Breaking News…
April 4, 2011 – PaperPenInc and Medallion Press, Inc. have reached an agreement for the publication rights of the Phil Brody’s novel, Ass Eyes in a Sea of Spec.
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I go to Runyon Canyon every day and the things I overhear people say in passing make me laugh, cringe and often scratch my head. To enjoy Overheard At Runyon, click here.
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Wow, that went by fast. I started revisiting, revising, and reediting this collection of narrative non-fiction stories on July 6th, and here we are suddenly, five months later. This marks the end of Your Daily Phil — or at least the finite set of stories I penned a few years back. At this juncture, I’ll be taking a break from the Blogging, but for good reason.
Breaking News: Early this year, I finished my first novel, a work of fiction entitled Ass Eyes in a Sea of Spec. In October, a publisher bought the rights to the book, and I am now working to deliver a final version of the manuscript to my editor for publication in 2012.
Needless to say, I am thrilled about being published and am excited to share the news.
Regarding the Blogging…I’m pondering if/when I might continue here or via a new locale on the WorldWide InterTubes. So, while there will be no updates to this site in the near future, I might surprise you all by going live again sometime/somewhere in the new year. I’ll definitely keep you posted.
Happy Holidays! Thanks for reading me. Hope I’ve entertained.
Cheers,
Phil Brody –
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I’m uncool.
After 10.5 years in Chicago, this is what I realize as I pack everything I own into a car and get ready to drive across the country toward a new home.
I’m uncool.
As I look for the words that will poetically sum up my time and experiences in this great city, this is what I recognize. Hard as I try, though, I can’t seem to get this realization out of my head.
I’m uncool.
As I prepare to move forward in life, I can’t help but look back. I find myself waxing nostalgic more and more as my departure becomes imminent.
I remember moving here, all wide-eyed and full of ambition. I remember traveling down a rough road for a while. I had a lot of part-time jobs. I was poor. I recall Ramen Noodle nightly meals and milk crate coffee tables. I did my time on Sedgwick Ave. I remember what I felt at times was a futile search for a beginning to a career. A con man ripped me off. I borrowed money to pay the rent. There were days I looked forward to all-you-can-eat buffets at The Beaumont. And then there were days I wished I had brought Tupperware to those happy hours. I made fake bus passes. I lived in a four-bedroom Lakeview apartment that was converted into a five or six bedroom residence at times in order to give shelter to needy friends who were moving here, also wide-eyed and full of ambition. We dubbed the apartment The Briar Street Hotel.
One day I had trouble finding 233 South Wacker. That’s the Sears Tower, folks. Another day — a December day — I walked about twenty blocks to the Public Library so I could edit and print out my lackluster resume, only to later discover I misspelled my name. And yes, I realized this after I mailed out copies. I also featured a Haiku poem I wrote in the 7th Grade in cover letters to potential employers to demonstrate my creativity. Suffice it to say, I’m uncool is an understatement.
Over time, though, things began to change, and along with naive moments I cringe to remember, there are the times I’ll never forget.
Baby face fondles. Quitting a suck-job job. A hat on Lakeshore Drive. Jordan retiring — twice. Sunday Night Dinners with good friends. The Cleveland Indians playing The Chicago Cubs in Wrigley Field.
Unexpected snow days off from work were often spent watching Degrassi Junior High at The Briar Street Hotel with a few good friends. Those were good days.
I adopted a dog from the Anti-Cruelty Society and I still feel like I won the lottery.
I saw Nicholas Barron play for the first time with two close friends at a bar called WiseFools. I have the fondest memories of that place — memories that have less to do with the locale and everything to do with what I discovered inside.
I fell in love twice while I was here. Hell, that alone was worth the price of admission — both times.
As I’m writing this, I’m starting to wonder, What does this have to do with Chicago? Couldn’t I have done this anywhere? Sure, I could have experienced these growing pains in any town. I could have stayed in Cleveland or ventured to New York, Boston or LA years ago. All those cities sell Ramen Noodles to the poor and unemployed, and deal hard earned lessons to the young and naive. However, I know if I had gone to any of those places, I’d have missed something. Actually, I’d have missed a whole lot.
As I wax nostalgic, I don’t so much think of the city that surrounded me as much as the people this city contained. See, I ate all those Ramen Noodles with my best friend, Anthony Richards. I gorged at all-you-can-eat buffets at the Beaumont with Mike Gull and John Manger. Jill Sue was there to console me when my misspelled resume received its ambiguous attention. The whole gang cheered with me when the Indians invaded Wrigley. And I found Jane, my weakness (but in a good way), inside of WiseFools.
Epiphany. It’s the people you meet along the way that gives life meaning, and it was those I met here that made my time in Chicago memorable.
There’s my friend and sometimes co-worker Mike Gull. I’ll always remember Mike for a comment he uttered after a blind date with a girl that paid for everything, including a dinner and a hockey game. He walked in to The Briar Street Hotel and entertained us with the evening’s events. He didn’t so much talk about the girl, as much as he described the places he went, the food he ate and the game he saw. He summed up the evening with these amusing words, “Best thing about it is…it was free.”
Then there’s my friend Dave Bame who’ll always remain synonymous with two simple words: “I’m done.” A night on the town would be winding down and Dave would push an empty bottle of Bud across a table, proclaiming, “I’m done.” He would complain for the umpteenth time about a girl he was seeing and would proclaim, “You know what? I’m done.” He would watch his beloved Cubs blow another game in the late innings on an August afternoon and would turn to me and proclaim, “Dude, I’m done.” When he uttered those two words, no more alcohol was consumed that evening, he would immediately stop seeing the frustrating lady in his life, and he’d wait until the next year before taking a hopeful seat in Wrigley to cheer the his beloved Cubs.
These are just two of the characters in my Chicago storybook. I wish I could list them all.
At this juncture, I’ll impart some recommendations to newcomers regarding this city I’m leaving. Keep in mind, though, I’m uncool.
Eat at Toast. It’s worth the wait. Grab coffee (and your dog if you have one) and head to the waterfront early in the morning before the city wakes up. You’ll be glad you got up. Learn how to order a sandwich at Potbelly’s — it’s almost as fun as the sandwich is good. See rising stars perform in plays at The Garage at Steppenwolf. Eat dinner at Jane’s (that’s a restaurant, not the individual’s house) with someone special. You’ll feel very much at home. Call in well and catch a DIY double feature at Webster Place. Take a break from all your worries and have a beer (or three) in the garden at Sheffield’s on a summer afternoon. Read the Missed Connections in the Reader for a laugh. Gather friends at Webster Wine Bar and solve the world’s problems over some red. See some films at The Three Penny. Grab a burger from the grill in the back of Murphy’s Bleachers before every/any Cubs game.
Thinking about all those places, I realize something. It was the laughter that filled Toast all those early mornings that made the meals all the more appetizing. I looked forward to recapping the previous night with my friends almost as much as I looked forward to my Potbelly sandwich. And maybe it wasn’t so much the dinners at Jane’s, but dinners with Jane that made that restaurant feel perfect. Summer afternoons at Sheffield’s were always warmed by friendly conversation. In all honesty, WiseFools was just a run down pub, but Nicholas Barron’s voice often made it seem like the best bar in the city. And let’s face it, the Cubs pretty much stunk every year but one while I was here, but Wrigley Field is called the friendly confines for a very good reason.
Another epiphany. While I disguised myself as a poor, sometimes clueless and most of the time uncool resident of the city of Chicago, I was also living the high-life on the wealth of friendship I was given with reckless abandon and to my sheer delight.
That, my friends, is what I’ll remember about Chicago as I depart today, as I venture across the country, as I plop down on the left coast, and whenever I wax nostalgic about my life and times in the Windy City.
The end. Those are the words I was looking for, and, if I do say so myself, I believe I nailed it.
Although, I do think filmmaker Cameron Crowe summed it up well when he said, The only currency worth anything in this bankrupt world is what you share with others when you’re uncool.
Plus, best thing about it is, it was free.
Now, I’m done.
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Well, that’s the story I wanted to tell — the story of how I got to where I am today. Where am I, you ask? Well, physically I’m still in Chicago. However, mentally, I am somewhere else completely. I’m preparing to move. Decided to start moving in the right direction by driving in the left direction.
My departure date is approaching. I’ll be heading home. Soon.
However, right now I’m outside. The sun is on my face and I take note of the absolute beauty of it all. The wind blows and the clouds shift and change shape. The shape of a young Phil Brody appears in the sky. I am dreaming again. I have figured out how to get to that place where I was when I was young and carefree. I remember how to dream again. Now I can get there whenever I need to.
I look up to the sky and young Phil Brody is no longer there. He is beside me now. We are both reclining in a buggy of dreams. He wears Samba Classics and an “I’m With Stupid” T-shirt. I dress for the dream I have, not for the life I was pulled into.
“Where were you on Friday?” I inquire.
“Well, this may be hard to fathom, but I woke up and simply thought it was Saturday. I made a mistake.”
“Not hard to fathom,” I say. “Used to be hard to fathom. But not any more.”
Little Phil Brody looks up at me, smiles. “About time,” he says before he laughs. Then he leans over in his buggy just enough to whisper something in my ear. “Wanna have a throw?”
“Rock Paper Scissors?” I inquire, but I already know the answer. I know the answer, because Little Phil Brody knows the answer.
“Yeah. Rock Paper Scissors,” he confirms.
We extend our arms. We each make a fist. “You know I’m undefeated,” we both say in unison.
“One. Two. Three…Shoot.” He throws a Rock. I throw a Rock. “Match,” we both say.
“One. Two. Three…Shoot.” He throws Paper. I throw Paper. “Match.”
“One. Two. Three…Shoot.” He throws a Rock. I throw a Rock. “Match.”
And so it goes…
“One. Two. Three…Shoot. Match!”
“One. Two. Three…Shoot. Match!”
“One. Two. Three…Shoot. Match!”
“One. Two. Three…Shoot. Match!”
“One. Two. Three…Shoot. Match!”
“One. Two. Three…Shoot. Match!”
“One. Two. Three…Shoot. Match!”
“One. Two. Three…Shoot. Match!”
“One. Two. Three…Shoot. Match!”
“One. Two. Three…Shoot. Match!”
“One. Two. Three…Shoot. Match!”
“One. Two. Three…Shoot. Match!”
“One. Two. Three…Shoot. Match!”
“One. Two. Three…Shoot. Match!”
“One. Two. Three…Shoot. Match!”
“One. Two. Three…Shoot. Match!”
“One. Two. Three…Shoot. Match!”
“One. Two. Three…Shoot. Match!”
“One. Two. Three…Shoot. Match!”
“One. Two. Three…Shoot. Match!”
“One. Two. Three…Shoot. Match!”
“One. Two. Three…Shoot. Match…………………………………………………..”
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It ends today.
7:55 AM. United Airlines Flight #141 en route to Newark. For the second time in the last twenty-some hours my mind wanders. I think about the voice that whispered in my ear in the conference room — the voice that gave me the answer. I wasn’t kidding about that. Someone muttered Rock Paper Scissors and it was a familiar voice. One I can’t seem to place.
“Can I get you something to drink, sir?” Flight attendant, friendly skies smile at cruising altitude.
Grande-Double-Cup-No-Room. I wish. I wish. “Coffee. Black,” I answer. The attendant hands me a shot glass of caffeine. I look out the window and allow my coffee to cool. And I think about the voice.
Newark. Car service to Califon. T-minus one hour and twenty minutes until our meeting. The presentation. Showtime. I ride in the car with two associates. They are chatting about the concepts we’re going to present and are paying me an exorbitant amount of compliments for Play Rock Paper Scissors and WIN! I deflect the accolades with, “It was a team effort. We did it together.”
“That’s not what we heard,” the creative director on the CandyMoon account states. “We heard you single-handedly saved the presentation and, most likely, the MoonBar account. We heard it was all you.”
“Hogwash. Everyone helped out,” I say as I turn my head to stare out the window. I pretend to view the trees and their leaves that are changing colors due to the Fall weather. In reality, I am looking at nothing. In reality, I react to the words I just heard. A smile pours across my face. I am good at what I do. I think about this and it makes me way too happy.
11:48 AM EST. We’re finishing our presentation to the MoonBar brand team. All the concepts went over well, but I could sense the energy in the room when we presented Rock Paper Scissors. The PowerPoint has ended and we are awaiting feedback. John Gallant, the Brand Manager for MoonBar candy bars turns to us and says, “You three are the Crosby, Stills, and Nash of Consumer Franchise Building promotions.”
For a split-second I wonder what happened to Young, but I then discount the thought and listen to Gallant.
“Well, we definitely have a winner. All the ideas are stellar, but it’s obvious that MoonBars will be executing Get The 411 from 90210 and WIN! next year. It’s right on target.”
As John speaks, my world begins to spin. Did he say 90210? My ears are working, but suddenly I can’t hear. I’m dizzy. Two low-level MoonBar managers seated in the back of the conference room suddenly cease the game of Rock Paper Scissors they have been playing for the last thirty minutes, ever since we unveiled the concept, along with our recommendation. I snap out of it and realize John is still talking.
“…and my nieces just adore that show. I used to watch the original version back in the day. That Steve Sanders. Ha! What a character. What a hoot! I remember one show where he used an egg as a ticket to a rave. A rave! That’s an impromptu concert young kids attend, usually inside abandoned buildings in an urban location,” John tells his associates. “I mean, am I right or am I right?”
He’s asking about his choice in concepts. He is asking for his employees’ opinion. I have seen this happen before. I know what’s coming.
“Yes, sir.”
“Absolutely, John.”
“You are so right on, John.”
“Good choice, chief.”
“Home run, J.C.”
“Excellent choice there, sir.”
Lemmings. They’re all lemmings.
My world is crumbling before me, but I shake it off. I gain my composure. I attempt to salvage this disaster. I do my job. “You have made a good choice, John. It is a good concept, and SwiftWorldWide clearly feels it would be effective for the MoonBar brand in Q2 of next year. However, we are recommending Play Rock Paper Scissors & WIN! for the following reasons. One, we feel the universal appeal and understanding of the game itself far outweighs any of the other ideas presented. And the promotion brief clearly states, and I quote from memory, Ideas must incorporate firmly established themes or properties in order to execute a ‘universal’ appeal game that everyone instantly understands and aspires to play. Play Rock Paper Scissors & WIN! clearly does that. Two…”
John interrupts me and I know it’s over.
“Brief schmeif. You shouldn’t take those documents so literally. To be honest, they’re usually written by the low man on the totem pole. Hell, that one was written by Louis over there.”
John nods in Louis’ direction and I look over just in time to see Louis, a young and pretty clueless promotion manager, discontinue a game of Rock Paper Scissors he was playing with himself. He was using both hands.
It’s over. I am defeated. I’m dead.
John continues his rant. “And besides, I don’t like it. All that hand motion crap reminds me of masturbation. Never played that game. Never will. Plus, I don’t think it would work.” He turns away from my associates and me and addresses some of the lemmings. “Let’s start a budget analysis for 90210 and let’s get FOX on the phone. I want a letter of intent and a partnership agreement sent by the end of this week.” John gets up. He turns to us once more. “Another job well done. Very impressive work.” Then he leaves the room.
I know what’s coming. I’ve been here before. It’s like a bad soap opera. As The Lemmings Turn. One by one the remaining CandyMoon executives get up and speak to my partners and me, before headings back to their cubicals.
“Rock Paper Scissors was my first choice.”
“I think we’re executing the second-best idea.”
“I loved that game growing up.”
“My kids are addicted to it.”
“John is so stubborn.”
“Technically, a rave isn’t a concert.”
“I liked your reco too.”
And then there were three. It’s just my associates and me alone in the conference room. They are looking at me. They want me to speak. I have nothing to say. I don’t make eye contact. I don’t even look up. I start to gather my things. They get the idea and begin to pack up the remnants of the presentation in silence.
We depart the offices of the CandyMoon Corporation and Crosby, Stills & Nash don’t say goodbye.
There’s silence for half the car ride to Newark. I ponder the events that just transpired. I think about the idea and the rationale that fell on deaf ears and dumb minds. I think about the effort of everyone at SwiftWorldWide that went to waste. I think about the decisions I made. I kept everyone late and kept most of them overnight for naught. I think I’m an idiot — for caring so much. Tell you what; I don’t give a shit any more. The thrill is gone. Pride has turned into embarrassment. And my world feels empty.
“Well, that thoroughly sucked,” I say, breaking the silence. My associates offer their condolences, which I find odd, because they were as much a part of the letdown as me. Weren’t they? I stop analyzing and do my job. We spend the remainder of the ride to Newark reviewing the meeting and talking about our next steps with the 90210 concept.
At Newark, before I board my plane, I call the office. I talk to no one but Justine. I tell her everything. While I describe the events that transpired, I begin to wonder if my judgment was off throughout the entire process. Maybe the chosen concept is worthy and can be an effective campaign. Justine’s reaction as I finish the story kills this conjecture.
“That’s crap,” she exclaims.
She makes me smile. Wonders never cease. She’ll tell the troops at SwiftWorldWide about the outcome of the meeting. I elect not to set foot in the office today. Instead, I am going home.
United Airlines. Flight #123. Newark to Chicago. I fly above it all, yet feel like I’ve been buried alive. I feel numb. Maybe it’s the all-nighter I pulled. Maybe it’s the disappointment I’m feeling. Maybe I’m in a funk. I can’t figure it out. Can’t put my finger on it. Flying westward at thirty-six thousand feet, I let it go. I drift off to sleep and I do not dream.
Chicago. O’Hare. Cab. Doorstep. Feels good to be home. I turn on the stereo, hit play on the CD player. Nick Drake provides a soundtrack to what happens next. I pour myself a glass of red wine and fall into my couch. I take a sip. Bad day away. I go through my mail. Two days of mail. Phone bill. One of those ‘Have You Seen This Child?’ postcards. Cable bill. Gas bill. Telephone bill. There’s goes my hard earned money. I’m starting to think the company I work at and all these utility companies are part of some elaborate money-laundering scheme. This thought actually makes me laugh. Feels good to laugh. American Express bill. A piece of personal mail. Personal mail? A rarity. It feels like a card. I don’t recognize the writing on the envelope. I open it. It is indeed a card. On the front of the card a child is standing with his back was to the camera. On his right shoulder rests a baseball bat. On his right hand, a mitt. On his head, a ball cap. He stands staring into an empty baseball stadium. On the inside of the card is printed: May all your dreams come true.
The inside, except for the actual printing, is blank. No signature. I have no idea who sent it to me. However, I am immediately thankful to whoever did, because now I have the answer. I know who whispered to me in the conference room. It was me — me as a child. Carefree Phil. I hold that American Greeting in my hands and remember it all. That voice. My past. My inspirations. My aspirations.
Rock Paper Scissors.
Hide & Seek.
Playing baseball till dusk.
I remember the ghost man on third.
RJ Mooney, Tom Kosar, and John Paul Collette.
I recall the beauty of Joan.
I remember that stupid monogrammed sweater.
The five/seven/five of Haiku poetry.
I laugh out loud when I think of Danny O’Connor.
Oh god, and dodgeball. Man, how I used to love to play dodgeball.
I remember the dream I used to have, and how I backed into a career in marketing — this frustrating career I now recognize is not what I want to do for the rest of my life.
There and then, I realize I killed Carefree Phil. There and then, I vow to get him back.
A guidance counselor once asked me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
“Happy,” I finally respond.
EPILOGUE
The day after I received that greeting card in the mail, I woke up at 5:00 AM, brewed some coffee and sat down in front of my computer. I didn’t have to be at work until 9:00 AM. That gave me three hours.
I launched Word, created a new document and typed, stop and smell the resume.
So it began.
.
It’s five o’clock. Justine and I confirm this by glancing at our watches. “Time to go,” we say in unison, with smiles on our tired faces. I am at the elevator by 5:01 AM.
“So, this is what the 5:01 Club feels like,” I sarcastically say as the elevator arrives at the 21st floor. I enter it and then turn to face Justine.
“Good luck,” she says.
I look at her and realize how good she looks on this unusual morning. It’s been an endless night, one we spent together. Too bad there were candy bars involved. “Justine, would it be sexual harassment if I told you how great it was to spend the night with you?”
“Yes,” she says with a grin.
“Well, just know there’s no one I would have rather spent tonight with than you.”
“You’re smart,” she says as the doors close and as my elevator comfortably drops twenty floors. As I fall, I recall the events that transpired over the last fourteen hours.
Flashback.
3:00 PM. Approximately half-an-hour after I kicked everyone out of the conference room, my co-workers return. I don’t allow anyone into the room, though. Instead, I make them all line up outside of the conference room. I then allow them in one by one, in order to conduct some research before I unveil the new idea.
Daniel Hart, a senior account executive on the CandyMoon account, is first. He walks into the room and begins to sit down in one of the plush conference room chairs. I stop him. I move to face him. I smile. I raise my arm and place my right hand, which I have made into a fist, waist high in front of him. I watch as instinct takes over, as he makes a fist with his right hand and places it next to mine. I then pump my fist up and down three times as I say, “One. Two. Three…Shoot!”
He follows suit. On shoot I make my hand into a flat palm. His fist remains a fist. At first I think he doesn’t comprehend what’s going on, but then he says, “Paper covers rock. You win.”
Yes. I win. I have the answer.
Justine is next. I repeat the process and watch as my research proves my point. Without a word of instruction, she makes the universal sign for scissors. I knew she would throw scissors, which is why I throw rock. “Rock smashes scissors,” I say as I take my fist and lightly tap her hand.
“You’re dumb,” Justine says before she turns away and grabs a seat.
I continue. I take twelve more employees through this process. Instinct takes over all of them. Paper covers rock. Rock smashes scissors. Scissors cut paper. Oddly enough, my throws beat every one of them, except for one individual from the trafic department, who I match with a rock. A .928 average. Not bad at all.
It is 3:21 P.M. and we have the answer. I am confident we have the universal game we are seeking.
“What does this have to do with our MoonBar promotion, Phil?” This is the question buzzing through the conference room. All eyes are on me.
To explain, I paraphrase the client’s promotion brief. “Execute a ‘universal’ appeal game that everyone instantly understands and aspires to play. Well, I had a notion that everyone understood the game Rock Paper Scissors. I confirmed that notion as all fourteen of you entered this conference room and, without instruction, played the game with me.” I look over in the far corner of the conference room where two games of Rock Scissors Paper games are being played. “And if that’s any indication,” I say, pointing in the direction of the festivities, “it’s also a game people aspire to playing.” Back to the promotion brief. “Increase sales and awareness via an under-the-wrapper instant win game. Our instant win game will be Play Rock Scissors Paper! If The Outside Beats The Inside, You WIN!”
The room reacts. It seems while most are impressed, everyone is just elated we finally have an idea. Over the next hour, we build on the concept. We fine-tune it. We add extensions. We do our job.
During the promotion, MoonBar candy bars will carry a blurb (that’s the bright colored portion added to the candy bar wrapper that boasts the name of the game and the word “WIN”). Also printed on the blurb will be one of three symbols — a Rock, Paper or Scissors.
One of the three symbols will also be printed on the inside of the wrapper. The consumer will choose what symbol they want to play with when they purchase their MoonBar, and when they open the wrapper they will discover if the symbol they chose beats the one printed inside.
“If the outside beats the inside, you WIN,” I reiterate. “That’s the key to the promotion and the best way to explain to consumers how to play the game.”
Everyone agrees.
4:28 PM. The idea is coming together. I quote the promotion brief again. Think: McDonald’s Monopoly. “Folks, I am confident what we’ve created here today is bigger and better than McDonald’s Monopoly.”
I lean back in my chair. I look at my audience. Some begin to slowly nod their heads. Justine looks at me and flashes a smile. Someone whispers, Amazing. Someone else says, It’s perfect. The consensus in the room is that we have a winner in town. We have a new number-one concept. We have the answer.
“Let’s do a really quick write-up on the idea for Creative. We’ll meet with them at five. While they get busy with the art, we’ll craft how we’re going to present the idea and then we’ll get it into the deck. Everyone cool?”
Everyone nods and then they get busy. I exhale. I’m tired. Also confused as to where this idea came from. There was a whisper. I heard it. Swear I did. Or maybe I’m finally losing it.
1:15 AM. Eight hours later we are in really good shape. The creatives arrived on time, we downloaded them on the new idea and they went to work. Most of the brainstorm crew went home after the briefing. The account team stayed worked on the presentation and completed the task around midnight. Having seen three rounds of concept boards, we are now in the home stretch. As Justine and I sit in my office, I realize we are exactly where we were fifteen hours ago. All in a day’s work.
“You should head home and get ready for your flight,” Justine says. “I’ll man the fort while you’re gone.”
“So you’re saying I look like shit today, huh?”
She laughs a very tired laugh. “It’s good. Really good.”
She’s talking about the concept, but I don’t know what to say in response. I am arrogant as hell as I walk around this office every day. However, with her I find modesty. I realize now it was a good thing I met her, because I was fast becoming somethig and someone no one likd before she walked through the doors of SwiftWorldWide. Somehow she brought out my humility. Who knows where I’d be now if these worlds did not collide? However, I’m not finished with the story yet, and I don’t know these revelations yet. I haven’t learned any of this yet, but I will soon.
I finish proofing the deck and then head home for a long shower and a change of clothes. I find a little energy in the warm water and the new duds. After a much needed Grande Double-Cup pit stop, I am ready to face the day. As I return to the office, I feel proud of the work we’ve done in the last twenty-four hours. I feel proud because I don’t know any better. This is my world right now.
Flashback over.
My elevator slowly falls to the ground floor. It is 5:02 AM. I just left Justine twenty floors above me. The elevator doors open and I enter the lobby of the SwiftWorldWide building, carrying the presentation with me. Two associates, who are meeting me at the airport, carry the creative pieces. I walk out of the building, toward the car service that will whisk me to O’Hare, to the plane that will fly me to the Newark airport, to another auto that will shuttle me to the CandyMoon Corporation.
I am on my way.
TO BE CONTINUED
 | philbrody on That’s All Folks! |
 | Mary Hogan Trainor on That’s All Folks! |
| philbrody on That’s All Folks! |
 | meg cionni on That’s All Folks! |
| Prelude To An Epilog… on Walking In My Kicks |
