Bourgeois Deliverance The sky was a homogeneous gray, and a humid shiver seized Chester as he stepped out onto the sodden concrete sidewalk. It was not raining just then, but the respite was precarious. Pedestrians in dark lined overcoats hurried past, their grim countenances suggesting that he was to blame for this weather. A torrent of automobiles flowed along the street, mist rising from their rear wheels as from rocks in the shallows, chill eddies of cars forming and then dissipating as the traffic signal cycled. Despite the gloom, Chester began his walk to the office in an upbeat mood, anticipating the final moment of a protracted negotiation, itself the capstone of a decade of toil. He had built the company from scratch: he found the first clients, hired the employees, and invented new techniques. As competitors arose, he kept them in check by furiously innovating and treating his best customers like kings. He took great pleasure in the risks and challenges, and despite the fact that he had now had his fill, he had enjoyed all the hard work. Yet, as though building a successful firm was too easy, he had had to battle naysayers from his own camp every step of the way – first when he decided to leave his secure job and strike out on his own, then as he gambled it all to expand, and finally, as he had achieved what seemed like steady and comfortable growth, to sell it. "You're doing so well at your job," his mother had fretted when he started the company. "Why would you want to leave now? And what will you do for health insurance?" "You don't know what it's like out there," scolded his father. "Don't expect anyone to bail you out when it doesn't work." It was true that Chester had not known what it would be like. But that was in part because neither his family nor any of his friends or neighbors when he was growing up, knew what it was like either. His father knew least of all; his father, who had labored twenty years for one employer, only to be laid off unceremoniously during a mild downturn, who had then started anew at another firm two pay grades lower. Chester had never understood why "workin' for the man" was so widely preferred, yet the defeatist chorus had sung its requiem for all these years and it had invariably dragged him down, draining much of the joy out of his hard-won success. But that was past him now, Chester thought, as the red hand on the signal changed to a green pedestrian figure, and he started across the street. Today was the closing. At nine o'clock he would fax signature pages to the attorneys, as would the buyer, and the wire transfer would be initiated. By noon, the money would be in his account. He would not be rich – not by his standards anyway – but it was enough to live for a couple of years without a job. And he still had a job: the buyer wanted him to stay with the firm for at least a year, at an increased salary. "Dude, it sucks that your company got sold," his high school friend Allen had said. "Do you think you'll get laid off? That's what happened to my sister."
Copyright © 2002 David J. Jilk
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It was no use explaining to Allen that he owned the company and it was his decision to sell. Allen’s attitude was pervasive among his friends, and made Chester feel like his role in the sale was vaguely unsolicitous or disloyal. At the next block there was a park to Chester's right, and he could take in some of the skyline as he passed. The tallest buildings wore a diaphanous shroud of mist about their shoulders, and lights pierced the fog where people had already arrived at work. Concrete buildings are even more dismal when they are damp, thought Chester, and he picked out his own office tower in the distance. Its blue and pink pastels and art-deco lines were distinctive on a typical day, but on this dreary morning his building was a resplendent vamp at a church fellowship meeting. “Everyone hates that building!” his wife had said. “It’s an eyesore and a laughingstock. Why would you want to put your company there?” Chester had his reasons. For one thing, he simply liked it. He liked the colors and the shape, and he liked that it was unusual in a city of conformity. But there were practical business reasons as well: it was convenient to public transportation and close to several of his clients. The owner had been one of Chester’s first clients, a cantankerous iconoclast whom he much respected. The employees were faintly embarrassed by the building, but once inside they were comfortable and productive, for its layout and facilities were well designed. It was not particularly expensive, since its pariah status drove away many potential tenants. Chester, in his bright yellow raincoat, joined a column of black and tan ants marching along the trail that traversed the park. When he was halfway across, the mist finally turned to rain, and hundreds of umbrellas were raised in unison. Friction arose in the ambulatory flow as the umbrellas collided and speeds varied. Progress slowed and civility became scarce. When he arrived at his building he entered the lobby feeling shortchanged, the enjoyment of his victory walk inevitably diminished by the pluvial weather and surly pedestrian crowd. The elevator was humid with soggy souls and dripping umbrellas. Chester was relieved when he reached his floor and fled the stifling enclosure. His office already had a bustle of activity, his assistant was waving to him, and adrenaline swept aside the slump in his attitude. There was work to be done! “The attorneys have called twice this morning already,” said Gail, his assistant. “There is an issue with the restated certificate.” “Thanks,” said Chester. “Get them on the line and I’ll be there in a minute.” Chester hung up his coat, hastened to the break room and grabbed a cup of steaming hot black coffee. He cordially greeted staff members as he passed them but made no move to slow down. The attorneys were already on the speakerphone when he arrived back at his office. “What’s going on?” said Chester with a strong air of assertiveness.
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“The buyer’s attorneys claim that our restated certificate of incorporation does not meet closing conditions. They are concerned about the language in article seven and its implications for accounting treatment,” said a gruff female voice from the speaker. “Did they propose alternative language?” said Chester, as Gail came in waving a page. “Oh, I have it right here.” Chester quickly skimmed the legalese on the fax. “This seems perfectly innocuous. What is the problem?” A mewling male voice intoned, “They have had the draft certificate for a week, and should have brought this up much earlier. Our language is fully in keeping with the spirit of the purchase agreement, and we have to file the certificate this morning.” “So let me get this straight,” Chester said with an air of amazed curiosity. “You’re holding up the closing because you’re displeased that the buyers have procrastinated and want to use their own perfectly reasonable language for this section? Is there some problem with turning the document quickly?” “Uh… no, we can certainly make the revisions.” The gruff female voice had returned. “We just didn’t think you would want to capitulate on this point at such a late stage.” Chester shook his head in disgust. Lawyers will always be lawyers, he thought. “Right. Well, what I want is to get this deal done. Make the changes requested, and do not… I repeat, do not make any changes whatsoever to their language. Use it verbatim.” He knew from experience that without this caveat, they would change “the” to “this” and other silliness, just to continue negotiating. “Call when you are ready for signatures,” Chester added, and he poked the speakerphone button to hang up. He closed the office door and sat at his desk for a final review of the transaction documents. As he sipped his coffee and flipped through the pages, it occurred to him that this type of resistance – as posed by attorneys, or competitors, or even difficult employees – did not bother him. It was just part of a day’s work in building a company, and he thrived on it. Why didn’t he feel that way about the resistance of his family and friends? He completed the review; everything was in order. He smiled softly as he signed at each of the yellow “Sign Here” tabs, in seven different locations. Then he leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, and looked out the window. The rain had stopped again, but he could distinguish individual dark clouds held down by a nearly white blanket covering the sky. The wind was stirring, flapping the flags at the now-visible tops of the skyscrapers and rattling his windows periodically. Gail knocked on the door, and Chester waved her in.
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“The attorneys say they are ready for signature pages,” she said cheerfully. “Imagine that!” Chester said, and they both laughed. Gail had been with him for five years now, and had helped immensely with the details of the transaction. She would be just as happy as him when it was completed, for she shared in the achievement. “Shall we just send them from here?” he asked rhetorically. Chester pulled out the signature pages and handed them to Gail. She pulled off the yellow signature tabs in what seemed like a single motion, added the cover sheet she had already prepared, and loaded the pages into Chester’s fax. Her fingers were a blur as she dialed the number and pressed “Send” with her pinky. Then she sat down in one of the chairs facing the desk, looked at Chester, and smiled. “Happy?” she asked simply. “Sure. We’ve been working a long time for this day. And it’s what I want.” “Something’s nagging at you, though. I saw it in your eyes when you walked in.” “Yeah, something feels incomplete, but I don’t know why. It feels like the joy has a blemish.” Gail said, “I heard a story once, about a fellow who worked on an assembly line. He was a loyal member of the union and spent his lunchtime and many after-work hours with his co-workers, whom he considered friends.” “One day, this fellow was reassigned to a new task, for which it seemed he had a natural talent, and he was twice as productive as his predecessor. Initially, his friends expressed concern – they didn’t want him to get overworked, they were afraid he would be injured, they didn’t want him to get careless and reduce his quality rating. He was touched by their solicitude, but explained that he just seemed to be good at his new task, and he was enjoying it.” “Soon the concerns turned to complaints. Grievances were filed against him, that he was disturbing the work environment, that he was not adhering to policies, and other false but troublesome accusations. He did not understand why his friends had turned on him, why they were not only unsupportive but outright hostile.” “So he took one of his best friends aside, and asked him directly why this was happening. And do you know what he said?” Curious and smiling, Chester said “No, go ahead.” “Dung is thicker than blood.” Chester stared thoughtfully at Gail for a long moment, and his eyes welled up as he embraced her with a bear hug. Copyright © 2002 David J. Jilk
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“Thanks,” he said simply. The sun poked through the clouds momentarily, and the light waxed and waned as the blanket separated into constituent balls of cotton and was pulled rapidly across a light blue sheet. The wind was howling now, and the building swayed gently. They both walked over to the window to watch the dramatic conditions. Only a few pedestrians were on the sidewalks, bracing themselves against the gale. Chester sat down to attend to a few operational matters and Gail returned to her desk. Thirty minutes later Gail buzzed him. Her voice grinning, she announced “The attorneys just called to confirm all signature pages received on both sides. The buyer has transmitted wire instructions and we need to monitor our account for the incoming deposit.” Chester walked out of his office, gave Gail a warm smile and touched her on the shoulder, and said “I’ll have my cellphone with me.” He put on his coat and left, not knowing exactly where he was headed but moving deliberately nevertheless. As he stepped outside, he was surprised to find that the wind had died down and the sky was bereft of clouds. The sun shone warmly and most pedestrians had removed their raincoats, exposing the multihued attire that had been there all along. As he reached the park, he looked back and saw his building glistening against the skyline. He closed his eyes and drank the aroma of the rain evaporating from the grass, evoking from that occasional dream the feeling that he could fly, and the blemish on his joy had healed without leaving a scar.
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