OLIVER, TWISTED AND TURNED

EXCERPT

Vince Sardi, was born Luigi DeSantis in a small village outside of Sienna, Italy. No father; his mother died giving birth. He came to America at age 16, barely able to speak English without making people smile, or outright laugh at his mangled pronunciations and inflections. He was sponsored by his uncle and aunt and adopted their last name, but their idea of family life soon proved too structured for him. The only asset he had to sell was labor. And, at age 16, the construction industry was eager to gobble up a young, eager, cash only, worker and he jumped into it wholeheartedly. English proficiency wasn’t entirely necessary, anticipation of what was needed was, and Luigi was quick to pick up on what was needed. It was work, money, a chance to practice English, and maybe put together enough to move out from his uncle’s house.

     His first real American life’s lesson came on payday. He stuffed the small wad of cash deep in his front pocket. The sun felt great on his back as he walked down the street, and with the money in his pocket he felt like a millionaire. The lesson came soon afterward. It was taught to him in an alley by two street thugs who had watched the workers leaving the construction company gate. They knew when payday was, and they picked what seemed to be the weakest among those leaving. As he neared an alley, they grabbed him. He was frightened, beaten senseless and robbed.

Luigi hated himself for being so powerless. A few days later Luigi’s discovered the Kronk gym. He wandered inside, took in the rank smell, and watched the sparring and workouts. He saw a man barking instructions at two guys slugging it out in a ring. Luigi approached and stood, respectfully, at his side without saying anything and waited for his chance. A couple of minutes later the sparring session was over. The man took notice of him and gruffly said, “What’d’ya want.”

Luigi, put up his fists and circled them in the air.” “You show…?”

The trainer looked at the short, skinny kid with the black eyes and roughly abraded cheeks and said, “If the other guy doesn’t look like that, then, yeah, you need some training.” The English was pretty much wasted on Luigi. But, the man nodded his head. That was it, just the one nod.

Costa?”  Luigi jutted his chin out as he asked, simultaneously gesturing with his hands, palms upward.

Greely looked at him closely. The kid’s clothes were seconds…maybe thirds. The instep of his left shoe, at the sole, was open slightly and he could see his naked foot; he was pitiful. He noted the boy hardly spoke English; guessed that he didn’t have any money; and his couple of words and hand gestures proclaimed Italian. Greely felt sorry for him. He cobbled his best street Italian together and said, even working in what he believed to be an Italian lilt, “Primo, no costa. Luego…” and held his hand horizontally, palm down, and rotated it at the wrist in a wagging motion, as he was used to seeing Italians do, giving at the same time a slight shrug of his shoulders. Then he recalled that “luego” was probably Mexican Spanish for “later”, but thought it was close enough. Luigi made the translation and nodded his head.

Greely, the trainer, always had time to cultivate a newcomer. There was no cost to him, except maybe some of his time. Perhaps, this kid could be the next world champion. Not very likely, but there was always the possibility; and then the money would flow. Greely crooked his finger at Luigi and led him to a locker room. He rummaged around in an old laundry bag and brought out a pair of shorts and socks, and he tossed him an old pair of gym shoes from a donation box.

Luigi put them on and came out. He looked a little comical because the shoes and trunks were too large. Greely held up a “wait- a-minute” finger and soon came back with a short length of rope. He tied it around the boy’s waist and that was that; he couldn’t do anything about the shoes. He led Luigi to a heavy bag and demonstrated what he should do. The other boys in the gym looked briefly, some smiled, but went back to their workouts. Luigi began pounding the bag. A minute later Greely grabbed his arms gently and showed him how to stand and roll his body to drive his punch into the bag, to move his feet with each punch, and simultaneously bring up the opposing hand to protect his jaw. Guiding his punches, he said: left, left, right, right. Slow at first, Luigi picked up on it and was excited when the bag began to move. He was deliberate and as he began to understand and feel the rhythm, he struck harder and harder. Greely took notice. For a newbie, the kid had power and showed spirit. His trainer’s mind focused on the boy’s moves. He was thinking, too early to tell, but maybe….

Luigi, thereafter, never missed a day. He trained hard and showed well in exhibition matches. His was a murderous instinct, fired by the memory of being unable to defend himself, being cowardly, and having the shit kicked out of him in the alley. He hated himself for that; he hated the spineless. His fury was awesome to behold. An opponent that showed fear enraged him, and he seemed to always provoke fear. His opponents buckled before his fierce, almost insane beating. Within two years he was a Golden Gloves contender.

His ring name—Vincent Sardi—stuck. A co-worker in the construction trade told him that Luigi was a crappy name anyway. After awhile, he was just known as Vincent Sardi, usually just Vinnie, and he wore the name like a championship belt. It wasn’t Vincenzo, Vinci…or, more especially, Luigi…it was a real American name! Vincent in Italian meant victor or conqueror; he thought it perfect.

Young Vincent Sardi, however, much to Greely’s great disappointment, had no intention of becoming a professional boxer. He had learned to box in order to defend himself and now felt confident and fearless. His focus was money and had been for some time. He wanted money now, not sometime down the hard road of boxing. When the opportunity came to partner with a co-worker in a business of their own, they left their jobs. Vincent Sardi’s English, improved greatly, and he was European hungry in the land of opportunity. The money in the home building business was better than boxing and less injurious. Three years later he bought out his partner and renamed the business the Sardi Construction Company.

Vincent discovered early on that non-taxed dollars were better than taxed dollars. He always had an eye open for a quick buck and was by any estimate cautious as a street hooker. The money in construction was always time and materials, but always allowed room for padding in addition to his cost. Sardi’s magical billing practices provided a good income. The money was good, but he always felt more was better.

Sardi took side bets on almost any boxing event. He bought and sold a variety of expensive construction equipment and tools—paperwork wasn’t a prerequisite, and his income tax returns were always fictional wonders.

But, in addition to these side enterprises, Sardi’s fascination with the ring was indelible. He visited Greely and looked over the boxing talent whenever he could. When Greely died, with equally mixed emotions of sentiment and interest, Sardi picked up Greely’s torch and took his place as a trainer. Greely had been desperate to make his mark, as a matter of pride and a meaningful life, as having trained a world champion. Sardi was no different.

Vincent Sardi had no time for a family. His sole interests were making money, running the Sardi construction company and managing boxing talent, in that order. As he got older, however, he couldn’t dispel a growing, inexplicable nostalgic interest in returning to Italy and living out his life in comfort. He was getting tired of waiting for his pot of gold to show up. In his mind, Italy was beckoning, louder each year. Italian women, Italian food, and Italian wine; and he would have them all. Sardi traveled to the old country every two years. He had friends and some distant family there. Each trip, he deposited a goodly sum of money in a different Italian bank. His shirttail relatives and friends believed he had a good pension, but none thought he was rich. And that is exactly the way he wanted it. Through the years he had put together a considerable nest egg. He felt he was almost ready to go…all he needed was one final, big score of dollars.

It was a warm June day, when Ray Oliver showed up and interrupted those day dreams. At first, all he wanted was to work out. Sardi watched him and not long afterward asked him to spar.

Ray was quick, strong, showed magical anticipation, and had a killer instinct; he wanted to win. That was championship material…could this Oliver be his world champion? He befriended Oliver, gave him a job at his construction company, and took great personal interest in his training.

For three years, Ray built homes for the Sardi construction company, fought matches at every opportunity, studied hard, and saved his money. Every penny he had earned had been earmarked—some for his mother, a minimum for his living expenses, and the rest for schooling. He was demonstrably bright enough to earn a full-boat college scholarship. Somewhere between his sophomore and junior years, he came to believe that being a lawyer would satisfy all that he desired. He worked hard and graduated with a BA and a GPA high enough to be accepted by law school. His mother died before he graduated. He mourned her passing and missed her, but was thankful for the inheritance. It would help see him through school. He was now twenty-two, recently accepted into the University of Michigan law school, and it was time to say goodbye to Vincent, the Sardi Construction Company, and boxing.

Sardi made one last emotional pitch to Ray to not abandon his future in the ring, including a last ditch, “all I have done for you” speech. Ray, for maybe the hundredth time, said he was grateful, but boxing wasn’t the road he wanted. Ray was resolute and it was no longer a point for discussion. Sardi had failed to turn him, and that afternoon Sardi’s world championship dream was over. Ultimately, they wished each other the best of luck, shook hands, and Ray walked out the door.

END EXCERPT

CLOSING TIME

EXCERPT

It was Friday evening and closing time.  The tellers, clerks and assorted titled and untitled bank employees slipped into their winter coats and made for the door carrying with them an excited babble of weekend plans and good byes.  The last yelled out "Good night Mr. Grimes," turned off the main lights, and banged the front door shut.  The latch sprang sharply into place with a click that could be heard by Mr. Grimes in his office just as clearly as the employee's farewell.

Herschel Grimes was now alone.  The heat had been turned down about an hour previous to closing and his office was growing cold.  Herschel, much relieved of the formality required of the business day had once again reached his valued interlude of respite.  He turned off the desk light.  It was the time of day where responsibility, accountability, and convention could be guiltlessly avoided.  Grunting slightly as he bent forward in his seat, he loosened his shoelaces; another grunt got him back to a sitting position.  Sucking his stomach in for a moment, he unbuttoned his vest, unbuckled his belt, and leaned his slightly overweight, middle-aged frame back into the leather chair; his arms folded into his lap, fingers laced.  He took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled slowly.

All was quiet except for the wall clock whose relentless cadence echoed off the austere walls and wooden floor, and filled his office with its steady, mechanical beat…a perfect counterbalance—the perfect account ledger, neatly balanced without anything left over.  He closed his eyes and listened to the clock's mindless tempo.  Its hypnotic beat gradually displaced the concerns of his day, and soon his conscious discipline relaxed.  His breathing grew deeper and regular as he passed from awareness to reverie—his imagination free to explore notions of its own volition. 

Probably no more than ten minutes had passed when, like a cloud within a cloud, an idea slowly formed and spontaneously presented itself; reasoning its logic awakened him from his dream state, his mind remaining focused on the idea: was it possible that time was actually measured by the silent swing of the pendulum through its arc; and each tick was a pause signaling a lapse of time…was, then, the "tick" a pause between measurements—did time momentarily stop?  But almost simultaneously, having regained his awareness, he shook his head and rejected the thoughts as absurd. 

Ridiculous rubbish—the debris of an improperly employed mind he thought.  Mr. Grimes felt uncomfortable that such a silly musing would have presented itself even in personal reverie; he would have been mortified had he ever expressed anything similar in the presence of others.  Such thoughts, he told himself, were the seeds of failure.  Mr. Grimes was a serious man, a responsible businessman.  Correct in his demeanor, correct in his speech.  He had no time for frivolous thoughts.  He sat upward in his chair and breathed deeply, inviting the cold to clear his mind and the slight flush of discomfiture from his face. 

Herschel Grimes believed that his position in life was the result of a lifelong, serious process of rejecting all things construed by successful people as improper and undignified; and strict adherence to business principles.  He believed that those admirable traits commanded respect amongst those who had sufficient fortitude to acquire them—the people that mattered.

He rested his elbows on the desk, and reflected on the day's business.  Today he had approved and denied loans, mortgages, and examined three business plans which had merit, and one which was too shortsighted for any degree of success.  He reviewed his decisions and was satisfied…except for one:  an older, widowed, childless client whose sole source of income was her deceased husband's meager pension.  She was behind in her mortgage payments.  Herschel had showed leniency for the last two months.  He had suggested an interim schedule of lesser payments until she could catch up. She had agreed, however it had become obvious that she would never catch up.  He explained what he must do.  She cried; and then she begged.  He empathized; he was sorry; he was tactful; he was consoling; but he was respectfully adamant.  Ultimately, she said she understood, thanked him for his time, and left.  She would lose her home, but not before she killed herself. 

Herschel had done what business demanded.  However, in the aftermath, his judgment did not sit well with him.  He reasoned that if what he did was proper, then it must be good; and if it was good, why then did he feel so wretched?   And it was that disturbing thought that Herschel Grimes could not dispel.  His decision had been callous and would have terrible ramifications for the woman…and other similar business decisions he had rendered disturbed him as well.  He realized he did not willingly wish to wrong anyone, but he had been compelled by principle. And, that was the truth; and that was the rub.   How could he do both right and wrong at the same time? 

The irony of the question captured his thoughts while his gaze casually roamed the office and finally came to rest on his name, in gold leaf, stenciled on the glass of his door.  His attention was immediately drawn to it as if it were a revelation.   “Backwards,” he observed with a wry smile.  “From the outside, correct; from the inside, backwards…just like I've become.”  Underneath his thin mustache the faint unkind curl of his lips relaxed and took on a regretful expression.  His head inclined slightly and a short, snort of exasperation escaped him.  He had been much happier before he began to empathize with his clients and distrust his decisions.

He thought back over the past several months, but like any subtle transition, he had no idea as to exactly when, or why, the first twinge of compassion took root, but he knew it was having a profound effect on him.  He had become anxious and ill at ease.  He recalled a recent shortness of breath after walking up a flight of stairs.   He had paid little attention to it.  Soon afterward, however, whenever he stood up suddenly he felt a slight dizziness.   He ignored those annoying discomforts, but they became more pronounced and occurred more often.  He noticed, in particular, a similar lightheadedness, following a foreclosure or having to explain placing a lien on a client's property.  The distraught look on the person's face was sufficient to induce quick, short breaths, especially when a client fought back tears and their words came out chokingly, then he could almost feel his pulse in his throat and its throb at his temples.   He worked hard at controlling his breath and tone of voice; his position demanded a dignified bearing.

What had bothered him the most, however, was his most recent experience with Mr. Murdoch, the owner of a popular restaurant.  Mr. Murdoch had recently partnered—the news had become known throughout the business community and Herschel learned of the new arrangement soon afterward.  He also knew that the new partner was reputed to be a gambler.   Mr. Grimes had not been consulted nor had he received any additional legal paperwork relative to the change in ownership.  Concerned for the bank's collateral, he requested a meeting with Mr. Murdoch.  The meeting did not go well for either man.  It was unlike any meeting Mr. Grimes had experienced previously.

Mr. Murdoch arrived on time and sat before Mr. Grimes. Mr. Murdoch knew why he had been asked to review his business account and was resentful.  He removed his hat and placed it on the corner of Mr. Grimes' desk—an intended impertinence.

 He was much larger than Mr. Grimes and quite a bit heavier.  He sat on the edge of the chair and leaned forward, his belly drooping somewhere between his knees. Murdoch stretched his arms outward and placed both hands on the desk.  His head jutted forward a bit and his eyes fixed on Mr. Grimes; and he spoke loudly.

 "I am a very busy man.  I trust that my business transactions are in order and that my checks have all cleared and my ledger is in balance." He punctuated the three points with finger stabs in the air.  And in a louder voice, "Your insistence that I appear before you to discuss my business is an imposition and an intrusion. Your bank has lent me money and I am, faithfully, paying it back.  My business is prosperous and it is quite possible that I may return the loan prior to the end of its terms.  What exactly is it that you wish to know?"

 Mr. Grimes felt his pulse speed up and he seemed almost on the verge of panting.  Whereas his previous unease was the result of sympathy, this one was the result of fear.  Mr. Murdoch's demeanor was antagonistic and unexpected.  Any preparedness Herschel had cobbled up beforehand, wilted in the face of Mr. Murdoch's offensive.  He was glad that he was seated as his knees seemed to quiver.

 "Well, uhh, Mr. Murdoch," Herschel began in the most casual and professional voice he could muster, "we are both businessmen.  You see the necessity for securing transactions and it is just so in the banking business."  Herschel took a deep breath, "It has come to my attention that you have taken on a new partner.  I wish merely to advise you that the original loan lists you as the sole proprietor of your restaurant.  If the conditions have changed, then your new partner must also be listed as co-owner. Otherwise, the bank's loan is unsecured as it would be if the proper paperwork was filled out and you had taken a legitimate partner."  Herschel Grimes was immediately sorry that he had used the word "legitimate."

 Mr. Murdoch jumped to his feet and pointed a finger at Mr. Grimes; his face turned red and spittle jumped from his lips as he angrily admonished Mr. Grimes for questioning his prerogatives and, by inference, his business practices and solvency.   He stormed from the office, slamming the door behind him.  Despite the bank's employees' oblivious appearance, all had heard much of what transpired through the closed door.  The matter had not been settled.  Herschel's heart was pounding and he heard a roaring in his ears; he felt faint.  Fearing the colossal embarrassment of toppling over in the midst of another of the day’s scheduled meetings he cancelled them all.  An anxious Herschel Grimes called his physician, Dr. Barton, and arranged an immediate appointment.

 Herschel arrived at Dr. Barton's office in a nervous and much troubled state of mind.  He tried to remain calm through the ensuing examination, but it was evident that he was upset.  Dr. Barton was less affable following his exam and ushered him, hand on shoulder, into his officer for a consultation.  The doctor sat across from Herschel, his hair, wild and grey, framed his face.   He held his spectacles in both hands and peered through the lenses at the floor as he delivered, in an almost distant voice, the unwelcome news: "Mr. Grimes, you have an elevated blood pressure, and your heartbeat is irregular.  Both are serious concerns.  You are forty-five years old, your work is largely sedentary, and you are slightly overweight.  You haven't been to my office for at least two years.   Your last checkup indicated that you were reasonably healthy—none of these conditions were evident at the time.  Their emergence has been, well, unexpected."  He leaned back in his chair and let his words have their effect on Mr. Grimes.

 The first thoughts that flashed through Herschel Grimes's mind was telling Doctor Barton that sedentary probably better described the doctor's own occupation; slightly overweight—humph, the doctor was fat; and his heart…well, everyone in town knew that Dr. Barton had had a heart attack a few years ago.  But Herschel was correct and proper and would never utter those thoughts. 

 Dr. Barton replaced his eyeglasses.  The views of each man traded places; Herschel looked down at the floor; Dr. Barton watched Herschel's face.  "Blood pressure and heart?" Herschel repeated in a quiet voice. 

 "Your heart is working harder to sustain what it easily did before; and it seems to be a bit confused.  You've gained weight and your muscle tone is—well, it should be improved.   Off hand, I'd say that you eat too much and don't exercise enough--and probably spend too much time sitting.”  Mr. Grimes, this is not only just a medical observation.  I speak from personal experience and I positively know what will happen to you if you continue your present regimen."

 Herschel looked up into compassionate eyes.

 "I too, have almost identical problems," the doctor continued, "but, on the other hand, I'm seventy-three years old… and, in a way, I am entitled to do anything I care to do with the time I have remaining.  If I die tomorrow, it will be of no great consequence; I have no heirs; I have no debts; my will is complete.  I've done enough… but, you are still a relatively young man, your life is still before you.  You must do what you can do to reduce these health threats.  The conditions you have acquired are often work related.  I would guess that you are entirely too focused on your business.  What do you do for fun?"

 Fun?  What an odd question Herschel thought.  Fun was what children did… fun?  But, the doctor was serious and looked at him intently.  Herschel was stunned by the question.   His mouth opened, twice, but no words came forth.  He repeated, "Fun?" so as to gain a moment and come up with an answer.  But he could not… and finally said, "I seldom take vacations… and if I do take a week off, I usually come to the office a couple of times to see how the bank's business is going.  I suppose my ‘fun’ is my work."  It was a weak answer and it was the sad truth.

"Mr. Grimes," the doctor said in a serious and deeper voice, "I applaud your devotion, but I believe you are overworked.  I am going to prescribe an herbal tonic for your irregular heartbeat. It's called "Goldenleaf"—been used for ages to cure everything from itching skin to heart ailments.  I also advise you to take a real vacation— as far away from work as possible.  Visit new places; go for long walks; meet new people.  In short, do something different.  Your present level of dedication is a detriment to your health.  Put the banking business totally out of your mind for awhile.  You do have competent assistants don't you?"

"Yes, of course, my staff is excellent."                 

"Well, then, let them handle the work… go away and give yourself a chance to relax.  Find some enjoyment in life in addition to your business.  Try to picture yourself over the next twenty years…an older man, probably retired or retiring…to what will you be retiring?  Wife?  Grandchildren?  Sitting in a boat and fishing?  You have to find something for your own well being." 

Herschel nodded in agreement with the doctor, more so in deference to his being a doctor than because he believed the advice.  Wife?  Grandchildren?  He had neither; and he loathed fishing.   Yet…to be away from the mewing, wanting faces,  perhaps to rid himself of his inexplicable, infernal, growing commiseration with his clients—maybe the doctor did have something there…maybe he could break away from their mewing faces and dreadful problems.    Something, anything, to stop his growing sympathies—and unreasonable guilt: a real vacation would be welcome. 

 Herschel drew a deep breath and forced a small, sociable smile.   "I have had a terrible experience this morning that I wish never to repeat.  You are doubtlessly correct.  A true vacation is appealing, but I wonder if I may not be as concerned as much being away from my business as I am while at work?  I have been wrapped tightly in my work and enjoy it.  But your point is well taken… good health should be as equally important as good business.  I will give it serious consideration." All of this said, of course, in a careful and thoughtful manner.

The remark, "equally as important." annoyed Dr. Barton momentarily, but he ignored it, smiled and said, "I know of no one who has ever regretted having a good time.  You deserve a vacation.   My philosophy is that if one doesn't give one's body and mind a chance to mend, retirement may come far earlier than one expects."  Dr. Barton stressed the word "retirement" in depth of voice and further underscored it with a slight nod of his head to leave no doubt that the word meant death.   And then, abruptly, in a lighter tone and with a smile, "I schedule a vacation for myself everyday.  I see no one after noontime; you are my last patient of the day.   I am going to enjoy today doing whatever comes to my mind.  I wouldn't be surprised if I live to be one hundred."  He laughed aloud at the thought.  Even Herschel managed to join him in his laugh, but in a moderate, polite manner. 

"Start taking the medication immediately and find some mild form of exercise, even if it's just walking.  I'd also like you to eat less at each meal, and see me when you get back from your vacation."  Herschel thanked Dr. Barton for the advice, paid him twelve dollars, cash, for the visit, and stepped out into the coolness of late afternoon. 

The fading winter sun, although weak, felt good on his back.  He was much calmer.  Herschel noted that the shopkeepers had neglected the flowers they put out on the boardwalk flower pots earlier in the spring and summer. Some flowers survived Fall, but now most were withered. Sputtering four wheeled vehicles fought with the occasional horse drawn wagon for room in the street.  In a different frame of mind the several blocks walk would have been wonderfully invigorating.  However Herschel Grimes thoughts dwelt on the doctor's words: "If I die tomorrow… no great consequence… no heirs… I've done enough…."  He had never given his own life much thought before.  Viewed from the doctor's perspective, Herschel thought, what had he actually done in life?  Moreover, his future was assured—it would be more of the same!  And that thought almost stopped him mid-step.  In a flash he saw old Mr. Croft's face… Mr. Croft—the last bank president—wrinkled and forgetful.  He finally retired as a result of the bank board threatening to declare him incompetent and have him removed.  Mr. Croft died shortly afterward; his was a remarkably small funeral.  Herschel had a startling and frightening premonition—he was on his way to becoming another Mr. Croft! 

After that thought entered his mind, Herschel barely noticed the darkening sky or the withered flowers in their pots.  Unconsciously his strides increased as the doctor's words continued to eat at his mind like a fateful prophecy…"I speak from personal experience and I positively know what will happen to you if you continue your present regimen."  Herschel was at the bank’s doors far quicker than he anticipated.  He went straight to his office, shut the door, and slumped heavily into his chair.  His face felt flushed and he had a ringing in his ears.  Only half the day was gone; he eagerly anticipated its end.

All these things went through Herschel's mind as he stared at his desktop.  His meeting with Mr. Murdoch had been two hours ago, yet he still flinched when he thought of the confrontation. He was thankful for the weekend.  Glancing up at the wall clock, he saw that it was late and for the first time that day he felt hungry.  He would dine at one of the town's better restaurants this evening, but decidedly not Mr. Murdoch's.  He locked his desk drawer and office door; his heel clicks echoed off the polished, marble floors; the last cut short by the sliding front door lock.