Axiom

Dark, chiseled, crisp. He walked in matchless confidence. It seemed he knew no limits and carried no inhibitions. Poise and prestige had reared him from infancy. His gait tastefully displayed a creed of proper etiquette and elite mannerisms. Drake had wanted for nothing and knew not of pretense. With ease he swiftly opened the glass doors and entered the foyer of the marble walled building. Windows high above illuminated the lobby with a cool, grey light, coming from the overcast skies above. Reflections bounced from the glossy surface of the tiled floor. The sophisticated click of his heels held a rhythmic cadence. He was proud, accomplished and ready. He had taken this path several times and had no need to review his steps to avoid the couches or planters ahead of him. A refreshing, seductive waft lingered as he walked briskly past the receptionist. Seemingly unintentional, the cost at the fragrance counter was well spent to elicit a memorable presence. A brief pause in his stride, just in front of the welcoming desk, left a bit of saturated air and he could tell that the naïvely feminine admin enjoyed it. She exaggerated a pause in her work to yield to the moment and the deep breath she took in, was the affirmation he privately desired. His long and purposeful stride came abruptly to a halt in front of the granite-clad elevator. He didn’t know her name but what did that matter? They turned admins over faster than he could close a deal. The soft ding of the elevator sounded and he stepped through the doors. Five suits followed him in and selected their floors. He knew his floor wouldn’t be selected so he politely called out “17.” Like every other 7:15 rush, he’d never seen the personnel that joined him on this vertical commute, and most likely never would again. The gentle, downward pull, tugged at his hips as the transportation box ascended the tower. He averted his attention to the “kid” that was overly prepared for a job interview. He’d seen it so often, he felt like he could make a hiring decision right in that elevator. In spite of himself, Drake felt like he had been gifted with an ability to identify fallacies in people, more flawlessly than a polygraph. Clearly a college graduate, the poorly fashioned suit, black leather folder (empty or, most likely, holding two copies of a feebly crafted CV), and excessive use of department store cologne, was a clear indicator of the applicant’s green maturity in the society of business. The elevator paused at floor 13 and the kid stepped onto the landing. Presidio Pharmaceuticals Drake chuckled. Pharma sales reps were a dime a dozen and could be made from any monkey that cleaned up well. Good luck, Kid, he thought, Today’s your lucky day. As the doors on the elevator closed, Drake brought his mind into focused clarity. He meditated on the soft rush of whirring air that passed the elevator as it sped upwards through the shaft. He could eliminate any worry that lingered above his client meetings today. He was the Drake Lindermann. Clients didn’t even ring his office unless they wanted to close a deal. It was a waste of his time to employ his services simply to be educated or bounce an idea off of him. No, Drake had clearly defined boundaries with, and for whom, he would converse. He was never curt or rude; he simply felt that the study hall was the place to do one’s learning. You either trusted Drake’s abilities or you didn’t. He was a decision-maker. If he’d wanted to teach he would have continued his education towards a Ph.D. and moved to Connecticut. His father had often criticized the student loan industry in that regard. Creditors earning interest from high-yield accounts while they fed on the dreams of students (children) who felt an insatiable desire to prove themselves to the world by way of a higher degree. It seemed like a money-laundering chasm. If anything, Drake’s family name in politics and law was enough to convince any cynic that he was trustworthy and legit. Drake had been more interested in capitalizing on the gains of liquid assets: real money. So, he turned away from his father’s profession in the courts to pursue an education in finance and become an investment broker. The office he secured in the high-rise tower was just a formality for client meetings and legal correspondence. He had partnered with two colleagues so he had, at least, the minimum expected accountability – enough to keep the feds out of his way, and a couple of paralegals to process transactions and handle reception work. The upward lift and pause of the elevator opened at the 17th floor and Drake stepped off, giving no acknowledgement to his riding party. It might have been a courteous gesture to wish them a nice day, but what would that do? An impractical wish of good fortune would hardly yield an outcome of measurable worth. “Good morning, Mr. Lindermann.” called the receptionist. He gave a soft nod and wink. She liked that. He knew it. He was able to eliminate most office gossip with that little wink. It seemed that these young girls thrived on it and felt an obligation of loyalty to him when he did it. It was probably one of his cheapest investments yet. The return was favorable and, for Drake, it was only a flex of an insignificant muscle in the right direction. That was his signature, his move, and he played it well. The flashing red light on his phone indicated several unheard messages. Drake walked over to the wet bar, kicked on the coffee pot, and returned to his desk. He tapped the button next to the blinking light and the automated voice announced the first recorded message. “Drake!” the voice confidently shouted. “Rob here. Let’s get this thing closed. Monday, three pm.” Click. The second voicemail, “Hey you crooner!” Drake grinned. “Got another lead on that account in Florida. You gonna be around today? Gimme a buzz.” Click. He and Lonnie might be the modern-day Bonnie and Clyde, but they had one thing those crooks didn’t: brains. “Hello, Mr. Lindermann,” a soft, executive voice, female, “this is Alana from Senator Graves’ office. We’d like to schedule a day to close. His availability is Wednesday evening, six pm at The Vineyard. Please confirm, thank you.” Yes, Drake would be there. This politician had class. Old world reds and grass-fed beef; they didn’t even need the formal engagement to seal the deal. It was only a formality, a handshake and a write-off. But it had to appear professional; that’s what the taxpayers wanted to see anyway. So make a lavish show, play house, and kiss goodnight. Their transaction had already moved enough money this way and that, that even the loopholes wouldn’t be able to find loopholes. Still, they’d enjoy a Rothschild, direct from the Chateau, and a juicy filet cut from ol’ Angus, on the house. “Drake, its Mom. Hi, honey.” Her southern accent was still as fresh as his memories of her sweet tea on a summer afternoon. “Wanted to remind you of the dinner with Judge and Mrs. Goldberg on Tuesday night. Now you be good and put that in your little black book, or pad, or eCal, whatever it is you kids do,” he could almost see her shaking her head and flailing her hands around “just you be sure to come. You know your father is so honored to have them to the house. I’m making sock-it-to-me. Kiss Kiss. I’m proud of you!” Click. A teeny, tiny giddy sensation swept through Drake’s stomach. Mom’s sock-it-to-me cake was nothing short of divine. If he’d ever believed in a heavenly place, that’s where this cake had come from. She served it with a hot buttered rum and orange essence glaze. Nobody made it like Mom. Funny how just her voice could melt him down to the juvenile mind of a three year old. Well, time to close the book of memories and roll up his sleeves. Let Monday begin.