He typically carried with him a briefcase of finest leather, his initials in faux gold-plated potmetal hinting at his relevance and good taste. He had a prominent gold tooth, and known ties to local organized crime. He dabbled in real-estate for fun and financial gain, but was known primarily as owner and operator of high-end restaurants, the flagship being a supper club known for steaks, cocktails, and women in service to businessmen and politicians in unhappy marriages.
As is typically the case with men of his station, he was always on the lookout for workers to help him implement his visions and dreams. I was a carpenter referred to him by word of mouth and reputation, and had quickly found a place in his operation as an intelligent, highly skilled craftsman, who was known for a sharp tongue, speaking his mind, and not allowing himself to be trapped or cornered in business dealings. Free-agent all the way, and would remain so. The satisfaction of having diverse business associates outweighed any thoughts or illusions of an employer’s loyalty or true friendship.
The long and short of it was that I was engaged in a careful tightrope walk when it came to pleasing and keeping my employers happy. The dynamic between employers and the employed traditionally mimics that of master and slave. Rarely have powerful people recognized the base humanity in their underlings. To add spice to these work relationships, three of my main customers, including Briefcase man, suffered bruised egos in business dealings with each other in the past, and harboured animosity and spite. Of course I heard salacious mutterings as to the nature of their business dealings with each other over the years. For me, with my boundless curiosity regarding these men and their mysterious psychologies, much of my time whilst performing tasks on their behalf was spent analyzing and drawing inferences as to the nature of their madness.
Early one morning I joined him for coffee at one of his restaurants. At the time I was working for him renovating a commercial space in the same building where we sipped coffee and bantered. I believed there was a high likelihood that the jobsite was toxic and dangerous due to the presence of asbestos laden vermiculite. I wasn’t certain of it, but did have concerns I felt we needed to discuss. Commenting to him my concerns he dismissed the idea as absurd and not worthy of discussing. I was angered immediately by his attitude.
“My concerns are valid!” I said to him. He responded, “It’s not something to concern ourselves with. Just do the job I hired you for.”
“Perhaps I’ll give OSHA a call and invite them to visit to assess the situation,” I countered, quickly drawing the talons I’d been honing for just this moment. His eyes bulged, as psychopaths and the like typically exhibit when aroused and feeling threatened.
“Think I’ll also raise my rates to help assuage my comfort level.” I said, our eyes already locked and ready for combat, two cats ready to tangle and debate dominance and territorial rights.
“This conversation is over,” he snorted as he stood, gathered his briefcase, and walked swiftly from the table and the dispute. I stood and followed him as he stalked off, the workers behind the counter staring at us as we passed them, conspiratorial and knowing grins evident on their faces.
On a side note, I had attended Christmas dinner with him and his family a couple of years previously, and he had given me an old shotgun as a housewarming gift, as I had just recently purchased a house. One day I visited a gun shop and solicited information regarding the weapon. The gunsmith assessed the shotgun, looked at me with concern, and told me that I should never fire the weapon, as it was unsafe and would explode into shrapnel if fired. He advised me to be suspicious of the person who had gifted me the weapon.
Briefcase man walked quickly toward the building exit, flung the door open, and moved with a demonic gait toward his shiny black Mercedes sedan parked just a few steps away. I followed closely, grinning and imploring him to stop and hear me out. He spun about and faced me suddenly, his eyes portals to an elemental darkness within him, and shouted, “You cocksucker, you smile too much!” In the same breath he swung his briefcase at me, causing me to jump back as if I’d stepped too near an Asp in the desert.
“That’s no way to do business,” I yelled at him, still smiling. “Nobody swings a briefcase at me!” His black Mercedes sedan burned rubber as he tore out of the parking lot. We never saw each other again.
CP Butchvarov
2023
Copyright © 2023 by CP Butchvarov