Compositional Defiance

Part 1: Let's Push The Limits II

My disappointment melts to bitterness. I don't need this, I think to myself. I have the savings my parents started for me when I was young as well as the inheritance that was left to me. But I snap myself out of the bitterness: Taking over Intrepid Airways isn't about the money for me, it's about keeping my family's legacy intact.

Still, my mind reels as the last of the board members leave. How am I supposed to honor my family without any business experience or respect from my board? Stirling doesn't even say 'bye' or anything before he leaves. As a matter of fact, almost none of them do. The only board member who hangs back is Debra, who catches me drop my head into my hands in submission.

"That wasn't so bad, trust me," she tells me.

"Ha."

"No, really, it wasn't. I've seen Carl Stirling do much worse. You should have seen him and your father back in the day."

When I don't respond, she continues, "Look, the whole board isn't convinced Carl's plan will work, but they need to see something from you to give them hope. There's still hope for Intrepid Airways."

"Thanks, Debra," I say, my head still in my hands.

I don't immediately look up so as not to give away that a small tear has fallen down my cheek, but as I wipe it away, I hear Debra from across the room: "Logan mentioned something about General Electric once. Carl shot it down. Maybe there's something there."

The lightbulb company? I wonder. What could he have said about General Electric that Stirling would have shot down? But by the time I lift my head to ask Debra all the questions streaming through my brain, she's already gone.

I quickly gather all my papers and my water bottle from the room and try to catch Debra on her way out. Any direction at all right now would be helpful. After racing past the long row of seats, my arms full of my belongings, I burst through the double doors.

"Debra?" I call into the empty hallway. Well, not entirely empty. The ringing of phones and chatter of what I can only assume is a normal business day sounds down the hall to my right, where the human resources department manager pokes his head out, probably to see what my yelling is all about.

In front of me, the bank of elevators dings, signifying that the last elevator from this floor has reached the bottom. But I need to hold on to this lead, with or without Debra's help, I think. I wave to the HR department manager, then veer to the left, toward Dad's old office. My new office.

Dad may be present everywhere else in the executive office of Intrepid Airways, but Mom is all over the office. I remember when she decorated it to "make it feel more like home" for Dad. Wall collage frames of pictures of our family cover the room, a pale blue and cream-colored oriental rug rests over the drab grey carpet, and instead of the standard business office plastic blinds, cream curtains with gold tassels drape the floor-to-ceiling windows. Blue, Mom's favorite color.

I have done my best to not spend much time in this room at all since joining Intrepid. It brings back too many memories of days spend coloring and developing my love of art around the model airplanes and sculpted engines and planes that Dad was given or Mom had collected over the years. But maybe, somewhere in this room might be a clue as to what Debra might have been talking about.

Dad was old school, and despite having a smartphone, he still kept his most important business clients in a desktop rolodex. That would be where any contacts from GE would be written, so I swallow back my discomfort at rifling through Dad's business stuff--I will always see everything in this room as his, no matter how long I am with the company--and begin flipping through the rolodex for clues.