Fugue States Part I

Why Do You Want To Hurt Me?

"Blackberg is out. Paris is go." Spencer said squeezing a stress reliever adroitly to a company sponsored commercial. His smile was wide and brimming then faded seeing me loll around the office uninterested. There was an oil portrait installed next to some pictures of union bosses. They were matte framed in brushed metal and neatly displayed on each side; two of them I recognized, all of them bribed or compromised in some way. "Blackberg out, Paris go. Got it. What does this painting have to do with these other pictures? It's supposed to be in the gallery in the lobby. You see it when you come in."
"I don't know, I don't have control over the creative decisions."
The medium was a textural mixture of oil and impasto, dark colors smeared with a palette knife or thumb in the crevices under the eyes, chiseled features, regal pose. Spencer reached across the desk to give me a business card and waited for me to take it. "Go ahead" he said with a nod and I took it reluctantly; The Pantomime at The Intercontinental, the address and 9:00 pm sharp written next to it with the sharp underlined.
"The plane leaves the day after so I'd brush up on the French." he said and noticed a straightened paperclip to pick his teeth with."We good? Oh, and dress nice tomorrow." He said and let the foam ball fall on the floor.

There had been other changes to the decorum since I'd been there last; new mahogany paneling, dimmed luminescence, directional moss colored interlaced carpet patterns that led past the brazen Mercury Atlantic symbol to the office of the great Clive Evander (or Clive Von E., or Clifford) at the end of the hall, head of the Board of Management; my old man, who If you ever crossed him; let's see you get out of that one alive. After my mothers passing all of his vindictive qualities came to the fore and he directed his aim at me, his remaining offspring. He had my accounts and assets frozen, locks changed, placards or any label items like fountain pens with my name on them confiscated, rewrote his last will and testament to exclude me from any inheritance or business contacts; locked out. Given time, the old man had a change of heart and I got my position back as Prime Manager but the time away gave me a unique ire for the corrosiveness of money; aristocratic, patriciate money, the kind politicians and judges line their pockets with, the kind that's hidden in safes and under floorboards away from productive society. I was back but I didn't know for how long or even if I wanted to be.

During peak trading hours Mercury lives up to it's name in the most literal sense and conforms to the shape of it's container like water. At it's melting point it's a banal series of unfixed glances, unspecific compliments, broad generalizations in leisurely conversations over lunch. I descended with the flood from the open lobby into the confined space of the elevator. Rumi came in behind me. Her hand brushed mine as we vied to push the button for the parking garage at the same time. I saw her staring intently in my peripheral vision, lips tightening into a half-smile then looking away. She had a loft on South Flower. The sordid decay of the area downtown converged with the upper class living in high-rises and It's contradictions seeped In through heavy curtains and reflected on glossy concrete floors. She brought her portfolio out and laid it on the couch and made a White Russian in the kitchen. She asked if I wanted one and I said yes as I flipped through the pages of magazines and explored various embellishments of the apartment. I heard her voice echo from the end of the hallway. "That was from a fund called Summerset in London!" she said loudly over her shoulder thinking I was reading the summery she left the portfolio open to. "I own the market share in stocks! It was my commission in advising the markup!" The bedroom was a dually functioning office and sleeping area with a wall sized bookshelf and rolling ladder and folders stacked neatly on her bed side table. "There was a contract clause that allowed me to alternate between broker and dealer." she said then standing in the doorway and handed me the drink. "I do most of my work out here. It's data driven but this is where I keep all the hard copies."

Her hair was in a braided low bun held back with a pin; two tone blond and dark roots with the sophistication that comes with age inserted into a younger face and body. She set her glass on a coster and pulled out the pin and let it fall, then raised her sweater above her navel and said "Don't you think it's hot in here?" and pulled it over her head and the sleeves over each arm. She reached past me and pressed play on the remote and braced herself against the wall unbuckling her heels. A monotone voice lamented through distorted artifacts from a playlist of New Wave and Post Punk and she moved seductively to it with a playfully devious expression "Do you recognize it?"