September, 1997
I've come to the conclusion that business is nothing but an elaborate crapshoot. Take Chris, one of my clients. I was at his office preparing his company's P & L, when he had an anxiety attack. I had just presented him with a negative bottom line for the latest quarter. He took a few tranquilizer pills and laid down on a couch across from his desk.
After he stopped hyperventilating, I said, "Let's have a relaxing lunch and talk. It would do you good to get away from this place."
"Okay," he said, "I could use a drink."
I was surprised; he never drank. In fact, he was quite fit. A lap swimmer. Swimming kept him sane, he said. He was a trim man. He moved quick and easy like an athlete.
We drove downtown and had lunch in the dining room at the Manger hotel. It's a quiet spot where the waiters are old and the guests and staff take their time. After ordering highballs we clinked glasses.
"To no more anxiety attacks," I toasted. "Y'know, Chris, this was no accident. There was a reason." He nervously fingered his knife. "I think you're worried about what could happen."
"Worried? Hell no." He held his arm out. "See, steady. I've got everything under control. It won't happen again."
I put down my glass and looked seriously into his lean face. "I know red ink isn't easy to take time after time."
"Look, I'm no Pollyanna, Fred. I realize I've got problems. The goddamn recession isn't helping. The competition's brutal, but I can handle it. I've been down this road before."
"You've left something out. The agreement with Stan. Isn't the first principal payment due next month?"
Chris had bought out Stan, his ex-partner, four years earlier. Their agreement called for seven annual installment payments. It further stipulated that in the event Chris defaulted, Stan would take over the company. Were that to happen, Chris stood to lose virtually his entire personal wealth.
As we sliced into our steaks, I continued, "I'm sure you realize there are no miracles."
Chris raised pained eyes to mine and after making several false starts finally said, "I'll deal with the payment when the time comes."
"Then it will be too late, Chris. As your accountant, I urge you to plan ahead. You always have. It's been one of your strengths. Why not now?"
"Because nothing can be done."
"Surely - "
"Let's change the subject. Okay?"
"Do you think that will make it go away?" I realized I was being pushy, but I'd never seen Chris like this. He had always thrived on challenge, on accomplishing the impossible.
We used to play a little game. When I came to the office each quarter to do the books, he'd write down the expected bottom line figure on a piece of paper and seal it in an envelope. At the end of the day we'd open it and compare his figure with my results. Invariably he was so tuned in he'd be off by no more than a percent. And when the bottom line was red, he'd laugh and say, "Oh well, black gets boring after a while."
It wasn't like him to give up. I simply couldn't let him wallow in futility.
"Look, I'm in a corner," Chris admitted. "If I fall into a depression I might never pull out of it. I can't give in. So long as I keep up a front, I'm functional."
"The anxiety attack is telling you that doesn't work. You're only kidding yourself, Chris. Let's talk about it." He downed the rest of his drink. "I--I can handle it. Honestly, Fred." Then suddenly his bravado cracked. "The truth is I've given my best, but it's just not good enough."
"It's not over, not by a long shot," I said poking my fork into the air for emphasis.
"Somehow I've managed to fail. I rolled dice and lost. That's the way it is."
"You have to do something, anything."
"Like what? I've run out of ideas."
"Let's examine the cards you hold."
"Well, the bank's out."
"One option remains. You could approach Stan. Ask him for relief."
"No way, never," Chris said slamming his fist on the table, making the plates and silverware jump.
"Why not, Chris? What alternative is there?"
A curious leer crossed his face. "Hey, wait a minute. Just you wait a minute. I'm really not powerless, after all."
This remark caught me off guard. "What do you mean?" I said cautiously.
"I could take the whole goddamned thing down with me."
"For God sake, Chris, you wouldn't want to do that."
"If Stan's unreasonable I sure as hell would. I'd lose everything if he takes over. What more could I lose?"
"You're bluffing. This isn't like you."
"I don't know whether I am or not. We'll have to see, won't we?"
He now had the spark he needed to deal with the issue. He asked that I be present at the meeting between Stan and himself. "We'll need a neutral party," he said. As the company's accountant, I had remained on good terms with both partners.
We met in Chris's office late one steamy August afternoon a few weeks after the lunch. Stan, jowly and pot-bellied, trying to appear casual, lounged on the couch across from Chris's desk. I sat on a stiff office chair in a far corner. Both men, their eyes hard, avoided each other's gaze. Chris opened the discussion.
"I take it you've looked over the latest P & L?"
"Yup," Stan replied.
"And you see that we're in the red and have been for the past couple of quarters?"
"I'm not surprised after the way you run the business," Stan quipped.
"For Christ sake, you know goddamn well times are tough," Chris shouted. "We'd be bankrupt by now with you at the helm."
If you knew what you were doing, you'd be able to stay in the black regardless of the times."
"Let me remind both of you," I cut in, "that the purpose of this meeting is not to fire barbs at one another."
"Actually, I'm not sure why I'm here," said Stan.
"Maybe it's because you know the company doesn't have enough cash to meet the note that's due next month," Chris said sarcastically.
"Well, that's one thing we can agree on," said Stan grinning.
It was obvious Stan held all the cards. Chris paused. I could tell this was hard for him. He had his pride. He didn't want to beg. Finally he said evenly, "The fact is I can't raise the cash. The bank's out of the picture, especially now with the economy getting worse."
"So what are you getting at? What do you want from me?" asked Stan.
"More time."
"More time? You're kidding."
"More time --just on the principal. I can meet the interest payment. What have you got to lose?" said Chris calmly.
"I've got everything to lose--the whole damned company," Stan shrieked, his face flushing scarlet. "This is incredible. You're expecting me to--"
"Why not? You can see the company's in trouble. If you took over, you'd only inherit a bundle of problems," Chris warned. "Do you want that? If you give us some time, I know I can bring the company into the black."
"Hey, fella, if I take over it will be in the black. It won't owe me a thing."
"Not a chance, Stan. Were you to run the company, it would be sure to go down. You'd lose it all--in less than a year. Admit it, Stan. You're a great salesman but a lousy manager. Give me a chance and we'll both win - the company will survive and you'll get your money."
''There's nothing more to talk about" said Stan rising to leave.
"Well, there sure as hell is and you'd better listen," Chris screamed as he bolted from his chair, his right arm punching the air. "You'll get only a shell, do you understand? I'll strip the company of every damned asset it has. I built this business while you were out there playing and living off its fat. You're not going to get it. Never. Not as long as I have breath in me."
As Stan stormed from the office, I stood with my arms outstretched in a gesture of hopelessness. "Well, we knew it was a longshot," I said.
"He doesn't want the money," Chris whispered hoarsely. "He only wants the business."
When Chris and I said good-bye after the meeting I had no idea it would be his last. On his way home that evening he had a fatal auto accident.
* * * *
The receptionist was new as were several of the office staff. Chris's former office, now Stan's, had been freshly panelled and newly carpeted. Stan was seated in a large black leather chair behind a new teak desk when I entered. Unlocking his hands from behind his head, he clambered up from his chair to shake my hand.
"Welcome aboard," he said. "Ready to go to work?"
"Ready. What desk should I use?"
"The one you always use in the spare office." He handed me an envelope. "Let's compare figures when you're done, okay? I know I'll be right on."
"Really?" I said, skeptical.
As I was about to leave, he said, "About Chris - I mean his family. How are they doing?"
''They're okay. He had a lot of insurance."
"You know I'd be glad to help out if . . ."
"You could speak to his wife," I said, stating the obvious.
I called and she hung up on me."
"I see."
He fidgeted in his chair and asked hesitantly, "What exactly happened? I mean how did it happen?"
"He was alone. There were no witnesses. He ran off the road into a tree."
''That's awful."
"It's quite a puzzle. He was really an excellent driver," I said. Stan sat unresponsive staring into space. "I'd better get to work. Excuse me, Stan."
"Oh sure, Fred, sure."
* * * *
Late in the afternoon I had completed the P & L. It was crimson - an unprecedented loss. Statement in hand, I went into Stan's office and found him gone - "gone for the day," said the receptionist. Curious, I opened the envelope lying on his desk containing his figure. It was absurd. He had anticipated a ridiculous profit. Chris had him pegged. Stan was a consummate dreamer. In less than a year the company declared bankruptcy.
Copyright © Hugh Aaron
All rights reserved.
"The Elaborate Crapshoot" is from Hugh Aaron's short story collection, It's All Chaos. He is author of five other books: Go West Old Man, Letters From The Good War, When Wars Were Won, Driven, and Business Not As Usual. Some are written under the pseudonym Max Barnet. He now resides in Belfast and Cushing.
© 1997 reality x publishing co.
All rights reserved.