Jack Be Quick Ch. 05

"What do you need to get that idea across, a crown? Maybe a badge that says, 'The Nerd King' to pin on your chest? How about a sash to drape over one shoulder with the message in big red letters?"

"No, if I feel it, they'll know it just from my body language. You're an all-round guy, Jack, but for a brainy kid who's weak and clumsy, growing up is a parade of small disasters. I could fix anything that broke, and I built television sets in my spare time. But I never once managed to hit a baseball. I'd like my father to shake my hand in a firm grip and say that he's proud of me. I'd like my mom to get that look in her eye that says, 'At last I can stop worrying about Gerard.' So if I feel that I've made the grade, I know they'll get the message, by their weird parental radar."

And so it went, small successes breeding bigger ones, success breeding confidence, confidence breeding momentum. This was the first time I'd ever been part of such a large group activity, and I was fascinated by the way the team had shaped up. The noise level was a giveaway, too. Instead of keystrokes clicking away in deathly quiet, I could now hear a buzz of conversation and occasional bursts of laughter. The seats were filling up earlier, and there were people already working when I got there in the morning.

I talked with Trudy one night about this very thing, in the quiet of the lounge at our apartment. Here we are, a group of carefully screened, capable techies, with access to all the latest in IT to help us build a cathedral of technology, a dazzling display of data and logic. We had a whole lab full of near geniuses, working to defeat all the rest of the world's near geniuses who want to knock down our doors and steal what we'd produced. But the strange part is that the productivity of the entire group was brought nearly to zero when we lost one man who was our friend. And to top it off, the productivity was turned back on just by letting them know in various ways that we still think highly of them and will continue to value their contributions. Brilliant creativity can be turned off and on again by pure emotion! I'd never have guessed that.

Trudy, the brilliant generalist, just smiled and put her hand over mine. "Haven't you been listening to the lyrics of all the hit songs? They've been telling us forever that all we need is love. Just because they can't prove it mathematically doesn't mean the songwriters are wrong. Look at us. Both smarter than the average bear, but our love for each other is the strongest feeling we've got. Motivation works like that. Psychologists would like to convince us that everybody's different, and that it takes a trained professional to figure out what makes us tick. Of course that's their meal ticket so they'd say that, especially because they don't know how to do anything useful to make a living. But no matter what they say, love is so basic that it motivates everybody." To illustrate her point, she leaned over and gave me a kiss as she started to unbutton my shirt. It was a classical teaching moment, explaining a principle and then doing a practical demonstration. I decided that the ideal laboratory would be our bedroom, and we moved the demonstration in there and locked the door.

* * * * * * * * * *

Woody, the car guy who did business as Reed's Rides, was the FBI's contractor in Boston for all things automotive. He had become a friend of our little clique as he tagged along on Red's heels during the investigation of George's fatal crash. Privately he admitted that he learned so much from Red that it was like going to grad school. So when Red decided that he'd wrung as much evidence from the cars and crash scene as he could, Woody announced that he would host a big "Farewell Red" dinner for the bunch of us. We were assembled at the back table in the Green Goose talking about it, and Jim Mangrum asked Roger if he could recommend a good restaurant where we could get a fancy meal in a private dining room.

Roger smiled and pulled up a chair backward, to sit with his arms folded over the back of it. "Now I know you'd never think it from the looks of this place and the limited menu, but I'm really a Cordon Bleu chef. When I sold off my big restaurant I kept all my good stuff from the kitchen, and although the kitchen here is small I can fix anything you could get at any other restaurant. Just tell me when you want to do it. I'll close early with a Private Party sign on the door, and you'll have the works. You know I'm interested in your project, and sometimes I feel almost like part of your team. I have a personal interest because you're my friends, and also because I'm patriotic. It's the way I felt in Nam, fighting to protect my country, and always looking out for my buddies."

And so it came about that we gathered at the Goose on Friday night for a banquet. Red sat at one end of the table and Glenn Carlson sat at the other. Trudy sat next to Red, and I was next to her. Jerry was next, and Woody and Jim were across the table from us. Glenn started things off with a prayer of thanks for bringing us all together safely, and a moment of silence to remember our fallen friend, George. Then the mood brightened as we talked, joked, and munched our way through an elaborate meal. A round of champagne toasts was followed by the first course of poached salmon and a salad. The food was superb, and elegantly served by Roger's wife Sally, who wore a severe black and white uniform for the occasion. We sat for a while and then had some little medallions of chicken with mango chutney, that were to die for. After that there was a tiny cup of lemon sherbet to cleanse our palates, so we could really appreciate the Chateaubriand, served in the middle of a bouquet of steamed veggies and sliced at our table by Roger, in his tall white chef's hat.

It occurred to me during the meal to wonder why I didn't feel out of place in this group. Trudy and I were just kids. She was a few months younger than I was. I was ten years younger than Jim, the next youngest. Woody and Jerry came next. Glenn and Red were the age of our parents. But instead of feeling out of place, I felt comfortable in the presence of our elders, each accomplished in his own specialty. Maybe some of their cumulative brilliance could soak into me by osmosis.

Glenn spoke up during a lull in the conversation. "This group is probably the most responsive that I've ever been part of. Think for a minute of why each of us is here. We got going on a project that had special needs, and it hit some bumps along the way. Everybody here did something above and beyond to get us out of trouble, responding immediately to the needs of the group. I'm going to share something with you that's not common knowledge. When I was a young man I was interested in boxing, and in the Navy I coached the ship's boxing team. Counter punching effectively is a thing I've always placed a lot of importance on, and I've seen it in every one here. I've coached some good teams, but this one is the best!" I looked around at all the faces at the table and realized that he was exactly right, and that Trudy and I had stepped up ourselves when we had to face problems. Trudy had an additional talent. She could get people to calm down and refocus when the going got tough, as she had demonstrated on me in Utica and dozens of times since.

We were all enjoying a cup of coffee before the dessert course, and Glenn asked Roger and Sally to come out and sit with us. For the first time, Trudy wasn't the only woman at the table. Woody asked if we would all join hands for a minute, to think about George and the events that had brought us together, bonded almost like a family. I wasn't sure what the silent meditation would feel like to me, and I was surprised at the upsurge of strength and confidence I could feel, as for a few seconds I stopped being Jack the young kid and transformed into Jack the teammate, a vital part part of a truly awesome team. We had proven the basic premise of synergism - the whole really can be greater than the sum of its parts.