THE BUSINESS
Mr. Irving stood to the right of Mr. George on a busy street in a large city. Cars streamed past as the two men took drags of their cigarettes, looking up at the tall building of deep blue glass across from them.
Mr. George was tall, thin, and wore a crème-colored suit with cognac leather shoes. Mr. Irving was slightly shorter, but more powerfully built, and wore a slate suit with black shoes shined to a dull brilliance.
The businessmen exchanged a meaningless look. By the time a gap in traffic presented itself, the cigarettes were discarded, and the pair swiftly crossed the street. Mr. George pulled open the thick door beneath the engraved glass, which read, ‘Codsdale Enterprises,’ and in smaller lettering, ‘No Soliciting.’
“After you, Mr. Irving.”
The lobby was expansive, with high ceilings, crisp walls, and a dark marble floor. Mr. Irving’s shoes clicked as he walked across the hall. Mr. George’s did not.
At the counter before the elevators sat a bored young man in a blue shirt. A nameplate on his breast said, ‘H. Jacobs.’
“Ah, Jacobs!” sang Mr. Irving as he and his partner approached. The security officer looked momentarily perplexed, but then remembered his nametag. “We’re here to see Mr. Cuffe at nine o’clock.”
“With Codsdale Enterprises,” Mr. George added helpfully.
“Alright…” said Jacobs quietly, as the tip of his tongue poked out from between his lips. He began to type something on the keyboard before him, when his eyes widened.
“But it’s nine-thirty!” he proclaimed.
Mr. Irving looked at Mr. George, brow furrowed, who was looking back at Mr. Irving with a furrowed brow. The two men checked their watches simultaneously.
“Ah!” said Mr. Irving, while Mr. George said, “Very astute.” They raised their eyes to Jacobs’. Jacobs paused, tongue out, looked from the one man to the other, and once the silence reached the edge of discomfort, resumed typing at his keyboard. He took one furtive glance up, but the firm gazes of the partners put that to an end immediately.
“There we are,” said Jacobs, in a more formal tone, “Right this way gentlemen, floor 16 and out to your left.”
“Is that the penthouse?” enquired Mr. Irving.
“No, sir,” responded Jacobs, to which Mr. George said, “Good,” and Mr. Irving said, “Shame.”
In the elevator, Mr. Irving watched the old-fashioned brass arrow make its way past numbers, while Mr. George watched the middle-aged woman who had been in the elevator when its doors opened. The woman studiously refused to look at either man, having become engrossed in the drab carpeting. At floor 12, the elevator stopped, and as the woman exited, Mr. George said, “Boo,” and the woman jumped. The doors slid shut and opened again on floor 16.
“After you, Mr. George.”
The men turned left and stepped through an open pair of glass doors. At a desk sat another middle-aged woman, younger than the last. She had large teeth and large glasses and was unmistakably unattractive. The men greeted her with the sweetest of smiles, while her feeble attempt could be described, at best, as tepid.
“You must be Mr. George and Mr. Irving,” she said, to which the men agreed. “Well, Mr. Cuffe is occupied now, and you’ll have to wait until ten-thirty.”
“Oh,” began Mr. Irving, with a most charming air, “I’m certain Mr. Cuffe won’t mind if we wait in his office?” He moved toward the wooden door to the secretary’s right.
She was suddenly on her feet, prattling on about how “Yes, I’m certain he would mind,” as Mr. Irving did his best to dissuade her of that attitude, while Mr. George calmly walked around the pair and strode past the wooden door. Expertly redirecting the secretary’s attention, Mr. George allowed Mr. Irving to get through the door as well.
Unfortunately, the woman did not relent, so Mr. Irving was forced to pleasantly fend her off while Mr. George asked the nearest office plankton if he wouldn’t please point them to where they could find Mr. Cuffe’s office, and having received instruction, took his turn dueling with the secretary as Mr. Irving led the way.
Mr. Cuffe’s office door was ajar. Mr. Irving pushed it open after two quick raps, and the three entered. Mr. Cuffe was a rotund man straining valiantly against the buttons of his pale yellow shirt. He frowned, then, understanding who the men were, tuned in to the secretary’s babbling.
“…and they just wouldn’t, Mr. Cuffe! I tried to tell them you were occupied, but,” but what Mr. Cuffe did not have the patience to hear.
“Enough, Rosita!” and when her face took on a hurt tone of voice, he said, “It’s fine,” but softer.
Mr. George and Mr. Irving smiled widely at the secretary as she departed, shutting the office door, and turned to face Mr. Cuffe. As though commanded by one brain, they extended their hands, forcing the pudgy man to choose between them. He chose Mr. George, who stated “Irving!” and then Mr. Irving, who whistled, “George!” Cuffe relayed that it was a pleasure to meet them, and would they please sit down, which they did.
After a short pause, Mr. Cuffe addressed Mr. Irving, “So, uh, Mr. George, what brings you here today?”
From Mr. Irving’s left, Mr. George wrinkled his face in pleasure, and waving a hand dismissively in Mr. Cuffe’s direction, implored, “Oh! Please, call me Irving.”
Mr. Cuffe looked then at Mr. Irving George, seated to the left of Mr. George Irving, and then at Mr. George Irving, seated to the right of Mr. Irving George. Mr. Cuffe’s modest sweat stains grew in size as his brain attempted to compute which of the Georges was Irving, and which of the Irvings was George. To save him from his predicament, Mr. Irving replied to the question posed, “Why, to see you, our dear Mr. Cuffe!” and the two businessmen erupted into laughter as though a profound jest had been uttered.
Mr. Cuffe, however, did not laugh, and began to feel slightly left out. He waited for his two interlopers to continue, but when they did not, his anxiety took the upper hand, and he asked,
“Well, gentlemen, what do you do?”
“A better question would be…” started Mr. George.
“What don’t we do?” finished Mr. Irving.
Silence, followed by a thunderous, stone-faced high five.
A bewildered Mr. Cuffe looked on and wondered whether he had taken the wrong pill again that morning. As the quiet wore on, Mr. Cuffe, concerned for his now respectable sweat stains, tried again.
“…Erm… Ok, well, what don’t you do?”
“Nothing,” came the immediate riposte from both businessmen in unison.
Mr. Cuffe blinked, then blinked again. His thirteen years of public school (including kindergarten), four years of undergraduate education, two-and-a-half years in unsuccessful pursuit of a Master of Business Administration, and twenty-seven years on the job had not prepared him for this.
In a final and desperate attempt at being included in the joke that was being performed around him, Mr. Cuffe shot, “Can you build a house?”
Without a pause, Mr. Irving retorted, “Does the pope shit in the woods?” while Mr. George returned “Does a bear shit in the Vatican?” Silence, followed by a thunderous, stone-faced high five.
This time, as Mr. Cuffe stammered behind his desk, Mr. Irving went on,
“We can fly a plane!”
And Mr. George picked it up, “We can buy a train!”
“We can work with your IT!” rapped Mr. Irving.
“We can cross your uncrossed Ts!” recited Mr. George. Then they stopped, looking at Mr. Cuffe.
Mr. Cuffe’s brain, the normally nimbly reliable bean-counter it was, was unable to excrete anything more than a, “…Wha…?”
Both men stood suddenly, and Mr. Cuffe involuntarily slid back an inch in his chair.
“Look, Mr. Cuffe, let us be frank,” intoned Mr. Irving, all traces of humor gone from his demeanor.
“We all know why we’re here,” pronounced Mr. George.
“You need us,” continued Mr. Irving.
“And while we don’t need you, we certainly wouldn’t mind having you,” sustained Mr. George, turning on his dashing smile.
“So,” crooned Mr. Irving, turning on his.
“Do we have a deal?” queried the men together, extending their hands.
Dumbfounded Mr. Cuffe, attempting to hide his now prodigious sweat stains, reached first for Mr. George’s hand, mumbling “Irving,” then reconsidering and shaking Mr. Irving’s, mumbling “George,” finally managed to spit out, “Yes.”
“Marvelous!” warbled Mr. Irving.
“Fantastic!” issued Mr. George, dropping his hand before Mr. Cuffe had a chance to return to it, who now looked forlornly at Mr. George’s midriff.
“Our people will be over with the paperwork later this afternoon,” rattled Mr. Irving.
As Mr. Cuffe began to show signs of protest, Mr. George interjected,
“Better to get through it with no dilly-dallying, while the terms are fresh in our minds, eh?”
This was the final nail in Mr. Cuffe’s coffin who fell into his chair and began to search through his drawers for his medication.
“Let’s leave him to it, shall we?” winked Mr. Irving.
“After you, Mr. Irving.”
The two left the office, quietly pulling closed the door, and returned, through the cubicles, to Rosita’s stern visage, where Mr. Irving began a warmly grinning tale of how her glasses reminded him exactly of a splendid dog he’d seen on his way over, while Mr. George attempted to tip her with crumpled dollar bills from his wallet. Rosita attempted to listen and nod to the former, while denying and shaking her head at the latter, so Mr. Irving was left with explaining that it must be a cat her glasses reminded him of after all, and Mr. George, sensitive to the dame’s good sense, as he told her, settled on leaving his expense receipts with her.
On the sidewalk below the ‘Codsdale Enterprises’ engraving, the two solicitors lit cigarettes.
“I’ve got a great feeling about this one,” they declared in unison.
Silence, followed by a thunderous, stone-faced high five.