Polo in the Snow

By Richard Segal

Polo in the Snow
Richard Segal

Once upon a time, there was a friendship between Johnny and Mano. Once upon another time, there was a brief rivalry for Johnny's attention, between Chloe and Rachel. Johnny and Chloe have children of their own now, still bedded down safely in Queens, though a little closer to the river, having turned down an opportunity to relocate to the mid-west or move to Williamsburg, aka Disneyland. Mano, like the mind games troubadours of old, found the call of California too much to resist, though in the cold and calculating world of high tech and more in tune with his inner retox than detox. However, to paraphrase a namesake, what happens when a lifelong jester is entrusted with tidings of old friends, of all tidings good, bad and tragic, and only he can choose how and when to break what to who? Can he be trusted with the incubation of a collision course with destiny?

Meanwhile across the Atlantic ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504943765

Richard Segal

Richard Segal, an American citizen, resides in London, England, and works as an economic and financial consultant. He has written widely about matters relating to global public policy over the years. His most recent novel was The Man Who Knew the Answer.

Book preview

2015 Richard Segal. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/04/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-4373-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-4376-5 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

These Were the Golden Years

A Message to You Mano

Oop Oop Oop, Not so Fast, or, Campaign speech number one

My Mother Called me Nehemiah

Balthazar

Bad Friday

South Station

Which Way the Wind Blows

Odelay

Mojito Nice

The Afternoon Letter

Dad Loves His Work

The Ewing Theory

Gutentot

Disneyland

Land of the Free

Never Turn Down an Insurance Run

Rachel

Moyay Moyay Moyay

The Return of Doc and Doc

The House that Risk Built, or, Why would Someone buy Millwall?

Requiem for a Good Guy

You Know Slavko?

The Swagman’s Rest

What’s a Swagman?

When Jane Jacobs Saved the Village

Keeping it Unreal

The Bad Guys are Winning

Forever Thinking about Dean Moriarty

King of the Road

Take a Letter Maria

Chakra Gold

It’s Always the Quiet Ones

To the real life Johnny and Nate, Chloe and Rachel

When nature speaks, listen

There was no longer any competition, but there had to be. Johnny wished he could revert to his middle name when he grew up, or select an equivalent that conveyed more maturity, but that opportunity had long since lapsed. As a result, he found himself on this particular Saturday pushing two children with appellations far less diminutive than his. Pushing on a string that is, that’s what seven and nine year olds like, right? He alternated, one after the other, because they’d get cross if the contraption slowed to below escape velocity, and they hadn’t yet divined for themselves the magical feeling of perpetual motion, under their own power, that is. They could have, but there was no incentive, because a parent was always behind them to push, sometimes one parent one child, otherwise they were required to share a parent, with the peril of distraction and risk of grinding to a halt, and the unwritten rule that if you’re not moving, it becomes someone else’s turn, because this is how they ascend to the throne, this throne that belonged to them and the other local children. They were good kids, except when a swing was in sight. This was their vice, their license to be self-centered.

It was a newer park, in a newer precinct, one that had recently been redeveloped, formerly a land of attendant warehouses in a tedious quadrant, now a neighborhood of high rises overlooking the big city, but just the same with delis that had ‘always’ been there. If the borough’s leadership had a blank sheet of paper, they’d leave this edge alone but redraw every other square inch of the adjoining four square miles, level it and build a new mini-city, exactly as Mayor Wagner had after a group of businessmen originated the idea for the 1964 World’s Fair. There’s a certain poetry to this nothingness corner of New York, in its permanence, it’s so close to the high rent parts yet jarring in its contrasts. Thus, it can’t be levelled. It’s not practical, and so the Queens Borough president is stuck with it, with its airport-drive short cuts, hides and seeks for bored taxi drivers and outdoor vending machines, as if placed there for the amusement of the lost. Beauty and the beast.

The cellphone rang, it was Mano, calling from California, but Johnny pretended he didn’t hear, because he couldn’t take a chance with the kids’ temporary license to be precocious. Whoever it was, he could wait ten minutes, or make it fifteen. He thought about checking to see who was calling anyway, but then thought better of it.

‘Push, push, push,’ went the imaginary motion, first Amy and then Evan. The nine year old Amy was the eldest by two and a half years, but by habit and routine, they took turns going first, and believe it or not, neither had much inkling of the notion of fun life beyond the playground. That said, four years ago Amy was in awe of eight-year olds, girls she labelled ‘big kids.’

Enough of the TraLaLa and so on of the impractical. Johnny never expected to inherit Mr. Benton’s job when the latter took early retirement by the letter. However, that was three or four years ago, before the landscape changed and the pen making company’s headquarters finally moved out of New York. It’s difficult to believe Manhattan was once manufacturing, assembly, warehouse and stockyard based, but hardly a reminder remains, unless you count the anachronistic storefront craftsmen that might be found anywhere you don’t expect. Maybe it’s a blessing that the owners and management at Johnny’s previous employment held out for so long, before moving to Minneapolis. Johnny wasn’t interested in relocating to Minnesota in his late 30s, not that he had anything against the mid-west, but rather that he fretted it would remind him too much of Upstate New York, and all that entailed.

The business of Manhattan, like many large cities, had become finance, design, tourism, business services and the cottage industries that supported them, although reflecting the zip code value, many profile organizations were domiciled there, MLB Players Association for example in a mid-town skyscraper, just as the National Geographic Channel has to be seen to be seen in Washington, D.C. Accordingly, it was a better fit and redirected a deal of luck that Johnny was hired as design director for a niche appliance manufacturer which by any measure retained a skeleton staff in New York but produced its goods elsewhere, any place else where labor costs were lower and the logistics less nerve-wracking. It was like the Brill Building or Tin Pan Alley of the old days, in which writers and designers brainstormed in an office building, not necessarily a space that inspired creativity, for artists could be sitting anywhere. It was ironic that Johnny was hired for this job, considering he had specialized in a narrow consumer product before – pens, of course - but he was a fish in water working for a mid-range appliances company, just as it would have been out of context for such a free spirit to be viewed as heir apparent to the establishmentarian Mr. Benton. Then again, Upstate New York was once a player, which is the rationale for its large population bases dotted across the regional geography, beyond the landscape’s farmland and obsolete textile mills, each with its own particular cycles.

Distance travels full circle, because this cluster pattern handily obviates congestion and if you invent or pioneer a good that seems so obvious in retrospect, Greek-style yogurt coming to mind, you can transport it easily from one hub to another, producing from just one facility. By contrast, try driving across mid-town Manhattan at any time of day without tearing your hair out. The example of yogurt is telling for Upstate, because its shelf life is short if not kept cool and it is Syracuse that is synonymous with the concept of air conditioning, not far from Jamestown, home of one the larger dairy factories. Home yogurt makers have long existed, naturally, but there are economies of scale in producing the foodstuffs from one location. What’s the big deal about Greek-style and fro-yo? They’ve become too fashionable and versatile for words: my wife loves that shit, as a colleague once informed me.

Moreover, Rochester was once a great hub for innovation, but the sons and grandsons of the great inventors failed to ascertain that you have to keep innovating, have to keep reinventing yourself, unless your goal is to earn so much from your original inventions that you can establish a great university and attract the best teaching talent and otherwise live off the interest into infinity and beyond, but this is more demanding for a conurbation with a climate such as Rochester’s. In fact, Syracuse’s success was Rochester’s ultimate failure, because the air conditioning invented by the Buffalo Forge Company to solve an application problem for a lithographer in Brooklyn, and subsequently manufactured in Syracuse, made summer life more bearable in cities such as Atlanta, closer to the fields and where labor costs were lower.

The great patents of the great north eastern inventors of the 20th Century were both their doing and their undoing, because they failed to foresee a new business world in which information would flow freely, consumption demand could derive from anywhere, a good could be fabricated anywhere, and that unsung hero - the supply chain - would become crucial. Those who could master the supply chain could quickly and easily become king of the hill, and every industry has a supply chain, if you think about it. Think about it. However, if we examine the rise and fall of major cities, is it merely accidental where they arose in the first place? Why did Boston-Cambridge grow in prominence and Lowell-Lawrence faded, when the latter arguably had more and better attributes?

Ironically, for most of his career, Johnny rarely travelled to America’s second and third cities, but with a new and different mandate, it became necessary to decentralize himself, so as not to live and work in a bubble. When you’re singularly responsible for a merchandise item such as a pen, you can dictate what consumers will want to buy, particularly when you’re as imaginative as Johnny. However, household appliances are a different matter, being equal parts function, fashion, longevity and durability, and preferences will vary regionally. You can commission all the surveys you want, but these are ultimately second hand at best. There’s no substitute for travelling to these towns and cities and studying the selection of appliances in the department stores and specialty shops, and the habits of shoppers and browsers as they peruse, touch, fuss with drawers and accessories, admire and grimace. What do they like, what don’t they like? There wasn’t a science to this, it was what came naturally to Johnny, his curiosity, but similarly, no one else suggested the art and it didn’t occur that he should mention the technique to anyone else. Sure, you could conduct broad or narrow consumer marketing research, focus groups, brainstorming, put folks on the spot, but there’s no substitute for first-hand observation.

OK, children, Johnny commenced, time to get off the swing and go home, but before they had a chance to protest, he clarified, at the count of five, and I’ll count slow. One, two, three, four,…

But just then, Amy interrupted, four and a half…

And Evan: four and three quarters.

Amy again: four and seven-eighths, etc. If you’ve had a seven or a nine year old, you know the drill.

Eventually, they ran out of steam and it was agreed the three should go home, in case their mother missed them, but not before Johnny guaranteed them hot chocolates that Chloe had pre-agreed to, if they promised to be good for the rest of their lives.

We’re always good, they countered. Of course, they were.

But I’m not, Johnny mouth-winked, and began to pretend kick a group of gathering pigeons, before hauling out a handful of crumpled bread and flinging it in their general direction, which prompted no shortage of three-way general commotion. Go ahead, knock yourselves out, pigeons, Johnny recommended.

A bird in the hand is worth five and dime, Amy stated, as if reciting from a book of proverbs.

That’s not how the saying goes, Johnny began to protest. What have you been watching? until he was overcome by the sense of defeat, pigeons being unable to read body language and having no comprehension of the concept of a fair fight, leaving him no option but to fully empty his pocket of bread and crumbs, and shoo himself away from the immediate scene of action.

During the short walk back to their apartment, Johnny asked what they recommended as a gift when he visited Big Sid on an upcoming business trip.

They shrugged and said he should decide for himself on this occasion.

I think he wanted a lid, Johnny deadpanned, and they laughed at this inside joke. There was no Big Sid, or at least none that Johnny had ever witnessed in person. About ten years earlier, Johnny was hanging out in a crowded lower Manhattan bar with his circle of friends before it splintered, and he overheard an understated fellow standing a few feet away ask one of his pals, what should we get for Big Sid? as if Sid had been delayed by traffic or the press of business, and deserved a beverage waiting when he arrived, as if he was the generous gentle giant himself and there being a glass waiting for him upon his arrival was the just foresight of action of his coterie of friends. This was ten years ago, but the legend lives on.

These Were the Golden Years

Chloe was at home taking advantage of a rare tranquil afternoon. Although Johnny was the main breadwinner, she was a school teacher and therefore her job was more stressful. As much as their family life was seamless, it seemed as though they were toiling toward the day when Evan would graduate from college and Chloe could resign and work part time, more flexibly and intuitively. This was fifteen years away, but Johnny and Chloe would still be young, and they’d be independent. Amy and Evan would have good starter jobs and there would be all the time in the world for nice walks along the river on early autumn afternoons like this one, for the two empty nesters, before they settled back at home to watch college football for hours, Johnny anyway.

Same teams, different players. Different pundits but the strategy rarely differs. Rack up as many points as you can in the first half of the schedule against weaker opponents to build confidence for the crunch games against the actual competition as the playoffs approach. It’s late October when the season is most exciting, because thereafter the games and the weather become anti-climax. But ahh, October in Metro New York: the warm and dry days, the gourds imported from countryside farms and perhaps a day trip up the Hudson for your own benefit. Well, fifteen years from now, will the top players be fully independent or will that same game still be running around?

What will the Manhattan-Queens waterline be like, will Roosevelt Island be the new Williamsburg, or Disneyland, as Chloe called it? However, parts of Brooklyn, whether they’ve been renovated, well maintained or reinvented, have a certain serenity to them, not of a jaundiced or tacky fashion, such as a hot dog stand or cheesesnake restaurant -institution- that literally has a second coming, but rather a once nothingness that blink and you’ll miss it has become a magnet for passers-by, the second MacDonald’s or the third Starbucks on the left that drew you into their vortex whether you wanted to or not, but that you felt more than one in eight billion served afterwards.

The riverside shades of green against the autumn sun are blinding and luring in parallel, and may fade or date with time, or some day may attract oil and water customers, but today it’s perfect, it’s a watercolour and oil painting. Sure, the out of context Trader Joe’s that used to be a crummy office building is hilarious if you don’t have to be in and out in fifteen minutes before closing on a Sunday evening, but what really catches your mind is the filling station that no one had the heart to seize by eminent domain since it’s become the high rent district/tell them the corporate parent lost the court case decades ago and they can’t use the label Esso any more, or the longshoreman’s hangout that outlived the docks and therefore the longshoremen, by a matching number of decades.

This Saturday would in weekends past entail a trip down memory lane, for it was Homecoming at Johnny’s alma mater, at the beginning out of homesickness, loyalty and there being nothing to do in New York that weekend, and later out of rote. One year, when the kids were young and Johnny and Chloe suffered the hassle of finding a babysitter for a Saturday overnight (she had skipped the year before), she asked why he kept returning if not out of habit, and his response was that the atmosphere was better than at actual reunions, he liked the foliage and the football games against tough opponents (the final score didn’t matter except to the players), the atmosphere was good and there weren’t as many hangers on or pledge recruiters as during reunions, when there was so much false hope among the more recent graduates, or depressing behaviours among the older classes, which either wanted to act young again, tell war stories or just plain be depressing.

Reunions are only once every five years, Chloe rebutted. Try it once, she suggested. Just take one year off.

And so he did, and he never returned to another. He never smoked, so he couldn’t say it was like quitting, but it was like an old overcoat that you didn’t think you could hang up for good, until you do, the opposite of -you don’t know you’re about to spill your coffee until you do-. Chloe’s response was: see, it works, until it doesn’t, and almost caught herself before Johnny said, Actually… because on this topic he knew what he was talking about. However, something seemed to be missing with respect to the particular time of year, it was as if a minor holiday had been erased from the calendar suddenly and without apparent cause, or a secret handshake that is no longer performed, although I should add his final appearance had been a little disquieting, as if he’d gone through a full cycle plus one, and some awkward words had passed back and forth, there were outsiders or impostors who didn’t understand the rules of the road, as with the lecturing policymaker who makes a self-confident sporting analogy without differentiating between practice and game day, or groundwork and pruning.

It should be the best time of year: clean and crisp, the leaves turning color, except that you can feel winter around the corner.

It’s as if you walk into a suburban shopping mall adorned with plastic and artificial foliage, whereas you drive five minutes into the side streets of small America and the leaves are dropping, as if handing themselves over to young teens preparing to gather into a neat pile expressly for the purpose of jumping into, and splashing about. The seasonal Pumpkin Spice cappuccinos offered for sale in the foyer of the shopping mall, that’s a different story.

Johnny walked inside the apartment with the two children trailing behind, and made a sweeping motion, as if to return them to Chloe. The scent of four hot chocolates wafted through the air, as Johnny walked over to the window and gazed up, as if Aurora Borealis might come into view. It didn’t, so he turned around to face his family again.

Marshmellows? he asked, mispronouncing the word incorrectly on purpose.

If you want, she replied. They’re in the kitchen.

Mini chocolate covered eggs? he asked, recalling a dated modern period drama the two had watched on PBS America not long previously, even though that’s not quite what they’re called or what they are.

She shrugged. Aw, they take too long…

Not even Tampopo style? he asked.

Johnny, not in front of the kids! she exclaimed.

What? he pled. They won’t know what I’m talking about.

Johnny, she said again, and blushed.

Oh, shit! He jumped. Someone called before. I completely forgot!

Chloe began to ask rhetorically Not in front of the kids? but Johnny was a blur.

He ran to the closet quickly and checked his inside pocket, where his phone had been sitting for hours. Oh, he sighed.

What? Chloe asked.

Only Mano. I can call him back later.

Maybe send a text, dear, she suggested.

Did you just call me dear? he asked.

Tell him we’re recreating the Homecoming Parade scene because I won’t let you go up any more, she offered.

Very funny, he rebutted. They don’t have parades. They don’t even have fireworks.

Sounds like it would have been fun for kids of all ages, she motioned sarcastically.

You weren’t listening. There aren’t parades any more. The dean banned them because of an altercation, but that was after everyone got tired of them anyway.

Dean Wormer? she asked, a little less sarcastically.

Oh yeah, he realized. Not the dean. The assistant principal. Whatever he’s called. COO. Who knows. Still, it’s pretty up there. Farm land. We should take a drive up there some weekend. It’s not mystical or magical, but there’s a farm museum for the kids to have something to look forward to. No they’ll hate it. The working farmers don’t let youngsters feed the sheep anymore.

He said this as if she hadn’t travelled Upstate an average of two or three times per year over the previous twelve or thirteen years, and because either they rented a car and he drove, or they took the bus, she always had time to look out the window. She grew up in a few suburbs, one close to Manhattan, another not so close, but she was well enough acquainted with rural New York that he didn’t have to paint a picture. What about the horses? she asked. I like horses.

It’s a farm, not a race track, he countered. We could go to Aqueduct if… oh, you were kidding.

She laughed.

Still, the last Homecoming I went to, Sherman Street was kinda taken over by Food Truck Nation. Every fast food you could imagine.

Street legal, she said absent-mindedly.

Beats the popcorn and scorpion bowl diet of our 20s.

At this, Evan’s ears perked up, because he was at the age of comic books and insects, especially dangerous insects, but these bowls were filled with a different type of bite and therefore Chloe changed the subject again. How do the cocoas compare Upstate? And the marshmallows?

Good point. Not as good as these. However, the marshmellows are larger. Everything seems to be larger Upstate, including the people.

Well kids, Chloe continued, appears I’ve got myself a forty one year old marshmallow fiend on my hands.

Oh no! he yelped. The text to Mano!

"What are ya