chapter twenty-five

Dave arrived at the office early. It was becoming a habit. He couldn’t sleep at home, and at least this way he would get a parking space. He moved behind the receptionist’s counter and flipped a few switches. Lights flickered on with a buzz, interrupting the morning’s silence.

He tossed his jacket over a chair and headed to the conference room. It was immaculate, every chair in place. Gloria was worth every dime Ellen paid her. He picked up the bound packet from the table. The art department had come through again—color embossed cover with a gleaming BikeHouse logo, perfect-bound—and the information the book contained was the finest Dave had ever assembled. The data had been analyzed, quantified, charted, and copied. Graphs and pictures had been prepared. It was all there, brightly bundled and easy to follow.

A PowerPoint presentation was already loaded on the laptop for projection onto a screen that would roll down from the ceiling at just the right moment. The slides were concise, colorful, and enlightening. It would be the showcase of his career. The showcase—it was odd, really, that he’d wanted the account so badly. Now that it was here, now that the work was done and the presentation would soon begin, he found himself wishing it was over.

Brock entered the room at seven. Dave had moved to a conference-room chair and was resting his head on the table.

“Are you dead or just practicing yoga?” Brock quipped.

“Good morning,” Dave said, sitting up straight.

“You want some coffee?” Brock asked.

“Not yet. I don’t want the caffeine kicking in too early.”

“Did you bring your jacket?”

“It’s in my office.”

“Ellen asked about it yesterday. I told her you’d have it. She thinks it’s mystical.”

“Maybe it is.”

“Sure, or maybe you don’t give yourself enough credit. I’m telling you—you’re going to kill it today. I can feel it. Just make sure you throw in plenty of soul.”

The first hint of a smile crossed Dave’s face.

Brock took a seat beside his friend, then turned quizzical. “Look, I know that you wanted this account pretty badly. Has it been everything you expected?”

It was casual conversation, words to kill time until the meeting started. It was also the very question Dave had been pondering for the last twenty minutes. He hesitated in his answer. “I don’t know, really—I’m . . . I’m not sure.”

Brock shrugged. “If not, it will be. Hey, I’m going to grab coffee,” he said, standing up. “Then I’ll be in my office until it’s time to start. Are there any changes in my introduction?”

“No. Do it just like we discussed—just like old times.”

Brock nodded and pulled the door closed with a click, leaving the room’s solitude to surround and envelop Dave as if it were still waiting to hear his answer.

Has it been everything you expected?

• • •

At nine sharp the elevator doors pinged opened and Mr. Shaun Safford, Vice President of Marketing for BikeHouse Customized Motorcycles, stepped out. Five protégés followed, one more than Dave had expected. Ellen waited with her hand extended. The show was about to begin.

“Mr. Safford. Gentlemen. It’s great to have you here. I trust you had a good flight.” Dave let Ellen handle the formal greeting, the small talk, the useless chatter about the weather.

“I just wish we’d have had time to ride over instead of fly,” Safford added.

Ellen chuckled, perhaps not understanding the man was serious. “Yes, well, of course. Um . . . we have some coffee, pastries, and such. We can wait in the conference room for the others to arrive.”

Dave and Brock shook hands with the entourage. Safford grabbed a pastry and then returned. Not wanting to miss a thing, Ellen stepped into the circle as well.

“Dave, have you been out riding lately?” Safford asked.

“I took a ride over the weekend down to Frederick.” He spoke matter-of-factly, as if he spent every weekend on the road.

“What’d you ride?” Safford continued.

“A ’91 Sturgis, mint.” Ellen nodded to Dave’s answer, as if the words meant something to her. Safford didn’t notice her; his focus was locked on Dave.

“How was it? The ride, I mean.”

“Best ride of my life—enlightening.”

“Long rides usually are.”

As the conversation continued, a second group of suit-clad executives stepped into the room—advertising folks. There were more introductions, more handshakes, more business cards exchanged. Four employees of Strategy Data followed: three support staff and one intern assigned to the project.

By quarter past the hour, everyone had filled a plate, and Ellen piped up, “Well, I know you all have busy schedules, so let’s get started.” She waited another few minutes as people staked their claims to the various chairs arranged throughout the room.

When all appeared ready, she began. “I think you all know I’m Ellen Brewer, President of Strategy Data International. And let me begin by telling you how excited and pleased we are to have such a distinguished group here today . . .”

Dave couldn’t argue that Ellen was a good boss, despite her sometimes callous behavior. He’d certainly had worse. And everyone at the firm would agree that her leadership and strategic decisions had been critical in moving the company forward and making it a success.

“We’re also glad to have you gentlemen from AdCore here today. There’s no question that you do a fine job filling the advertising needs of such a stellar company as BikeHouse Customized Motorcycles . . .”

The woman was smart enough to surround herself with competent people. She believed in hiring the best and then paying them well. Not that the money came without a price. Ellen gave her all to the firm, and she expected everyone else to do the same.

“And I’d like to thank the people from our own staff in attendance today who have helped us put this information together . . .”

While she was more than competent, the one trait that Dave found irritating—at times even exasperating—was the fact that she didn’t understand when to sit down and shut up.

“ . . . and as you know, the scope of the study was broad. Who buys a customized bike and why? Our research may surprise you . . .”

While Ellen droned on, Dave began to consider Brock’s question once again. Has it been everything you expected? He knew the answer—it was simple, obvious. He just couldn’t bring himself to admit it or to verbalize it.

It begged a follow-up question. If not, then does any of this really matter?

Dave let his fingers drift across the surface of his leather jacket. The aroma, the newness, still lingered. It was a pleasing smell, but it also let memories tag along—memories of Megan, of the children, of better times. Dr. Jaspers had been right. They should be happy memories, joyful memories. Yet, so often when they surfaced, they brought only loneliness and guilt.

Guilt? Strange, but that had never been discussed with the doctor. Why should he feel guilty? It was an accident, after all. And yet, wasn’t he the one driving?

What if I’d swerved at just the right moment? What if I’d been paying closer attention or just waited ten more minutes to leave? What if . . .

Brock stood—Ellen had finished. Brock would give a quick introduction, discuss the basis and scope of the study, explain the reasons for their approach—in short, he’d give validity to the conclusions that Dave would present. It was a great format. They’d used it countless times.

Dave knew from experience that Brock would take exactly five minutes, hitting his mark within ten seconds either way. It was a speech Dave had heard often, though adapted to each particular situation.

Brock had been a good friend, helpful in his own myopic way. He certainly did not understand Dave’s loss, but at least he pretended to—perhaps even wanted to. And Brock’s question had been a fair one. Has it been everything you expected? He had expected more, hoped for more. Finding the jacket had been painful, but then to land the BikeHouse account because of it . . . it seemed like too much of a coincidence.

And yet, in just over an hour, the pastries would be gone, the reports would be distributed, the research presented, and conclusions drawn. There would be pats on the back for everyone, whether they deserved them or not, and the men in their tailored suits and women in their designer outfits would wander back to their self-important jobs in their self-serving world—and in the end, Dave wondered, would he have made any difference at all? Would anyone walk out the door a better person?

In the end, people would still buy motorcycles, Ellen would continue to fret about next year’s growth rate, and Brock would persist in putting the moves on every woman entering his life. But what about himself? Dave questioned. He would continue to drive home each night alone to find a cold and empty house full of nothing but aching memories, a house of misery.

“I’ll now turn the time over to Dave to explain our conclusions and recommendations.”

Brock’s question had been simple—Has it been everything you expected? He would be lying if he pretended it had. BikeHouse was just Novocain, anesthesia numbing the wound without ever healing it. Inside, Dave was still bleeding.

“Dave, you’re up.” Brock’s voice hardened, his volume increased. “If you’d like to explain our conclusions and recommendations, the time is now yours.”

Dave stood slowly—all eyes focused on him, tracking his every move.

His voice flowed with emotion. “I’m sorry. I apologize. I let my mind wander a minute there. That’s easy to do when you’re thinking about a BikeHouse customized ride. I’m convinced they’re the most amazing custom bikes produced anywhere.” He paused to collect his thoughts, looking like he didn’t know where to start.

Ellen gazed around the room, seemingly fascinated by the attention Dave had instantly commanded. By pretending to drift, by acting as if he weren’t paying attention, he now had every person in the room staring intently.

She hadn’t been shy about voicing her support. She’d already told Dave that as far as she was concerned, he was nothing short of brilliant. Now, with simple, unadulterated drama, the crowd was eating out of his hand. Her smile said it all: give the man an academy award.

Dave continued, “I was thinking about motorcycles because of my jacket—and because of the amazing circumstance in landing this account. You see, I’ve been in search of something that I’ve lost—something that I’ve been missing for quite a while now. And the funny part is, I somehow got it into my head that I would find my answers here—with this account.”

Ellen may have been buying into the change of plan, but Brock wasn’t. One look at him said he understood that something was terribly wrong.

Dave continued, “I took a ride this past weekend with a friend of mine. I asked him about my search, and he told me that I’d been looking in the wrong places—that I had to look inside. I’ve been sitting here this morning pondering that, but with an inside so hollow and empty that it’s hard to say what I expect to find. And then Brock asked me if working on this account had been worth it. It’s a simple question, but I realized—and no offense to Mr. Safford—the answer is no. There’s something still missing, I’m not sure what, and that’s what has me a bit perplexed.”

His words dripped with despair. Safford cast a glance toward Ellen, who sat forward in her chair for the first time since Dave had stood. If calculated, the combined gross payroll of the assembled executives would be staggering. All now stared shell-shocked at the man in front of the room, the man in charge, the man wearing the black leather jacket.

Brock leaned forward, looking ready to lead Dave out of the room to have a quick talk. Instead, he took a breath and waited.

Dave glanced down at the floor and then again over the crowd. His odd monologue, his peculiar demeanor, was finally causing his boss to shift and fidget.

“The thing is, though—I can’t continue this way . . . without knowing . . . with nothing changing. I just can’t.”

Dave’s shoulders slumped, as if the weight of his words was becoming too much to carry.

“I had another good friend who I could tell all of my problems to, all of my concerns. And the thing is, she was always able to find me an answer.”

I’ve always wanted to grow a ponytail, buy a Harley, and ride across the country.

A Harley? Like a motorcycle? In your suit and tie?

No, of course not. I’d get a black leather jacket and I’d ride across the country, until—well, until I came to the Golden Gate Bridge, and not just to it, I’d ride across it.

Across the bridge?

Yep. It would be the Fourth of July. The sun would be shining; the sky would be bright and clear. A slight breeze would be blowing over the ocean and through my hair.

“Dave, are you okay?” Brock was standing now beside him. Ellen had jumped up as well.

Dave gazed at Brock and then out across the room before focusing on his jacket. Worry rolled across his lips. “What’s today?” he asked.

“What?” Brock replied.

“Is today the twenty-sixth?” Dave turned to the crowd as if asking a school class. The intern, a guy who had come to watch a master at work, spoke up first.

“It’s the twenty-sixth, Mr. Riley.”

“Twenty-sixth,” Dave repeated, doing the math in his head.

Brock touched his shoulder and pushed him toward his empty chair. “Dave, why don’t you take a seat and let me take over here?”

Dave’s tone shifted, quickened. “There’s still time. I can make it.”

“Still make what?” Ellen called out.

If Dave heard his boss’s question, he didn’t respond. Instead he turned to Shaun Safford. “I’m sorry, Mr. Safford. Brock will explain the study. I have to go.” With that, he sidestepped around Brock and bolted through the conference-room door.