The Gift

Today it was the City of New York that awaited them in the large conference room. Again the staff would have to bite its collective tongue, hunker down and knuckle under. The city officials had been carted to the agency in a fleet of sleek black stretch limousines, any one of which consumed four parking spaces and could have housed ten of the city's homeless.

The assignment the agency (read Chairman) had accepted: create a campaign that would make New Yorkers feel good about the city and the place in which they lived. Endless meetings, late night creative conferences, dozens of "Let's go for lunch and we'll talk about it" appointments had resulted in nothing. The big question remained: how do you talk about drugs, subway killings, falling air conditioners and plummeting chunks of rotten masonry and tram cars stalled hundreds of feet over the East River in a positive way?

Berry had a huge layout pad under his arm.

"Here's what we're going in with." He spread the pad open on the desk to reveal a gorgeous beauty shot of the Manhattan skyline at dusk. The bold headline splashed across the sky read "New York. It's Worth the Risk."

Nicholas buried has face in his hands. First the Bally. Now this. "Are you crazy?" he asked Berry. "Look what happened to Routson Associates with their slogan "New Jersey. Come Smell For Yourself." And they live there!"

"Yeah, yeah. OK, Nick baby. Let's go git 'em." Berry led the way to the conference room and opened the door. They were the last to arrive.

Down one side of the long conference table sat The City, conservatively dressed, squat, powerful, embedded in their seats. In front of each, an officially sanctioned Owens & Marshall pen, pad and coffee cup, spoon precisely aligned. Along the opposite side sat The Agency with an array of drinking apparatus that was astonishing, from paper and styrofoam cups to large bottles of spa water to one mug emblazoned "I Love Philadelphia." Their dress was tattered jeans, sweatshirts and the occasional business suit with either pants or slacks. The appalling t-shirt halfway down the table was from a restaurant in Miami specializing in giant crab legs and showed a pretty girl holding up two of them. Underneath her picture, in blazing red type was the legend "You want me to suck what?"

At the far end of the table sat The Chairman himself. Facing him at the other end, the Deputy Mayor of New York.

"Ladies and gentlemen," intoned the Chairman, "I believe we can now get started. Please meet Mr. Nicholas Hunter who is one of our Account Managers and Mr. Grant Berry from our Creative Department."

Nicholas was riveted to where he stood, smitten with love and lust in equal measure. There, seated next to the Deputy Mayor was the most attractive girl he had ever seen in his entire life. Blonde hair tumbled to her shoulders with just the right degree of indifference. Cornflower blue eyes gazed appraisingly through large, rimless eyeglasses. The standard issue business suit for women and white short-collared blouse did nothing to mask what was obviously a centerfold body. If peach and cream complexion was a cliché, so be it. Nicholas heard nothing, saw nothing save the vision before him.

"And this is Mr. Nnnnngggg..." One by one, the Chairman had been introducing The City. The names slid by Nicholas. "And this is Ms. Bradley of the Office of Public Relations."

The vision extended her hand. Nicholas brought his up to meet hers and thought just a touch and a fleeting thought would be enough. His mind raced. Would that really be enough? He was about to panic. Ok, he said to himself. Let's do it. Here goes.

He thought about the Big O, tongue moving slightly as he said it silently.

There! He did it. He gripped the proffered black hand which somehow had gotten into his.

He looked down, then yanked his hand away. Too late.

A vacant look came into the eyes of the Deputy Mayor before they rolled up and back into his head. The Deputy Knees buckled and the Deputy Chin smacked the conference room table with an ugly thud on its was to the carpeting.

It took an hour to sort out the confusion and restore order.

The Deputy Mayor had finally been wheeled out by EMS which had been stuck in midtown traffic for fifteen minutes and then had burst into a conference room on the wrong floor. The Deputy Face was covered by an oxygen mask and a portable EKG unit struggled to record heart trauma where there was none. The black lady from the Welfare Division who was the Deputy Mayor's mistress for over a year was finally located in the ladies' room, sobbing in one of the stalls. The Chairman was huddled in the corner with his secretary arranging for flowers "in the tragic event of...."

Night crept in across the city, sneaking silently east to west through crosstown streets, releasing scores of scarred creatures from the bondage of daylight. Nicholas was above them all, actually 12 stories above in his Second Avenue apartment going over and over the last twelve hours in his mind.

He felt deeply confused. As The Last Person to Touch the Conscious Deputy Mayor, he had naturally been the object of some attention that varied depending on the other person's occupation (reporter, paramedic), politics (Democrat,Liberal, uncommitted). It had not helped any that he had tripped over the life-giving tubing and fallen into the oxygen tanks, thereby ripping the mask from the Deputy Mayor's face. He most most hurt when The Senior Art Director present accused him of masterminding a conspiracy; to avoid the presentation of the creative product. And what of Ms. Bradley, from Public Relations? She had simply vanished, gliding away swiftly through agency corridors on those magnificent legs.

Nicholas jumped up and went to his briefcase. It was there, among the others. Her business card. Bridgette Bradley, Research and Facilities. And in the lower left hand corner her phone number, fax number, e-mail address. His course was set. He would call her tomorrow. He had a legitimate reason. As the Senior Account Person on the project it was his job to liaise with the client, to confirm, to follow up, to plan, the keep the relationship from coming apart. He would set up an appointment. They would meet. He would shake her hand. She would be his.

A week went by. He made repeated phone calls to City Hall. "Sorry, sir. Ms. Baxter is not in." Click. "Baxter? She's up in Boston at some sort of convention." Click. "Who? Everyone's gone home for the day. Waddaya want from me?" Click.

Friday morning and the city sweltered. It was not yet noon and the temperature had gone over the 90 degree mark. It was not much better in Nicholas's office. The building was new, recently constructed with huge cost overruns. The state-of-the-art environmental system has not, as the engineers explained, been "maximally configured." Engineering-speak for not being able to figure out what was wrong.

His phone gave a quick double ring. An outside call.

"Hunter speaking."

"Mr. Hunter, this is Bridgette Bradley."

His heart skipped a beat.

"...from the Mayor's office. Hello? Are you there?"

"Ah, ah, yes Ms. Bradley"

"I am sorry not to have returned your calls sooner," she continued, "but it's just been one thing after another this week. What can I do for you?"

Nicholas reached down deep and summoned up every ounce of sincerity that Genus Accountus was capable of.

"Ms. Bradley, please let me extend our deepest concern for Mr. Jackson. I know how disruptive this has been to our coordination efforts on the new York image campaign and we at the agency are most anxious to resume the project because we know we can make a definite contribution to your efforts and I am meeting with all the parties involved to determine next steps and then arrange to regroup and I thought you might have some additional input that I could incorporate into the agency for the next meeting and...."

Nicholas ran out of steam.

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Hunter, this delay has given me a change to think some more about what data we should have at hand. Can we meet? Perhaps Monday?"

"Certainly." Nicholas did not bother to look at his calendar.

"Wonderful. About eleven. At my office."

The weekend ground its way towards Monday in slow motion. Nicholas used the time to go over the possible scenarios. What if she didn't extend her hand? A moment of apprehension gripped him. Well, maybe she wore an unusual ring and he could say :My isn't that an unusual ring. May I see it? Or "That's an unusual color of nail polish." Or, "Are those warts? My grandmother has a very effective homemade salve." Nonsense. An angel like Bridgette Bradley would never have warts.

The weather continued hot. The elderly without air conditioning expired with their feet in tubs of hot water that were once cool. Illegally opened hydrants robbed neighborhoods of water pressure and several buildings burned to the ground. The number of capital crimes reached an all-time high.

Nicholas endured.

Monday arrived. Despite a violent summer storm late Sunday, the heat wave remained unbroken.

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

The lobby gnome was sweating bullets in his wool uniform and Nicholas give him a wide berth as he headed for the elevator. the ascent was rapid: no one else got into the car. The doors slid open and he stepped into the reception area.

There it was again, the same after shave he had noticed when he first met Ehlis, the scent of pine needles and cordite. He sniffed. Then, deeper.

"Ehlis!"

He glanced over the reception desk counter and looked at the Log-In,Log-Out sheet. There were no entries. That didn't mean much; a man with no need for skyscraper elevators surely had the means to avoid signing in or out. He had been here. He was certain of it. But why? Had he come back to reclaim The Gift? Did word of the fiasco with the Deputy Mayor reached Ehlis? Just how far, how deep, how long, to where did the tentacles of the City political machine reach?

The ride downtown in the cab without air conditioning was a horror. They encountered an entire area cordoned off while police set up hugh inflated bag just in case the man did push the woman from the roof as threatened. The meter ticked on. Already it was showing more fare than Nicholas had on him.

The cabby, an American for a change, looked at him in the rearview mirror. "Sure you don't want to hang around and see if he gives her the big shove, pal?"

It was after eleven when they drew up in front of City Hall. Nicholas shoveled all the cash he had at the driver. "Here. Take this." He stripped off his Rolex and tossed it into the cabby's lap. Up the steps into the coolness of the lobby,

"Nicholas Hunter to see Ms. Bradley, please. Room 2112."

He was handed a clipboard and a badge.

"Sign this. Wear this. Through the detector."

Her door was open. Nicholas rapped softly on the door frame. There she was. At last. Facing the window, her back towards him. Midday sun streamed through her summer cotton dress, outlining her legs to where they joined everything else.

She turned. "Mr. Hunter, How nice to see you."

Dismay, shock and consternation washed over him. Here right arm was encased in a cast from elbow to first knuckles. On her left hand, one of those surgical burn gloves used to prevent infection.

"Please forgive me for not shaking hands," she said. Such a silly accident on Saturday. Fell off a stool in the kitchen and hit a pot of boiling water on the way down. It was so fortunate my husband and son were in the next room."

"Accident?," he said weakly. "Saturday? Boiling water? Husband? Son?"

Thirty minutes later he was back on the sidewalk wondering how he was going to get back uptown. The meeting had been a sham, full of hollow phrases, stupid agency rhetoric, glib nothings. He looked down. She had insisted he pour himself a cup of iced coffee and he was still holding the empty cup in his hand.

Clink, clink. Someone threw thirty cents into the cup. In fifteen minute he had the two dollar subway fare. The ride was stifling and long due to a dog caught on the tracks which the driver, under pressure from his superiors, eventually elected to ignore.

Nicholas dragged into the lobby.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Hunter. Nice day, isn't it."

Nicholas considered gashing the gnome's face with his briefcase. He would have done it, too, had he not left the expensive Ghurka on the subway.

The elevator doors opened and he stepped inside. He touched 19. Marjorie Cohen squeezed in between the closing panels. He felt knocked down, beat up, dragged out but still gave her figure an appreciate once-over as the car began to climb.

"What happened to you?" She looked him up and down.

"Client meeting. Nasty subway ride. Hotter than hell."

Marjorie gave him a suspicious glance. Then she brightened. "I'm just back from vacation. When are you taking some time off?"

He didn't get a chance to reply. A fizzing noise came from behind the car's control panel. The car shuddered to a halt. The indirect lighting went out, then came back on, dimly. They looked at each other, terror-stricken. Nicholas stabbed at the buttons, pushing and pulling every knob and switch he could find. Lights went off. Lights went on. Bells rang hollowly in the shaft. The car suddenly dropped a foot.

Marjorie squealed. "Oh, Nicholas! Will we be okay? What's happening. Hold my hand!"

"No!," Nicholas screamed inside his head. "It isn't supposed to happen like this."

He took hold of her hand. She squeezed it. Hard.

To Nicholas it seemed as though he had a box seat at the Creation. They had re-staged the Big Bang for him alone. Instant replay. He shot from galaxy to galaxy, caromed off the edge of the universe, flashed past one supernova after another, racked by sublime concussions that pounded at his groin, engulfing him from thighs to waist. He saw nothing, felt everything.

Maintenance finally pried the care doors apart with much grinding of tortured metal. Marjorie and Nicholas emerged, sweat-drenched and hand in hand. The staff, assembled in the reception are to witness the rescue, cheered, whistled and stomped, the parted let them through.

Nicholas glanced to his left. There was Ehlis seated on one of the couches. The gray-clad Purveyor of The Gift nodded almost imperceptibly at Marjorie. As they passed, Ehlis rose and spoke to Nicholas, not directly but more like a tiny smooth voice in his ear. "That's why I never use elevators."

They cameto Marjorie's office first.

"See you at five o'clock?" he said, looking directly, unmistakably into her eyes.

"I'm wit you."

Epilogue

Nicholas Hunter returned to college and now is a respected and successful sex therapist. Marjorie Cohen Hunter still works for Owens & Marshall as a Management Supervisor. They often visit with Mr. and Mrs. Wilbur Bradley and their son. Grant Berry was dismissed after the dismal failure of the New York campaign, proving the old adage that "you're only as good as your last ad." The Deputy Mayor continues to phone Nicholas once a week, leaving pleading messages on his voice mail and answering machine. Nicholas has no intention of returning the calls.