The Gift

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How the Big Apple creates the Big O.
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It had rained earlier in the morning, a hard, wind-driven downpour and Nicholas was forced to sidestep ankle-deep pools of mucoid water that had collected at the street corners. Now the rain was letting up; the clouds began to skid off towards New England and beyond. Weak shafts of sunlight squeezed down between the buildings of midtown Manhattan. It was still drizzling enough to justify the Burberry Nicholas wore with its myriad of belts, buckles and other devices. These items had served the wearer well in the trenches, suitable to hang grenades on, for example, but for Nicholas they were useless trappings that came with the coat and nothing more. ("But, sir, classic never goes out of style," the salesman had assured him.)

"Just like this city," Nicholas thought, "to have storm drains that don't work. Millions for a baseball stadium, nothing for sewage and sanitation." He tried not to think about the unseen offal that clogged the labyrinth of pipes below his feet. He made a disastrous misstep around an excavation (Would they never stop digging?) and felt a surge of greasy water pour into his shoe. By the end of the day the now supple Bally at three hundred and ninety eight dollars would feel like cardboard.

Nicholas reached his office building and entered through the first set of revolving doors. His umbrella, which had carefully closed after reaching the lobby overhand, caught in the sweeping doors and was dragged around behind him, the tip emerging slightly bent.

The long black rubber rain mats were out.

"Good morning, Mr. Hunter. A nice day, isn't it?

The lobby security guard, a short, stoop-shouldered gnome of uncertain nationality, greeted everyone with the same evaluation every day. Rain or shine, paralyzing blizzard or stifling heat wave, holdup in the lobby bank that left five dead, mass transit strike or terrorist attack, to the guard it was always a nice day.

Nicholas grunted assent and stepped into a waiting car. He was greeted by Marjorie Cohen who was moving her shoulders in the rhythm of whatever was playing on her pink iPod. Marjorie was five feet two inches tall in her bare feet (a measurement Nicholas was determined to one day confirm) with shoulder-length auburn hair, large and soft round eyes and, he suspected and hoped, breasts to match. The fact that she said "wit" instead of "with" did not bother him in the least as long as someday he heard her say "All right, your place then."

Nicholas smiled. "Good morning, Marjorie. Twenty?"

She plucked the buds from her ears. "What? Oh. I have a meeting wit Norm Castle. I'll go to nineteen wit you."

He adroitly aimed the tip of his umbrella at nineteen.

The bend it acquired in the revolving doors caused the tip to hit eighteen. Not that it mattered. The floor indicators were the kind sensitive only to heat. Marjorie Cohen touched nineteen with a fingertip shrouded under a nail well-manicured in the French style. The doors slid shut with a thin pneumatic whistle. The fragrance of J.Lo perfume competed with the smell of wet clothing. Nicholas rocked gently on his feet, making a squishing sound.

Thirty seconds later the doors opened onto the leather and bronze reception room of Owens & Marshall Advertising.

The receptionist, a thoroughly vapid girl who constantly wore gloves because she was auditioning to be a hand model, looked up from The New York Times crossword puzzle. The puzzles became more difficult as the week progressed and this being Monday she had it half completed. "Nicholas, this is, ah..." She consulted a pink piece of paper. "ah...Mr. Ehlis. He's been waiting."

Nicholas turn his attention from Marjorie's rear end to the tall, angular man rising from the reception room couch. His three-piece was a gray chalk stripe slightly tucked at the waist. It covered a white shirt with long, pointed collars. The shoes were tasseled, highly and immaculately polished. Mr. Ehlis obviously has not been compelled to face the rigors of flooded street corners. The necktie was black except for the red woven design, an intricate pattern of what appeared to be dozens of the number six.

"Mr. Hunter. Mr. Nicholas Hunter." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, Mr. Ehlis? I wasn't expecting anyone." he shot a disapproving glance at the receptionist who stared back balefully.

"I realize that. Actually, it is rather forward of me to call on you without an appointment, I admit. But if you will give me just ten minutes of your time, I believe you will forgive me."

"Uh, Mr. Ehlis, if you're selling something, I don't purchase anything. Creative is on the seventeenth floor. Production on twenty. Are you a rep?" Nicholas regretted the question immediately. It gave Ehlis the opening he needed.

Ehlis smiled. "No, I am not a salesman and yes, you might say I am a "rep" as you put it. Is there somewhere we can talk? Your office?"

"Mr. Ehlis, I...."

Ehlis leaned closer and lowered his voice.

"That was Marjorie Cohen, was it not? Would it be fair to say you have had certain, ah, thoughts about her? I believe I can help you in this delicate matter. Give me ten minutes. No more." The voice was smooth, positive, assured. Like a salesman. "I'll begin at the beginning and go to the end. Then stop. Ten minutes."

Nicholas Hunter was 33 years old, five feet ten inches tall and weighed in at about 165 pounds. He favored suits of the English cut with double-vented jackets, blue shirts and tasseled shoes whether they were "out" or "in." He had absolutely no use for new spade-like flat shoes that resembled a platypus. Twice each week he visited the health club where he swam ten laps in the pool, spent forty-five minutes in the equipment room and twenty in the sauna. The minutes passed among the machinery were also spent girl and women-watching. He received three hours of instruction each week in Okanawa-style karate (strictly for self defense, the sensei cautioned.)

As an account executive for the nation's fifth largest advertising agency, Nicholas was competent, energetic and innovative. His marketing recommendations were based on thorough and intensive study of the client's position, objectives, current and projected market conditions. In fact, he had become somewhat of an expert in the marketing of white goods - gin and vodka and that sort of thing. His client, a major distiller, liked him and respected his judgment and the way he coordinated their objectives with the agency creative staff. His briefs to this irreverent group clearly defined the advertising strategy without strangling creative efforts. His salary allowed him to pay his Upper West Side rent, dine out four times a week, add a frequent purchase to his collection of old illustrated manuscripts, retreat to Stowe for a week in winter and the Grand Bahamas in summer for a week of bonefishing.

Here his successes came to a grinding, screeching halt, particularly with women. Lasting relations with the opposite sex were zero. No one regretted this more than Nicholas and no one tried more intensely to figure out why. He had cultivated a measured degree of charm, his wit ranged from the sophisticated to the boisterous.

He was not handsome, certainly, but neither was he unattractive. You could expect to see him in a catalog modeling leather windbreakers or holding power tools. As an adolescent he had suffered acne but two summers aboard a fishing boat out of Chesapeake Bay had leavened his complexion. His teeth were not perfect, yet he was not afraid to smile broadly. He flossed regularly.

There were occasional encounters, of course. After the office year-end party with one of the girls from Media who thought the spilled drink opening gambit was "cute." There was the slightly older and thoroughly delightful woman he had met across town in an East Side book gallery. Nicholas had turned quickly and his elbow knocked into the portfolio she was carrying. The faded red ribbon parted and a dozen old prints had gone slithering across the floor. But that was about the end of it. Nothing steady. No repeat engagements. She departed or he departed. And if by chance they ever met again it was "How are you?" and "Keeping busy?" Nothing held over for another week.

Once, when Nicholas and his date were waiting on the subway platform having to forgo the usual cab ride because of the protest over police failure to run a killer of cabdrivers to ground, a man stepped suddenly from behind a gum-encrusted pillar and gave them both a start. Ever mindful of muggers, Nicholas tried to convert his surprise into a stance of Oriental defense, but managed to only step down hard on the open-toed shoe of his companion. The train arrived with a squeal that outdid the girl's by only two decibels. The doors opened and the girl limped aboard and while Nicholas feinted and adjusted, they closed just as fast. He was left alone on the platform facing an ancient and wizened messenger in an ill-fitting stained brown coat and black bag-like trousers. The creature gazed at Nicholas from empty, rheumy eyes, turned and shuffled away. The first pleasant, then romantic, and next sex-filled evening Nicholas had so meticulously planned vanished as swiftly as the red lights of the train.

In his search for the why, he hit upon a theory. He was a bumbler, behaving now and then like a minimum man. He knew this and that it was endearing to some, amusing to many.

But he also realized that women did not take him seriously. Yet for all the dropping of pocket change, spilled drinks, catching his coat on doorknobs, whacking his knees against desks, he knew he was good in bed. He was a considerate, attentive and skilled lover. An appreciative sensualist, he took delight in the scents of lovemaking, the thickening and swelling of tissues, the moistures, the involuntary flutter of abdominal muscles spreading out like ripples in a pond. The friction and the textures. But he rarely got the chance to prove it. The view of the city from Nicholas' office was unimpressive. In fact, it was nonexistent. The sheer mountainous bulk of a pinkish architectural miscarriage rose solidly for 50 stories only sixty feet away. Through its scores of windows could be seen as many office workers drinking coffee and eating bagels, manicuring nails, reading newspapers, watering plants, talking on cell phones. They may get to work on time but the first thirty minutes were theirs. Nicholas, not at all sure of what he was about to deal with, seated himself behind the standard-issue Owens & Marshall desk and began to fiddle with a brown pencil. The words Owens & Marshall Advertising in bronze lettering twisted back and forth. Ehlis chose one of the mauve-colored chairs facing the desk.


"Do you mind if I smoke?" Ehlis looked steadily through the gray lenses.

"You know that's not allowed...."

"That is so,"said Ehlis, "but I doubt if anyone will see me."

A thin cigarillo showing a quarter inch of ash appeared in the corner of Ehlis's mouth. He had not withdrawn a pack from anywhere, used a match or worked a lighter. The cigarillo vanished. Nicholas stopped twisting the pencil. "I'm sorry," he said. "I thought I saw..."

"Would you care to see me do it again?"

"That's what I thought. I did see what I think I saw"

"I do this cigarette trick to save time," said Ehlis conversationally. "It helps close the credibility gap quickly. The cigarillo was now in his right hand, a thin wisp of oddly aromatic vapor curling toward the vents under the window.

Ehlis continued. "Mr. Hunter, you asked me if I was a 'rep.' Well, yes. I am the tri-state area field man representing the Old Gentleman."

"The who?" asked Nicholas, turning his head just a fraction and and squinting one eye.

"Ah, you remember them. No, no, no. I had nothing to do with them. Not my kind of entertainment at all. I said the Old Gentleman. Ah, Old Scratch."

"Old Scratch?"

"Belial. Azazel. Sammaci. Asmodeus. The Adversary." Ehlis paused. "Satan, Mr. Hunter. Satan."

Nicholas involuntarily push the point of the pencil down into the desktop. Motes of graphite rolled along the desk and tumbled over the edge. He suddenly had the look of a rodent searching for traps.

"Relax, Mr. Hunter. I am not here to collect your soul," Ehlis said amiably.

"You're not?" Nicholas wondered frantically if he had ever bargained that ambiguous commodity to anyone, even though he had thought about it at times.

He suddenly felt stupid. Then he stood up. "Mr. Ehlis, you've got a good act. I don't know how you managed the cigar business. You probably do it in a bistro act somewhere around town and whomever hired for for this performance has an odd sense of humor. I could probably name a few around here who would put me up for this and it might be amusing if I weren't so tight with the schedule today. So, if you'll excuse me...." He gestured towards the door.

"Quite all right. I often encounter this sort of resistance," said Ehlis and began to sink slowly through the mauve fuzz of the chair until only his head and shoulders were visible in the gray pin striping of his suit. His eyes glowed like little glass windows in a furnace door.

It was at this moment that Nicholas chose to believe. He made a strangled cawing sound and sank back heavily into his chair.

"Excellent," said Ehlis. He began to rise back up through the chair. The eyes dimmed. "I knew you could be convinced. Cheap theatrics are useful, even necessary at times and I do deplore the tactic. I would rather people take me at face value."

"You're sure? You're sure you're not here for my soul or anything like that?" Nicholas's voice was much too high.

"Heaven sakes...ah, I beg your pardon, My Hunter. Hell, no. What with thousands of murders committed in the country every year and the guilty eventually dying, we have enough souls coming through our regional processing centers faster than we can log them in. Your city alone is a major supplier. Not to mention spouse beaters, drunk drivers, juicers, politicians, industrialists, assorted CEO's, plumbers, polluters, assassins and sometime their victims. And if you will forgive me, a few from your own profession. There is quite an adequate supply of condemned souls at the moment. We are not even a quarter full."

Ehlis reach for his briefcase and extracted a folder. "On the contrary, Mr. Hunter, I am here to give you something. A gift."

"The usual three wishes, I suppose."

"Extraordinary!" said Ehlis, obviously pleased. "Flippancy at a moment like this. Quite rare."

"Sorry," said Nicholas, retreating deeper into his chair. "But can I ask why? And why me?"

"I am running behind schedule so let me just say this. I do not have the time to engage in a lengthy discussion about who we are, what we do and why we do it. Suffice it to say that we have a new business plan that takes us out to the year 2500. Section Two, subparagraph C calls for us to step forward and improve our image. We did contract with a public relations firm that recommended a technique they called "event marketing." We were to sponsor tennis tournaments, auto racing, offer sweepstakes, distribute hats, seat cushions and water bottles. How would that sound? This event made possible by the Legions of Hell who share your interest in sports and competitions? We paid their fee, of course and are looking forward to welcoming their principals in person. Ah, sometime next month. A boating accident, I believe."

Ehlis leaned forward and pressed his fingertips together, as close as his long nails would permit. "Frankly, we are trying something new, per subparagraph D. The individual approach. Highly targeted marketing with a visible compensation. The Other Side has employed the technique with some success. You know, allowing individuals to see visions, bleeding statues, weeping paintings and the like. Just last week, I am told, a woman in Mexico saw the face of an apostle on a taco. We're taking the program a step farther. Perceptible gifts. The concept has been approved at the highest levels for testing in California and here in the tri-state area."

"All that doesn't explain me. I'm not particularly religious. There's you and them and I never thought much about either of you."

"Just so," replied Ehlis."Low brand awareness. We are not top of mind. Understandable. Much media is closed to us, although we do manage to place advertising albeit disguised in publications seen by the people we want to reach. As for you, we know you do not attend church, temple or mosque. No sacrarium of any kind. We also know that you have made entreaties, if I may use that word, for specific desires regarding the opposite sex despite the fact that you have professed a lack of interest in theologies of any kind." He withdrew a computer printout from the folder. "Now if I may I would like to detail exactly what we have to offer you."

Ten minutes later to the second Ehlis gathered up his papers, placed them carefully in his briefcase and snapped it shut. "It has been a pleasure, Mr. Hunter. Or may I call you Nicholas?"

"By all means," said Nicholas standing up. "Please do. May I show you the way out? The elevators are just down the corridor."

"Elevators?" said Ehlis. "I never use them."

Nicholas got up and closed his office door. Largess from an unexpected if not odd source and a rather curious benefactor. No matter. He now possessed The Gift and with it came the knowledge that the other side of his bed would never be empty again.

"Go ahead, Try it. You can work it on yourself if you wish"

With the office door he decided to test the power of The Gift. He shook hands with himself tentatively, just a light clasp. Nothing happened. He squeezed his hands together more tightly. Still nothing. "I've been had," he thought, "and royally, too."

Then he remembered what Ehlis had stressed.

"There's a bit of discipline required. Mental and physical discipline on your part. It won't work if you don't. And you must use your larynx. but not out loud of course. That would never do. Sort of a safety net, you know. Wouldn't want things to get into the wrong hands, so to speak."

He tried again. A good, firm, sincere grasp as he thought about how he would bring Marjorie to a back-arching "le petite mort" and formed the words in the back of his throat. Immediately there was a tingling in his groin, the first subtle rippling of orgasm and he began to get an erection. He considered that it might just be power of suggestion. He clasped his hands a bit tighter. That did it. The world disappeared for an instant. Nothing else mattered, nothing else existed. He flopped back in his chair and and blew out a deep breath, possibilities careening around in his mind.

Marjorie at last! The lightest feather touch of his hand on hers and she would wonder what other kind of sensual magic this man could work. The spectacularly attractive new girl in Research whom he had not yet formally met but understood she was not attached to anyone, as if that now made a difference. Then there was the woman, slightly older than himself, who lived in the apartment next to his own, a model if there ever was one. They had not yet met either; how could he arrange an introduction?

There was a pounding on the door. He shook his head and snapped back to the present. The door handle rattled. "Nicky, boyo! Open up!"

Nicholas stood. He straightened his tie and looked down at the front of his slacks, thankful he had chosen a dark pair this morning. Everything was ok there.

The door pounder was Grant Berry, one of the agency's creative directors.

"You ok in here, Nicko? Sorry to bust in on you like this but Gotham awaits."

"What?"

"Gotham. Metropolis. We have a ten o'clock. We volunteered, remember?"

It came back to Nicholas slowly. Some time ago he had said he would be glad to contribute his thinking to one of the agency's pro bono accounts, creating advertising without pay for the benefit of the community. The chairman called it "Our good citizenship." The staff called it "our pain in the ass." The charities, wildlife federations, the not-for-profits they assisted from time to time all seemed to be peopled by demanding, indecisive and obnoxious bullies, bureaucrats who knew everything yet understood nothing. The agency's paying clients on the other hand understood the process instead of obstructing it. It was simple. With the meter running at $100 per hour per person and with a room full of account types, creatives (how they despised the word!) media and research people, you listened to professional advice, you evaluated, you weighed, you made up your mind and then you bought.

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