Arena Ch. 04

She shakes the offered hand. "Thank you, Ted, for giving me an opportunity."

His smile remains as he opens her door. "Back to work," he says with mock sternness, gesturing at her files. "How do you expect to make us rich if you send all your time gabbing with old men?"

"Yes sir, Mr. Beckel, sir," she says, smiling as he steps out of her office. Friends in the most unexpected places, indeed.

Todd pulls his Honda off Interstate 5 onto Highway 166, heading west to the small citrus farm where Immersion Playground has rented a plot of land to build their replica Roman arena. The citrus farm, family-owned since the 1800s, is struggling financially, and was very happy to rent a five-acre plot near their abandoned packing house. Immersion Playground razed the building, hauled away the debris, and removed all other signs of modern civilization, such as power lines and a gravel loading area. Once the lot was cleared, a person could stand in the middle of the site and see or hear no trace of the hustle and bustle of the modern world.

After the lot was cleared, a concrete contractor was called in, and the Roman arena took shape. Other than being poured with modern concrete and constructed with modern machinery, the arena is as near what experts believe a small arena, out in the frontier lands far from Rome, might look like.

The arena was approximately sixty feet in diameter and sunk below the prevailing grade, with a circular wall just under eight feet high with two openings opposite each other. The arched openings, six feet across, open onto tunnels that travel under the spectator stands and open outside of the arena to allow entrance to the arena floor. Behind the wall are the five sets of steeply-ranked stands, built on the mound of dirt created with the excavation of the arena pit. The stands encircling the arena are also made of concrete and offer a good view of the arena floor from any location.

It's been three weeks since he last visited the site, and as his Honda heaves, rattles, and shakes down the construction road, he make a note to have the contractor preparing the arena surface to also grade the road so that the buses bringing in the extras could navigate the road without difficulty. Rounding a curve, he slows his car even more to minimize the amount of dust he's creating as he drives. Even with his slow pace, he sits in his car after stopping to allow the swirling dust to settle before opening the door. Obviously the rain they received last night in LA didn't reach to Bakersfield.

This is the first time he's seen the structure without the scaffolding and forms in place, so he slowly walks around the arena, marveling at what they've done. He's no expert on Roman architecture by any account, but he's looked at enough pictures and drawings to get a pretty clear picture of what will look right and proper, and this is nearly perfect. At least from the outside.

He pauses at a huge arched wooden door built into the side of the stands, rubbing his hand gently over the door. It is old and rough, darkly stained with age, and held together with thick iron pegs. The door looks to be hundreds of years old, but was actually made less than a month ago by a master woodworker, and installed only a couple of days prior to his arrival. He pushes the door open and steps into a modern room full of dangling wires. At one end of the room sits the fuel cell generator that will be used to power the complex during capture, and at the other end, a group of tables that will hold the capture equipment. Another room on the opposite side of the arena, covering the entire area under the stands between the arena tunnels, will house tables, bathrooms, and a bank of portable refrigerators that will be needed to handle the needs of cast and crew before, during, and after the immersion. These two rooms more than doubled the cost of the construction, but Rick insisted that when people are on the set, there should be nothing to break the illusion that you're standing in a real Roman arena a thousand years ago.

Leaving the heat of the control room, he climbs the wide steps built into the hill and enters the stands to surveys the arena. Except for the painters busily spraying the pristine white concrete with a dull gray wash that makes the concrete instantly look old and faded, along with his car, and the van used to bring the painters in, there's nothing to indicate that you haven't stepped a thousand years into the past.

He steps down to the wall enclosing the area and begins to walk all the way around. One of the painters inside the area notices his movement and looks up. "José! Someone's here!" the man calls before going back to his painting. Another painter, older than the others, looks up and then sets his spray gun in a holder mounted on the compressor.

"May I help you?" José calls up to Todd.

"Todd Rose. You José DeJesus?"

"Ah, Mr. Rose. Glad to finally put a face to a voice and name," José says with just a trace of a Spanish accent.

"Call me Todd. I don't mean to get in your way. I just wanted to come down and see how the work is going. I haven't seen the place since primary construction was completed." He pauses and looks around again. "The place looks fantastic, better than I hoped."

"Yeah, they did a good job. But wait until we get done painting it, knock the new off of it, then it will really look like something. Come down here. I want to show you something," José says, waving his arm in invitation.

Todd jogs up the stadium seats, down the steps to the outside of the arena, then in through the entrance tunnel. José is standing on the opposite side of the arena next to the wall. Todd slows to a walk as he approaches.

"No need to run in his heat, Todd," José says as Todd slows to stop. "I want you to see what the finished product is going to look like. This is where we did a little experimenting yesterday, working out what colors we're going to use. What we settled on is this gray base you see, then feathering on two additional colors to remove the flatness, and then we're going to shoot it with a sandblaster to give it some texture. This is what we are going to do over the entire structure," José says gesturing to an area about eight feet square.

Had it not been for the flat gray paint beside it, Todd might not have not noticed the difference, but the completed area looks a hundred years older than the freshly painted area right beside it. Todd brushes his fingers over the surface, feeling the texture, looking at the detail of the faux finish.

"This is fantastic. Even standing this close to it. I'd swear this was built centuries ago. Amazing work. Just amazing. José, you undersold yourself."

José gives Todd a lopsided grin. "Under sale, over deliver. It makes my life easier, you know?"

"That's a good way to run a business. But can you be done on time? We don't have a hard deadline, but I'd like to be ready to capture in thirty days or so."

"Oh, sure," José says. "We will be finished with the base coat in about two hours. We've painted most of what you see here this morning. This coat goes fast because we are shooting it on as fast at the gun can put it out. It's not supposed to look perfect, you know, so that means we can haul ass. By the time we get done we'll be able to start putting on the second coat, the first of those feather coats, where we started this morning. The paint should be good and dry there. That will go slower, but we might get that done tomorrow. Maybe. I hope to start on the second feather coat on Wednesday and that will go a little slower still, but then it slows way down. It's going to take some time to sandblast, and we have to be careful to not cut through. I figure two guys, five days on sandblasting." José pauses, obviously figuring timelines. "Call it two and a half weeks, three at the outside."

"That's perfect. The landscaping guy said he could do the whole arena in a day or two, so if you're out in three weeks, that gives him a full week before we'll want to go. Huh. Done early. How'd that happen?" Todd jokes.

"I don't know, but don't tell my other customers or they'll expect it too," José says, smiling.

"You're secret is safe with me, José," Todd says, shaking the man's hand. "I won't keep you, but I'm going to wander around a little more before I leave. I promise not to put my hand in your fresh paint."

José laughs. "No problem. Normally we charge extra for hand prints, but if it's your hand, we'll throw that one in for free."

Todd chuckles and walks away, looking around him at the arena. From down in the bowl it looks even more amazing and he wonders if, after they're done with it, they could rent it out for something else before giving the structure to Citrus Field Farm.

Todd wanders around the place for another hour, taking it all in, before heading back to his car. One of the things that he most enjoys working with Rick is his 'hands off' attitude. Once they agree on something, Rick pretty much lets him handle it, but he really needs to come see this place. It's going to knock his socks off.

Giselle is on the way back to her office to gather her things and leave for home when she sees Hittle propped against the door of her office, obviously waiting on her. "Shit... just what I need," she mutters as she approaches. "What do you want, Dick?" she says, brushing by him.

Dick steps into her office. "I saw the old man in here today. You two looked friendly," he says, closing her door before she can exit.

"Open the door, Dick," she says firmly.

"Maybe what I have to say to you doesn't concern the rest of the office," he says with just a hint of malice.

"You either open the fucking door or I will," she says, her voice hard.

Hittle feigns surprise, but opens the door. "Such language. I guess I shouldn't be surprised though—such language coming from a woman like you."

"What kind of woman is that? One that doesn't want to be alone in a room with you? I'd think you'd hear language like that a lot."

Hittle face flushes red and he takes a half step toward her before stopping. "You listen to me, Giselle. You may have the wool pulled over that old man's eyes, but I know exactly the kind of woman you are. I know what women like you want." Hittle's oily smile returns and he leans against the door again. "It's only a matter of time before you acknowledge our relationship here and the type of work that is expected from you. Going the extra mile, so to speak, to ensure your continued advancement... maybe all the way to partner. You've shown a lot of promise, so it would be a shame to see it all blow away when partnership is so nearly within your reach."

She takes a deep breath, calming her rising anger. "Do you remember what I told you on Friday? That still applies."

"See, that is what I am talking about. Such language. It unbecoming of a lady to use such language," he says, his voice full of condescension.

"Yet, once again, I'm surprise that you are shocked by that, considering how often you must hear it."

Once again his face flushes red. No wonder he sucks in the courtroom if he can't hide his emotions better than that, she thinks, smiling broadly at him.

"Don't let your mouth write cheques your ass can't cash, Giselle," he says coldly. "Someday you may want my help."

"Uh-huh. Why don't you just wait in your office and I'll let you know when I need your help. How's that sound? Now, if you don't have anything else I'm leaving," she says, slipping into her suit coat.

"There is one other thing," Hittle says. "I'm thinking, and I'm pretty sure that Don agrees with me, that you should be formally reprimanded and a copy placed in your permanent file. You know, for conduct unbecoming a lawyer. I haven't made up my mind yet, but I'm thinking about it. I think it only fair that I allow you to plead your case. Maybe there's extenuating circumstances that I should know about. Something that might change my mind."

Giselle's blood boils but she keeps her emotions in check, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing her mad. "You go ahead and do what you think you need to do, Dick," she says coldly, emphasizing his name in a particularly unflattering way. "Now, excuse me. I'm leaving." She walks out of her office, shoving him aside on the way out.

By the time Giselle makes the fifteen minute drive home she has let her anger go. While Rick might be willing to let her take her fury out on him, she's still ashamed of what she's done, beating him like that, and it isn't something that she wants to repeat. The weather is warming nicely and she decides that a few laps in the pool will help her burn off her frustrations. She isn't a strong swimmer, certainly not as strong as Todd, who makes gliding through the water look effortless, but she can beat the shit out of the water as she swims and it won't mind.

Pulling the Audi into the garage she can see that Rick's Ford isn't there, as expected, so as soon as she enters the house she throws a zapper meal, baked chicken in olive oil with rosemary potatoes, into the unit, and sets the timer to be done in an hour, when he'll be home. She then strips out of her suit, wraps herself in a bathrobe, and walks to the pool house where she changes into her black, one-piece, bathing suit. Taking one of the fluffy towels kept in the pool house, she walks to the pool and lowers herself in, the water that's still holding a bit of winter's touch. Inhaling deeply as the water chills her, she settles into the pool and then strikes off across the expanse with strong strokes. Their pool isn't large, only about thirty feet along its length, but with each lap, the coolness of the water fades as she warms from her exertions.

She's breathing hard, and her arms feel like noodles, as she touches the wall at the shallow end, putting her feet down. She'd done twenty full laps and is done until she has a moment to catch her breath. She can play two sets of tennis and not be breathing this hard, so maybe she isn't in as good a shape as she thinks she is.

She wipes the water from her eyes and starts with a gasp of surprise.

"Water's a little cold, don't you think?" Rick asks, holding her towel open, inviting her to step into it.

"Just a bit," she says, stepping out of the pool, allowing him to wrap her in the sun-warmed towel. She shivers a bit as Rick pulls her into a hug, warming her with his body. "But I was so hot when I got home I hardly noticed."

He sighs. "Hittle again?"

"Yes, Hittle again. That guy is such an asshole."

"What is it this time?"

"Same shit as before. And the day started out so great, too."

"I agree," he chuckles.

"Well, I mean besides that," she says with a smile. "Ted stopped into my office this morning. He came by to apologize for what happened on Thursday. I didn't expect that. This is the first time I've ever heard the partners express any kind of disagreement in public, no matter what they might do in private. He also told me that he was putting me up for partner. Told me that he wanted me to know so that I wouldn't leave before this 'kerfuffle,' as he called it, blows over."

"Wow, that's great news, I guess. I know that's something you've wanted for a long time."

She steps out of his arms and begins to dry off. "The way he said it made it sound like he'd been planning to do that for a while, and it sounds like a done deal. I've never heard of the partners telling anyone they were being considered before, either. I'm not sure what it all means, but it sounds very positive."

"I agree. Obviously he's afraid you'll get mad and quit, and he didn't want to lose you."

"Yeah, that's my take as well. So, I was feeling pretty good about the day, until Hittle showed up at the end, again."

"I think I need to have a chat with Mr. Dick Hittle," Rick says, his voice firm as his eyes narrowed slightly.

"No, don't do that. No point in looking for trouble. I can handle him, but he pisses me off so much. He's so oily I feel like I need to have a shower after I have been around him. I never cared for him all that much, but since he made partner, and especially after this, he's worse than ever."

"Why don't you talk to Ted Beckel about him?"

"Because it would be his word against mine, and he isn't stupid, Rick. The way he words things... you know exactly what he is talking about, but he could easily say that I took it wrong and he actually was discussing something else. Then I look like I have some kind of axe to grind or I'm overly sensitive. I've worked hard over the years to not be that woman that cries 'sexual harassment' just because some guy says I look nice one day. Until he's clearly crossed the line, I don't want to go to the partners with this."

He can understand Giselle's reasoning, but he doesn't have to like it. "I still think a frank conversation between Mr. Hittle and myself is needed."

She smiles and steps back in close to Rick, allowing him to encircle her in an embrace. "I appreciate that, but let me handle this. If he gets too bold I'll go to the partners, then if that doesn't work maybe that conversation might be in order. But let's just wait and see if this blows over first."

He grunts. "Okay, we'll do it your way. But don't wait so long that this gets out of hand."

"Don't worry, nothing's going to happen. I have a feeling that Hittle is all bark and no bite. If I'm wrong, he'll find out that I have teeth of my own." She pauses before adding, "Let's go in, I'm getting cold."

"Don't be wrong, Giselle," he says releasing her and following her into the kitchen. "Don't be wrong."

"Don't worry. It'll be okay," she replies, heading to their bedroom to change. By the time she returns to the kitchen he's broken down the zapper meal package and is dumping the contents into serving bowls, a bottle of wine sitting on the table. She picks up the bottle and reads the label. "You're getting better about choosing the wines. This is exactly what I would've chosen."

"It is what you've chosen. I've started keeping a list of which wines you select with which meals. You selected this wine with this exact meal about four months ago," he says with a grin.

"I'm flattered and disappointed at the same time," she says with a grin. "Flattered that you care enough to keep a list, disappointed that you cheated."

"I'll make it up to you on our anniversary," he says slyly.

Her eyes narrow. "What are you up to, Rick?"

"Nothing you need to worry about, just something I've been thinking about for a while. I've just now decided to do it."

"And what is it you've decided to do?" she asks, sliding into her chair.

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise. I want it to be a surprise," he says, sitting down in his customary place.

Giselle suddenly freezes in her seat. "You're not planning on going to Italy are you? Not the wine tasting trip to Italy?" she asks, remembering the trip they'd talked about during the formation of Immersion Playground, a trip to create an immersion of a wine tasting.

He barks out a short laugh. "No, sorry, nothing as dramatic as that."

"Okay. I'm not sure if I am relieved or disappointed," she says, returning to her meal.

"Oh, please be relieved. I wouldn't want to disappoint you," he responds, and he means it. While he isn't planning a trip to Italy, he is planning one to Napa. Their anniversary fell on a Monday this year and a trip up to Napa on Saturday, spending Sunday and Monday in wine country tasting wines, coming back on Tuesday, that's definitely doable.

She smiles, "Okay, I'm relieved. I still want to do it, but with less than two months' notice, that'd be a problem."

"Which is why that isn't it. If Arena hits a big as I hope, you'll want to clear your calendar for next year, though," he says with a smile, thinking. "Maybe we should even bring the Roses with us, make it a company paid trip."