A Test

A Test

On my way to work I called my parents to check up on them, especially Dad.  Dad sounded weak, but the bypass was a success.  Just some rest is what he needs, he told me.  His diet will certainly have to change.  At this point he conceded to eat whatever to keep his body healthy.  Dad wasn’t really a bad eater, although he loved salt and sweets and red meat.  He loved red meat, but he also loved turnips and squashes.  Dad would eat any vegetable but not normally raw.  

Mom sounded preoccupied.  Something upset her but she wouldn’t say.  As I made my closing remarks and told them I’ll talk to them soon, she blurted:

“Elizabeth called yesterday.”

I waited.

“Hello?”

“I’m here, Mom.”

“She called yesterday.”

“What did she want?”

“She said she called to see how your father was doing.  Then she asked me about the Almedo painting.”

Mom paused and sighed.  “Jim’s uncle has been diagnosed with a rare blood disease.  She’s organizing an auction to raise money for the transfusions and treatments he will need.  She asked if we would consider donating the Almedo to the auction.”

I pulled the car over and stopped.  “She did what?”

“I don’t know what to tell her,” Mom’s voice sounded distraught.

“How did she have the balls to ask for the Almedo?”  I was furious.  My parents owned an original Corion Almedo painting, signed and dated.  They met a friend of a friend of Almedo’s during a trip they took to Tucson twelve years ago.  Their new acquaintance took them to an art gallery of a budding young artist who was quite popular in the Tucson, Sedona, Scottsdale and Phoenix area.  Mom and Dad both were awestruck by his sunset on water piece.  They ended up purchasing the enormous artwork the next day for $6,000.  A year later a reporter from the New York Times discovered Almedo, interviewed him and introduced New York City to him.  Now his originals range from $15,000 to $50,000.  The one my parents owned is valued to be near the forty grand bracket.

“What made her think she could ask for the Almedo?” I asked.

“You know, we do have the smaller piece that your father has in his den.  Maybe she meant the smaller one.”

“What smaller one?”

“It’s not an original.  We bought it three or four years ago.  You know, the one of the aspens.”

“I doubt she meant that one.  Anyone can get prints, Mom.”

“I feel so badly about it.  I feel bad about Jim’s uncle.”

“We all do, but it’s another thing to go ask people like that.  The nerve to mention the Almedo.  Whatever happened to just leaving it up to the person to decide what they want to give?  What about her?--she should throw in her diamonds and whatever fancy purse she likes to flaunt.  We’re not even related to Jim’s uncle.”  The moment I uttered the last sentence I immediately wished I could erase what I said.  “I’ll talk with Elizabeth.”

“No, I don’t want there to be a scene.”

“There won’t be a scene.  We’ll be on the phone.”

“No, don’t do that.”

“What are you going to do then; tell her no?”

Silence.

“Mom, it would be one thing if you and Dad were truly impressed to donate the painting.  If that was burning in your heart to do, you’d do it.  However, if you’re being manipulated to feel bad to give, that is simply not the right motive.  It’s wrong, Mom.”

“If it was your father--”

“Yes, and what about the hospital and doctor bills you both are facing?  Is Elizabeth organizing an auction for that?”

The day spiraled downhill from there.  I crossed out the hours leading to the day I would fly out to San Francisco to do Nina’s photo shoot.  Publishing got into the mix in trying to convince Beatrice to use the original photos that were submitted.  Beatrice would not budge and apparently threatened to make this project a PR nightmare.  She on purpose let it slip that another firm approached her and promised to deliver what we apparently couldn’t.  I say let them have her.  Her book will bomb anyway.  

“Make Beatrice happy and I will send you to Paris with Nigel to do Antoine’s shoot.”

I looked up from the comps spread across my desk.  Amanda stood erect with arms weighted down at her sides.

I was trying to process the implications of her statement.  Antoine’s shoot was Nigel’s project.  Antoine sought Nigel out specifically for his next cookbook.

“What would I be doing?”

“Assist Nigel.”

I raised by eyebrow.

“Tour the Eiffel Tower, eat French food--I don’t know.  Do whatever you want to do.”

“You’re offering me a paid vacation?”

“Technically yes.  Just do some minor things for the project there to make it look legit.”

“I think Beatrice’s book is bad for our company’s image.”

“You don’t want to go to Paris?”

“This company has standards that are well known by its peers.  We are well respected when it comes to our photography.  It’s because of the talents and creativity of this team that this company has won some major accolades.”

“Point taken.”

“Then why are we wasting time and resources on her project?”

“I don’t get the final word on this.”

“Do our people know that this is an issue?”

“It’s out of my hands.  They told me to make it happen.”

I stopped by the grocery store on the way home.  I grabbed a jar of kalamata olives, herb and garlic camembert cheese, crusty baguette and Genova salami.  Tony came by my office later in the afternoon and said he was taking a sabbatical until the Beatrice project was finished.  Funny, I told him.  He asked if I had given any more thought about branching out on my own.  I told him no.  Then I thought about London and that within a few days Rainier would be far away.

I unloaded my cart at the self check-out station.  As I swiped my items across the scanner, a big man with an armful of groceries came and stood by the station I was using.  He kicked the cart away--the cart that I was using--with his feet, and placed his things on the counter as I was selecting my method of payment.  With no regard of personal space or consideration--or plain tact for that matter--he planted himself in front of the scanner, which made him stand right beside me.  And he looked at me.  He watched me and with his silent, aggressive stare he was telling me to hurry up.  I pressed the buttons on the pin pad with deliberate ease.  Indeed, who was here first, Mister?--and get out of my space.   The minute I touched my receipt he began scanning his items.  Today was a test of some sort it seemed.  

Today was a test of some sort it seemed.