The Rock Meets a Hard Place

The Rock Meets a Hard Place-01

The Rock Meets a Hard Place-01 (2,261)

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         “The Iceman.” I hate that nickname, and some of the others that I’ve been tagged with over the years– but one thing is certain—no one calls me those names to my face—no one. Tired; I’m getting damn tired of being the point man for corporate problems, problems that should have been able to be taken care of by executives making several times my pay.

         I’m getting too old for this, I thought. I turned forty a couple of months ago, and I’m sure that there has to be a better life in store for me than this. Shoveling shit, which seems to be all the company thinks I’m good for these days. While I’m trying to trouble shoot various branches of our company, I keep getting called in—all too frequently—to unscrew situations that have been created by the stupidity of upper management. No wonder I’m feeling old.

         My name is Gil Freeman, I’ve been with this company ever since my old Navy buddy Franklin enlisted me out of retirement shortly after I left the service. It seemed like a good deal at the time, but it soon turned into a gunfighter nightmare.

         I’d been a Seal in the Navy, and one thing that I’d noted quickly, men who were on the edge of dying told some remarkable stories, and the truth was much stranger than fiction. In other words; I became a committed skeptic about the general aspects of life. I trusted no one! Ever! I, for one, would never agree to share, anything, anytime!

         Six foot 2 inches tall, slender by most accounts, I still had a good bit of muscle on my bones, thanks to an old shipmate of mine who conned me into competitive martial arts many years ago. If I could find him today, I’d kick his ass, but I guess the habit of exercise hasn’t been a bad thing for me. The only claim to fame I seemed to have these days, is the reputation for having the emotions of a rock, stoic and unfeeling.

         That was not a true assessment of my character of course, I felt things very acutely—I just didn’t show those feelings as most folks did. Apparently, this characteristic was one of the things that caused my bosses to keep dragging me into contentious situations.

         The beginning of my Waterloo, if you will, came one Wednesday night, after I’d fired nearly 8 people from one of our remote branches for fraud and theft. Yeah I know, “The Kiss of Death; Iceman” and all that. This was my job; this is what I do. The evidence against them was irrefutable, the end predictable; but I was the invisible executioner– invisible to the board of directors—holding all of the rest blameless. The Kiss of Death to employees on the wrong side of right; Iceman to client adversaries—I can live with that—but don’t ever call me those names to my face.

         My invitation to my most recent confrontation was carefully contrived, as usual, thinly disguised as a simple meeting between management and a client/adversary. I’d been hauled in this way before, and it always seemed to end up in a rather nasty confrontational battle, which I’d win, more times than not. I have a very low tolerance for bullshit, and the goal of our efforts was always clear to me–always.

         Assholes and bitches; the story of my corporate life. My goal was to bring them to some semblance of cooperation, by hook or by crook. Any means possible, I thought. If it were only that easy. They all had agendas of their own, and I ended up bending and twisting wishes and wants and goals into something that fit; sometimes amiably, but most often with reluctant concessions from one side or the other. I tried to be absolutely fair in dealing with these folks, but I too often felt the pressure of my company’s business goals in my dealings. Most times I could resist that pressure; sometimes not. Just business…

         Always, I ended up being the Bastard of the moment, the one to whom all evil could be attributed. I didn’t care, particularly, since I’d seldom if ever met with any of the participants again. I always left each meeting, however, feeling that each side got a semblance of equality in the deal—I was not interested in screwing one side over the other.

         My call that Wednesday night was from Will Bradshaw, an executive director from the contracts division, explaining to me that he’d been literally ambushed by one of the contract managers of one of our clients. She’d been complaining that her company had been tricked into an onerous contract by our consulting firm, and that she was coming to see him about setting the contract right. His meeting with her was scheduled for Friday morning, at about 10:00 a.m.

         He was somewhat of a milquetoast, and certainly not up to facing anyone who might challenge any arrangement that he or his department might have drawn up. I didn’t have a particularly good feeling about this situation, simply because Will was reputed to short-change clients whenever final agreements were drawn up, and he usually left the infighting to staff like myself.

         As I said before, my life pretty much sucked—but the pay was all right. In addition, I was not your ordinary employee, as many managers and directors had discovered over time. The company could can my ass anytime; but if I didn’t like what I saw, I called it like it was. It was the price that they paid for dragging my ass in on their fuckups! Fortunately, most of the decisions fell on the side of the company bottom line; so I was still condemned to arbitrate silly, self-serving departmental scammers.

         Whatever happened in these encounters, I brought closure to the issues, and that’s why the higher ups kept bringing me into these little cesspools of intrigue. This was no different from any other of the crap-traps I’d been involved in, I thought. The only wild card in the mix this time was Chelsea Jackson, the fabled contract negotiator of Wellington Industries, one of our most profitable clients.

         I didn’t know her personally, never bumped into her, had no idea what she looked like, but her reputation was as wicked as mine was evil; so I really felt some curiosity regarding our upcoming engagement, for the first time in years. My goal in our exchange was the usual; satisfaction between my company and hers–failing that, at least a basis for further negotiation. Will was right in getting someone like me involved in this one, I’ll have to give him that. The woman’s reputation indicated that he’d have been nothing but a babbling idiot after a few minutes with this gal.

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         Will’s office was standard issue, I thought. Very clinical, bare of most any personal touch other than a portrait of John Wayne on the far wall. Freud would probably have a lot to say about that, but then, he would probably have a lot to say about me as well. A quick check around the office told me a bit more, and I had to chuckle at the naïveté of this corporate bozo. Hidden in one of the deep drawers of his desk was a messy collection of family pictures, mini-golf trophies, and bric-a-brac. I don’t know if he expected me to steal any of this trash, or that it might be incriminating in some sense.

         Reacting to a sharp knock on the office door, I looked up and began to walk up to open it, when it flew open. Stopping in my tracks, I beheld a vision out of Vogue—or at least it seemed that way.

         She was tall for most women that I was familiar with, probably around 5 foot 9 inches without heels, although she was wearing a pair of patent leather heels, about 1 or 2 inches high. My first impression was mulatto, but my knowledge of the various definitions of mixed racial characteristics was iffy, at best. This woman however, quite clearly contained all of the best genetic features of whatever her heritage had been. Automatically, I’d checked her hands for rings—I’m never sure why I do that, but I was a bit more relieved that she hadn’t any—not that it was any proof other than she simply didn’t wear rings.

         Long legs, perfectly proportioned, sinewy and attached to a pair of hips that had to have been molded by nature for optimum physical pleasure. Flat belly, and breasts . . . well, breasts that would corrupt the most rigorous of saints. Her face was classical, possessing features that reminded me of the Middle East, obviously of black heritage, but softened to a light bronze hue, and crowned with long brown hair, flowing gently down her back to her waist. Further examination failed to disclose any visible tattoos or piercings other than her earlobes—this was a woman who was comfortable in her own skin, I thought.

         Most remarkable at the moment however, were her eyes, flashing in anger and determination. Her full red pouting lips were tightened in anger, exuding sensuality nonetheless. She had stopped about one foot from me, giving me the same appraisal that I was giving her—at least for the moment. It was apparent that she’d not had an opportunity to meet Will Bradshaw, because she was obviously sizing me up as her opponent, hands on her hips, lower lip stuck out at me.

         We stood like that for what seemed like a long time, but it was probably just a few seconds. Composing herself, she began to pellet me with details of the contract under contention, details that I was completely unaware of. This was not unusual, as I refused to review the issues under contention until they became disclosed by confrontation. I’ve discovered that I’m able to avoid any preconceived ideas about the fairness, or the legitimacy if the problems/s until I’ve had a chance to see everything shake out at the same time.

         My usual technique was to allow the antagonist rattle on until they ran out of steam, then steer them into a rational examination of the issue in question. This vision before me however, showed little sign of running out of steam, and continued to prattle away, as if she could intimidate me with shear raving. Soon, she began accentuate her points by jabbing her forefinger into my chest, and while not particularly painful, was certainly annoying.

         Surprising her by quickly grabbing her finger and holding it away from my chest, I quietly informed her that what she was doing could easily be considered a physical assault by most courts. Jerking her finger out of my grasp, she shook her fist in my face and snarled, “So sue me, but I think you’ll need witnesses, big boy.”

         She was right of course, there were no witnesses other than ourselves in the office, and despite the huddle of office staff I knew to have positioned themselves just outside the door, there would be no evidence that would stand up in any court. Having obtained what she thought was a minor victory; she renewed her verbal attack on me, just inches in front of my face.

         Seeing that this was going to continue much longer than even I had patience for, and finally succumbing to her wonderful scent, I reached quickly behind her head and grabbed a handful of her lovely hair. Before she could react, I brought her face into mine, capturing those beautiful lips with mine, silencing her in mid-sentence.

         Stunned, she actually began to open her mouth to say something, and I took that opportunity to push my tongue into her mouth to quickly swipe it though hers, snapping it back into my own to avoid any kind of painful retribution by her teeth. Sure enough, Chelsea recovered quite quickly, pushing hard against my shoulder with her right hand to separate us.

         Stepping back a couple of paces, she wiped her arm across her mouth, angrily glaring at me. Moving back towards me, I saw that she was about to take a swing at me, and put my hand up to block her. Stopping in mid-swing, she began to threaten me with sexual harassment, but I said, “As you pointed out, Ms. Jackson—there are no witnesses. Now can we sit down and try to sort all this out, or am I going to have to silence you again?”

         Now watching me warily, she ran her tongue across her lips in an unconscious recollection of how I’d silenced her moments ago. As for me, I still had the faint fruity taste of her lipstick on my taste buds—familiar, but something I couldn’t put my finger on just yet. Gesturing towards the small office table near the window, I invited her to take a seat. Since she hadn’t yet restarted her tirade, I figured that she was still contemplating my shocking response to her earlier attempt to overwhelm me with words.

         As we both sat at the table, I couldn’t help but admire whoever had managed to tame this marvelous creature in a relationship, if anyone ever had. Her reputation as a wildcat in the business was intriguing to me however, and personally, I wanted to get to know a little bit more about her.

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"The Rock Meets a Hard Place-02" 

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