Mind Switch (2 page)

The four of them had been friends since high school; more than a decade had passed since they had attended their last algebra class together and celebrated their joyous release to freedom. Since then, weekly poker games kept their competitive spirits refreshed and their friendship reinforced.

Tonight was Fred’s turn to host the group’s last game of the season. The thud of the slamming front door momentarily broke his concentration. His wife of three delightful years walked briskly into the room, having just returned from her weekly bridge game with the wives of the husbands seated. Maureen peered over Fred’s head, squeezing his shoulders affectionately while observing the gradual unfolding of the final game of the night. Her brilliant red hair draped over his chest, her soft breasts pressed suggestively against his upper back. For a second time he momentarily lost concentration. Exercising pure will power, he shifted his attention back to the upturned cards in the center of the table—a king, a queen and a deuce, all in different suits.

Fred had been the first to start the betting; he continued to increase his bet each subsequent round while closely observing the reactions of his opponents. His friends checked on each turn. To Fred this was good news; it meant that none of them had matched the visible cards, thus making a pair or higher. Knowing their tendencies, he didn’t believe for a moment that they were constraining their bets in an attempt to lure him into an unwise raise.

He glanced around the table, scanning his competitors for subtle yet telltale signs. Ernest James, an amiable rotund man, consistently stroked his left eyebrow when he had a good hand. John Stevens, tall and lanky and a mathematical genius, traditionally rubbed his nose when he was satisfied with the card that he had drawn. Bill Cole characteristically displayed an artificial smirk whenever he bluffed. Unlike the famous cartoon displaying dogs playing poker and exposing their good hands through wagging tails, Fred remained totally stoical while holding the best or worst of cards.
 

Across the table, Ernest’s hands were nowhere near his eyebrows; John’s nose was undisturbed, while Bill displayed a half-grin. Fred held a ten and a three, not even a lousy pair. But based on what I observe around me, he thought, my odds are good, in fact, very good.
 

Then Fred experienced a deep chill permeating each segment of his body. He looked down; his hands were shaking violently. Somehow he felt he knew with absolute conviction the cards held in his opponent’s hands and it wasn’t based on his refined ability to read their subliminal signals. Fred mentally discarded his new and strange feelings immediately.
 

At the end of the final bet, all the players showed their hole cards. Fred won with his single ten high. Fred was doubly blessed—he had also earned the privilege of being the high winner for the calendar year. Maureen kissed him on the back of his head as he pulled in his winnings, softly murmuring in his ear, “My goodness, this seems to be your lucky night, sweetie,” she purred, suggestively. Fred knew it was time for the party to break up.

“What are you going to do, psychoanalyze me again?” Fred asked, referring to her strong psychological background. Maureen just smiled, but she had issued a clear signal that it was time for the guests to leave.
 

Bill, no longer smiling, mechanically shook Fred’s hand as he exited into the humid Florida night. The rest mumbled as they left, none of them close to understanding how Fred could win so much and so often.
 

After they were gone Fred turned to his wife and said, “Maureen, I predict a great end to what has already been a very good year for us. And by the way, weren’t you suggesting a second treat for me this evening?”

Maureen smiled seductively, as she started up the stairs. “I guess it’s time for your psychoanalysis, honey.” In less than a moment Fred was trailing her.

Chapter 3

George Schultz basked in the brilliant glow of financial success. In an indecently short time he had amassed a small fortune; in fact, he thought, I have a shit load of money and that doesn’t even begin to describe its full breadth. Most of Schultz’s money was diversified in over a hundred stocks that he had personally explored and selected. His choices were heavily concentrated in the small capitalization segment of the market, creating an extremely high risk in the event of a severe market downturn in that sector. However, Schultz certainly didn’t trust stock brokers to make informed decisions for him; in fact, he didn’t trust anybody for anything. As far as he was concerned, delegation was for cowards, the faint of heart and for those with insufficient brain power. If he made a mistake in life, at least it would be his mistake entirely, not that he often made errors. At any rate, his significant company earnings would easily subsidize any losses he might encounter in the market.
 

He knew more than any of his subordinates about his company’s diverse operations, although he reluctantly conceded that they did have complex innate talents that he did not share. That, he rationalized, was simply the luck of a quirk of nature. His talents were earned by hard work, creativity and a never ending life long discipline. Few in this world have those composite talents, he mused, at least not to the degree that I have perfected, molded and modulated them; I fully deserve everything I get.
 

He turned around his name plate so that he could clearly see the message that he wanted anyone entering his office to appreciate. That simple process always gave him an unequaled rush. The plate rested on the corner of his eight foot, highly lacquered and polished rosewood executive desk. It said PRESIDENT. No name—just the word president in bold, real gold letters embossed over a highly polished rosewood background containing the same exotic wood grain as that embodied in his desk.
 

When he first told his new receptionist, Donna Lang, five years ago, that he desired an appropriate name plate when he moved into his new office, she had unprofessionally ordered one less than one half the dimensions of that which currently graced his desk. Worse yet, it said, GEORGE SCHULTZ. In no uncertain terms he told her that he didn’t want to be called George, or even Mr. Schultz; he wanted to be called president because that was what he was—the president of Analysis Unlimited, or as he preferred to call it, AU. It was a title he had rightfully earned through hard and creative work and he wanted it to be recognized by all those that entered his office. He added dismissively, after only her second day on the job, if she didn’t understand his requirements to the letter, she could find another job and she could find it now! Schultz did not suffer fools easily. She humbly said, “Yes, sir.” Betraying not an ounce of emotion, she walked briskly out of his office. Within 24 hours he had exactly the plate that he wanted.

Lately he hadn’t been feeling quite right physically. Sleep was becoming hard to come by; recently he had been late for work. He was just too tired to make it to the office without trying to tease out another hour’s sleep. He hated this tired state. First, because it revealed a mortal weakness in him which he certainly did not want anyone else recognizing; second, some of his subordinates in his absence might attempt to make executive commitments that were his prerogative alone. Fortunately, he had recently come up with what he hoped would be a solution.

Shifting mental gears, he opened his desk drawer and pulling out his most recent contract, he turned to the first page summary detailing the conditions of the agreement as well as the total dollar amount to be awarded to his firm. He had no substantive competition for the unique work his organization performed; better yet, his customer base permitted him a great deal of leeway in the latitude of what he could charge. The opportunistic environment of the war against terrorism had permitted him a great deal of contractual freedom. Satisfied, he put the contract back in the drawer and placed his feet on his desk. In his mind’s eye he started imagining more and more money rolling in and thought, damn I’m good, I am really good!

Chapter 4
 

“Damn, Shit, Damn!” Harry Ford was aggravated; today’s frustration capped the culmination of a solid year of pandering to ignorant customers that he didn’t care a shit about. He was weary of the forced false smile, the artificial optimism and the pleasantries that he was required to project each and every day. He slammed his fist down hard and repeatedly on the well worn red and white Formica kitchen table that he had recently purchased for eleven dollars at the local Goodwill store. As he pounded, his anger magnified. In his mind it was no longer a table before him but it had become the lifeless, flattened, and broken face of his last customer.

He had just returned to his aging trailer at Jed’s RV Luxury Resort just off Fruitville Road. It was almost 5:30 p.m., the sun was starting to settle over the Gulf of Mexico, and he had just a few minutes ago, finished with the last of his pain-in-the-ass customers. She was a totally stressed out, highly demanding middle-aged bitch who had proven to be his most perplexing client of the entire year. After expending over a useless hour with her, he determined that any additional consumption of his precious time was just not worth it. In his frustration he virtually threw her out of the office, but only after he had collected his full fee. Unfortunately, his advertisement read, “Your money fully refunded if you are not satisfied.” Try and get it, he thought. Ethics was the last thing in the world that Ford worried or even thought about.
 

Ford took a cold dark German beer out of the refrigerator. Ford liked his beer dark and cold, real cold. He had set the temperature of the refrigerator almost down to the level of the freezer compartment. As he pulled off the cap, bubbly foam poured out, rapidly sliding down the slick bottle, finding its final destination on his new blue striped shirt. That made him even madder; he struck the table one more time. “Damn bitch!” he cried out, assigning the full responsibility for the overflowing beer directly to her.

He never drank at work; his self imposed daily allotment of eight beers didn’t start until the evening. Some uninformed people, he reflected, might classify him as an alcoholic but he knew better. As far as he was concerned, if you can hold your beer you are no drunk—not in anybody’s classification. At any rate, once he consumed the eighth beer, that was it—no more for that day. He had his values, sparse as they might be, but he was rigid about that one. Of course, when the weekend came, he generously increased his daily allotment, often losing track of the tally, but, hell, that was his reward for what he had to put up with all week long. Predictably he would often fall asleep in front of his twelve inch TV, and not wake up until morning. But he was always cold sober when he woke up.
 

In his business he could only string people along so long. He was actually quite good at his trade; but some people, steeped in personality defenses and psychologically constrained by a rabid fear of losing control, could not fully open up to him. For these people, he ended his counsel after one visit while charging as much as he could pluck out of them. If he anticipated future success after his first meeting with the client, he was often able to add on several additional sessions and the greenbacks would start to flow in. He advertised via one source—the yellow pages. He secured a half page ad under “Hypnotism” and a second smaller ad in another part of the directory.

Ford had been living in the park for the past five years, and he felt totally at home in his six-hundred square foot containment. The park offered only two models, one with a single bath and bedroom, and the other with an additional half bath. The square footage was the same for both; the additional bedroom space was chiseled out of the limited living room area. Ford was a bachelor and resigned to stay that way for the balance of his life; so the single bedroom and bath met his needs perfectly, now and forever.
 

Another prime advantage to his living in the park was that it was generally populated by transients. He didn’t want any nosey neighbor closely observing his movements over an extended time; his contact with other park guests was purposely kept to a minimum. He boldly placed bright red “no trespassing” signs on each side of his trailer. In order to keep his low profile, he never participated in the free morning coffee, the social hour, or any of the numerous weekly volleyball and tennis matches that the park offered free of charge. He regretted the lack of physical competition, since despite his alcoholic indulgence, he had religiously kept in superb shape since his graduation from high school fifteen years ago. Harry knew without a doubt that he still could take on all competitors in any of the sports that he had participated in during his high school years and still be victorious, even though he had to admit to himself that he was starting to get somewhat long in the tooth.
 

Unfortunately, he could not risk exposure in any form for fear that he would become too well known. In his private life he wanted to remain alone, and he had taken elaborate steps to make sure he was. In fact, he avoided the park offices, even sending in his monthly rental payments by mail. As a result, most of the park management had no idea what he looked like. He even used a different name from the one he used in his business, reducing the possibility of anyone tracing him to his home.
 

Ford rented an office space about three miles from his home. It was there that he conducted all of his business. All of his mail was delivered to his office address under his correct name. Since the resort owned the land in which his trailer was parked, he never had to worry about the county linking him to a property tax; and fortunately his home state of Florida had no state income tax. He provided the IRS bastards with his business address as his home address; and they didn’t give a shit as long as they promptly obtained his yearly donation to the freeloading bureaucrats of America.