Spinning

Table of Contents

 

 

 

When You Went Away
Crossing the Bridge
The Journey Home

For T.
You’re way more fun than Spring.

Very special thanks to Terry Banker for his creative help and wise counsel. This novel never would have happened without him.

Thanks as always to Barbara Aronica Buck for the beautiful cover.

Thanks to Steven Manchester for his help with the copyediting. It’s always great for a writer to know that someone has your back.

Thanks to Danny Baror for the constant stream of great work on my behalf and to Heather Baror-Shapiro for keeping it going.

And, of course, thanks to my wife and children for their endless support.

I never claimed to have it all figured out. Boasts of that kind of clarity are best left to mystics, religious leaders, or Presidential candidates. For the most part, though, I thought I had figured out most of what I
needed
to figure out. At 29, I was living in a great apartment in Manhattan, hanging out in the City’s hottest places, and putting my MBA to excellent use as one of the youngest executive directors the public relations firm of Mason, Brand and Partners had ever employed. I was convinced that by the time I retired at the age of 40, the universe would remember me, Dylan Hunter, as a world-beater.

I certainly never once imagined myself to be like the man at the circus who ran around spinning plates, eventually sacrificing one to prevent another from falling. World-beaters don’t sacrifice anything. And as I settled onto my stool at the Magenta Martini that night, I had no
idea that, in a matter of hours, beating the world would begin to seem a lot less important to me.

I ordered two beers, while my best friend Jim pulled a stool up to the table. “It’s a good crowd,” I said, perusing the dance floor. “Thank goodness the embargo on long skirts is still in effect. Think you can talk to the mayor about making it a city law?”

“Yeah, I’ll put it at the top of my agenda for the next time I have his ear.”

The driving rhythm of classic Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble was blaring through the speakers. It wouldn’t be long before they switched to the hotter house rhythms of post-happy hour. The Martini was our favorite hangout and the current flavor of the month in Lower Manhattan. In another hour, it would be nearly impossible to see the dance floor let alone dance on it.

“Hey, let’s get some cigars,” Jim said, as he grabbed his beer from the waitress.

“Not yet. We’re waiting for Hank.”

“Hope we’re not waiting long. My ex is dropping the boys off at 10:00. I love the long weekends with them, but it definitely cuts into my party time.”

“So, you’ll be doing stuff like watching Winnie the Pooh and going to playgrounds for the next couple of days?”

“Two of them are teenagers, D-Man. I’ll be doing things like guarding the beer and moving my
Playboys
to a higher shelf for the next couple of days.”

“Better you than me, Jimbo.”

“Ah, it’s not so bad. They still want to do things like play catch and watch Road Runner, so we have a pretty good time. And soon enough, they’ll be able to give me advice on my love life.”

While Jim talked about his kids, I noticed a little glint in his eye. For just a second, I thought about what it might be like to play catch with one of my own. Then a woman wearing a red mini passed our table and my priorities snapped back into focus.

“Dylan, do you mind? I hate these things.” Jim said, pointing to the light hanging over our table.

“It’s hot,” I warned.

“Hey, I’m a professional.” Jim used to be a firefighter, which meant that he thought he was qualified to reach for the hanging xenon mini spot that dangled a precarious magenta beam onto our table.

“At least you’re consistent. If a food pellet shot out of the ceiling every time you unscrewed a light bulb, you’d be overweight and smell like burnt chicken.”

Jim’s hand recoiled as he singed himself.

I chuckled at his goofiness. “Careful, you might need those fingers.”

“Ah, what’s the point,” Jim said, trying not to show that he was in pain. “My ex will just cut ‘em off and throw ‘em in the box with my silver dollar collection and my grandfather’s watch anyway.”

“Don’t you mean your
cojones
? Hank said, pulling up a barstool. He patted Jim on the back and flagged our waitress. “You’re unscrewing the light bulbs again? You gotta try something new once in a while.” He looked over at me. “Hey, D-Man, congratulations on the Crystal Creek bottled water deal.”

“Thanks.”

“Mr. Mason’s gotta be loving this. I hear that he and Waverly go way back.”

Jim dipped his fingers in his beer, obviously thinking that no one was looking. “Who’s Waverly?”

“Our arch nemesis and chief rival,” I said. “He usually kicks our ass, but not this time.”

Hank and I had worked together since I started at Mason Brand, and he had been there for ten years before that. We’d partnered on a number of projects, though none of them on the scale of Crystal Creek. Hank hadn’t been involved in this pitch. Mason Brand preferred building its business around the little guy. We didn’t turn down the big guys; we just didn’t go after them. When we did go after them, though, Mason brought in the first team. And as much as I loved Hank, from the day I met him, I knew that he was a second-stringer.

Jim took a sip of his beer, which I assume tasted better with the essence of crisp flesh. “What’s Crystal Creek’s deal?”

Hank and I looked at each other. I laughed. “We shouldn’t say anything.”

Hank held a hand an inch from his face. “And this is considered privileged information, but….”

I leaned toward Jim. “It’s supposed to be
crystal clear
water, right? Well a disgruntled employee got drunk on the job and relieved himself in one of the storage tanks. After management noticed a little
discoloration
in the bottling that night, they caught him, but they couldn’t fire him. He was the owner’s brother-in-law.”

“Yeah, or the owner’s wife would have had his
cojones.
”

I rolled my eyes at the interruption. “Thanks, Hank. Then he did it again only this time, they didn’t find out until after a call from a Boston health club. Apparently, an aerobics class noticed a salty flavor in their bottled water of choice. Suddenly, we were bidding against Waverly for Crystal Creek’s new public relations campaign.”

“That’s why I drink beer,” Jim said, as he finished his and ordered another round. “You can’t taste the pee.”

“Dylan bullshitted us into yet another big deal.”

“It isn’t bullshitting, Hank. It’s spinning.”

“Bite my
cojones
. Bullshitting is bullshitting, no matter what spin you put on it.”

Somewhere along the way, Hank had picked up this habit about talking about his
cojones
. Or Jim’s
cojones
. Or my
cojones
. Or anyone’s
cojones
. Although he had a lot more experience than me, he failed to realize that Mr. Mason, our boss, didn’t want to hear about it. It was one of the things that kept him on the bench during the big games. I’d tried explaining that to him, but I think speaking the way he wanted to speak was more important to Hank than fast-tracking at Mason Brand.

“Man, that sounds great.” Jim said, paying for the beers. “I never get anything good like that.”

Hank threw out his hands. “That’s what happens when you leave the FDNY to work for the Mayor. You miss all those fun urination cases.”

Jim was also in the public relations business, but he didn’t start there. Who does? Who grows up telling their parents they want to be a P.R. man? You grow up telling them you want to be a policeman or a fireman, and Jim actually became one. Now, he advised the Mayor on spinning the city’s safety policy. That’s how he could afford the alimony, child support for three boys, and the ability to be my neighbor in Tribeca.

Hank put a hand on my shoulder “D-Man, how about we take Jimbo …”

“Shhh. I love this song,
Little Wing
. I love Stevie Ray.”

“Hendrix.” Jim said, spouting the word like he was on a game show.

“I know Hendrix wrote it, but this is the Stevie Ray Vaughan version.” I grabbed my beer. “I like it better. It’s got more energy.”

Jim threw a lick on his air guitar. “Energy, my ass! Who remakes a Hendrix tune?”

I let my soul soar to a blistering run. “Only the bravest. And only Stevie Ray has ever done it right.”

Across the bar, a man caught my attention. Well, actually one of his three dates caught my attention first, but then I noticed him. I nodded in their direction. “Look at that. That, gentlemen, is the absolute last thing I want to be when I grow up.”

“What’s that?” Jim said.

“See that guy? The 50-year old with the Armani rug and the three babes at his side?”

“Yeah, what about him?”

“I bet that guy has a Porsche, a Lamborghini and a monthly subscription to Viagra Tonight.”

“The problem being…?”

“Look at him. He’s pathetic. He’s old. He’s…”

“Rich?” said Jim.

“So? He’s…”

“Got three babes on his arm?” Hank said.

“You’re missing the point. At some stage, you stop doing that stuff, right? I mean if you’re still doing it when you’re his age, it’s just sad, isn’t it?”

Jim and Hank seemed confused. Since they were both more than ten years older than me, I wondered whether I was pitching this to the wrong audience.

“Look, the money’s cool, the clothes are cool, the babes are cool, and I’m sure the Lamborghini is very cool. But if I’m still hanging out in bars on a Friday night
chatting up women when I’m his age, I authorize either of you to put a bullet through my temple.”

The waitress set our drinks down and snatched the twenty that Jim had taken out of his wallet. Jim told her to keep the change, but she was already out of range.

“Jeez, D-Man,” Hank said, taking a drink of his blue Martini, “where did that come from? I thought Mr. Lamborghini over there would be your hero.”

“You did?”

“Well, yeah. You don’t exactly come off as a
settle down with the wife and the brood
kinda guy.”

“I’m 29!”

“Lamborghini was 29 once, too.”

I shuddered and took a drink. This had obviously never come up with Jim and Hank before, but I’d always imagined that as I was about to embark on my early retirement sometime after the world was already at my feet, but before the
Fortune
cover story I’d have my last three or four flings and then find someone to go off into the sunset with. I never considered the current phase of my personal life to be permanent. That’s what made it so much fun.