Weekend at Prism Read online

  “Sort of like an Egg McMuffin…but different.”

  “Slightly.”

  “What’s scam…the cheese you said?”

  “It’s a sweet provolone.”

  He took a bite.

  “This is excellent!”

  “Only the best for our…” She looked away a beat, then back, smiling sweetly. “I read in the Glance earlier that your books are breaking records all over creation.” She paused. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

  “That’s very kind of you to say.”

  “I mean it Ji…Mr. Spotswood.”

  “Jip would be fine, Davy.” He finished the treat as she looked away again.

  “Hosting 101. Gotta keep it formal.”

  “C’mon. I read an exception in Franklin’s Rules of Order that requires hostesses to address passengers by their nicknames if scamorza is involved in any way.”

  She laughed. “Ohhhh! That exception! Slipped my mind.”She touched his arm. “Okay. Jip it is.”

  “So, ’re you guys going to be working double shifts over the weekend?”

  “Not this guy! The boss is having all us first-stringers…it’s just great…he’s giving all of us our own rooms at the resort, tickets to the concerts, meals and incidentals, invitations to a big party after the Battle…it’s just great!” She paused. “Plus, we’re all getting paid double time and a half just to be on standby, and we even get to bring out a guest if we want to… comped!”

  “Who’s the lucky man?”

  She regarded him slyly. “I’m keeping my options open.”

  Spotswood heard a man cough from behind, then clear his throat and ask, “Am I interrupting anything?”

  She stood and turned. “Care for some breakfast, Mr. Walbee?”

  He eased closer, setting an arm atop the seat, then peeking over it. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

  Benjamin Francis Walbee. The immensely popular, self-styled marketing wizard turned social provocateur turned philanthropic radical could have been pulled from central casting to play himself, his force-of-nature physical presence the envy of many men and a magnet to even more women. His 6’4” height had come in handy during his undergrad years when he’d led the Badgers to back-to-back NCAA basketball championships. His 160 IQ had served him well in graduate school, knocking off a four year MBA/JD matriculation summa cum laude in both disciplines. His rough-hewn features and commanding voice fit perfectly in the advertising milieu he’d chosen as a starting point in the private sector, augmented by a lightning bolt creative sense and a pitch-perfect feel for choosing just the right path to navigate a project from concept to fruition.

  Five years into his stint at marketing giant Chieffo Worldwide (and 18 months after it had been rebranded Chieffo Walbee Worldwide), he’d generated seven massively successful campaigns, earning him a pair each of D&ADs, ADDYs and CLIOs along with a personal fortune in excess of $300,000,000. Then a few days before his 34th birthday, over lunch at Gino’s East with his mentor and partner, he’d confided, “Vince, I think I’m going to call it a day. Actually, a career. Take care of the shop.”

  After his tray was delivered, he took a sip of his Mimosa, then studied the plate. “What’s the one with the dark bread?”

  She raised her chin to Spotswood who deadpanned, “Egg McMuffin. But slightly different. Special cheese. Scamorza.”

  “Ah! Nothing like a sweet provolone to start the day, eh?”

  The audible he’d called at the pizza joint ended up lasting over a year as he traveled from ordinary to exotic locations throughout the United States and sometimes Canada (his aqua phobia curtailing any overseas jaunts) in search of, as he said in a three part Wall Street Journal profile, “Something I couldn’t put my finger on. It wasn’t like I was looking for some mystical calling or a burning bush. Rather, it was…I had a sense that America, the country that had given me so much, was…there was just something amiss, like a picture puzzle where the pieces didn’t quite fit together properly. Just enough to cause distortion. And I guess I wanted to someday be a man with some sheets of sandpaper who could…could do some fine-tuning.”

  “Say, Davy?” he asked as she delivered a second round. “Is that little cot in the aft a king?”

  “California king. Four inches narrower, four longer.”

  He smiled slightly. “Ever road-tested it?”

  “Many times.”

  “Really?”

  “Part of my job description is to assure the comfort and enjoyment of all my passengers.”

  “Well that could be certainly taken a number of ways.”

  “I know.” She flipped her hair back with both hands, then grinned. “It was meant to be.” She took a step back, placing her hands on her hips and looking about the cabin. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to your discussion. Just holler if you need anything…or feel free to help yourselves to today’s other accoutrements.”

  After she made her way to the back of the jet, they sat silently for a few moments. Then Walbee extended his hand, saying, “I’d like to congratulate you on the books.” Then he quickly pulled it back. “Oh, sorry. I forgot your…”

  “It’s okay, Ben,” Spotswood nodded, extending his own. “I’ve gotten over that.”

  “Good to hear,” he agreed, shaking it. “Therapy?”

  “Along those lines. Yes.”

  Walbee’s quest was cut short when Vince Chieffo passed away in his sleep and the Directors of CWW summoned him to an emergency meeting of the Board, of which he’d previously agreed to remain a member. His mentor’s attorney began the summit with the revelation that the deceased had left most of his shares in the firm to his daughter Avvie, who held the nepotistic position of Senior Vice President/Administration, while passing the rest to his masthead partner.

  Avvie spoke next, tearfully expressing her immense anguish over the death of her father then relating that in a conveniently recent conversation Daddy had told her that if he ever decided to step down, she should become the next CEO. She then looked to her fellow beneficiary, requesting his approval. He, in turn, after stating he’d been away too long to have a sense of what was best for the company, suggested, with a formal motion, a poll of the others as to the proposition. The tally—including hers for herself—came to 6 in favor, 5 against. When the process arrived at Darryl Deets, the longest-serving member and acting Chair, the retired judge stated, “Ben? I don’t think she’s qualified to run the mailroom, let alone the whole shebang. But unless you can come back…for maybe a few years…perhaps to place the shop in order looking to a possible sale…I’ll have to approve.”

  Following a moment of reflection, Walbee countered, “I’m in for nine months. Max.”

  “Then I vote nay.”

  “So it’s a tie?” Avvie yelped. “So I’m in charge now?”

  “Not on my watch,” the former protégé stated.

  After washing his hands only once, then pouring a mug of coffee in the well-outfitted galley, Spotswood returned to his seat, hearing what sounded like passionate laughter from the back of the craft.

  Nah. Couldn’t be

  Ten minutes later, Walbee returned with his own cup, dressed in a different outfit, overlaid with one of the popular Franklin Air windbreakers.

  “That Wing’s really something, isn’t she?”

  Spotswood nodded.

  The nine months turned into 15 as Walbee put in 18 hour days week in and week out rebuilding CWW in his own image. Three suitors were waiting on the sidelines when the firm announced its desire to either merge or be purchased. Six weeks later, after agreeing to serve five years on the Board of Anderson + Moore, the deal was closed and Fortune now had a new entrant to its 400.

  During a month-long stay at an isolated 200 year-old cottage in northern Maine, 15 miles from the nearest town and five from the closest electrical feed, Walbee divined the answer to the question that had haunted him for so long: He was the cause of the distortion; or at least part of the dissonance. He was the consum
mate master of selling things—things that people didn’t necessarily need, but always items or services or diversions he could convince them they wanted. And the fact that his gift—that he could so effortlessly shill these widgets that fill voids—he determined, had to now be redirected to actually accomplishing tasks that were inherently beneficial.

  But where to begin?

  Inspiration arrived in the guise of Mrs. Sarah Felson, the proprietor of a quaint B&B he visited a few days a week for breakfast and newspapers. Sharing coffee with him one rainy morning, she lamented the fact that her youngest, Brownie, had been caught holding 30 grams of cocaine which he’d inadvertently acknowledged he planned to sell half of to his girlfriend’s brother. Her son had been offered a plea deal to possession with intent to sell and a two year sentence or could roll the bones at trial at the risk of ten to 20. He’d never so much had gotten a speeding ticket.

  Just then Sparky, Sarah’s randomly bred animal companion, took a nip at Walbee’s hand as he offered the mutt a piece of bacon. “Don’t worry,” she’d advised. “He’s a good boy. He’s never bit anyone…yet.”

  His mind flashed back to law school, first year Torts, the Prof expounding on the rationale behind the English Common Law doctrine: Every previously well-behaved dog deserves one free bite.

  “I’m really sorry about that flight issue we had yesterday,” Walbee began, resuming his seat. “With the security concerns and all, had to make sure the Sunrise was at 100%cleared, and all the other equipment was already deployed elsewhere.”

  “That’s okay, Ben. Long as we get there by 9:00 local I’ll have plenty of time to prep for tonight.”

  “Good. Glad you understand.”

  He took a sip of his coffee, hesitated a moment then swiveled, placing a hand on Spotswood knee.

  “Jip, would you indulge me for…I’d like to share a few of my thoughts, thoughts that concern you and the approaching fireworks.”

  “Happy to.”

  “Seventy-two hours hence,” he said in an oddly solemn tone, “assuming no mishaps…and believe me, neither I nor Franklin expect any…your life will be immutably changed. So much so that you may find yourself staring into a mirror and asking the reflection What the fuck happened to you?…whoever you are.”

  Spotswood looked away shyly, smiling to himself, then looked back.

  “C’mon. I mean, I know it’s a big gig, certainly the biggest of my life, but, ahhh… I’m not…I’m just reporting on the…I’m just reporting a story.” He paused. “Well, a bunch of stories.”

  Walbee seemed to sigh. “Just reporting on a bunch of stories, eh? Okay.” He thought a few seconds. “Some examples?”

  “Obviously Standoff!”

  “Biggest damn board game in the world. Biggest phenom in home entertainment over the past five years. They’ve got two towns named after it, one in Nevada and one in Ohio. Most popular name for pets three years running. Some couple who met at one of the locals in California,” he continued, a wide smile spreading across his face. “Some screwball couple gets married after they both get eliminated, settle down in Venice Beach then name their first kid Standoff.”

  “According to my research.”

  “I’ll guess they call him Stan for short?”

  They both laughed.

  The Just One Free Pass campaign was planned for months, and when it was eventually launched it went off like a Fourth of July display. The best lobbyists, public relations pros, sociologists, economists and lawmakers that money could buy delivered such a perfectly coordinated assault that even its creator was amazed, along with NFL star Roosevelt Johnson and suburban housewife & mother of three Sally McNally (both previously convicted single-time offenders), who served as the public faces of the first wave of the endeavor.

  The Federal proposal, along with companion bills in 42 of the 50 states became law, providing that individuals arrested and convicted (or pled) for possession of small amounts of prohibited substances would be entitled to just one free pass—no fine, no imprisonment, and following two years of no further offenses, expunged criminal records.

  The second wave, an attempt to have people currently serving sentences that under JOFP would not have been, didn’t fare as well, falling three votes short in the U.S. Senate and managing success in only 19 states. But the myriad benefits of both schemes became touchstones of modern social reform—and Walbee a certified phenomenon.

  “And aside from Franklin’s little parlor pastime?”

  “Well, the Battle.”

  “What did you name it again?”

  “The biggest rock concert ever held in the history of the universe?”

  Walbee smiled. “That’s going to be your favorite part?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “Sorry we cut you out of the loop regarding the special guests. But I agreed with Franklin that you and Connie not knowing who they were would increase the suspense.”

  “Two questions. Who made the picks and how many accepted?”

  “Which picks?”

  “The performers and conditions for starters.”

  “As far as the Battle, just the one acoustic requirement, the one64 novelty and the additional cover. The two of us suggested a few favorites of ours to Andy and Laura to perform in Act Two based on the ones you mentioned in Wheels Up and Inside The Box. Then we…mostly he…came up with a wish list for Act Three and he phoned up every one of them.” He grinned.”I have to say he can be very persuasive when he puts his mind to it. Far as I know, nobody’s RSVP’d with regrets.”

  “Nobody declined?”

  Walbee chuckled. “Franklin sort of presented a Don Corleone-type deal. You know, an offer they couldn’t refuse?”

  “Man, I’d love to see that set list.”

  “It’s outstanding.”

  “You already know what songs they’ll be playing?”

  “Sure. The designated tunes’re written into each of their contracts.” He chuckled. “You know how Franklin is, eh?”

  Delighted with the outcome, but well-aware that the public’s attention span could be fleeting, Walbee plunged into the second campaign, I’m Your Asset (Not Your Enemy). He’d long been troubled by a basket of interrelated issues he felt were counterproductive to the achievement of optimal workplace efficiencies. He was certain that employees would be happier and thus generate more and better returns for their employers if permitted to act more like themselves while on the job and were freed from the Big Brother atmospheres that had come to dominate mainstream corporate down to small business America.

  He detested the ever-watchful eyes of Human Resources departments that oftentimes spent most of their energies looking around for the tiniest infraction of their self-perpetuating volumes of rules and regulations. He abhorred the permeation of socio-political cults of victimization and the sensitivity-correctness nonsense that in the blink of an eye because of an arguably misplaced comment or contact or glance might cost somebody a career. Most of all, he hated surveillance cameras unless the product or service demanded placement.

  On the other hand, he didn’t feel it was his place to dictate to management how to run their shops. So with the help of a pair of his favorite copywriters and the results of a telephone poll of 15,000 currently employed individuals between the ages of 25 to 59, the Asset’s Bill of Rights was born. A package of the twelve point Declaration, ready-to-use petitions and a crafty set of talking points supported by the poll results and additional research was made available free for the downloading at assetsbillofrights.org, the site itself announced via a $20M marketing campaign.

  The results spoke for themselves throughout workplaces in every corner of the country. And the Man Behind the Curtain’s creds skyrocketed; Time Magazine in a cover article christening him The Most Trusted Man In America, causing the whispers of a Presidential run to begin in earnest.

  “Let’s return to you, Jip. Your post Tournament-Concert life.”

  “If you want. But I really don’t think much i
s gonna change.”

  Walbee shook his head in exaggerated disbelief, then grew serious again.”It’s already changed.” He paused. “Substantially.”

  “It has?”

  “You’ve probably been a little too engrossed in the moment to have noticed…or known.”

  Spotswood looked out the window and stared at the checkerboard of farms and farmlands they were passing over. Turning back, he asked, “How do you mean?”

  Walbee’s eyes darted a bit as if trying to choose a starting point to focus on.

  “How about we begin with the death threats.”

  Spotswood took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then exhaled slowly, letting go with a nervous cough. “Did you say…”

  “Yes. Six last count. Only one credible thus far, and that was taken care of.”

  Who the fuck did I piss off?

  “In the car this morning, how many people accompanied you?”

  He thought a few beats. “Well, there was the driver and…and I think he said the woman beside him was another driver he was dropping off at City. That’s it.”

  “Did you happen to notice she was armed and wearing body armor?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you notice the cars in front and behind yours? The se-cur-ity cars?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Quit calling me sir. We’re colleagues now…equals, if you will.”

  “Yes, sssss…thank you, Ben. I’m…that’s very, very flattering.”

  “It’s not flattery. It’s the truth.”

  Spotswood wondered if he should ask, then decided he had to. “Why didn’t you tell me about them before?”

  “The threats?”

  “Mmmhmm.”

  “Need-to-know, and you didn’t. You’ve had plenty of other stuff to concern yourself with and we had the intel and assets to keep it that way.” He paused. “And you shouldn’t worry about it now. Comes with the turf. After awhile it just becomes background static.” He offered his hand again. “Welcome to the big leagues.”

  After crisscrossing the country to tout Assets and meet with a number of well-connected politicos to discuss other topics of mutual interest, then returning to the cottage in Maine which he now owned to recharge his batteries, Jip re-entered the public arena and the headlines with his current jewel.