AT 29 (4 page)

“I didn't notice?”

“You were drunk as usual.”

“What happened next?”

“Restless, rowdy, you name it. You picked away at the next song, moving between the microphone and the other guys. When you stepped back to strum a riff you lost your balance. Those upfront began to realize you were wasted.”

“Great,” he moaned.

Cindy kept on. “Those in the back surged toward the pit. I guess they all wanted to see the drunken fool they paid good money to hear. Sonny steadied you. You tried to play again, but the booing was so loud that it drowned you out.”

“I didn't realize what was happening?”

“It didn't matter. Things started flying; programs, shoes. A couple of guys took a running leap onto the stage. You seemed to wake up then, maybe because you were frightened. Benson might hate you, but he loves a fight. He came flying over the drums, knocking the cymbals over to get at the troublemakers. He pushed you to the side and slammed the first guy in the chest with his shoulder, knocking him back into the pit. The other one jumped down when he saw the look on Benson's face. Others weren't so shy. A few more worked their way up front, yelling as they tried to climb up. Benson kicked at them and stepped on their hands.”

“It sounds like the concert was over.”

“Ellis called security while Sonny hustled Benson offstage. Mitch and Ralphie slipped behind the curtain, leaving you alone up there with the meatheads. The smarter people in the crowd jammed the exits. I yelled at you to get off the stage, but you just stood there looking stupid. The once and promising Jimmy Button who can't put the bottle down and act like a professional.” She made no attempt to mask her disgust. This wasn't the girl he knew.

“I'm sorry.”

“Everyone is sorry.”

“How did I get out of there?”

“It took four security guards, some pepper spray and a lot of threats over the loudspeakers. They hauled two of the troublemakers away in cuffs. You were hustled backstage to the changing room where we were locked away until order was restored.”

“What about Benson?

“That came later. You said you wanted the details.”

“There's more?”

“Sure, we didn't just change and go home. A full-scale brawl had just erupted. We're in the Atlantic City Convention Center, not exactly the Elks Club, and you were supposed to be opening for the hottest group in the country.”

Jimmy turned away. Maybe he couldn't remember, but he could visualize. Cindy wasn't telling the sad tale with any of her typical poise. Not that he expected her to sugarcoat the facts, but she was always encouraging. Not this time.

“They kept us locked in the changing room for an hour. Then the police arrived to ask questions. You were slumped in the corner. Ellis told them you were sick. The rest of us gave our stories. Benson raised his voice a few times and pointed at you.”

“I didn't say anything?”

“No, not then, but a little later. After the police left we gathered our things, assuming we should get out of there, but one of VooDoo9's people met us at the door. He demanded a powwow to sort out some details.”

“What details?”

“Use your brain. There's money involved. The promoter said the gate was in the range of $100K, damages around $50K and he estimated legal actions that could up the ante even more. He wanted to know who was going to pay.”

“I forgot about that.”

“Ellis had your back when everyone else would have thrown you to the wolves.”

“You included?”

Cindy focused cold eyes on him. “Yes.”

“When did the trouble start with Benson?”

“After the VooDoo9 rep left Benson lost his cool. He came across the room and hit you with both fists.” Jimmy lifted his hands and ran his fingers over each cheekbone. Cindy followed his hands with her eyes. “The house doctor said you had a mild concussion.”

“How did we get back to New York?”

“The others went their own way. I drove us back.”

“Ellis said I collapsed.”

“I'm getting to that. When we arrived at the apartment, I went into the bedroom and closed the door. You must have started drinking again. Around five a.m. I heard a noise. I came out and found you on the floor shaking uncontrollably in a pool of vomit. That's when I called 911.”

“You probably saved my life.”

Cindy ignored the tribute. “I think with everything that happened and a concussion, your body couldn't take anymore.” She paced slowly to the foot of the bed and turned to look at him with sad eyes. The length of the bed marked a barrier that was not lost on Jimmy. “After the ambulance took you away I packed everything I owned and left.”

She fell silent. Jimmy had plenty of questions, but her manner told him to keep them to himself. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever known, slender, medium height, blond, blue eyed, ever smiling, until now, and always positive. Cindy Crane was a diplomatic beauty who smoothed every tense moment. Jimmy knew she had committed to him and he, in spite of his uncertainty about love, had never strayed from her. He studied her face for a clue, but he knew their relationship was over.

“Cindy…”

“I drove to my sister's house in Connecticut.”

“Temporary or permanent?”

“I can't think straight about anything.”

“I'll change.”

“I hope so.”

“Leaving isn't the answer.”

“Oh? Now you're giving advice? What do you know about anything? Lying here in a hospital, beaten up, recovering from your latest effort to kill yourself. Unsuccessful, of course, thanks to the last few friends you have, but certainly accomplished at bringing down all that you have achieved in your music.” Her voice was intense, but not loud. He averted his eyes. The right thing to do was to apologize and give her the moment to slip away, but in his weakened state courage and honor gave way to selfish fear.

“I'll straighten out.”

She took a step, tears streaming down her cheeks, which were bright red, adding to her beauty. She looked at the door. It was a longing look to get away. Then she turned back, raising her hands to wipe away the tears and compose herself.

“You had talent. I was sure you could make it to the top. I wanted to help. I thought I could smooth the edges so you wouldn't have to deal with the consequences of your bad habits. I wanted to make it possible for you to be special.”

“We can still make it,” he whispered.

“You don't love me.” She walked to the door, stopped at the threshold, and turned to face him. “I've waited for you to say it, but you won't lie. I respect you for that. You may have lost control of your life, but you've always been honest with me, even if you've never been honest with yourself. I hope the Jimmy Button I know and love will find his way back. I'm in your corner and always will be. I just can't stand by and watch you kill yourself anymore.”

She left, wiping her eyes and without looking back. For a long while he stared, his broken body and spirit joined by his heart.

Miles Michael McCabe was a businessman, the only role he'd ever known. After thirty-two years bouncing from job to job inside one of America's foremost Fortune 500 corporations, he found himself free, at last, to do something outside in a smaller world. It's not that he had sought release from that corporate life. It dumped him, unceremoniously, as it turned out, and he nurtured a bitter remembrance of the way he was treated.

He started his business life in sales like so many others. Through smarts and diligence, combined with an extraordinary capacity to produce, he earned top achievements as the steward of his own territory and, with those honors came a promotion. Managing others was not his strength, however. He was blunt, harsh and occasionally, too honest. Despite his successes, he alienated enough subordinates to compel his boss to demote him back to straight selling. The secret goal was to put him out the door. So he found the toughest territory with the most tight-fisted customers, and installed him there. A win for him because if Miles failed, the ulterior motive was met. If not, his boss reaped reward from a barren territory made productive. Back in charge of only himself, Miles Michael McCabe excelled once again.

By his eighteenth year he'd had enough of selling and yearned for something new. This entailed another skill at which he was woefully inept, corporate politics. Again, luck intervened via a faltering multi-million dollar project that threatened to bring several executives down. He lobbied for the job, knowing no one else would touch it. He was sure that if he could get the project back on track, it would be his stepping-stone to a better opportunity. Three years later, project completed on time, contract paid in full, and a series of higher-ups looking like stars, he received his coveted promotion to headquarters.

Suddenly among polished suits, his accustomed behavior required adjustment, Miles' third flaw. Sitting in an ornate office, he found himself once again managing people. Apart from the fact that, he, a ‘C' student from a mediocre college, was now in charge of a group of Ivy Leaguers, he was also responsible for a lucrative product line that delivered more than $600M in annual revenues. He spent the first year jumpy and isolated with an abiding fear that he could neither lead the people nor grow the revenues for which he was responsible. After a while this, too, passed. He had learned from his prior failures and toned down his harsh criticisms. Regardless of a few miscues and outright gaffs, he found a way.

The job entailed international travel, which opened vistas and captured his imagination. He loved the occasional business trips that took him to Europe and Asia. In time, he developed a reputation as an excellent speaker. All those years in sales had taught him how to make complicated technologies easy for others to understand. Speaking and writing along with an intuitive ability to make strategic business decisions, became his fortes as well as his favorite professional interests.

As the years at headquarters passed he drifted from position to position always lateral, never a promotion because his occasional outspokenness kept him at bay. He disdained corporate politics, neglecting to hide his contempt for those who practiced it, which was everybody else. His superiors feared his ill-timed candor that sometimes cast their organizations in a bad light. Only his ability to bring in the numbers saved him.

By the time Miles reached his twenty-eighth anniversary, super hot competition began to cripple profits. By then he'd moved into corporate strategy. A new chairman, brought in to right the ship, started his so-called ‘fix' by sponsoring secret merger talks with a competitor. Miles was tapped to join the small negotiating team.

From the start the talks were fraught with subterfuge. With an eye for detail, Miles immediately discerned that the other side was less than truthful about its revenues and everything else. In short order, he irritated the other side with sharp questions that belied their assertions. His Achilles Heel was not recognizing that the deal would go through regardless, because the new CEO had staked his reputation on it. That he was kept on the team is a testament to the good judgment of his one ally, his boss, Myra. She knew Miles was right.

When the deal was done, however, not even Myra could garner him the role he truly deserved in the newly merged empire. Those whose deceit he had exposed, the same ones who would now be running it, despised him. Even others who secretly respected him for his forthright defense of corporate integrity, kept it to themselves lest they, too, see their careers derailed.

The merger made orphans of several prior corporate initiatives. One was an international joint venture that had been nurtured for a decade with no success. Its president, a consummate opportunist with many allies at headquarters, saw the writing on the wall, resigned from the venture and, with a few pulled strings, took an executive position in the new empire. Miles, with no other opportunities, was installed in his place, banished. The new job was simple, close the venture down, get rid of the people, save as much money as possible and make no waves. He was given thirty months to get it done.

Put on the shelf, Miles applied himself to the task at hand. Within three weeks he'd read every customer contract, analyzed the business plan, interviewed all of the venture's employees, and determined that there was money to be made. His predecessor, the political operative who had never turned a profit in the ten years he'd run the venture, was a lavish spender. Miles discovered plenty of fat. He wrote a new business plan that would make money and, hopefully, rehabilitate his career.

He quickly cut expenses to the bone. Then he personally met with the venture's biggest customers and, using his sales skills, sold them more products, always careful to keep the contract term within the thirty-month shut down window. By his third month on the job, the venture turned its first ever profit.

His heart had also changed. Corporate cared little for his employees. He knew his superiors expected him to let them go and that he was merely their tool to do the dirty work for them. Miles might have been cold in his early years, but not now. He could not bring himself to simply dismiss his workers, one by one, as the business wound down, not good for his soul. So, he wrote another plan that called for a complete assessment of each employee's skills. Then he listed all the managers he knew at corporate and had his executive assistant give him a weekly report on the performance of their units. Armed with the data he needed on his own people, and familiar with the needs of these other units, he lobbied furiously on behalf of each one of his employees. Smoothly and efficiently Miles Michael McCabe found a job for every one. His soul was satisfied.

At the end of the thirty months Miles had rung-up $50M in profits. He tried valiantly to convince corporate that the venture had legs, that he could build it into a lucrative enterprise. No one listened. His old boss, Myra, remained his ally throughout,
but she confided to him that things at corporate were dire. No one had time to look at his proposals. They were all afraid for their jobs, scrambling to keep the venerable giant afloat after the colossal multi-billion dollar failure of the merger Miles had warned against. He remained alone as the final employee who turned off the lights and locked the doors. His assignment completed, he returned to an obscure middle management position that corporate created for him. The unstated message was clear. With no meaningful responsibilities, his life-long employer wanted him to go away. His career was over.