It had rained earlier in the morning, a hard, wind-driven downpour and Nicholas was forced to sidestep ankle-deep pools of mucoid water that had collected at the street corners. Now the rain was letting up; the clouds began to skid off towards New England and beyond. Weak shafts of sunlight squeezed down between the buildings of midtown Manhattan. It was still drizzling enough to justify the Burberry Nicholas wore with its myriad of belts, buckles and other devices. These items had served the wearer well in the trenches, suitable to hang grenades on, for example, but for Nicholas they were useless trappings that came with the coat and nothing more. ("But, sir, classic never goes out of style," the salesman had assured him.)
"Just like this city," Nicholas thought, "to have storm drains that don't work. Millions for a baseball stadium, nothing for sewage and sanitation." He tried not to think about the unseen offal that clogged the labyrinth of pipes below his feet. He made a disastrous misstep around an excavation (Would they never stop digging?) and felt a surge of greasy water pour into his shoe. By the end of the day the now supple Bally at three hundred and ninety eight dollars would feel like cardboard.
Nicholas reached his office building and entered through the first set of revolving doors. His umbrella, which had carefully closed after reaching the lobby overhand, caught in the sweeping doors and was dragged around behind him, the tip emerging slightly bent.
The long black rubber rain mats were out.
"Good morning, Mr. Hunter. A nice day, isn't it?
The lobby security guard, a short, stoop-shouldered gnome of uncertain nationality, greeted everyone with the same evaluation every day. Rain or shine, paralyzing blizzard or stifling heat wave, holdup in the lobby bank that left five dead, mass transit strike or terrorist attack, to the guard it was always a nice day.
Nicholas grunted assent and stepped into a waiting car. He was greeted by Marjorie Cohen who was moving her shoulders in the rhythm of whatever was playing on her pink iPod. Marjorie was five feet two inches tall in her bare feet (a measurement Nicholas was determined to one day confirm) with shoulder-length auburn hair, large and soft round eyes and, he suspected and hoped, breasts to match. The fact that she said "wit" instead of "with" did not bother him in the least as long as someday he heard her say "All right, your place then."
Nicholas smiled. "Good morning, Marjorie. Twenty?"
She plucked the buds from her ears. "What? Oh. I have a meeting wit Norm Castle. I'll go to nineteen wit you."
He adroitly aimed the tip of his umbrella at nineteen.
The bend it acquired in the revolving doors caused the tip to hit eighteen. Not that it mattered. The floor indicators were the kind sensitive only to heat. Marjorie Cohen touched nineteen with a fingertip shrouded under a nail well-manicured in the French style. The doors slid shut with a thin pneumatic whistle. The fragrance of J.Lo perfume competed with the smell of wet clothing. Nicholas rocked gently on his feet, making a squishing sound.
Thirty seconds later the doors opened onto the leather and bronze reception room of Owens & Marshall Advertising.
The receptionist, a thoroughly vapid girl who constantly wore gloves because she was auditioning to be a hand model, looked up from The New York Times crossword puzzle. The puzzles became more difficult as the week progressed and this being Monday she had it half completed. "Nicholas, this is, ah..." She consulted a pink piece of paper. "ah...Mr. Ehlis. He's been waiting."
Nicholas turn his attention from Marjorie's rear end to the tall, angular man rising from the reception room couch. His three-piece was a gray chalk stripe slightly tucked at the waist. It covered a white shirt with long, pointed collars. The shoes were tasseled, highly and immaculately polished. Mr. Ehlis obviously has not been compelled to face the rigors of flooded street corners. The necktie was black except for the red woven design, an intricate pattern of what appeared to be dozens of the number six.
"Mr. Hunter. Mr. Nicholas Hunter." It wasn't a question.
"Yes, Mr. Ehlis? I wasn't expecting anyone." he shot a disapproving glance at the receptionist who stared back balefully.
"I realize that. Actually, it is rather forward of me to call on you without an appointment, I admit. But if you will give me just ten minutes of your time, I believe you will forgive me."
"Uh, Mr. Ehlis, if you're selling something, I don't purchase anything. Creative is on the seventeenth floor. Production on twenty. Are you a rep?" Nicholas regretted the question immediately. It gave Ehlis the opening he needed.
Ehlis smiled. "No, I am not a salesman and yes, you might say I am a "rep" as you put it. Is there somewhere we can talk? Your office?"
"Mr. Ehlis, I...."
Ehlis leaned closer and lowered his voice.
"That was Marjorie Cohen, was it not? Would it be fair to say you have had certain, ah, thoughts about her? I believe I can help you in this delicate matter. Give me ten minutes. No more." The voice was smooth, positive, assured. Like a salesman. "I'll begin at the beginning and go to the end. Then stop. Ten minutes."
Nicholas Hunter was 33 years old, five feet ten inches tall and weighed in at about 165 pounds. He favored suits of the English cut with double-vented jackets, blue shirts and tasseled shoes whether they were "out" or "in." He had absolutely no use for new spade-like flat shoes that resembled a platypus. Twice each week he visited the health club where he swam ten laps in the pool, spent forty-five minutes in the equipment room and twenty in the sauna. The minutes passed among the machinery were also spent girl and women-watching. He received three hours of instruction each week in Okanawa-style karate (strictly for self defense, the sensei cautioned.)
As an account executive for the nation's fifth largest advertising agency, Nicholas was competent, energetic and innovative. His marketing recommendations were based on thorough and intensive study of the client's position, objectives, current and projected market conditions. In fact, he had become somewhat of an expert in the marketing of white goods - gin and vodka and that sort of thing. His client, a major distiller, liked him and respected his judgment and the way he coordinated their objectives with the agency creative staff. His briefs to this irreverent group clearly defined the advertising strategy without strangling creative efforts. His salary allowed him to pay his Upper West Side rent, dine out four times a week, add a frequent purchase to his collection of old illustrated manuscripts, retreat to Stowe for a week in winter and the Grand Bahamas in summer for a week of bonefishing.
Here his successes came to a grinding, screeching halt, particularly with women. Lasting relations with the opposite sex were zero. No one regretted this more than Nicholas and no one tried more intensely to figure out why. He had cultivated a measured degree of charm, his wit ranged from the sophisticated to the boisterous.
