Chương 8: A Better Use of My Time

Things moved even faster with the reflectors. First, the technology was simpler. Glass microspheres, fabric coating, heat bonding. Kozlowski and her expanded team handled it in a week and a half. Second, the documentation was ready. Salazar and Carlos had worked through the patent applications before the product itself was even finished. I helped them actively, remembering what had been used and how. By the time we launched, we had twenty patents covering different applications of reflective materials.

Third, the market was ready. The problem of child safety on the roads did not require much explanation. Parents always wanted their children to be safe, so they saw the potential of our technology immediately. Corrigan once again showed his class. This time, he started with municipalities. A meeting with the Department of Education in Yonkers. A small city half an hour from New York. Twenty thousand schoolchildren. Corrigan brought samples. Patches, bracelets, stickers for backpacks.

He turned off the lights in a darkened room, aimed a flashlight, and the material flared bright.

"A driver sees the child from a hundred meters instead of twenty," he explained.

"In the dark, in fog, in snowfall. That is an enormous advantage when we are talking about a child's chance of survival." The officials listened. Then one of them asked:"And what if the parents don't want to buy them?"

"Then the school district buys them itself. One patch costs a dollar fifty. Twenty thousand students, thirty thousand dollars. I think that is pocket change when we are talking about saving a life." Silence.

"Imagine the headline," Corrigan continued.

"Yonkers School District Introduces Mandatory Reflectors for Child Safety. Parents will be grateful. The press will praise you. And the first district to act in the matter of saving children receives enormous reputational benefits." The contract was signed a week later. Thirty thousand dollars. Twenty thousand patches. Delivery by the end of the month. That gave us a chain reaction. Other school districts saw the news. Yonkers is introducing SafeGlow? What is that?

They started asking, testing, and eventually joining the purchases. The New York Police Department ordered vests for traffic officers. The Department of Transportation ordered patches for road workers. The construction workers' union ordered bracelets for night shifts. Retail caught up on its own. Parents did not want to wait for the school district to move. They bought the products in stores. Attached them to children's jackets, backpacks, bicycles. SafeGlow began spreading very quickly.

Once its popularity grew even stronger, we could try pushing for a law requiring mandatory use, or something in that vein. And the profit… The profit exceeded all expectations. Stick-It brought us sixty to seventy thousand a month in royalties. SafeGlow brought ninety-six thousand. In reality, much more, but we had to share with too many people. Too many interested parties. Plus the municipal contracts with fixed markup, another eighty thousand in net profit in the first month.

I sat in my office with Chen's financial report and simply stared at the numbers. After paying everything that had to be paid, after bonuses and salaries, we had four hundred thousand dollars left for future investments. And a growing stream of profit.

"Mr. Miller," Chen said, taking off her glasses, wiping them, and putting them back on. Her usual gesture when she was nervous.

"I have to admit… I was wrong." I looked up.

"About what?"

"When you started. When you spent money on the office, on staff, on this whole… structure." She stumbled over the word.

"I thought you were too aggressive. Too self-confident. I thought we would burn out in a month, and I had already accepted it. I worked for my own satisfaction and simply waited for the collapse." She was silent for a moment.

"But you managed to do what ninety-nine percent of businessmen cannot. You promoted your idea correctly. Turned it into money. I… I was wrong." The others nodded. Ruthman with an approving smile. Salazar with respect. Corrigan with poorly hidden admiration.

"Thank you," I said simply.

"But this is not only my achievement. It is ours. All of ours. I only gave the direction. You brought it to life." We were not alone. The entire executive team was gathered in the conference room. We needed to congratulate one another on how clever we all were and sketch out a plan for what came next. James stood behind me by the wall, holding a notebook. In front of me was a mug of steaming coffee brewed in a cezve. Once, in passing, I had mentioned that I liked coffee made that way.

Two days later, James brought me exactly that. Where had he found it? No idea. How had he arranged it in an office with no stove and no cezve? Also a mystery. But drinking that coffee was pure pleasure. And it was so James. Hear a casually dropped phrase, remember it, find what was needed, organize it. No unnecessary words, no showing off. Just do it.

"What next?" Jennings asked. I looked at the report. Four hundred thousand was an enormous sum. And at the same time, a drop in the ocean compared to what I needed.

"For now, nothing new. We strengthen our positions, expand the client base, and gather money," I said.

"Stick-It and SafeGlow are nowhere near their full potential. Corrigan, keep selling licenses. Higher prices, stricter terms."

"Understood."

"Kozlowski, product variations. Stick-It in different sizes. SafeGlow for different uses. Keep the conveyor moving."

"Yes, Mr. Miller."

"Salazar, strengthen the patent fence. If anyone tries to copy us, we crush them in court. Ruthlessly."

"Naturally." I turned to Eleanor Grant.

"Eleanor, real estate. One hundred thousand at your disposal. We buy plots where it is cheap now. I will show you specific locations. As a growing company, we need this." She nodded, already writing.

"I have several places in mind. Brooklyn, waterfront districts. Queens, industrial zones. Right now they are dumps and vacant lots, but the city will grow…"

"Exactly what we need," I nodded.

"That is where we invest. And one more thing. Start preparing projects for a laboratory building. Anna-Maria needs a proper place to work. Right now we are crammed into rented spaces, and we need a full research center." Grant wrote something down quickly. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

"Understood. I'll start looking for architects and contractors." One hundred thousand for real estate. That would be enough for one or two plots at most. But it was a start. The first stone in the foundation of future technological absorption. The more money appeared, the more I would invest in land and buildings. Ahead of us lay a price boom. New York would grow, districts would be cleaned up, vacant lots would turn into elite real estate. And I wanted to make money on that. Very much.

Two hundred and fifty thousand for reserve and for the next project, once I was ready. Operating expenses, salaries, unexpected costs. A safety cushion, so we would not repeat the situation from two months ago, when we had been one step away from bankruptcy. The remaining fifty thousand went to strengthening security. With that, Jacob and I could really stretch our legs. More men, better weapons, more serious training. Security was not the kind of expense you saved on. Especially considering the world I lived in.

But the main thing occupying my mind was our own production. Not licensing. Full control from idea to shelf. Stick-It and SafeGlow were good. An excellent start. Stable income. But with them, I depended on manufacturers. They made the product, I received royalties. If they screwed up, if quality dropped, if deadlines slipped, if they violated the contract, I lost money. And I could do nothing except sue. I needed my own factory. One where I controlled everything: quality, volume, prices, deadlines.

One where I made the decisions, not some manager on the other side of the country. And I already knew what to produce there. But not yet. First, we had to dig in and gain experience. Work through connections, because in the corporate world money alone does not solve the problem. You need acquaintances, access to the right people, reputation. Corrigan and I were working on that. And not unsuccessfully. I walked into my tiny apartment late in the evening, exhausted to the limit.

Lately, I had been sleeping at the office a lot. Buried in work, collapsing on the couch in my office, waking up to a phone call, and diving back into business. I rarely came home: change clothes, take a shower, fall into bed for a couple of hours, and back again. Today I decided to make an exception. Sleep properly and put my thoughts in order. The morning began correctly. A full night's sleep, exercise, shower, breakfast.

I sat in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and sorted through accumulated mail: bills, advertising leaflets, some bank notices. And then one envelope caught my eye. An ordinary white envelope. The address written in block letters. Inside, a short note on Atlantic Insurance Company letterhead. Mr. Miller, Your absence from your workplace for two months without notice constitutes a violation of your employment agreement. Please appear at the office on Monday, December 15, at 2: 00 p. m.

to sign your termination documents. Sincerely, Harold Hanson Department Head I ran a hand over my face and swore quietly. I had completely forgotten about that job. It had flown out of my head entirely. I had moved all important numbers to the new office phone, while the home phone, the one Atlantic had most likely been calling, remained here, hanging uselessly on the wall. I simply had not picked up. I could ignore it. Not go. Let them fire me in absentia. What difference did it make? Legally, nothing changed.

Hanson would get his paperwork, I would get my final check, and everyone would go home. But something inside me wanted to see it. One last look at the office plankton I had grown out of. The gray desks, the clatter of typewriters, the smell of cheap coffee and cigarette smoke. Hanson, who had yelled at me over every typo. Marilyn the secretary, who dreamed of marrying someone rich and never working again. In other words, yes. I wanted to show off a little.

I had imagined scenes like this even in my previous life, and now I had the chance to make one real. Walk through my old office in an expensive suit, with a half-million-dollar company behind me, and look at their faces. Watch them fail to recognize me. Watch them realize what I had become. Petty? Yes. Pleasant? Very.

"James," I said into the phone once I reached the office, "I have personal business on Monday. Move all meetings to Tuesday."

"Of course, Mr. Miller. May I help with anything?"

"No, no need. Just… closing an old matter." Monday. 2: 00 p. m. Let us see what two months had changed. I entered the Atlantic Insurance building and immediately felt the mismatch. The two-month gap had changed me. Not outwardly. Well, maybe a little. The suit sat better now, tailored by a Madison Avenue tailor instead of bought in a department store for forty dollars. My shoes were polished to a mirror shine; I had picked up that habit from the Sergeant. My posture was straighter. My shoulders were back.

But the main thing was the look. The confidence in movement. The habit of giving orders and seeing them carried out. That changes a person more than any suit. I took the elevator to the fourteenth, or rather thirteenth, floor. The doors opened, and I stepped into a familiar hell. One hundred and twenty desks. Clacking typewriters. Ringing telephones. The smell of coffee and cigarette smoke. Gray faces, gray thoughts, a gray life from bell to bell. Nothing had changed. Absolutely nothing.

The same people at the same desks doing the same work. The same Marilyn at the reception desk leafing through a fashion magazine. The same Steve rummaging through papers. The same Linda speaking on the phone in a monotonous voice. Marilyn raised her head from the magazine. Looked at me and did not recognize me. She smiled her standard secretary smile.

"Good afternoon. How may I help you?" I stopped at her desk and tilted my head slightly.

"Oh, Marilyn. Don't tell me you don't recognize me. David Miller. I have an appointment with Mr. Hanson at two." She frowned, checking the log.

"Miller…" Recognition came slowly. Uncertainly. Her eyes widened.

"David? Is that… is that you?"

"In the flesh." She stared at me with wide eyes, clearly trying to reconcile the old image with the new one.

"You… you've changed so much. I didn't recognize you at first."

"It happens," I said with a shrug.

"Mr. Hanson is waiting for you." I nodded and walked between the rows of desks. Several former colleagues raised their heads. Looked. Some recognized me, some did not. Steve gave an uncertain nod, clearly not understanding what was going on. Linda did not notice at all, absorbed in her phone conversation. I straightened my shoulders and barely held back a smile. Damn, it felt good. At that moment, a girl with a folder full of papers crashed into me.

I instinctively caught her by the shoulders, keeping her from falling. A neat figure, about twenty-five, dress in the latest fashion. Mary. That Mary from accounting. The number one gold digger in the office. Always circling richer clients, making eyes at higher-ranking managers. In my time here, she had not even honored me with a glance, although the previous David had tried something, from what I remembered.

"Oh, sir, I'm so sorry, I was in such a hurry…" she started babbling, raising her eyes. Then she froze.

"Oh, Mary, don't worry about such little things," I said, gently moving her aside and watching her shocked face with interest.

"Da… David?" she breathed.

"Miller? Is that… is that really you?" Oh, so names do come back when necessary.

"That's me," I confirmed with a faint smile and walked on without waiting for the conversation to continue. Let her digest it. Hanson's office. The smell had not changed. The same tobacco, sweat, stale booze mixed with cheap cologne. He sat behind his desk, red-faced, a folder in front of him. He saw me and grumbled irritably:"Sit down, Mr…" He looked at the papers.

"Miller." I sat, crossed my legs, and leaned comfortably back in the chair. Hanson raised his head. Looked closer. And then it dawned on him.

"David?" There was disbelief in his voice.

"Miller? No fu—" He caught himself and cleared his throat.

"Is that really you?"

"Yes."

"Damn…" He leaned back in his chair, openly looking me up and down.

"You… you look… completely different."

"Two months have passed, Mr. Hanson. A lot can change."

"Two months in which you did not appear at work!" The redness returned to his face.

"Didn't answer calls! Didn't warn anyone! Do you even understand…"

"Mr. Hanson," I interrupted, calmly but firmly.

"I am here to sign the papers. Let us finish the formalities and not waste each other's time." He fell silent. Stared at me with his mouth slightly open, then cleared his throat, clearly losing his bearings, and reached into his desk drawer. He took out two papers.

"Termination statement. Sign here…" He hesitated.

"And here." I took the pen. Started to sign, but at the last moment still read the text. Standard form. Nothing criminal.

"Voluntary resignation" had become "termination for absenteeism," but what difference did it make?

"And your final check." He handed me an envelope.

"For the time worked." I took the envelope, opened it, and counted. Clearly short, but at least they had given something. A hundred dollars. Not much money, but not useless either.

"That's all," Hanson said. His voice softened slightly, almost became human.

"David, you… where did you disappear to? What happened to you?" I stood, buttoning my jacket.

"I found a better use for my time."

"Another job?"

"My own company." His eyebrows rose.

"A company? You?" There was open skepticism in his voice.

"David, no offense, but you… you were an ordinary clerk. What kind of company?"

"A successful one," I answered briefly. A pause. Hanson looked at me, trying to understand whether I was joking.

"All right…" He clearly did not believe a single word, but did not argue.

"Good luck. Whatever it is you're doing." I headed for the door. Stopped on the threshold. Turned back. Hanson sat behind his desk: red-faced, bags under his eyes, a whiskey flask in the bottom drawer that he thought was a secret. A man who would do this work until retirement. Yell at subordinates. Drink alone in the evenings. Slowly fade in this office that smelled of tobacco and stale alcohol. Two months ago, I had almost been in his place. A couple more years, and I would have become the same.

"Mr. Hanson," I said quietly.

"Yes?" He raised his head.

"I spent a long time thinking about what to say at the end. Something clever, maybe. Or simply tell you politely to go fuck yourself and explain what an asshole you are." I held the pause.

"But you know… I think I'll just wish you luck and good health. The longer you sit here, the worse it is for you." His face froze in shock. I went out, quietly closing the door behind me.

"Goodbye, Marilyn," I said as I passed.

"Goodbye, Mr. Miller," she answered softly. There was respect in her voice. I left the office. Took the elevator down. Stepped out onto the street. New York was cold, windy, and loud. I stood on the sidewalk, breathing in the frosty air, and for the first time in a long while I felt… free. My hands were still trembling, but not as badly. The past was behind me now. Officially. Legally. Emotionally. I took the newspaper clipping about the Tinkerer from my pocket.

Rebecca Stern was supposed to send the dossier tonight. I needed to rest while the day was more or less free.