The Poll Bearer

CHAPTER 1

The dark storm clouds gathering over the New Jersey Palisades meant that Manhattan was about to get hammered with a torrential spring rain that would send the sidewalk café customers scurrying under cover. In fancy plates designed especially to display their succulence, escargot would float deluged from the downpour while half empty glasses of wine would fill up quickly from the cascading water running off awnings and roof tops. The city would have a clean smell, at least for awhile, until the stench from car exhausts and belching steam pipes would transform the freshness back into the reality of a city on the move. Already a substantial rain was falling in prelude of much more ominous things to come.

            As Daniel Brent’s cab pulled up to the steel and glass building which held the offices of Pro-Rank, his only concern was whether he should struggle opening his umbrella or chance the short dash to the revolving doors hoping to avoid getting soaked. It wouldn’t do well for this rising hot shot to show up at one of the important meetings with his boss looking like a wet dog, but Daniel’s claim to fame was that he took risks…calculated ones of course, but risks nevertheless. Even he wondered if he could make the twenty-five foot dash to the door without becoming a rain magnet; but in the long run, he decided to pop the travel umbrella open and look like the other million cautious New Yorkers who were doing the same thing.

            Inside the lobby, he shook the umbrella in a futile gesture to dry it and then collapsed it into its ultra-compact size. The trouble with a wet umbrella is there’s no place to put it, so one ends up carrying it as if it were a cloth nightstick. He actually thought about throwing it away in the elevator, but decided to hold onto it as he reached the 62^nd floor. Instead, he handed it to the receptionist since no risk-taker should be seen with a wet umbrella…especially not today.

            “Take care of this,” he said handing her the umbrella making sure not to get his hands wet.

            She took it semi-reluctantly and gave him a look that shouted “We’ve been emancipated, stupid.”

            Walking briskly into an inner office, he was greeted by a man sitting behind a desk looking nervously at his watch.

            “They’re in there,” he said pointing to a door that read Conference Room. From the expression on the man’s face, it meant Daniel was either late or barely on time.

            Checking his hair with his hand and making sure his fly was zipped all the way, Daniel entered the room.

            There was a large wooden table with eight chairs, three on one side, three on the other, two at the ends. One of the chairs at the end had a special orthopedic design indicating that this was not a place for random seating. A large wall of windows was already receiving the first effects of the impending storm, and lightning strikes were playing tag with objects in the harbor and the spires of some buildings in the city. Seven men were already seated as Daniel entered and took his position at the chair at the opposite end from the one his boss was squirming in to get relief from a sore back. None of the men was saying anything, but two furtively stole a glance at their watches as if to indicate they had all been waiting some time for Daniel.

            “Traffic,” Daniel said as sort of a one word apology for why he had been late, an explanation that fell on deaf ears since each of the other men had thought enough to have left home earlier to compensate for it.

            Daniel looked around for coffee, but he saw none nor did any of the men have cups before them. His first thought was to ask for some, but he decided that would be pushing it so he opted to go cold turkey. Glancing clockwise around the table from his seat, Daniel noted who was in attendance.

Next to him was Marcus J. Pollard, senior vice-president in charge of market research and son-in-law of the boss. Daniel always felt the J stood for “jerk,” since the man’s incompetence reached levels no one could ever begin to understand. The only thing that kept him in his job was that his wife, the boss’ daughter, was a whiny, spoiled bitch upon whom her father doted. He’d move earth and fire to get her whatever she desired; unfortunately that was that her husband have a titled job in the company.

            On Marcus’ left was Arturo Roez, vice-president in charge of sales. Arturo was a cut throat type of guy who knew no bottom line when it came to ethics. He made sure that the sales staff pursued every lead, no matter how miniscule, to its logical conclusion…which to him meant only one thing…a sale. Fail once and you were in his dog house; there was no fail twice. He was as ruthless as Attila the Hun only without the redeeming personality.

            Next to him sat Bernard Jackson, the treasurer, who watched every penny the company made as if it were his own, prompting many to think he was skimming off the books somewhere. Only the watchful eye of Arturo, who made sure he got his share of every commission, kept Bernard in check. There was a seething undercurrent between the two men that threatened to boil over on more than one occasion, especially when Bernard accused Arturo of spending too much to court the clients, and Arturo reciprocated by saying Bernard’s vision of success could only be matched by that of Fred Flintstone.

            Sitting in the end chair opposite Daniel was the CEO and man with the nagging back, E. Emory Edwards. The first E stood for Euclid, a name his mother always thought was clever but which the rest of the world perceived as embarrassing. He was the rock of the company not so much because of his strength and vision but more so because it took dynamite to move him away from standard, tried-and-true practices. He generally vetoed any idea that didn’t emanate from his own brain which was perpetually locked in the 1970’s. His idea of a good time was making sure Arturo and Bernard sat next to each other so he could watch the tension arise when either of them spoke. While not crashing in the general economic recession, the company also wasn’t expanding on its profits margin…stagnation did not present a promising future. Having inherited the company from his father, E. Emory was doing his best to drive it into the depths of obscurity.

Next in the clockwise rotation was Melinda Rousch, the only woman at the table. While her title was vice-president in charge of data acquisition, her real role was to be a cheerleader for every statement that came from E. Emory’s mouth. Her staff did all of the grunt work while she was just a conduit to carry their results forward. Most of the time, she didn’t fully understand the points they were making; but that didn’t deter her from agreeing with E. Emory on their validity. Word was she replaced one of the boss’ more attractive vice-presidents whom his wife found to be a little too accommodating outside her regular job duties. There was nothing glamorous or even attractive about Melinda, which suited Mrs. Edward’s talent search to a T.