Next Flight

W. James Jonas III

September 2006

We talked about playing it for years.  In fact, there were times when we had claimed to have done it, but those were, at best, tall tales around the fraternity house.  None of us, truly, had the money to do it, and there had been more than enough entertaining ways to blow cash that did not include the hassle of travel.  But, now we had become sufficiently bored, but with means, to finally play a game of Airport Lottery.  Not exactly a game for the jet set, and no one talks about the jet set anymore.  It is not a game that would have been developed after September 11^th 2001, but for good or for ill, most of our childish fantasies were developed before that tragic day.

The premise was simple.  Walk-up to a random ticket counter at the airport and request a seat on the next flight.  When we first described this “game” to friends, it was the closest activity to random jet setting that we could imagine.  However with a few decades since the first outline which took the form of graffiti on the poker room wall of our college abode, the rules had become more complex, but there were only four:

1. Go to the airport, by taxi, telling the driver to drop you at any airline he or she desired.

2. Walk up to the nearest ticket counter and request a one way ticket on the next flight.

3. Repeat Rule 2 at your destination airport.

4. Upon arrival at your “second destination airport”, give all of your money to the nearest church, destroy your credit cards, and figure out a way to get home.

In full disclosure, rule 4 was modified, to its current form, after marriage (for some), children (for a few), and rehab (for me) mandated a re-write from the “find a hooker, drug dealer, bookie, liquor store, and hotel that accept Diners Club and keep charging until found by the others players or arrested.”

We were tired of watching reality television and decided it was time for a game of our own.  Given the nature of the rules, we could all play at the same time and could all start in our respective home towns.  Our plan was to begin the game on July 4^th and confirm all had arrived safely at home by the end of the month.  We would use the month of August to decide how to share our adventure with the others and would meet at the beach over Labor Day to exchange stories.  There were only three of us left from college, and it would be good to see George and Paul again.

As I called for the taxi to come pick me up, the absurdity of starting this game from my home in Arkansas was obvious.  There is only one taxi in Deer Bluff, and it is run by Cane Cutter a non-reformed stoner of the 1970s, 80s, 90s, and beyond and a guy that was to go to college with me until he decided that his senior year of high school was just too much trouble.  “I would like a taxi to come pick me up and take me to the Airport.”  When I made this request, I knew the response would not be the crisp “we will be there as soon as we can sir” that one would get in most American cities.

“Berry!  What the fuck are you doin’ calling for a cab on the morning of our country’s b-day?  Don’t you have any respect for all the dead people that made America great and those who are honoring them by being peaceful?”

“Look Cane, I know 11am is very early for you, and happy Fourth of July, but I need to get to the airport and was hoping you would”

“When did you start calling for cabs?  Is your fancy car broken?  Oh, I get it.  Jill is pissed off with you and she has hidden your keys.  No let me guess.  You are trying to save money by not having to pay for parking at the airport.”  His final point will mean nothing to those outside of our community, but our airport is so small, there is no charge for parking.  In fact, up until 1955, citizens were asked to park there cars at the airport whenever possible so that the pilots could identify our runways as they were easily confused for well trimmed fields.

After a few more minutes of verbal abuse from my childhood chum, he agreed to pick me up after he made his delivery of holiday meals to the elderly of the community.  Please do not be mistaken, Cane is neither charitable nor concerned with the well being of the aging population of our town.  He is merely engaging in a combination of corporate diversification and niche marketing.  His food deliveries are paid for by the state social services commission.  I have reason to believe certain of these older citizens have found in Cane a market for their excess medications, and to my disgust, I know for a fact one 80 year old has developed a rather sophisticated taste for high grade marijuana which began after the stash from Medicare, during a session of chemotherapy, ran out.  Before one becomes outraged at the mental picture of a pitiful aged addict, I must report that Granny Jones ended her chemo 20 years ago, bowls three times a week, volunteers at the pet shelter, and just happens to smoke an illegal substance every night while watching her collection of Price is Right re-runs.

By noon Cane was in front of my house and quite unnecessarily honking multiple times.  “I saw you were out here.”  There was no need to honk and wake everyone up on a holiday.”

“Look Jimmy, the only one who MIGHT have been sleeping until noon in this place was me, and you fucked that up with your stupid call this morning.  Now get in and quit your bitchin.”  “Which airline are you going to today sir?”

Again, Cane’s humor will escape all except those who live, as I do in a small town that does not charge to park at its airport; in such a place, there is, at best, one airline.  Thank goodness the trip to the airport is short as only one track of Cane’s eight track cassette player (or perhaps it is the tape) is working.  Such a technological state of affairs (for those to young to understand what it means for only one track to work) subjects the listener to, at best, 2.5 songs that will be played over and over again.  The repeating of the two songs that are complete is not impossible to tolerate as the world of one company owning all the radio stations in the universe already subjects us to torture of a similar nature.  The thing that begins to drive one a bit mad is the repeating of the .5 of a song.  It’s as if a Jimmy Buffet with Alzheimer’s is performing in the back seat and he will not stop.

I knew Cane would want to be paid in cash and I had to promise him a $50 tip for him to show-up at all.  I had to imagine that neither George nor Paul was experiencing similar levels of abuse or expense so early in the adventure.

“Hi Jimmy! Where are you going today?  We do not have a reservation for you in our system.”  It is on days like these that I wish the town was just a bit larger.  Susie, my youngest sister’s roommate, is working the desk of our regional airlines.  There is no way to explain to her what I am doing, and the lies that come to mind sound lame even to me.

“Susie, I just need the next flight out.  There is a project I am working on, and I would like to go ahead and get part of the trip behind me today.”  I knew this would generate multiple questions, but I could think of nothing else to say.

“The flight to Biloxi leaves in two hours.”  That was all she said and I thanked God.

Two hours in my home town’s airport is as miserable as the flight to Biloxi in an older prop aircraft with limited ability to adjust the temperature of the cabin.  On the runway you bake, and in the air you freeze.  However, living in this area for the past forty plus years has always come with a message; it is not easier to get here and it is a little painful and tedious to depart.

The airport in Biloxi was an oasis.  The place had recently been renovated and while it still had reminders that you were in the South – the Deep South – there was a sense of sophistication.  I entered the Men’s Room and I saw him he looked maybe 19; definitely hung-over, and was tying his belt to a crossbar in the ceiling.  He seemed to think I would use the facilities and depart.  He had no reason to know that I knew exactly what he was doing.  Perhaps I did not know why he was doing it, but I did know what would be the next steps he was going to attempt to accomplish.

Most of us go through life knowing that suicide happens.  A few of us know a friend or relative that has committed suicide, but my experience goes beyond that.  Our college was full of very intense competitive people all driving, with pauses for binge drinking and drugging of course, to future success as medical or law students.  When the other area colleges starting calling us “Su U” during my sophomore year, it was easy to explain to our parents that it was because our college was the platform for great future trail attorneys and the other schools merely did not know how to spell the word “sue.”  The real answer was darker and sadder.  Suicide is Painless was a popular song for a popular movie and television show.  It was also the theme that well described a very sad path three of our friends selected that fall of our sophomore year.

The kid had no clue what he was doing.  For only a moment, I wanted to let him know what a silly amateur he was and how his efforts might accomplish his goal but reflected absolutely no understanding of physics or physiology.  That, as much as anything else, reminded me that most kids like this really are not thinking when they engage in conduct where we ask later “What was he thinking?”

“Kid, you are destroying Airport property, and I am turning you in.”  He fought me a bit as I pulled him down from his perch.  He was light and scared and a bit greasy, but it was not a problem to throw him around a bit.  Since I was going to try to save his life, and I knew that in the short term that would make him hate my guts, it seemed only logical that this should be a bit fun for me.  He probably was not expecting me to put his head in a toilet (a clean one but still a toilet) and let the flushing water refresh his scalp, but his ability to fight me was pitiful; this guy had not eaten for days, had taken a few too many chemicals, and decided he was out of options.

When he started screaming, I stopped the flushing and asked him if he was ready to go to the police or would he rather have a burger instead.  The kid did not speak, but looking at his expression, he started to realize that I might be crazy but I definitely was not a cop.  I did not wait for him to choose; we went to the taxi stand and asked to be taken to the closest place that had good burgers.  After that, I would look in the phone book, and we would find an AA meeting to attend that day before I caught a plane back home.

I wonder if Paul and George will forgive me for not finishing the game.

Nick’s Last Book

W. James Jonas III

July 2006

Another day as the valet my family never expected me to be.  Still, the work is useful.  He definitely needs help with almost everything.  When I started working for him, it seemed the only demands were to be a good scribe.  The progression was slow, but these days, the job has expanded a bit.  Thank goodness this is a temporary assignment.  What could I have been thinking when I selected this employment opportunity?

My initial thought was that I was helping an author complete a book.  It is now clear that he is still the author, but we are writing the book.

Why are we doing this?  Why does he think that another book – his last book – is necessary?  Perhaps it is merely something to do.  He does not want to just wait to die, but I cannot believe he really thinks he has a skill writing books.  He is a writer; I have loved his plays.  Still, his books have lacked any real success.  Maybe that is because he was part of the previous administration, and at the end of the day, he is a political advisor at heart.  Still, his champions of old have long since retired, but here we are trying to make something out of … nothing.

“Jake!”  “We need to expand the lyric nature of the composition.  Then we can overlay a comedic theme so that the significance of the message is truly taken seriously.”  This is the type of crap I hear as I am making his breakfast.  Any attempt to help him reflect on what he has just said will prolong the pain for me and frustrate him.  Somehow he thinks these obtuse comments should be crystal clear to everyone, but you tell me how making a book seem more like an song with a humorous theme will cause the reader to know you are serious?

At this point, I just want to help the old, and odd, duck write his book and be done with it..

Nick has seen it all, and I have heard about all he has seen.  I have heard it countless times.  It would seem, to me, that if you had been an advisor to the powerful, you would have to learn how to listen.  These days it is all talk.  I sincerely believe that the original reason a person like me was needed was because the demands to write, a few lines each day, was cutting into the time he wanted to talk.

In the morning, he has his breakfast as he talks about the theme for the day.  By mid morning, I get a break from his guidance while he prepares for an important luncheon meeting in town.  Without fail, the luncheon meeting does not work out, but the preparation, travel to town, and disappointing return occupy the majority of the day, so that I rarely see him until late in the day and usually not until before dinner is served.

He is not old, but the years on the road have damaged his body and worn his mind.  His interest in what I have written only lasts until the entrée is served, and the talking begins again.  It is a monologue.  That is not to say I do not comment, but I do only comment when he is taking in a breath, a sip of wine, or a bite of food.  His tradition of after dinner smoking and drinks creates similar pauses in his speeches until he retires for the evening.

When he departs for his sleeping quarters, I begin the necessary clean-up as the cooks and servers are neither sufficiently compensated to clean nor interested in waiting until he is done with his speech for the evening.  There is no one else to clean up the mess.  He never asked me to be the maid, but he certainly never discouraged this expansion of my duties.  In fact, I think he thanked me, once, for these activities.

I do believe that he can create a book.  Most certainly, I want to write a book, but the idea of writing my own name with my own ideas offers me not inspiration.  Others might doubt my self assessment, and perhaps they are right.  Certainly, my education and background make many think such an accomplishment might not be unusual.  Still, my negative thoughts keep me focused on the mission at hand.  Besides, the ideas in my own head are worthless.  Nick is wise (an old fool now but still with wisdom), and his last book just might have a chance to capture all of that insight.

For a couple of weeks now, he has not modified the lyric comedy idea, so “we” are working with that approach.  Popular music from the theatre offers no inspiration, but I know that the lyric aspect has to have some level of familiarity with a broader audience if it is to have a chance.  People will have to recognize the song.  He has opinions about most plays anyway, and such opinions are never positive.  With that limitation in mind, songs of childhood make the most sense.  I have selected a children’s lullaby where the main characters are predominately sheep.  The comedic theme is easily accomplished when the sheep decide to transition from the second oldest profession (the vocation sheep herding) to the oldest profession.  Some might have thought that the device of talking sheep with capitalistic tendencies would have been enough comedy without the adult theme, but they are wrong.  Talking sheep that are making money is only truly funny and ironic if they are able to “shear” people (specifically men) in the process.

He loves the idea.  His comments each morning come rapidly and concisely.  It would be overstatement to suggest they are helpful or move the project along, but I incorporate enough of them so that the evenings are not too painful.  Besides, he is not expecting a comprehensive update, just a few comments on status has he is taking a breath, drink, bite, or puff.

He is familiar with sheep; he is familiar with men; he is familiar with prostitutes; this book can have a political message.  We have now started something that is within his comfort zone.  The question of political message now becomes the challenge.  I know he wants to direct the book to the leaders of the country today, but those men have no interest in Nick’s ideas.  The certain disinterest of today’s men of power have no bearing on our actions; we are going to follow the traditions of his other books; this will be directed toward the leaders.

The book is starting to fall into place.  Every time the prose becomes dull or the messages seem too weighty, the music of the lullaby reappears.  The music starts out as a way to move things along and progressively is funny and then reaches to higher plains of irony as the story becomes more caustic and carnal.

He was right about the comedy as well.  The pillow talk between the sheep and those they are “shearing” allowed countless opportunities to explore the potential dangers of leaders seeking advice from inappropriate sources.  The leaders have to discover, at their peril, something the advisor already knows … she is only a sheep.

The next several months include the same menial tasks and frustrating repetitions, but there is progress on the book.  As the weather cools, we are looking at final drafts before taking it to the printer.

Nick is quiet.  His health is failing.  Doctors assure me (I do not seek such promises) that he will not see next summer.  I am not sure the doctors understand.  Nick is ready to die.  I am ready to move back home.  The book is done.

November was very slow for Nick.  He rarely got out of bed.  One morning, the print shop brought by the first print of A Shepard’s Story.  I am pleased.  Nick should be pleased.  I decide to bring him a cool drink and the book.  Perhaps he will want to look through our masterpiece.  Not surprisingly, he is resting.  He looks peaceful, and waking him seems like a very bad idea.  The cup is left on a table.  The book is carefully placed on top of the copy he always keeps of his first book; that was the book he was sure would revitalize his career, but it never happened.  Now his prized first effort has a companion at his bedside.

Nick died that winter, and I returned to the dirt and grime of my home city, but with two books that remain in my library as a set to this day … The Prince and A Shepard’s Story both by my friend Nick.

The Big Dog

W. James Jonas III

January 2006

From my desk, all I could hear was his side of the phone conversation, but he was full of energy and clearly in his own kingdom.

Hello James, can you hear me?  This is Mike Epstein publisher of The Southwestern, I have you on speaker phone because I have tons of things to get done, but you are a friend of Beth’s, so I did want to ring you back … What can I do for you?

Yes, I did tell my friend Beth to have you call me.  She told me you do writing or some such thing.  And you know, Beth is the only reason why we are talking right now.  You know I am very busy and most folks do not get a chance to talk to me.  I founded The Southwestern thirty years ago, and we have enjoyed great success from the very start.  In fact, I know of no one else who has enjoyed the strength and growth my team has had.

Well, you know there are thousands of individuals dying to have their work published and only a few publications that publish submitted works.  So, what you are seeking to accomplish has little chance of success and is likely to fail.  However, I do believe that what you are doing is a very good thing; it will make you a better person, and that will make our society better.  You must understand that there are few people who understand, like I do, what it takes to improve society.

There is not really anything I can do to help you.  Perhaps you should go to the internet and see if there are some journals that cover the topics in your writing.  I do not know any names and could not even guess where to start.

You know, we consider The Southwestern a monthly news magazine, so works of fiction are of no interest to us.  Yes, we have accidentally published a piece that was fiction, but when that has happened, you must know, it was a total surprise to us.

For instance, our internal research team was entirely satisfied that the feature story on a Republican funded foster care colony in West Texas that was operated by second generation aliens from Roswell was on the level.  Yes, the supporting photography looked a bit staged, and the San Francisco Bay in the background did give some reason to doubt that the photo was taken in Marfa, but our committee stands by their initial decision and regrets that subsequently determined facts suggest that the story was not completely accurate.

But you must understand, this story was one more way to market hate against the right wing idiots of this country.  If the citizens are going to continue to elect those mindless Republicans in numbers that allow them to function as the majority, it is our obligation to try to convince them that they are wrong.  The story on the alien foster care colony was an ideal vehicle for our efforts; it would have been irresponsible to miss such an opportunity.

You see, as a monthly news magazine, we would be totally out of place without a political agenda.  That is the same reason we superimposed the photo of a Texas Governor, in his business suit, in a group photo of all male cattle.  We are out to make sure readers understand that the establishment is doing weird things with aliens, animals, not to mention social services.  That is just one more reason that thoughtful fiction is of no interest to us; we have an axe to grind, a mission to accomplish, and an enemy to stop.

We have published a couple of other things that I would not consider news, but they were first person accounts by people involved with major disasters or crises.  While these articles did nothing to further our political message, we understand our readers are people too; they deserve a good cry every so often.  Besides, those topics were simply too complicated for anyone on my editorial team to understand.  Why learn something when some poor sap has lived it and will be writing a personal account, for his or her own healing?  You can always buy such stories for pennies, but we always send them a T-shirt too.

As I have mentioned, there really is not anything I can do for you.  I am very busy and am getting ready for a trip.  Ah yes, it is New York City again.  For me, that is just another work day; it is what I do as an important publisher.  Yes, I will need to see a show each evening and there is the shopping, haircut, and just some down time for fun, but the pace is endless; you have no way of understanding how hard it is to get everything done.

But, you know I am more than just a publisher.  35 years ago, I graduated from law school.  My law license is still current, and I am a member of the State Bar and the American Bar Association.  This is important so that people will understand that my crude and self important ways have been developed based on years of great success, not because of a lack of formal education.

Yes, I went to one of the best law schools in the country, and I try to make sure everyone knows that.  Actually, some might suggest that the law school has gotten a great deal better since I, and all the other students who had no interest in law but less interest in serving in the military, stopped filling up graduate spaces that might go to minority students who went off to fight that stupid war.

Well, I really cannot spend anymore time on this visit; New York calls.  I really have to go.

I hope you understand how I have gone out of my way to be of help.  Not everyone gets this chance, but you are important to a friend of mine.

Please let me know, how things turn out for you.  I am sincerely interested.  While there is nothing I can or am going to do to help you, I hope our conversation has been helpful as very few people, and none like you, get this much time with me.  It is only because Beth is my friend, and you are a friend of hers, that I am doing all of this.

I do want you to keep me posted.  I am interested.  Good luck.  Good bye.

As he was hanging up the phone, I heard his grandson say, “Pops, you need to take your nap.  Playing with the phone time is before lunch and after supper.  Let’s put the phone back in the toy chest at the foot of your bed, tuck you in, and have a little rest.”

THE DARK SIDE OF PET ADOPTION – Chapter 2 – On to Chicago

W. James Jonas III

February 2006

It was not hard to agree to travel with Paul to Chicago.  I really like the pizza, and I really thought the trip would be short.

As I began packing the few items for my brief trip, it was almost amusing to reflect on this very strange client and some of our first meetings.

“They say I tried to steal a car, but I can explain.  How much is this going to cost me?”  I take a breath and confirm that he generally recalled the rates, and our policy of recording all conversations and activities, being outlined before he left a phone message and before he gained entrance into the client center (it is always easier to collect bills from folks who acknowledge that the information was provided); then, I tell him it will be a pleasure to review that information again.  “No, he quickly states.  I meant to say how long.  I have a customer to meet at the Downtown Fitness Center at 10:30am.”  This guy is going to be a challenge; maybe he should just go back the to dorm, but I am still a capitalist.  “Well, I really do not know anything about you or your particular situation.”  His next question is a real laugh, “Don’t you read the papers?”  There is really no point in responding; this guy is a fool, and I am not going to explain to him that the local paper is a lousy source of information to include sports scores and otherwise a total insult to the literate world.  However, I do advertise in it quite heavily, and have been pleased with the proven results – limited coverage of my more public clients.  My silence seems to be all the response he needs; “well, you are the only S.O.B. in San Antonio that hasn’t read the paper today.  I have to go.  I need your help, and I will be back tomorrow morning.  Read the paper and tell me what to do.”

Some of my more unstable clients have sessions like this where they pay to leave a message, pay to wait in the client center, and then rush through their initial meeting with me, but this was a new record for brevity.

As I return to my desk, Paul’s invoice is ready for my editing and approval before being issued and electronically billed to his credit card before noon.

It is time for a Starbuck’s break, and I decide to pick up a paper in case Paul decides to show up again tomorrow.  Besides, it is always nice to find a client service oriented way to bill that morning coffee break.  I found the article Paul mentioned.  It was in the Food & Fitness section – “CLUB TRAINER CHARGED WITH CRIMINAL TRESPASS.”  Paul Douglas is a fitness trainer (I knew it) at the Alamo Country Club (if that is his only job, his credit card will be maxed out soon.) and was arrested and charged with criminal trespass.  The rest of the article reflected the business policy of the pitiful publication to allow high school interns (unsupervised by an editor) to write “news articles.”  The facts were random and gave me little reason to believe that this guy needed a professional of stature and rate structure.

From what I could gather, it was the typical story of the “towel boy” having an affair with a female patron of the club; my guess was that the “work-out sessions” re-located to the member’s residence, and he decided that access to the house, during a time when his client was away, might allow him to procure a new car or two for resale.  A little seedy, boring, and not my stuff; the kid might need to find a new club, but his tan was dark and his build made him the buff looking youth that would never find it hard to find a job where middle aged men and women were spending money to sweat under the instruction of young adults.

I was anxious to see if Paul would show-up the next morning, but my arrival time was no earlier than the day before as the crowd at the homeless shelter was unusually large making breakfast duty a bit longer task than was the norm.  My first come first served client scheduling protocol eliminated any economic reason to rush to the office, but the visual of my obituary reading “on the day he died, he skipped his scheduled time to help the homeless to be on time for a meeting with a personal trainer who had turned to auto theft…” was too great a risk for me.

When I walked in, the message light was on, and Paul was waiting.  This time we had a much longer and productive visit.

“I started making money as a personal trainer in high school.  My size kept me from having a chance on the football team and other sports seemed to offer no great thrill.  Because I was still in high school, most of the clients I could service were early risers – folks that get up damn early and are ready to begin their work outs by 5am; most of these folks either go to sleep very early or sleep very little.  However, all of them seem to be very jealous of the hours of sleep they get and anything that gets in their way is a problem.  That is where I got my first opportunity.”

“Your opportunity as what?”

“I won’t tell you; you will have to figure that out, but the reason I need your help is to keep it quiet.  I do not want the world to know what I do.  So, will you help me?”

“I will represent you in the case you request.  Are there any other charges other than criminal trespass?”

“I’m not sure; can you please figure that out?  I have to go.”

The criminal charges were easy to assess.  The interesting piece was that there was a fairly clear understanding that a civil case would follow and the plaintiff was not the cuckold I had assumed – it was the wife.

Morning three finally brought a set of facts I could work with.  Paul’s client had been the man of the house, an independent businessman, that slept four hours every night with wife number two in a 5,000 square foot home they shared with a cat, that came with the second wife and was nearly killed in a recent accident, that lead to Paul’s current problems.

Two years earlier, the dog of the house had died when he wandered on to the range of the local gun club.

“Look, people tell me their problems, and that includes what bugs them in their own house.  The theme of “that darn dog kept me awake” kept coming up during Mr. Walker’s early morning sessions.  When I asked him (or any other person like him) if their spouse understood how the animal was a nuisance or if they would consider beginning such a discussion, I noticed a pattern.  Rich people will not confront each other on the topic of pets; it is simply not done.  It is my opinion that part of it is that the animals place in the relationship is the more certain than the annoyed spouse.  This did not mean tolerance and understanding; it merely meant there was a need for a service.  That is where my new business came to be.”

“I started with referrals from the old guys at the club.  A decent number of them had younger wives with obnoxious pets; the guys wanted to be rid of the pets.  Local “business” had pretty much dropped off until the new Mayor began promoting pet adoption.”

Our Mayor had recognized a real city problem and source of waste in the fact that countless numbers of stray animals populated the community and were subsequently rounded up and killed by animal control.  Part of his comprehensive solution was to promote pet adoption at every possible opportunity.  The city council meetings began with a pet adoption report; all of the Mayor’s public events included an opportunity to adopt a pet, and it was not only stylish, and community spirited, but a political necessity in some circles to add a little furry beast to your house.  The trend was a great catalyst for finding thousands of caring loving owners for homeless pets.  But, every happy trend has its darker side.

More than a few pet agnostic spouses were coming home to the unexpected patter of four little feet (and did not care for the change).  Local business for Paul had a resulting spike.

Satisfied clients tend to talk, especially in the company of their own gender after a couple of drinks at the hunting lodge or some other setting for the corporate elite with more money than problems.

No one questions Personal Trainers making house calls.  No one expects them to stay long.  All it took was a key to the house, code to the security system, a time when the loving pet owner was gone, a selected method of demise, and pre-payment of a fee (expenses included but not itemized – I knew there would be something I liked about this guy) for the project to be accomplished.

Well, those days were in the past, Paul had hired me as business counsel on a fixed fee retainer.  The retainer was large and his travel agent was making, and paying for, all of the expenses, so my only decision was whether to where a suit or a sport coat and slacks.  I decided for the suit; it was time to play corporate counsel, and that suggested a more formal theme.  Besides, the car to take me to the airport was coming in 30 minutes and my pace of packing had to pick up.

When I agreed to represent Paul in this new phase, I thought my work would include educating him on basic business principles.  Those thoughts disappeared not when he wrote me the retainer check but when he presented me with a non-disclosure agreement prepared by his previous counsel. About two hours before calling me, he had instructed his counsel to prepare to documents, a non-disclosure agreement for his new counsel and a settlement agreement with a generous termination clause for the author of these documents.  That lawyer, by Paul’s account, was more than happy to conclude his representation because it included a termination bonus.  I had to admit, Paul was always thinking about how to get people to do what he wanted and do it happily.

We got to Chicago, and the initial meeting began that afternoon.  The understanding was that he would be retaining separate counsel in each area of needed expertise, and that these lawyers or firms would report to me.

I began to wonder how Paul was financing his start-up, so my question about his choice of lenders, if any, gave me opportunity to learn more.  This was important to me for a number of reasons including the fact that I totally misread him on first meeting.  When my instincts have been that off, in the past, the likelihood that there is a sinister element is always high.  “No counselor, I will not need to borrow any money from banks.  This effort is being funded by many happy customers of the past.”

Paul’s description of happy customers had all the subtlety of a knee to the groin, but I could not find any overt extortion.

My role in Paul’s business was becoming less clear.  He had money.  He seemed to have a plan.  He had already conducted more than a few complex business transactions.  With all of those elements, it was not clear to me what I was going to do for him other than baby-sit other lawyers.  Then he told me.  “I want you to be the public face of this secret company.”