Gamble / Conclusion

"Ruck? Hellooooo, Ruck?" I turned my head back and opened my eyes. Pol was still sitting there and still grinning. "Ruck, you are - for lack of a better description - a business precognitive. You always make the right choice, regardless of the situation or lack of information.

"You know the standard software cycle; a programmer writes, then testing engineers find bugs and send it back to the programmer, who then rewrites. Then testing engineers retest, since the new code could have new bugs, or create additional bugs in the remaining original code. The software cycles between the two until, eventually, the testing engineers okay the program and it goes for beta testing, who give it a real workout. If everything works perfectly, production finally gets it around a half a year after the programmer first writes the code.

"From the first day you came to us, you've shattered that cycle! You've always managed to find all the bugs, first time through, which is damn incredible to begin with. Then you identify and document the bugs so perfectly that the programmer can actually rewrite without creating new bugs. Then it comes back to you, is okayed, and no amount of beta testing shows any other problems! We've never had a program you Okayed bounce or gather any complaints from clients. Of all our Software Testing Engineers, you - alone - have this distinction."

He stood and tossed his empty soda can into a corner. "Why do you think that idiot Boggs wanted you, specifically, to test his latest project? Even the managers know that having you test their projects means cutting months out of the standard cycle process, which equates with saving oodles of money, which - in turn - makes the managers look that much better." Fishing around a mini-fridge, he managed to find two more drinks and brought them back to the table.

"Our other software testing engineers can crank out two, maybe three, programs a year. You worked five your first year and frigging eight last year! A couple of my managers actually put their careers on the line and sent your last three okayed programs straight to production, bypassing all beta testing.

"In short, this all means you're either the second coming of Woz or are just incredibly lucky." He stopped to take a sip of his drink before shrugging. "I don't believe in luck, so I called up one of those 'world's greatest experts' you mentioned and gave him all the facts. He gave me back a twenty-eight-page report, which I called up another expert to decipher for me. She told me that the first expert was some sort of quack, because he honestly suggested that the subject might be using some sort of ESP talent. I paid the first expert a bonus, told the second expert she was a moron, and decided to find out the truth for myself."

"But that's freaking nuts, Pol!" I finally blurted out. "I've made tons of mistakes in my life, bunches of wrong choices . . . hell, I damn near destroyed my life and everything I held dear by making bad choices!! Lost everything; family, friends, money, respect," I barked a laugh, "self-respect . . . my Dad stands to lose his house because of it!

"You lost three hundred, twenty-four thousand, eight hundred and fifty-three dollars through gambling, to be precise. Even though you always bet the smart way, with the odds and never backing a long shot, you managed to lose damn near everything you owned. Your wife, Ann, divorced you and lives with a lesbian lover in Utah (of all places), your daughter, Amy, didn't speak to your for almost a year, and your father, Winifred . . . " He paused to give me the look. Well, most did when they heard Dad's name. "Winifred? Well, he paid off your gambling debts, thus saving your fairly wretched life, by taking out a terrible mortgage. With a bank I own, actually, so stop worrying about him losing his house."

He looked over at me, and burst out laughing at my shocked expression. "Yup, been keeping close tract of you for almost a year and had investigators looking back further than that. I said you are a business precognitive, Ruck. Your problem was that your gambling had nothing to do with your business dealings! Nada, zip, swabo to the second power; you didn't even make any bets from your business phone or during business hours. Please note that, in spite of all the rest of your life going to shit, you were never fired. You quit in a burst of masochistic self abuse, even after your boss did her best to convince you to stay." He sighed and took a sip from his can. "I guess your ability doesn't keep you from deliberately screwing up. This means that you've made the usual number of personal mistakes and goofs, but nothing professionally."

He paused and gave me a sidelong look. "Actually, not just decisions dealing with purely professional matters, either. That time you decided to buck your co-workers and have lunch at your desk, rather than heading over to that new Thai place. Then all got deathly ill and you didn't. Then there was the matter of Shirley in Accounting . . . " He held up a hand to forestall my angry outburst. "Okay, okay; I won't go into details, but you remember what happened to the guy who did end up with her that weekend, right?"

Yeah, I did. In traction for nearly five months, all because Shirley never bothered to explain that her 'departed husband' had only departed for three to five at the state pen. Well, he was back in the can doing ten to fifteen for assault, Frank in Shipping still tended to jump at loud noises and walk with a slight limp, and Shirley worked somewhere else.

"Both semi-professional decisions, or - if you'd rather - personal decisions that would have directly affected you, professionally." Pol's sobered up for a moment and glanced at the door separating his office from his assistants. "Although . . . this is somewhat disturbing, actually. You didn't catch Debra's little offer when she made it and I'm not sure what to make of that. It was made within the building and she is a co-worker, and I couldn't care less what she does to whom, so it wouldn't have had any professional impact on you if you'd . . . oh, well," he shrugged and grinned at me again. "Please consider the ten grand to be an advancement bonus and your Dad's mortgage covered as a personal favor from me. Tomorrow morning, you'll start as my Executive Assistant, with a salary and perks to match the position." He jumped to his feet and started walking. "C'mon, I'll show you your new office."

I followed him, still slightly fogged and trying to absorb everything he'd said. We walked back out into the lobby and turned right at the elevators. "As my Executive Assistant, you'll answer only to me. I'll turn you loose on various assignments, using your unique ability to separate the chaff from my wheat. You'll have a secretary, of course, and this will be her office." He rolled his fedora into his open hand and spun without stopping his brisk pace, gesturing at a smaller version of Debra's area, before throwing open a ritzy looking oak door, "And this will be your new cubby. What do you think?"

"Can I get it repainted?" I asked, walking in and taking a look around. Yikes. The room was substantially smaller than Pol's, but so were most concert halls, so it still registered in the 'Holy Moses' end of space. There was an executive sized desk and chair near the back wall, offset slightly towards the right rear corner, with couches facing it on three sides. The opposite corner had a mini-bar setup and a nice area for informal meetings. The rest of the office was empty, but looked about right for a half of a basketball court. I noticed a door to the left of the desk, about where I was considering putting the opposing team bench, and opened it. An executive bathroom, complete with Jacuzzi and soak; it would make a lovely locker room.

"What, you don't like teal?" Pol frowned, looking around.

"Sure, but not every shade, everywhere," I automatically replied. I sat in the leather executive chair and felt it mold itself to me. I peered out of the corner of my eye at the insane man grinning at me and juggling his hat. "You're serious, aren't you? You really believe I'm some sort of super-lucky business type and you decided to become my - you should excuse the expression - fairy godmother?"

He snorted a laugh and I sat back. The chair automatically started to massage my back. I closed my eyes in bliss . . . and came to the instantaneous decision that I wanted to be this person, the person who worked in this office and led this sort of life. Okay, the mega-rich wackado with the hat fetish currently beaming at me was out of his mind, but I'd have to crazy to pass this up? If I played along, I could cover my Dad's mortgage (waitaminute . . . didn't Pol already say it was covered?), pay off my school loans, maybe even maybe put enough away to put Amy back into college before he came to his senses.

I opened my eyes. He was still standing there, delightedly smiling at me and spinning his fedora in little passes through the air. "Well, Pol, I suppose I could force myself to work here. Hell, I might give up my apartment and simply move in." I reluctantly sat up with a sigh; that was a really nice chair. "Might be enough room in the bathroom for my bed"

Pol bounced over, took me by the arm and led me over to the huge window that mostly made up the far wall. He peered out and then pointed to a nearby skyscraper. "Actually, you'll be giving up your apartment and moving into the company sub-penthouse, there. It's only two blocks away and I keep a helicopter pad on the roof, just in case of business needs. I," he modestly coughed into his fist, "live in the penthouse, itself."

"You're kidding!" I stared out the window, my fantasy meter firmly buried in the red.

He glanced at me, frowned, then raised a hand to shade his eyes and looked again. "No, I'm pretty sure I live in the penthouse of that building." He briefly frowned. "Well, maybe it's the skyscraper next to it . . . no matter, my driver will know which one and so will yours."

"No, I mean you must be kidding . . . my driver? I have a driver?"

"Sure you'll have a driver! Comes with the digs and perks, don't you know? You'll have to be readily accessible whenever I need you, so you'll need a form of transportation where you won't have to deal with the concept of finding a parking space, or even being awake. Ouch!" He slapped at my hand. "What the hell was that about!?"

I'd pinched him. "Just checking to see if you were a hallucination. Okay, level with me; what exactly do I have to do to earn all this?"

"I told you already. I'll hand you various assignments and, after looking into them to your satisfaction, you'll give me a decision. For instance, I might ask you to review our Cleveland branch because someone there is embezzling. You'll look into it, maybe go to Cleveland to take a first hand look, then tell me who's stealing from the company. I might have you take over a project or two that's bogged down and decide what needs to be done to get them into production. I might have you review our entire line to determine what products should be discontinued and which should be pushed." He opened the mini-bar and pulled out another couple of soft drinks, and handed one to me. "Your assignments will depend on what the company (i.e. I) best need taken care of at the moment."

I sipped my drink and thought about it. Exactly how long could I keep the gravy train running until Pol woke up? How could I prolong the dream? Computers were a good way to stall. "I'll need good computer equipment, with total access and security."

"No problem."

I thought about it some more. "I'll need an advance on my first check to move."

"What? You need more than the ten grand you already have sitting in my office?" He chuckled. "Greedy, ain't ya? Anyway, you'll be completely moved in two hours after you agree to take the job, company expense. I have a truck and men outside your apartment building, just waiting for the word."

I looked it over from all angles and went for the gold. "Okay, I'll take it . . . but on one condition. I want a ten year contract, with salary and perks spelled out, and I want it written so that even if I'm not the Amazing Kreskin, I still have the job, and I want it written in regular English, not lawyer-speak!"

He walked over to what might become my desk and opened the center drawer, then walked back to the bar. I frowned and walked over to see what was in the drawer, not believing that he could be that sure of himself. Sure enough, one single sided page, six paragraphs of straightforward English; almost exactly as I just stipulated, except it was for fifteen years, rather than ten. No problem, I wanted job security (but the lone difference at least meant he didn't know me as well as he thought). I noticed that the starting salary would take care of my delinquent student loans with my very first paycheck and the schedule of raises cumulated in a yearly salary that would have been the envy of any CEO.

A little over an hour ago, I was worried about making the mortgage payment on Dad's house. Now I could buy Dad a new house at the end of the year or have one custom built for him by the end of the second. Throttling my still nit-picking conscience, I picked up the fountain pen from where it sat next to the contract and signed my . . .

"Only one thing," Pol muttered from where he sat, in a tone I hadn't heard before.

I paused, pen in hand; here it comes, the snake in the garden. "What?"

"You gotta take the office the way it is. Oh, you can have whatever gizmos and gee-gaws you want, but the teal stays." He looked at me and his pixy face had gone hard. I could tell that, for whatever inexplicable reason, this was not a negotiable point. "If you can't deal with teal, forget the deal."

I goggled at him. After all the incredible events of the past hour . . . He honestly believed that I was some sort of business superman, unable to make a bad decision or choice, on the strength of which he was willing to make my life a Cinderella story, all the way to moving me practically into his own home, free of charge or rent.

But he was going to play hardball on the décor of my office?

"Well . . . " I stalled, doing my level best not to laugh. I walked into the middle of the office, slowly turning and making a small production. The walls were one shade of teal, the carpet another and the drapes a third. All the furniture, with the exception of the executive chair behind the desk and the desk, itself, were a fourth shade of teal. The modern art on the walls were exclusively in complimentary shades of teal to the walls.

Heck, the door to the bathroom was carefully blended into the teal of the wall and the teal of the stained wainscoting. Only the doorknob was exempt, and it was cloud white. All in all, this was, without exception, one of the ugliest offices I'd ever seen.

On the other hand, cover anything with enough money and it begins to take on a rustic charm all its own.

"Okay," I agreed, walking back to the desk and signing the contract with a flourish, then flashing him a grin. "No problem; if I need a break, I can always wear blue tinted glasses from time to time."

He nodded, then stood, walked over, and countersigned the contract. Then he dropped the boss attitude and shrugged, "Sorry about that, but it sorta went against the grain to play Daddy Warbucks, give you your heart's desire and not make at least one contractual stand." He fingered the brim of his fedora and sheepishly grinned. "Knee jerk reaction, I guess. Plus I have this thing about teal. All of the executive offices are done in teal . . . I suppose my shrink would be able to tell me why I really needed to do that, but I really like teal. Except for my own office, of course . . . or Debra's . . . or anywhere I have to spend a lot of time . . . odd, that." He finally shrugged and spread his hands. "Like I said, a 'thing.' Anyhow, when you decide what color you want your office (a blue motif would go very well with your secretaries office, by the way), go ahead and paint it, but the redecorating cost will have to come from your own pocket, or else all my executives will want their offices repainted, too. Fair enough?"

I shook my head, grinning. "You are a very strange man, Pol."

He barked a laugh and flipped his hat back onto his head. "You don't know the half of it, Ruck."

We walked back to his office and he briefly outlined what time he wanted me in (at least a half hour before him), how late I'd work (at least a half hour later than him), and what we'd be working on tomorrow (turns out that someone really was embezzling at the Cleveland office). We walked back into his lobby and he paused, frowned, in front of Debra's desk. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye and, after a second, made a slight shrug. My apparent single bad judgment call was still bothering the people expert in him.

"Debra will give you the name of my tailor and arrange for an appointment tomorrow morning, then take you around to meet the president and vice presidents as soon as you're properly attired, which should be in a day or two after that. She'll also show you the way to the executive dining room, gym, and so forth. By the end of the tomorrow, you'll have all your official executive bric-a-brac; cell phone, pager, mobile fax, suicide pill, light saber, jet pack, or whatever else an executive assistant needs to be saddled with, nowadays." He brought both hands up to cover a massive yawn and took the opportunity to stretch. "Sorry," he chuckled, "but I was in London yesterday and I'm still fighting to catch up. I'm going to call it a day and see if I can sleep my way back to the correct time zone." He sailed his fedora onto an antique hat stand in the corner of the office with a practiced flip of his wrist, adding, "Debra, please have Raul meet me downstairs, then see to Ruck." Apparently the hat was only part of his office persona . . . interesting.

I wished him a good nights' sleep and walked him to the elevator. He smiled and shook my hand warmly, saying, "Remember, tomorrow is the beginning of what fate had in store for you from the beginning. Try not to be late, okay?"

After he left, I walked back to Debra's desk and told her what computer gear I'd need. She wrote it all down, then frowned and asked me why I was willing to settle for an eighteen-inch monitor? I frowned back at her, then remembered that I was - for the moment - Aladdin, turned loose with a very deep-pocketed genii. I told her to tear up the first list and gave her my Christmas wish list, stopping short of asking for a Cray supercomputer and virtual reality gear.

She reviewed my list and made a few suggestions, which I happily accepted. She then picked up her phone and told the tech boys what to deliver tomorrow, then called the company movers and gave them the green light to move me, then called and made an appointment for me with someone called Antonio for ten the next morning. Finally, after hanging up her phone, she asked me if I wanted my ten thousand dollar bonus in cash or as a check.

I studied her for a moment and, making up my mind, told her it depended. If she was willing to help me spend it that evening, I wanted it in cash. If not, a check would be fine. She cocked her head and studied me back, coolly.

After dinner and a show (abusing Pol's name and power to get last second reservations to the best of both), we ended up at my new digs. We both walked around, letting our collective gasts get good and flabbered. It was so amazing that I didn't even notice that my own furniture was missing until we found it, all crammed into a guest bedroom. With room to spare, I might note. Fine enough, I'd call Goodwill in the morning.

We ended up in the living room, a nice conversation pit with its own wet bar. We faced a wall long window/balcony, one with the curtains open and with an incredible view of the city twinkling in front of us. I walked over to the bar and asked Debra if there was anything she'd like, during which, a memory rose and was too good to ignore. "Perhaps a glass of water, cup of coffee, oral sex, soft drink . . . ?" I turned in time to see her color. "Or would you rather have a glass of wine? Looks like we have a pretty good choice in both red or white."

She asked for a French merlot and I poured two, and then joined her on the sofa. We sipped our drinks in companionable silence, enjoying the view. After a bit, I asked the obvious question.

She leaned back and regarded me with both eyebrows raised before replying. "Because most executives are sexist egotists, just horny gender bigots in tailored suits. It tickles me to toss the invitation out, knowing that none of them would ever dare accept. In your case, it was just habit . . . but you should have seen your face when your brain finally caught up." She started to giggle. "It was absolutely priceless. You were so cute, doing your best to ask and being too nice to ask.

"So, did I prove that I'm not one of those sexist egotists, then?" She smiled and came into my arms. I stopped short of kissing her, having to make sure she knew the straight story. "Listen; you know that I'm not really some sort of magical business mystic, don't you? All this," I nodded my head in the general direction of the window, "is mine only until your boss realizes that I'm just a regular guy who got lucky a few times and sic's his corporate lawyers on me. This time next week, we would be sitting on that old green couch you saw in the spare room."

She didn't draw back, but she looked into my eyes for a moment, then smiled and kissed me. After we broke for air, I asked the other question that had been bugging me. "What would have happened if I'd caught it and accepted?"

She looked deeply into my eyes and said, with conviction, "Absolutely nothing . . . ever."

I awoke at my usual time, five a.m., almost waking Debby (nicknames were now permitted) where she laid on my arm. After a moments disorientation, I realized where I was and that I no longer had to make a three-hour commute to work, so I relaxed and just watched Debby sleep, feeling like the luckiest man on Earth . . . then it dawned on me.

If I'd taken her up on her . . . and she was as much business related as that psycho Shirley in Accounting . . . and . . . damn.

My first realization was: I had made the right choice!

My second was: Maybe Pol wasn't a loony after all.

I laid back and smiled into the opulence of the room. I think I could really learn to enjoy being a successful man. Debby made a little happy sound in her sleep, almost an unconscious agreement, and opened her eyes.

"Good morning, Toddy." Okay, we'd deal with appropriate nicknames later. "What are you smiling about?"

I kissed the tip of her nose and pulled her closer to me. Maybe sometimes it doesn't take years of hard work and sacrifice to become a success. Maybe sometimes it just takes surviving a lot of bad luck and making a few good decisions.

"Oh, I was just thinking about having the place painted, sweetheart. What do you think about teal?"