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July 30, 2004
Marks - Chapter 13
By QBlog in
Marks is a novel that tells the story of a young married couple, two college roommates and a successful businessman whose lives ultimately intertwine as the result of a business opportunity — and a dream. Quixtar BLOG is publishing Marks as a serial, making a new installment available every Friday. All previous chapters are archived here on the blog so if you missed any just search for "Marks" and you should be caught up in no time.
Disclaimer: This book has not been through a final edit. There may be some misspelled words and grammatical errors. Please understand that as you read through the novel.
» Chapter 13
Sheik Chic frowned on the use of alcohol in any form by its independent retailers. Teri liked the occasional drink after a hard day at work, but Tom had insisted. Who knew when the upline would drop in for a surprise visit? The Remlies wouldn’t look completely committed to the plan if they fudged on that aspect.
Now Teri was grateful that there weren’t any beers in the refrigerator. That was one less thing she didn’t have to explain her avoidance of to her husband. Sometimes she thought he must surely be suspicious when she refused cold cuts — because of listeria — or anything with fish — because it turned her stomach — but he never mentioned a thing.
Tom was getting frustrated that she wouldn’t even try Sheik Chic’s new energy drink, PowerUp. PowerUp was supposed to be the hottest new product of the year. Stocked with vitamins, minerals and a double dose of caffeine, they wouldn’t be able to keep the cans in stock. Or so Cory Jackson promised on this week’s CD.
“Get just ten people who love this stuff and convince them to start their very own business,” Cory’s friendly voice had instructed. “If each of them finds ten more people and everyone in your downline buys only two cases per month, you’ll go UltraMega in a year. It’s as easy as that.”
“It tastes delicious,” Tom told her. He was balancing their checkbook at the kitchen table. She sat across from him, trying to keep her mind on the workbook assignment from the weekly wives’ meeting. “Just have a sip of mine.”
The can was tall and narrow, with an extra wide mouth. When he pushed it toward her, Teri could see the thick liquid splashing against the sides. A strong smell of artificial fruit flavoring assaulted her nose and she had to turn away quickly before she became sick.
“No thanks. I’ve heard that stuff’s potent. This late in the day, I’ll never get to sleep.”
Tom scrunched his face.
“Just a sip, Teri. How are you going to push this stuff at work if you don’t even know what it tastes like?”
In a way, Teri would have loved to rip the can out of Tom’s hand and drink every ounce that was left in one large swallow. The odor was foul, but Teri was so exhausted that she would be tempted to drink gasoline if it offered half the energy that PowerUp promised.
Growing a baby was very tiring. That wasn’t something Teri had counted on. She woke up tired after long, restless nights filled with crazy dreams. Every minute at work, she seemed to be in a haze. Her output was down, her mistake rate was up and she expected to be called into the supervisor’s office any day for a consultation.
By the time the endless workday was finally over, Teri struggled to keep her eyes open while she drove home. A meeting with a potential in another town was a treat because she could fit in a little nap in the passenger’s seat.
Her feet constantly hurt, her back ached and she felt like she was spending more time in the restroom than anywhere else.
Think of your husband as a hero, the workbook instructed. A cowboy in a white hat, severing the rope that has you tied to your job.
“How are things progressing in Nigeria,” she asked Tom, more to keep her mind off her aches and as an excuse to stop working through the patronizing workbook than out of any real curiosity.
Tom’s head bobbed up from the bank statement and his frown melted into an enthusiastic smile.
“Really taking off,” he said. “There’s this kid, Marco Brand, is going to be a real comer. I just know it. He’s got such enthusiasm about the business.”
“Marco Brand,” Teri murmured. “I haven’t seen any paperwork on him. Has he already registered?”
“Bill Lewis said to play it cool. Not to be too eager.” Tom looked uncomfortable.
“But you don’t agree?”
Tom shrugged and frowned. Teri could almost hear his thoughts. The upline was not to be questioned. They knew the system. They had succeeded. They only wanted the best for their recruited family.
“No,” Tom answered firmly. “Bill is right. We own a successful business. We can’t respond to every email the very second it comes in.”
“How long has it been since you heard from him?”
Tom shrugged again.
“I don’t know. About a week.”
Teri’s mouth fell open.
“A week? How long are you going to wait before getting him registered? What if he loses interest?”
Teri was furious. Their cut of Marco Brand’s registration fee, not to mention a percentage of whatever purchases he made while still heady from having his own business to buy from, would have been a godsend this week. Why was she dragging her tired, pregnant, self to work everyday if Tom wasn’t even going to bother following up with a potential.
One look at Tom’s stricken face and Teri’s anger subsided. He didn’t know she was pregnant, she reminded herself. He was doing the absolute best he could.
“He won’t lose interest, and if he does over the course of a week, he’s not the kind of person we want to recruit anyway.”
Tom didn’t sound convinced.
Teri studied husband carefully. His handsome face was troubled. He wanted to think he had handled the situation correctly, but he wasn’t sure. She noticed that his hair was a bit longer than he preferred and she wanted to reach out and tuck the ends behind his ears. Tom looked so vulnerable, like a little boy trying hard to be strong despite having his feelings shattered.
If the baby was a boy, he might have that expression too. Teri tried to picture Tom as a father – holding and caring for a tiny infant, tossing a ball to a toddler, walking hand-in-hand with a preschooler.
But she couldn’t.
“It will be fine,” Teri said suddenly. “If Bill says that’s the way to play it, then everything will work out just fine.”
She saw gratitude in Tom’s eyes. That look was worth anything.
Teri knew she couldn’t put off telling Tom about the baby forever, but the time never seemed right. Anyways, she reminded herself, she wanted to be certain first.
For several days, she found excuses not to schedule a doctor’s appointment. There was not telephone at her desk with which to make personal calls and if she used the one at the front of the room, her supervisor would surely frown severely and make little notes in his ever-present notebook. During breaks, she was too busy running to the bathroom or gobbling snacks to wait her turn at the payphone. At home, Tom was either right beside her or possibly coming through the door at any minute.
The morning she had to lie on the bed and pull her stomach in just to fasten the button at the top of her skirt, Teri knew she couldn’t put the task off any longer. She need to get the medical ball rolling, so she vowed to carve out some inch of privacy and call a doctor that day.
Four hours later during her lunchtime, she raced out of the office building, jumped into her car and drove to the gas station at the end of the road. She pulled up to the pay phone island across from the pumps. The directory was attached to a sheet of metal and tethered to the pole. Teri leaned on the hood of the car and flipped to the Physicians – OB/GYN listings.
She slowly turned page after page, looking at the columns of names and blocks of ads. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for; something close to home or to the office would be nice. Someone accepting new patients was ideal.
Her eyes fell on a small advertisement for a group practice – four gynecologists and three pediatricians. The name was familiar. She passed it everyday on the way to work.
Perfect.
Teri’s fingers trembled as she slid her quarter in the slot and dialed the number.
“Mothers and Infants Medical Care. This is Cheryl. How may I help you?”
“I would like to make an appointment. I’m pregnant.”
Saying the words filled Teri with joy, apprehension and a touch of fear. This is it, she thought. This was the first step toward motherhood.
“You’ll need a referral from your personal physician.”
Teri was unable to speak for a moment. The receptionist sounded too practical to have just heard about the miracle that was blooming inside her.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have a doctor.”
“We can’t set up a prenatal appointment until the pregnancy is confirmed.” The voice sounded annoyed, as if the world was filled with non-pregnant women determined to lie their way into an appointment at Mothers and Infants Medical Care.
“I took a home pregnancy test.”
“We require a blood test.”
“Well, where can I get that?” Teri asked.
“Through your personal physician.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
Teri flipped back through the phone book to the Physicians – Family Practice section. She dug into her purse for another quarter and dialed the very first listing.
“Allmore and Associates. This is Sarah. How may I help you?”
“I’d like to make an appointment please,” Teri answered. “I think I’m pregnant.”
“Are you a patient of Dr. Allmore, Dr. Skeves or Dr. Millar?”
Teri gulped.
“None of them, I’m looking for a doctor.”
“We’re not accepting new patients, have a nice day.”
Teri ran her finger down the listings until she found one that clearly stated “New Patients Welcome.”
“Bowes Family Practice. This is Sheila. How can I help you?”
Teri wondered if answering the phone was an integral part of the first examination in medical office personnel training. She pictured a classroom of receptionists, repeating ‘XYZ Medical Office. This is so-and-so. How can I help you?”
“Are you taking new patients?” Teri wanted to clarify that before continuing.
Sheila giggled.
“Yes we are. Can I schedule an appointment for you?”
“Yes,” Teri said with relief. “Yes, that would be wonderful. I would love for you to schedule an appointment.”
“Would you prefer to see Dr. Malla or Dr. Berkwitz?”
“It doesn’t matter. Whoever has the first opening.”
Teri heard the tapping of computer keys in the background.
“That would be Dr. Berkwitz. Two thirty tomorrow?”
“Excellent.” Teri was almost giddy with anticipation. She would have to take some more time off work, which would be a hassle this late, but by tomorrow afternoon she would know for certain. Tomorrow night she could tell Tom.
“Okay. Is this just a yearly checkup or do you have a problem to discuss?”
Teri felt herself blush. Although the only people nearby were too busy pumping gas and too far away to eavesdrop, she lowered her voice.
“I think I’m pregnant,” she said.
“Wonderful,” Sheila gushed. “I’m having my second one in three months. Babies are amazing. Congratulations.”
Teri choked up a little. If Tom showed half as much warmth and enthusiasm, she would be ecstatic.
“Thank you. Of course, it’s not definite yet.”
“No, but you’ll know soon. Alright, I just need a little information. What’s your name?”
“Teri Remly.”
“And your insurance company?”
“American Mutual.”
“Okay. Does your husband have any insurance?”
“No,” Teri answered. “He’s self-employed.”
Sheila made a little noise in her throat.
“I’m sorry. We don’t accept American Mutual anymore.”
Teri felt the world begin to twirl around her.
“We had a horrible time with them,” Sheila continued. She really did sound sorry. “They took forever to pay and their coverage plan kept changing.”
Teri gently returned the handset to its cradle and stared at the horizon for a long moment before climbing back into her car.
She was disappointed but oddly relieved. The convoluted requirements of modern medicine had bought her a few more days of secrecy.
Mr. Brand;
Thank you for your interest in Remly International. You might not be aware that Remly International, although owned and operated by Tom and Teri Remly, is an affiliate of Lewis Unlimited. As president of Lewis Unlimited, I am excited to hear about your interest in our company. Tom thinks you show the talent and desire that we’re looking for in our organization.
I don’t know if Tom has had a chance to explain this to you or not, but if you decide to start or merge your company with us then you have two choices. You can function as a “subaffiliate” under Tom or you can begin building your business as a Lewis Unlimited affiliate at the same level as Tom.
Personally, I would recommend dealing with Lewis Unlimited directly rather than with Remly International. If you choose that route, you will experience more autonomy and enjoy a larger profit.
I urge you to explore our innovative, multimedia website. Please use the password “dreams_come_true”. I am sure you will see that, as a larger and more established company, Lewis Unlimited can provide you with the support, resources and knowledge that our affiliates make lack.
Of course, the choice is yours. I look forward to hearing from you soon and promise you a swift reply. If you sign on as an affiliate, your success will be our highest priority and we will always have time to deal with your concerns.
As we like to say here at Lewis Unlimited, ‘the future, like your dream, is unlimited.’
Sincerely,
Bill Lewis
President, Lewis Unlimited.
Marco read the email three times. He had slipped into this internet café and logged on despite the hefty fees to see if there was any word from Tom Remly yet. Marco’s gambling debts were mounting and he was anxious to get his business started. He had managed to buy a few more days only by agreeing to outrageous interest rates, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep promising more money. Eventually the time would come when his debts would be collected, one way or the other.
He glanced at his watch. He had only paid for five minutes of internet access, so the session would log out before he could respond. Anyways, Marco needed to think about a few things.
He was eager to get started and was disappointed each time he managed to check his email but didn’t receive an answer from Remly. Bill Lewis promised a “swift reply,” which was what Marco needed if he wanted to keep all of his body parts intact and off the mantle of some higher up in the Nigerian mafia.
Still, he felt a connection to Remly. They had exchanged a lot of information while Marco was pretending to be Bala. Remly honestly seemed happy to work with him.
It was difficult to understand.
The computer screen flickered and a window popped up demanding the correct password.
Marco pushed away from the table and trudged out of the hot building onto the even hotter street.
For the first time since he was a toddler, Marco found himself wishing that his dad was around. Jonathon Brand hadn’t been much of a father, but he definitely knew about business. Marco would have liked to be able to ask his opinion on the situation and bat around some ideas.
They didn’t have that sort of relationship, though. If Marco called his father that moment, he was certain any attempt at conversation would degrade into a screaming match before the subject of business ever came up.
“If you can imagine it, you can make it happen,” Cory Jackson’s forceful voice instructed over a dramatic sweep of background music.
Teri reached over the handbrake and flipped the CD off, but the phrase resonated through her brain as she maneuvered the sleek black car through the heavy commuter traffic. Even this early in the morning, she was so tired that it was difficult to imagine anything. Every movement from the movement from buttering her morning toast to climbing under the covers at night was like pushing her body through gelatin. Teri had never experienced such exhaustion.
The fatigue was more than just physical. She couldn’t concentrate on the rows of numbers at work or the idle conversation at potential meetings. So much of her day seemed to pass right over her, leaving her smiling but totally unaware of what was just said. Sometimes Teri felt that she needed to devote all her energy to staying awake.
Not much was left to devote to imagination.
Still, she wondered if that little Jacksonism was true, and if it was, what she would like to make happen.
Her hand went automatically to her abdomen. She stroked the tiny bump and tried to imagine the baby growing inside. She tried to picture a healthy child, cradled in Tom’s arms. She made the image of her husband smile and beam with pride at the infant. She pictured he holding out one of his fingers to be wrapped in tiny pink ones. She thought about Tom lifting the baby to his face and breathing deeply of the warm smell of cleanliness and milk.
Teri mustered every ounce of concentration and held that vision in her mind. If Cory Jackson was right about that one thing, then she could make the scene reality. She could make Tom excited and supportive about the pregnancy.
She willed the fantasy to be true so strongly that Teri didn’t see the truck to her right that darted into the lane, nor did she notice that the van in front of her had slammed on his brakes to avoid a collision.
Everything happened so fast that the sound of metal crunching never had a chance to register with her. The first inkling Teri had that anything was wrong was when the airbag in the steering wheel deployed.
Then she felt the terrible pain in her shoulder.
And the stabbing in her knees.
And then she passed out.
Steven Murich had given up trying to convince his dad to buy a new delivery vehicle.
“The old girl’s still got plenty of life in her,” his father said as he polished an invisible smudge on the van’s bright white hood. In its twenty years of service for the family’s floral shop, the van had never missed a tune-up, oil change, tire rotation, or weekly scrubbing.
The logo on the side had gone through a couple of overhauls during those years and there had been more than a few rust spots in the body. The old man took care of them during his free time. He grinded away every speck of corrosion with the same thoroughness and care of a surgeon removing a malignant tumor, packed the whole with putty and sanded the surface until the patch was the slightest bit lower than the surrounding metal. He took hours daubing and rubbing the spot with white paint until neither his eyes nor his fingertips could sense that a repair had been made.
That van was the company’s best advertisement, he often told his kids. He wanted it to look sharp and professional.
The statement failed to impress his children, since the elder Mr. Murich cited many things as the company’s best advertisement: its reputation, the polite and cheerful employees, the well-groomed Murich children. When Michelle got her ears double-pierced, her father bemoaned the fact that she had single-handedly destroyed the flower shop’s best advertisement so often that she eventually let the holes grow up.
The kids, of course, rolled their eyes and made faces at each other behind their father’s back. All three of them worked at the florist’s in some capacity. Michelle, the youngest, worked the counter after school and on the weekends. Sela, the oldest, made arrangements in the morning after her kids went off the school.
Steven kept the books, made deliveries and did other work necessary to keep the company’s expenses low and the doors open.
It was not the life he had planned for himself.
He hadn’t spent four years earning a business degree and another year studying for his CPA exam to balance the checkbook at the family business. He had worked hard and played by all the rules so that he could have a well-paying, safe and respected job somewhere big. Somewhere he could wear a suit and talk about power lunches.
Somewhere like Burkelin Securities, where he had worked until six months ago.
Steven enjoyed his job at ‘BS’ – one of the more polite terms the company was called by its employees. He liked the casual friendships forged with the other accountants in the office, the bubbling, nearly flirtatious way the secretary greeted them all and the challenging work that dropped on his desk every morning. He was so happy to have gotten hired there right out of college. The situation was ideal – the right job in his hometown, close enough that he could help his father on the weekends and making enough that he could afford his own apartment and the independence that came with it.
But nothing ideal could last for long, Steven found out. He gripped the steering wheel and frowned at the traffic facing him on the other side of the intersection. After his father’s stroke, he had two choices: stay at Burkelin and let the little store that had kept him clothed and fed all his life close or come into the family business fulltime.
From the passenger’s seat, Steven’s cell phone chirped Beethoven’s Fifth.
“What’s up, Seel?” He answered. Sela was the only person who would call him at this time of day.
“Dad wanted to make sure you were on the way to the funeral home,” his sister said. “This might be news to you, but he promised to have the arrangements there first thing in the morning.”
“You don’t say,” Steven murmured. He had just left a twenty minute lecture on the importance of delivering the funeral wreaths and vases first.
“Tell him that our timeliness is our best advertisement!” Steven heard his father shout, probably from his easy chair in the corner of the back room. Although he was only seven when he came to America, Mr. Murich’s voice was still tinged with a German accent.
“Did you hear that?” Sela asked.
“Yeah. And here I was thinking it was our straight teeth.”
Sela giggled.
“He said he was on the way right now,” she yelled back to Mr. Murich.
“You’ve the patience of a saint, Seel.” Steven didn’t know how she could stand to be in the same tiny store with the old man all day long. As much as he complained about the aging van, Steven was grateful that it took him outside and gave him a bit of freedom during the work day.
“That’s me, Saint Sela – patron saint of geriatrics.”
“Vot?” Mr. Murich cried.
“Hey, swing by after you make the funeral home delivery. We have a birthday arrangement marked ‘urgent’.”
“Ja, ja,” Steven exaggerated his father’s pronunciations. “Birthday’s are our best advertisements.”
He clicked the phone off and tossed it back into the seat. His dad irritated the girls sometimes, but they never seemed as bothered by him as Steven was. Since joining the business fulltime, Steven was seldom anything but irked by his father – his accent, his insistence on keeping records on even the tiniest personal transactions, his attachment to the dumb van. Whenever Mr. Murich walked into the office, pulled down his personal ledger and logged in some record like ‘2:45 -- $0.50 for soda,’ Steven wanted to scream. He kept the professional books and he knew that business wasn’t booming, but money wasn’t that tight.
But he didn’t scream. He never lost his temper at the old man. He might mock him in front of Sela or draw caricatures of him to make Michelle laugh, but he tried to keep the exasperation hidden in front of his father. Even the little, private releases of steam he did allow himself made him feel guilty.
Perhaps he should blow up, Steven considered. Just once maybe he should tell his dad exactly what it was like to give up everything for a dream that wasn’t even his. He had sacrificed so much, he deserved to clear the air and let his father know that everything wasn’t simply wonderful. He was being the good son. He was doing his duty, but it was destroying everything Steven had wanted for himself.
The damage wasn’t only to his professional life. Since joining the flower shop, his personal life had practically disappeared. Most of his buddies were at Burkelin, and without the bonds forged beneath the hammers of demanding bosses and looming deadlines, he really didn’t have anything in common with them. As for more romantic relationships — at his most confident, Steven was still painfully shy around women and describing himself as a deliveryman sank his self-esteem and ease around the opposite sex even further. Not that he had any money to entertain if he did manage to find a girlfriend. His dad paid in room, board and a very small weekly allowance.
There had been a girl a few weeks ago. Steven knew her in passing from his days at BS. She worked in the advertising department. He recognized her the minute she walked into the tiny, immaculate shop, but he tried not to let on when he stepped to the counter to take her order.
He was certain she wouldn’t recognize him. He felt so different in his faded blue jeans and stained tee-shirt that he was positive he must also look different. If he had been walking down the street in his business suit or even the khakis and polo he wore on “casual Fridays”, he would have said hello and exchanged chit-chat about the office. As it was, though, he knew he wasn’t her equal.
She had surprised him, Steven remembered. Not only did she recognize him, she knew all about his situation.
It was a brave choice, she told him while she leaned forward and wore a very sympathetic expression. She respected that he put family ahead of himself.
Steven had stood a little taller. For the first time since leaving Burkelin, he felt proud of himself. He smiled at her across the counter. She stayed much longer than was needed to order a cookie-cutter arrangement for her mother.
She slipped out when Steven’s dad called him back. Mr. Murich spoke so loudly, she must have overheard his complaints that he ran a flower shop, not a singles’ club.
“Stop looking like a buck in rut,” he had yelled. “Our professionalism is our best advertisement!”
The arrangement was made and delivered. Steven prepared the invoice and she paid by mail but never stopped in again.
He should have let the old man have it, Steven reflected as the line of traffic lurched to a halt again. He should have just told him off right then.
Traffic lurched forward again. Steven gripped the steering wheel with both hands and let out a roar so loud that it startled him. He glanced around in embarrassment.
The driver in the next lane stared with his mouth open in shock. Steven threw him an apologetic smile and the driver fumbled for the button to roll up the passenger-side windows.
Steven caught a glance of himself in the rearview mirror and frowned. He looked so much like his father — same thick neck and heavy brow, same pale eyes and ruddy complexion. He wondered if he would be so crotchety when he was old.
He growled under his breath and tried to focus on the details of driving during rush hour. It was as ridiculous to replay the old man’s faults as it was to daydream about standing up to him.
Steven eased the van into a wide space and found a position toward the right. Traffic was still stop-and-go, but there weren’t as many aggressive drivers in the slow lane. He tapped his fingers with impatience — impatience at his slow progress through town, at his father for not letting him grow up and at himself for never putting himself first.
There was a sudden, fast break in traffic and Steven eased the accelerator down. The van was just approaching the speed limit when a beat up, primer-gray pickup truck darted too close in front of him. Cursing, Steven slammed down the brake pedal.
Almost instantaneously, there was a roar of crushing metal.
© Copyright 2003-04, Janet Marie Mills - (The Creative Commons Liscense on this site does not apply to this Copyrighted work which is published with the permission of the author)