yeah, love, ” Egri said, “it’s a swell golf cart but then you discover it won’t take you but to one hole.”
“Give me that.” Candler took the photograph away. His chest rocked with the desire to confess his morning. “I could tell you something in confidence, couldn’t I?”
“ In confidence, sure. With confidence, forget it.” His eyes shifted to the door and back to Candler—a tell, a giveaway, a revelation, but Candler was too preoccupied
When the door to Candler’s office opened, it was not the War Vet but John Egri.
“I told G.I. Joe out there to wait.” Egri took a final bite of a doughnut and licked his fingers. He was a boy-faced man in his fifties, graying at the temples. “I said I’d be a minute, and I won’t be more than twenty.” He displayed a lopsided smile as he sat on the corner of Candler’s desk. He had an absolutely commonplace face that people liked, the attraction having to do with the careless expressions that fluttered across it like burning slips of paper. “So . . . no to your internship plan. It’s a good idea, boyo, and no way in hell’s ten acres I’m agreeing to it. You want to get bombed at lunch? It’s Friday, and I’m not coming back after chow—the lame duck advantage. Gives you the fifty-minute hour with Tommy Tonka-gun, an hour or so to clear your calendar, then we get an early start on the weekend.”
“Hi, John,” Candler said. “It’s Thursday, actually.”
Egri squeezed his eyes shut. “Okay, why won’t I approve your intern ship plan? Because it’ll work, that’s why, and then you’ll be fucked, my friend. See, if a man has one brilliant idea, he’s generally regarded as lucky. That’s what we thought about you and this evaluation hub. The lucky schmuck. But if a person has two brilliant ideas, hell, he’s considered actually fucking brilliant. Okay, the sheltered workshop put you in that category. All the puffers and huggers on the board agree that the Candler boychild is brilliant. That’s a good goddamn place to be, but here’s the reamer: if a man has three brilliant ideas, he’s screwed. They think he’s a motherfucking genius, and every ordinary thing he does thereafter looks like failure. What I’m saying is, ride out what you’ve done, and quit having ideas.”
“That’s a definite no, then? Or are you just being colorful?”
“Wait until you’re director and then pretend it’s Hao’s idea. Let him worry about being a genius. Now, how’s ’bout that liquid lunch?”
“No can do.” Candler took perhaps his first full lungful of air since seeing the flyaway pole leap into the air. “I’ve got this thing called work, and because it’s Thursday, I have more work tomorrow, which means I don’t want to start drinking at noon today.” It was not Egri’s friendship or good humor that momentarily settled Candler but the outrageous futility of him—yet he had been a successful director for eight years, and was stepping down to take a corporate position that would make him rich.
“If you quit having ideas,” Egri said, “you’re a shoo-in. Ideas make you controversial. Front-runners traditionally say nothing and kiss babies. Not babes, babies, though the board is crazy hipped on your getting married, correcting your only fault—this free-living lifestyle you got. Here’s some advice: think of the board as an actual two-by-four and understand where they want to stick it. They want to see the proper preliminary chains on you before they offer you their cuffs. That’s why I’ve decided to throw a party when your Dolly—”
“Lolly.”
“—arrives, so the board members can imagine the little Candlers you two’ll produce. It doesn’t hurt that she’s a knockout, assuming this photo is lifelike.” Egri yanked the picture from the desk.
“I love her.”
“Yeah, love, ” Egri said, “it’s a swell golf cart but then you discover it won’t take you but to one hole.”
“Give me that.” Candler took the photograph away. His chest rocked with the desire to confess his morning. “I could tell you something in confidence, couldn’t I?”
“ In confidence, sure. With confidence, forget it.” His eyes shifted to the door and back to Candler—a tell, a giveaway, a revelation, but Candler was too preoccupied
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