Itching for Revenge
Marshall J. Pierce
Copyright 2011 by Marshall J. Pierce
Published at Smashwords
Driving slowly through a light rain I saw the sign for Asbury Park finally drift into view on New Jersey highway 18. It was late and I was ready to get off the road. The town was my next left. I popped in the CD I had made for this occasion and “Hungry Heart” began playing. It was not a particularly appropriate song choice to represent Asbury Park. I knew that. I knew Springsteen had written dozens of songs that better suited this city, or romanticized it - “Hungry Heart” referenced Baltimore for some reason. But “Hungry Heart” is one of the few songs of his that I actually like.
Instead of taking the New Jersey-style left (which is a forced right into a half rotary to cross at a right angle) I broke the traffic mandate and turned directly left towards town through the blinking yellow lights. There was not a soul in sight as I piloted my third rented Ford Crown Victoria (in as many weeks) down the dark streets off the highway towards the ocean.
Time for a smoke. I fumbled around on the car’s dashboard for the cigarette lighter, yanked out my Blackberry charger and lit a cigarette while I flicked the window button with my other hand. Driving the bigger cars was easy to do with one’s knee, I had discovered, so my hands could do other things. I got upgraded to the big cars at the rental car shops all the time now, since I rented so often working for my new job. Crown Victorias were reserved for people like me who expected and appreciated an upgrade. Such were the perks of working at Corporate, and Corporate was why I was here on the Jersey Shore.
I drove by a small crowd of people avoiding the wet under an awning at a convenience store, the first sign of life in a half hour, and I gunned the old Winsdor V8 with gusto, flicking ash out the window. The car roared and stood back on its rear wheels a little and made a light punch forward. They watched me drive by. I was pretty sure they could see I was wearing a suit. That and the Crown Vic made it obvious that I was a Businessman. Businessmen commanded a certain amount of respect in these small towns, and I had grown accustomed to the quick stares of appreciation I got in my rental cars and slick suits.
It was already midnight according to the large analogue clock on the dash and I was anxious to get to bed and sleep so I could deal with the next day’s business. My hotel, recommended by the newspaper I would be consulting with the next morning, was called the Asbury Park Royal Carteret. I had ordered a room on the top floor with an ocean view and was looking forward to staying there. This was the first newspaper I visited that gave me the opportunity to stay on the ocean and it was a little exciting to be somewhere else than the Midwest, even if it was New Jersey. I had yawned my way through the final leg of the journey from the Newark train station and my leather-laden Ford was practically begging me to pull over and sleep in it. But I pushed on, looking forward to a martini and some beauty sleep in a luxury hotel. Obviously a businessman would not sleep in his car and my job would require at least the appearance of alertness. Good businessmen, I had noticed, always seemed alert.
I was only a couple months into my new position at Gannett Corporate and liked having the job. I didn’t understand why what I did was important and did not like the actual work involved at all. But I liked being a Businessman and I took that role very seriously. I had Made It. I was in Business. I wore suits, drove rental cars, used credit cards freely, ate alone, worked on my laptop, tapped on my Blackberry. It was obvious to anyone what I was. Apathy had yet to creep up over the horizon, and my Businessman fantasy had not revealed itself to be what I considered a real job or a tedious daily reality. As I plied the night into Asbury Park, I was as yet blissfully unaware that I would soon be faking it in the name of a career
The work itself was pretty simple, if exceptionally mundane. All I did was travel around the country and talk with people at Gannett’s newspapers to impart the corporate vision in online sales. This meant discussion based on esoteric numbers, sales policies, and staffing issues interspersed with poorly conceived sports analogies and endless repetition of what corporate people like to call “best practices.” Extremely dull stuff - and no one wanted to do it. Most of the managers and directors at the hapless newspapers I was “consulting” with were deeply unhappy to see me and only feigning interest in what I was saying or we were discussing. A visit from Corporate was like a visit from an unloved in-law. Mutual dislike permeated every polite discussion, silent curses rang through the air over thrifty lunches, and everyone watched the clock like school children. Instead of looking at the clock, I had developed the habit of flicking my hand out and revealing my watch of the day. I brought 2 or 3 of them to each market, and wore a different one each day. I expected to become known for it, as I did all of these things in very sharp suits and fashionable shirts. I stuck out in the sea of shoulder pads and Fathers’ Day ties that colored the world of the daily newspaper management staff.
I loosened my tie in anticipation of arriving at the hotel. It was important that the hotel staff see me as well dressed, but also tired and in need of favors. A loose collar and tie on a hot suit conveyed that perfectly without a word. What suit would I wear to the first meeting? I had brought one for each day. It would be important to look good when I thanked them for the hotel recommendation while we went over our agenda for the morning. Maybe blue with stripes, with black accessories? Black always looked good. I had a very cool black watch. It commanded attention, although the battery had died months ago and glancing at it was merely a pretentious tick.
Bang.
Something hit the front fender hard and interrupted my suit planning. I felt the jolt all the way through the steering wheel but when I slowed down and looked in the rear view mirrors I saw nothing. Must have been a cat or raccoon. No skunk smell yet… I hoped it was a cat. Raccoons are cute.
My thoughts were suddenly wildly interrupted by several geese flying directly past the windshield of the car, almost smashing into it, and another bump on the front fender. I slammed on the brakes. The Crown Vic lurched, antiquated anti-lock brakes struggling to contain the weight of the porcine vehicle, and it skidded slightly, fishtailing and stalling sideways in the street. The CD player was blaring Smashing Pumpkins at this point, “Hungry Heart” having faded away in only a few short minutes. Maybe that’s why I liked it. Most of his songs are too damn long. It was suddenly much louder without the wind and engine noise. I flicked my cigarette out the window and hit Pause. Like most old school cars, the lights stayed on and I was able to see a small flock of geese on the lawn to my right. There was a porch light lit, but no other sign of life in the blue shamble of a bungalow the geese stood in front of. I got out of the car to see if I had killed or hurt a goose, but there was no blood on the car and nothing in the road, just a few feathers. It must have lived. I breathed a sigh of relief. Even though I was in business now, I still cared about animals.
I got back in the car and started moving again, heart pounding from alarm, but otherwise unharmed. I kept the music off and the window open. I could smell ocean and the city was silent around me otherwise. I wondered if the incident was worth recounting tomorrow as a light anecdote. Would this be an appropriately meaningless and light story that I could somehow turn into a sales metaphor? …perhaps “You never know what you’re going to come up against, so it’s good to be prepared…” Hmmm. I’d have to think about that for awhile. Facile sports analogies were much easier to use, although I always tried to include something a bit more interesting in my patter. Maybe I would think of something over my drink at the hotel. Ahh, my drink. It would be a Belvedere dirty martini. Olives.