Pecking Order, page 4
As the jazz music continued to open up his mind from the background, Ivan began to think about his present and future.
Am I gonna be somebody? he asked himself. Then he paused for what seemed like an extralong time. Nah, who am I kidding? Ivan David is a nobody. I’m a fucking joke. I’m no better off than my brother. I just got a college degree and a job.
Then he thought about it again.
But at least I don’t have no kids and three baby mommas in my way. Maybe I can make it. If anybody else can make it, I can make it, too. Ain’t nobody better than me. What makes them better than me? You just gotta stand up and do something.
He even stood up in the room to make a statement to himself. Or stumbled up.
I’m gonna make a name for myself, he declared. And they’re gonna know me in this town. They’re gonna know me! San Diego’s Ivan David…the party promoter.
As he stood there thinking to himself about his declaration, he closed his eyes and began to sway blindly to the jazz music. The high was pulsating in his nerves, creating an insane energy of randomness.
Suddenly his skin felt cold; he rubbed his arms and shoulders for warmth.
“Shit. It’s cold in here,” he mumbled. Somebody hold me, he thought. Mom, I’m cold. I need to turn the heat up. But his mother didn’t respond to him.
Then he visualized the girl at the party. Lucina Gallo. She was right there on the sidewalk in front of him. He asked her, Ain’t you cold?
She answered, No, with her hard, colored eyes right on him.
You’re not? Then how come I’m so cold? he asked her.
She continued to stare at him. Then she asked him, What is wrong with you?
Ivan didn’t understand her question. Hunh?
What is wrong with you? she repeated. He was making a fool of himself out in front of her.
In his delusional state of mind, it all seemed real…for a second. Then he snapped out of it. He grabbed his throbbing head and asked himself, What am I talking about? I’m bugging, man. I’m high as hell in here. I don’t even know that girl.
He fell back down on the sofa and began to rub his temples, with the jazz music still talking to him. The harmonizing voices made him feel as if a thousand eyes were watching him make a fool of himself. And he was powerless to do anything about it. The high had him stranded out in the desert.
When is this gonna wear off? The insanity had gone on long enough. The slithery, snakelike energy continued to run up and down his body. Ivan moved his hands from his head to his arms and shoulders, and then down to his legs.
“Fuck! What am I so cold for? I got clothes on.”
Maybe I just can’t handle this shit. You can’t OD off of weed, can you…? SHIT!
Ivan had only been high a few times before, in his college days. But the strain of marijuana he had tried back then was not half as potent. He didn’t even cough with Julio’s strain. It went down smooth and kicked in hard.
Ivan forced himself up a third time to pull out a comforter from his hallway closet. He carried it back to the sofa to stretch out with it across the couch, while wrapping it around himself like a mummy.
Man, if I make it through this, I’m never getting high again, he told himself as his body continued to twitch. This is crazy! I just wanna go to sleep now. I just wanna go to sleep…
MIRACULOUSLY, when his alarm clock went off at a quarter to seven in the morning, Ivan felt sane again. His body was worn out from the uncontrollable movement, his eyes were bloodshot from the smoke, and his hair was mangled from the craziness, but other than that, he had survived his spontaneous experimentation. So he climbed up from the sofa, where he had slept and listened to music all night, and he smiled to himself.
“What don’t kill you makes you stronger,” he mumbled through his grin. He was overjoyed to still be alive. “But I’m not doing that shit no more,” he stated. “I got too much to do.”
In opposition to the dark, sporadic energy and paranoia the marijuana had given him the night before, when the high had faded in the morning, Ivan felt light-headed and optimistic.
He walked into the bathroom to take a long leak. “I hope they don’t ask me for a cup of this,” he told himself with a chuckle. Then he flushed it away.
He clapped his hands in the mirror and said, “I made it back down to earth,” as if the weed had taken him on a journey to outer space. “Now I just need a shower, some eyedrops, brush my teeth, get some breakfast, and I’m off for work as usual.”
AT TWENTY MINUTES TO EIGHT, Ivan walked out of his apartment in a white office shirt, royal blue tie, and dark brown slacks and shoes, while carrying his black leather briefcase.
When he passed Julio’s apartment three doors down, he could hear the kids up and about, playing inside. He then looked down in the parking lot and saw that Julio’s pickup truck was gone.
That guy is up and out like clockwork, he thought. And so am I. The world keeps going no matter what.
Back out on the highway, Ivan took Interstate 8 toward the Beaches of west San Diego before connecting to Interstate 5 North for the offices of Hutch & Mitchell Accounting in North Clairemont. He needed silence again, while thinking about the ideas he had floating around in his mind before, during, and after the high.
So how do I promote parties? I haven’t even thrown a party before, he mused as he drove. I got the perfect company name for it, though. I.D. Promotions. I got E.A. to thank for that. My initials sound as good as his do. And since I’ll be throwing parties with drinking involved, you’ll need an I.D. to get in.
“You can’t beat that.” He grinned from behind the wheel. I.D. Promotions was a solid brand name. “There’s a ton of different ways I can spin that.”
But first I gotta make sure the name is available online this morning.
Then he wondered about Lucina Gallo again.
“That’s a bad ass girl,” he stated. “And the party don’t start until she gets there, hunh?”
I’m gonna have to invite her and her friends out to my parties, then. But would she even come…? I’m still a nobody.
He had to deliberate on that for a minute. As he thought it over, his eyes swayed to the houses on the hills that overlooked Interstate 5. Ivan had to drive past the hilltop houses every day to and from work. The mountainside houses had a clear view of the highway traffic, the downtown skyline, the airport, SeaWorld, Mission Bay Park, the Beaches, and the Pacific Ocean. And although Ivan remained curious about them, he had never even priced them before.
You’re talking about a million dollars for the basic ones, he assumed. But maybe I need to ask somebody.
When he pulled into the parking lot of the industrial park of North Clairemont and found a space, he thought of all the people from the various industries who worked inside the office buildings there.
Somebody owns every last one of these buildings, and all we’re doing is working in them, he contemplated as he walked inside and headed toward the elevators.
Hutch & Mitchell Accounting rented half of the fourth floor in a nine-story building.
Ivan stepped off the elevator and walked into the office past the receptionist at the entrance. She was an alert college intern who liked to be at work earlier than everyone else. She wanted to prove that she was willing to put in her dues.
“Good morning, Ivan,” she greeted him.
Ivan smiled and nodded to her on his way in. “Good morning.”
The accounting office was set up in rows of cubicles, highlighted in royal blue. Surrounding the cubicles were the conference rooms, the manager and supervisor offices, and the attorneys’ offices. They all had the window views. At the opposite corners of the building were the partners’ offices, with John Hutch at one end and Barry Mitchell at the other. Their offices had the most window space and the best views.
The cubicles were grouped in four areas: the accounting staff, who input all of the numbers; the audit staff, who checked and rechecked the numbers; the tax staff, who applied the proper tax codes; and the general staff, which included the secretaries.
Ivan was one of only three African-Americans at the firm of more than thirty employees. He had served his time at Hutch & Mitchell—a public accounting firm—before passing the California Board of Accounting exam to become a certified public accountant two years ago. Now he worked in the tax department with an income of more than fifty thousand dollars a year. But while his mother continued to suffer from cancer, Ivan had been forced to spend a large portion of it to pay for her medical needs.
Time for me to start making this money work for me, he told himself.
The first thing he did at his desk that morning was go online to search for “I.D. Promotions” as a possible name for his limited liability company for party throwing. As an accountant, he understood firsthand that the primary execution of any business was to secure an attractive and taxable name. As soon as his internet search for “I.D. Promotions” came up empty, Ivan filed online immediately to secure the name with his credit card.
“Hey, Ivan, what are you up to?” someone asked from behind him.
Ivan turned to see who it was before he answered. He wasn’t online for work purposes.
“Oh, what’s up, Chip? I’m just locking up a business name on this thing,” he stated.
Chip Garrett, another CPA, worked in the tax department as well. He was in his early thirties, still single, and his desk was only two cubicles down from Ivan’s. Chip was one of the more sociable white guys at the office.
“Oh, yeah? Who for?” he asked Ivan.
The natural assumption was that, as an accountant, you did everything to benefit your clients, especially while at the office.
Ivan told him, “This is actually for me.”
That caused Chip to raise his eyebrow with interest.
“Oh, yeah? What kind of business?”
As more of the staff began to arrive at the office, Ivan told him, “I’ll tell you at lunchtime.” Everyone didn’t need to know.
Chip froze for a second before he nodded in agreement. What was Ivan up to?
“Oh, okay. I’ll see if we can take our lunch breaks around the same time then.”
“Yeah, I’ll see you then,” Ivan mumbled to him. He wanted to rush the credit card process and get back to work before anyone else could catch what he was doing online.
As soon as he had finished, Dwayne Bellamy, a middle manager, appeared behind him. Dwayne was one of the three African-Americans at the Hutch & Mitchell offices. The third was a filing secretary.
“Ivan, we have a tax staff meeting at ten this morning inside Conference Room B. Would you let everyone know for me?”
Ivan nodded to him. “All right.” He studied Dwayne as he walked back toward his office in a dark gray business suit. Dwayne’s office was small compared to the other offices, but at least it wasn’t a cubicle. He made over six figures in his managerial position. Nevertheless, the man seemed beat down and lifeless.
Shit, I don’t want to be like that when I get to his level. That brother acts like he could use a party, Ivan thought.
He got started on his work that morning on tax forms before his cell phone went off on vibration mode.
Ivan looked down to his hip at the number and recognized Catherine Boone’s.
Shit! I never called her last night. He panicked. Do I even answer it?
Out of courtesy, he decided he would. He planned not to mention anything about not calling her. He would let her bring it up instead.
“Hey, how are you doing? You’re on your way out already?”
“Yeah, I’m on my way to the airport now. How was the party last night?” she asked him.
“I couldn’t even get in,” Ivan admitted. “And I didn’t have Emilio’s number with me to call him.”
“Oh…so, what did you do?”
It was an awkward moment. Obviously he didn’t call to do anything with her.
He said, “I ended up just driving back home and brainstorming about my plans. I think I want to get involved in throwing some. But I’ll tell you about that later. So call me back when you get in.”
Catherine wouldn’t let him off the phone that easy. “What, you’re talking about throwing your own parties now? Is that what you’re talking about?”
Ivan figured he had said enough at the office already. He declined further comment.
“I’ll tell you about it later when you get in. I have a staff meeting this morning.”
Catherine backed off. “Okay.”
Ivan wouldn’t mind running his party promotion ideas past her for a pros-and-cons discussion, he just didn’t want to do so while he was still at work.
IT WAS AFTER TEN O’CLOCK and the tax staff meeting had not yet started. Dwayne Bellamy was having a long, closed-door conference with the supervisors. Since Ivan didn’t want to start on anything new that he would need to break away from, he idled doing nothing before the meeting.
He then eyed Mike Adams, an accountant from the audit department, who was working feverishly at his station. Mike was still in his midtwenties, married, with a young child, and had not taken the state exam yet. But he was sure to pass it. He was all work and no play. He took his job very seriously.
Chip noticed Ivan watching Mike and walked over to make a comment on it.
“That guy’s going to work his damn fingers to the nub, right?” he joked to Ivan loud enough to be heard.
Ivan chuckled.
Mike overheard them laughing at him. “I heard that,” he commented. “But you’re both gonna be happy to have someone like me on your side one day.”
Chip said, “Oh, I’m already happy you’re on my side, buddy. I’m ready to pass you some of my work right now.”
Ivan grinned it off before heading to the men’s bathroom down the hall. It was right across the hallway from Barry Mitchell’s corner office. The partner had his office door wide open that morning while he chatted with another future account, a young Filipino man.
“You know how the government finds a way to tax and ride the proverbial backs of the middle class?” Mitchell asked the young Filipino rhetorically.
Ivan had heard it all from his silver-haired, well-dressed, black-Mercedes-driving boss before. Barry Mitchell was the partner who liked to talk. John Hutch, on the other hand, talked a lot less. Ivan didn’t expect the young man inside the office to get many words in as he sat in the tall, comfortable leather chair across from Mitchell’s king-sized desk. Hutch had even joked that maybe his partner should have been more of a financial advisor than a tax man, since he liked to talk so much.
“Well, in several ways,” Mitchell began to answer for himself. “First of all, since the majority of the middle class is employed by America’s larger companies, the government is able to take the money right out of their checks. So they don’t have much of a choice. But the rich, who receive the majority of their income through cash receipts, business deals, dividend payouts, real estate sales, and contract payments, are given the opportunity to determine when they want to pay their taxes. By the time that happens, with what’s left of it, they can then decide with us how they’d like to shelter it. And with your extreme poor, you’ll find that a large percentage of them are paid under the table with cash, which they’re not gonna report for taxes. Nor are the poor going to report cash gifts or any kinds of illegal monies.
“So, who ends up paying the majority of the taxes?” he concluded. “You guessed it. The middle class.” He said, “The middle class also like to overuse credit, and they always pay the highest rates for it. But you’re not gonna give a credit card worth any value to the extreme poor. And with the rich, well, of course, they know better, so they’re always going to negotiate the better credit rates.”
On that note, Ivan slipped into the restroom and remembered when Barry Mitchell had made a similar speech to him more than five years ago.
“I still haven’t been able to get the government off my middleclass back,” he mumbled.
When he walked back out of the stall to wash his hands at the sink, he thought, There are no more excuses for me now. I have all the information I need to make my money work for me. And what I don’t know only takes a phone call or a sit-down to find out. So it’s all about my willpower now.
When Ivan exited the bathroom, Mitchell was still going strong in his office.
He said, “The American dream has become such a strong illusion for the middle class that they’re actually willing to accept their position as its mule.”
One of the older secretaries, who worked close enough in her cubicle to hear every word of Mitchell’s lecture, met eyes with Ivan as he walked by.
She shook her head with a frown and was tired of hearing it all. She even let Ivan know her opinion on the matter.
“It’s not everyone’s goal or purpose to be rich,” she stated.
Ivan heard her out and chuckled as he walked by. But he didn’t necessarily agree with her.
Is it our goal and purpose to remain mules? he contemplated. What is our goal and purpose, then? I know I’m not planning to be a mule all my life, while the rich ride my back.
He reflected on the past nine years that he had spent helping his mother fight cancer. If he had to do it all over again, he would. But that was no longer the case, and his mother had told him in her own breath that he could live his life now.
And that’s what the hell I plan to do, he told himself as he arrived back at his desk.
“Hey, Ivan, we’re all ready for that meeting now,” Chip told him. He was already headed for the conference room.
Ivan nodded and followed him.
When they walked into the conference room, they were joined by a staff of six, with two supervisors and Dwayne Bellamy as the middle manager to oversee the meeting.
They all sat down in dark leather chairs at a cherrywood oval table that seated ten—four on each side, and one at each end.
Kevin Edison, a supervisor and the spokesman for the meeting, shut and locked the conference room door for privacy before he launched into his thoughts.
