The Wolves of Third Clan Read online

The Wolves of Third Clan

  By Matt Rogers

  Copyright 2013 Matt Rogers

  Chapter 1

  START FROM THE BEGINNING.

  The beginning?

  YES.

  Okay, I guess a good place to start is when Bob Simpson entered the lobby and said…

  “My God, it’s hot outside!”

  For some reason the man enjoyed stating the obvious.

  “Is everyone ready?” he said.

  Of course we were ready; we were standing in the lobby with briefcases in hand. Did he think suddenly we wouldn’t be ready? If confronted with a question we’d clam up and forget how to answer?

  “Johnny, you’ve got the acquisition estimates?” he asked.

  “Right here, boss” I said.

  “Steve, you got the contracts?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Steve was one of my co-workers. Relatively smart, a good dresser and hired to do the same job as me so, naturally, I abhorred the man.

  “Melissa, did you bring the brochures?”

  “Uh-huh, Mr. Simpson, they’re right here.”

  Melissa was a beauty with an hourglass figure and the IQ of lettuce. It didn’t slow down her occupational opportunities, though, because we were in Dallas…

  DALLAS, TEXAS?

  … yep, a city governed by men who came from businesses run by men which appreciated the qualities a runway model with limited grey matter could bring to the table; a great smell and the most gorgeous violet eyes you’ve ever seen.

  WHY DALLAS?

  It’s where the economics of the game dictated.

  “Okay, everyone, get your hands in here” Bob said.

  When did they start doing that?

  START DOING WHAT?

  When did managers or team leaders or whatever title they give themselves start performing the embarrassing act of imitating a pre-game pep rally? Whoever came up with the idea should be tar and feathered. Hey, was that ever really done?

  TAR AND FEATHERING?

  Yes, did we really tar and feather people in the old days?

  I’M NOT SURE.

  It seems like a strange form of punishment.

  “On three” Bob said.

  Now, it’d been on three for over three months so I was thinking of throwing a curveball; you know, saying “Three? Let’s do four” but I didn’t because, while I may be sarcastic, it’s the cowardly kind I employ.

  “One, two, three…”

  “… Team!”

  Yay.

  Elevators are weird.

  WEIRD?

  Yes, you push a button and wait. Someone else comes along and pushes the same lit button you previously pushed because, I guess, they thought you did it wrong. You then stand there in silence playing some mental guessing game as to which elevator will arrive first and when it does you get directly in front of the doors so when they open the people exiting will be met with your wall of humanity. They want to get out and you want to get in but we haven’t been trained for that kind of situation have we?

  NO?

  No, we’ve been trained to pass on the left or the right but there is no left or right, only a bunch of people standing between you and your elevator which was programmed with some sort of electronic-impatience device and outfitted with menacing automatic doors you need to take a leap of faith won’t crush your arm as you thrust it between them in order to stop the infernal machine from leaving you stranded and looking like a person who couldn’t push a button properly.

  “Is everyone ready?” he actually said again as we arrived at our floor.

  “Yes, Boss.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Yes, Mr. Simpson.”

  The elevator door opened and we were greeted with the view of another hallway devoid of anyone so we didn’t do the human-tango with other elevator commuters on exit. The entire floor belonged to the company we were calling on, Commercial Property Management Incorporated, a mega-landlord which did everything from hiring security to greasing the palms of local chiefs to stay in compliance with insanely out-of-date fire codes. The hallway was two-hundred feet long, painted light blue, and at the far end were two frosted-glass doors guarded by a man the size of a rhinoceros who asked us our names, checked his clipboard, and let us in. No one thought for a second of cracking a joke with the guy.

  The walls were adorned with paintings which cost more than my old car and the floor was covered in beige carpet so clean a maid must’ve vacuumed hourly. There were four blue sofas with glass coffee tables in front of each and at the far wall was a four-foot high reception desk with a gorgeous secretary welcoming us with a friendly smile and eager-to-please eyes.

  “Hello, can I help you?” she purred.

  “Yes, we’re from Industrial Products and we’re here to see Mr. North” Bob replied.

  AND YOU WERE…?

  Cleaning-supplies salespeople.

  “Let me see if he’s available. If you’ll have a seat I’m sure he’ll be right with you” she responded and lifted the telephone.

  We turned and made our way to the sofas on the right side of the room, Mr. Simpson and Melissa shared one, leaving me and Steve the other. While sitting I noticed we’d left our shoe imprints on the carpet indicating the maid must’ve literally been the last person to walk on the thing before us. If we were Hansel and Gretel we could’ve easily found our way out of the Witch’s Forrest.

  Okay, before I go any further I’m assuming you’re wondering why there were four of us schlepping our wares instead of the traditional lone salesman. It’s because the economy took a nose dive a few years back leaving a bunch of otherwise intelligent people at the mercy of anyone or anything who would put a couple of dollars in their bank account. In our case it was Industrial Products who decided to try a whole new approach with a show of force. You send one sales guy, they’ll send two. You want to raise them and send three?

  SOUNDS LIKE A GOOD IDEA.

  Fine, they’ll send four. It didn’t matter to them because they paid their people on commission. You don’t sell, they don’t pay. Uh-huh, the economy really gave us a nice wedgie there. You see, if there’s, say, forty people applying for one job then the employer’s got quite the upper hand in the bargaining department. Now, multiply forty by ten and you’re at the point where employers not only have the upper hand, they’ve got the rule book and begin rewriting it anyway they see fit. For salespeople it meant no base-salary plus commission; only commission. Sell and get a percentage of the cut; don’t sell and they’ll fill your shoes with one of the thousands of other schmo’s who were desperately hoping you’d fail so they could get a shot at some financial relief. Where was the government?

  ON VACATION?

  They were busy on their hands and knees praying you’d keep a job and pay your taxes so they could quit printing money to pay their own people. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not blaming companies or corporations for using the cards they were dealt, I probably would too, I’m only saying it’s not exactly ideal for employee morale.

  “Did you watch the game this weekend?” Steve asked me.

  “Yeah, what a disaster.”

  “We should fire the coach” he said.

  Now, it was quite ironic because it came from a man who until recently was out of work himself. Humans seem to be a species which does best at wishing the worst upon others. The coach he was talking about had a history of going to the playoffs three years in a row, bringing relief and distraction to the millions of fans whose only chance of playing was on a gaming video.

  “Yeah, what was with the time outs?” I said because I was one of those gamers.

  “Tell me about it” he replied.

  I was about to rev
eal what an intelligent coach would’ve done thus impressing him with my incredible sports knowledge when I was interrupted by the pretty secretary with the afore mentioned, come-hither eyes.

  “Mr. North will see you now.”

  Mr. North’s office was strangely on the south side of the corridor. If I bug you with my directional acumen, I’m sorry, but I was in Dallas and after driving their freeways I’ve found keeping track of oneself according to compass nomenclature is the only way to figure out where those confounding roadways are heading. A case in point; one time I found myself driving south on the North Tollway merging onto Interstate 35 East, still going south mind you, which I stayed on until I saw a sign indicating Interstate 35 West heading north. What if I were a tourist from Canada?

  HUH?

  Do you think I might come away with the impression Texans don’t use compass headings for navigation? Oh, and check this out. They also give one freeway two separate names. The previously mentioned Interstate 35 East is also called the Stemmons Freeway.

  WHY?

  How should I know? Maybe the Stemmons person invented something good but that’s not the point.

  WHAT IS THE POINT?

  It’s confusing. Who names those dysfunctional freeways, some descendant from the Donner Party?

  WHO WERE THE DONNER