Benny: A Tale of a Christmas Toy (6 page)

Chapter 3

JEFF HADN'T DONE DRUGS in quite a while, but
there was a time when he had done plenty.  Marijuana. 
Ecstasy.  He'd even tried a little cocaine.  Unlike some
of his Yale fraternity brothers, he'd never gotten hooked on any of
the stuff, not even alcohol.  He had merely wanted to
experiment to see what all the fuss was about, especially because
Dad had warned him repeatedly to stay away from drugs and
booze.  But he still vividly remembered how the drugs affected
his mind, changing and warping reality so everything seemed a bit
off kilter.  Sitting there in Dad's cavernous office, his mind
reeling from what his father had just said, that's exactly how he
felt.  He wondered if Mrs. Cranberry had laced his coffee with
something. 

"You're joking," Jeff said.

"I'm afraid not, Jeff." 

And when Dad used his first name, instead of
calling him son, Jeff knew it wasn't a joke.  He looked at the
puffy man next to him, who was slumped in his chair and fiddling
with his pocket watch.  This guy?  He couldn't believe
it.  He
refused
to believe it.

"Why?"

"Well," Dad said, "I'm not sure you're
ready."

"I'm ready.  I'm definitely
ready.  I was second in my class at Yale, Dad.  I'm more
ready than anyone."  The stretch limo.  The private
jet.  The skyscraper he was going to build in Chicago to house
the new headquarters.  Gone.  All of it. 

"I have no doubt you've got book smarts,
son," Dad said.  "Like your mother that way, bless her
soul.  But you've got have more than book smarts to run
Martco.  The company wasn't built on book smarts.  It was
built on hard work and common sense."

"I've got common sense," Jeff
protested.  "I was in the boy scouts."  One summer. 
And he dropped out before he even got his first badge.  But he
didn't say that.

"A lot of it's my fault," Dad father went
on.  "I realize this now.  I've no one to blame but
myself, and I take responsibility.  That's what a man does,
right Horace?  Take responsibility for his actions?"

"You betcha," Horace said.  "Take
responsibility for his actions."

"Damn straight,"  Dad said.  "Son,
when your mother died, I didn't handle it well.  I can see
that now.  I buried myself in my work, didn't see you had the
proper upbringing so you'd be ready for this day.  I regret
that.  I really do."

Jeff stewed silently.  How could he not
be ready?  Yes, he didn't always take things seriously. 
Yes, he had spent most of his free time partying, but he knew that
was just part of being young.  He may not have gotten along
well with Dad after Mom died, but he had been only eight. 
What could Dad expect?  It wasn't like he had burned down the
house.  Well, except for the dining room, but it was really
Dad's fault for leaving the matchbox out in the open like that.

"Dad," Jeff said, " I know I haven't always
. . . you know, been the model son.  I know that.  But we
both had a rough time after Mom died."

"It's not that," Dad said.  "It's just,
when you run a company like Martco, you can't always be thinking
fun.  A lot of people depend on you to see to the bottom
line.  I was hoping maybe you'd changed . . . maybe . .
."  He shook his head.  "Then you showed up in that
helicopter."

"Dad, that was nothing.  It was just a
way to get from one point to another."

"Everything in life is just a way to get
from one point to another, Jeff.  It's the
how
that
matters.  So here's what I'm going to do.  If you want a
job with Martco, I welcome it.  I'll make you Vice President
of Special Marketing Projects. You'll report directly to Horace,
who's going to be the new CEO.  He's got twenty years of
seasoning with the company and he has my trust.  He doesn't
have a college degree, but neither do I, and he knows retail like
the back of his hand."

Jeff shook his head.  Vice President of
Special Marketing Projects?  That sounded like a made-up
position with no real power.  The coffee that had burned the
roof of his mouth was now burning a hole in his stomach. 
"Dad, please—"

"My mind's made up son.  We'll have
Agnes draw up a memo this afternoon to let the rest of the company
know.  These things have a way of leaking out if you don't do
it right away."

Horace used his shirt sleeve to clean
the  face of his watch.  "You betcha.  They always
leak out if you don't do it right away."

Feeling desperate, Jeff decided to try a new
tactic.  "Okay, okay . . . let's say I take this
position.  If I do a good job, can we revisit this? 
Maybe you can put me in charge then."

Dad sighed.  "I don't think so."

"But Dad . . ."

"Jeff, don't . . . You'll still have your
trust fund.  My stake will go into a trust fund, and you'll be
paid out of that too when I'm gone.  You just won't control
it."  He pressed a button on his phone.  "Agnes, could
you come in here please."

There was a pause.  "In where?"

"My office, dear."

"Oh!  Right!"

Jeff knew he should have been happy with
Dad's offer.  He would have all the money he could possibly
need—heck, he almost did now—without a scrap of
responsibility.  But he wasn't.  He didn't want to be
known as just the son of the great Marv Martin, founder of
Martco.  He wanted to be known as the son who took Martco to
an all new level.  Leave his own mark.  That sort of
thing.

Then, as Mrs. Cranberry entered the room, he
realized he had to do something now to change his Dad's mind or it
would probably never happen.  He sensed there was still a
possibility, even if only a slim one, that he could bring Dad
around.  But he had to show him how much he needed one more
chance.  He spent several seconds agonizing.  It would be
so easy just to spend the rest of his life drinking cappuccinos and
hitting on the secretaries . . .

"Didya want something, Mister Martin?" Mrs.
Cranberry said.  She had a yellow legal pad in hand. 

"Yes, Agnes," Dad said, "I'd like you to
take this down.  We're going to—"

"I won't take the job, Dad," Jeff said,
standing.  "I won't do it.  I'll walk right out of here
and go make my own way, if I have to.  Maybe that's how I can
prove myself to you—prove that I can run Martco.  Because I
want to run Martco, Dad.  I think I can, and I'll even sign
over the trust fund, if that's what you want.  I can prove it
to you.  You just need to give me a chance."

Dad looked at him.  Horace, who had
removed his watch, dropped it on the carpet.  Mrs. Cranberry,
her eyes as vacant as empty soup bowls, smiled down at him. 
Outside, it began to snow.  Jeff hoped it was a sign.

"Should dat go in the memo?" Mrs. Cranberry
asked.

"Agnes," Dad said slowly, "let's wait on the
memo.  We need to talk a bit more."

Still smiling, Mrs. Cranberry left them
alone.  None of them spoke for a while, but Jeff could see
that Horace definitely wanted to say something.  His face
looked like a ripe tomato, all red and bloated.  Jeff couldn't
help but take a little pleasure in it.  Not so fun when your
dream is slipping away from
you
, is it buddy?

When Dad finally spoke, there was a certain
happy lilt in his voice.  "Well, there
might
be a way
you can prove yourself . . ."

Chapter 4

WHEN SHE STARTED AT MARTCO, Carol remembered
an old timer telling her the day would come when she actually liked
coming into the store.  This person—she didn't know him long,
he died of a heart attack in the men's room shortly after she got
there—said the smells, sights, and sounds of the place would make
her feel right.  Put her back in balance.  It wouldn't
take long.  A couple of years, maybe.  It didn't happen
much to the part-timers, he said, the college kids and the seniors,
but it happened to almost all the full-timers. 

The lifers, he called them.

That's when she decided there was no way in
hell she would ever like coming into Martco. The tall ceiling, the
bright fluorescent lighting, the bland recycled air, the mind
numbering instrumental music, the cattle lines to the cash
registers—it was all bad.  You could tolerate just about
anything when you had a child to feed, but she would
never
like it.  But that Monday in February, as she hurried through
the automatic doors, past the green plastic shopping carts, and
over the gray mats and onto the white tile floor, there was a
moment when she doubted her long held conviction.  If she
didn't like this place, then why on Earth was she still here? 
She could get a job somewhere else.   

Couldn't she?
She closed her umbrella and shook off the water.  The cold air
followed her inside, snaking around her legs.  She so seldom
wore skirts that for a moment she was struck with the fear that she
was wearing nothing below.  She looked down and was relieved
to see that the blue skirt and black nylons were fully
intact.  She smiled at Janis, one of her regular greeters, but
Janis looked at her vacantly.  Some of the old ones, if you
took off your green apron, they really didn't recognize you.

Her heels clicked on the tiled floor. She
headed passed through the clothing section, waving to some of the
other employees.  When she reached the swinging green doors
that led to the stock rooms and beyond that, the offices, she
paused.  Her heart was pounding.  This was silly. 
Get a grip.  It was just Martco.  She lifted her hand to
push through, but then the door swung forward and hit her
hand.  She heard a muffled "ow" on the other side.  She
recognized that
ow.
  Sort of high and nasally, as if
the person had gauze up their nose. 

"Derry?" she said, pushing the door open
slightly. 

He was bent over, holding his nose.  He
was short, stout, and mostly bald, what was left of his hair
forming a thin black triangle on top of his head.  He looked
like he was scrunching his head onto his shoulders in an attempt to
hide his neck, but the truth was that he really had no neck. 
Not much of one, anyway, and what little neck he had blended with
his chin, because he didn't have one of those either.  What he
did
have was a pair of glasses so thick he wore a black band
to keep them on his head, giving them the appearance of
goggles.

"Hurts," he said.

"God, I'm sorry," she said. 

Finally, he straightened, letting out a
little moan.  He leaned in closer, squinting.  It had
taken a few weeks for her to get used to how close he had to stand
to see anything, and how little personal space you were left with
when he did.  His horrid breath made it worse.  Like a
rotten eggs, sour milk, and coffee all rolled into one.

"You look nice," he said.

"Thanks.  I'm kind of in a hurry."

"Oh.  That's right, you're applying for
Assistant Manager!"

"Yes."

"Well . . . that's neat
,
" 
Nobody Carol knew used words like "neat" as a compliment except
Derry. He lifted his hand, making the Vulcan V sign.  "Good
luck."

She smiled.  "I thought Vulcans said
live long and prosper."

"They do," Derry said.  "But they don't
believe in luck, so I was improvising."

"I see."

"Technically, the really do believe in luck,
they just don't believe in good or bad luck.  Those are human
qualifications.  If you want—"

"Derry . . ."

"Right, of course.  I need to get back
to Electronics."

She headed for the back of the store room, a
place poorly lit and packed high with metal shelving filled with
crates and cardboard boxes.  Off to the left, stockers were
unloading a truck, the huge door open to the weather.  The
A.M. office was right next to the Store Manager's office, and Bill
sat there eating a donut.  He flashed her a thumbs up. 
It would have been a nice gesture except the thumbs up sign was the
official company slogan, something the actor-employees did in the
commercials
ad nauseam
, and people like Bill were from the
old school where the thumbs up was pretty much a requirement for
management.  You wanted to wish somebody good luck, you gave
them a thumbs up. You wanted to say it was okay to go to the
bathroom, you gave them a thumbs up. 

Still, he was a nice guy, so she gave him a
thumbs up.

She tapped on the manager's door. 
There were no windows, and the heavy gray metal door and concrete
walls gave the room the feel of a third world torture
chamber.  The door opened, and there was Rick Olsen, the store
manager.  Short and small-boned like a professional jockey, he
wore soles with thick heels that made him nearly the same height as
her.  He had Alfred E. Neuman ears, and his buzz cut was as
black and shiny as shoe polish.  With good reason:  she
had caught him actually putting shoe polish in his hair when she
walked into his office once.

"Carol," he said, running a hand down his
tie.

The tie was blue with red and white
stripes.  He wore a white shirt and black slacks, the same he
wore everyday.  What changed were the ties.  Some days
they were white with blue and red strips.  Other days they
were red with blue and white stripes.  She had wondered more
than once if he wore red, white, and blue underwear.  Not
seriously wondered, though.  That would have implied she
wanted to see him without his pants, and she could think of nothing
worse.  It was merely idle curiosity.  Like wondering if
Jerry Falwell masturbated.  That kind of thing. 

"Hello, Mister Olsen," she said, trying to
sound as meek as possible.  "I'm sorry I'm late.  My
daycare was closed today and I had to find other arrangements."

She hated starting off an interview by
making an excuse, but she felt it was necessary. Even if she wanted
to lie, which she had only done a few times in her life, she would
fail miserably.  People told her that instead of a poker face
she had a pumpkin face, because her face got all puffy and orange
when she lied.