Bruce Wagner - I Met Someone

“Well. As Mr. MacKlatchie’s remonstrations began to shrivel and he felt himself returning to his body, as it were, he became aware of the small, drunken crowd that had gathered to watch the ‘fun.’ When the fireworks ended, they lost interest and dispersed. My teacher left shortly thereafter. He went to bed but tossed and turned; humiliated and angry, he was unable to sleep. He felt an awful fool for losing his temper and handling the situation so poorly. He finally made peace with himself and drifted off. But in the morning, he was shocked to find that his rage had returned, white-hot and undiminished! He canceled his trip home and phoned the club, demanding to speak with the manager. He was surprised when the fellow got on the line and even more surprised when he coolly said, ‘I know what this call is about — you’re the gentleman from last night, no? I was in back of the club when it happened. I heard you arguing. Right after you left, Marcus came directly to me and admitted he’d made a horrible mistake. You see, a guy came in about a year ago who was very bad news. You really do look like him — and Marcus had a particularly shall we say personal involvement with this vicious, abusive man during the period he harassed our club. To his credit, after you had your… disagreement , Marcus said to me, “The moment I accused him of being that piece of shit, I knew I was wrong . But the words somehow had already come out.”’

“‘I understand,’ said the formidable Mr. MacKlatchie. ‘But I’m afraid his apology wasn’t believable in the least! He never looked me in the eye nor did he offer to take me inside for a proper amends, i.e., to seek out his boss— you —“for the record,” as they say. The only conclusion I could draw was that it was the end of his shift and I simply wasn’t worth the trouble; that he sorely wanted to go home to whoever or whatever awaited him. It’s as easy as that! I should tell you I’ve already spoken to my lawyers, who’ve assured me that a case for defamation is clear. They’ve advised that in such instances, the courts do not “consider” apologies. They are after the fact —the damage has been done.’

“It made no difference that the manager was profuse and proper in his apologies — all day long Franklin stewed in his suite at the Drake over his public shaming, a violation of ancient taboo that unexpectedly aroused a volcanic atavism in its target. He no longer felt he knew himself at all.

“Suffice to say that my teacher never returned to Minnesota, more or less abandoning his affairs of business. (The corporation’s profitability was never at risk, thanks to an ingenious system of checks and balances implemented by its brilliant founder decades ago.) A bevy of close friends and colleagues made pilgrimages in an attempt to unravel the mystery and lure him to his senses, to no avail. His wife did finally come, after many months, begging an explanation of what had happened, or was happening (if he felt the latter might more easily be answered). “I’m suing a local club” was all she could get out of him. When the baffled woman pressed him on why the legalities couldn’t be handled from elsewhere (meaning Duluth), he had no response. As a last resort, she begged him to come home, if only for the sake of their special-needs child, who cried out for him at night — he remained unmoved.

“If the fabled Frank MacKlatchie’s billions were born of a series of Big Ideas, he was suddenly struck by a thunderclap with the biggest of them all. As the Buddha’s prior life had prepared him for his seat beneath the Bodhi Tree, so had my guru’s secret yearnings and aspirations made him ripe for what he now planned — the death of all he’d come to represent, not just to the world but to himself. He knew that a life of wanton commerce and rampant lovelessness had tattooed his very soul, marking and defining him as surely as those insipid guidebook symbols did Mandry’s Gastropub. Franklin MacKlatchie saw that he was already dead; and like a grandmaster, plotted his checkmate. If you’ll allow, I’ll recite the moves of the game as they were told to me…

“The case against Mandry’s settled out before trial. (Victory had never remotely been in question; Mr. MacKlatchie’s attorneys routinely scorched the earth to procure it.) The token figure agreed on by both sides, fifty-five thousand dollars, was given to a home for wayward children. When word of the legal resolution became known, executives at the highest company level sighed in relief with the presumption his ‘aberrant’ behavior had run its course. How little they understood of what Franklin MacKlatchie was becoming! But how could they have known? To have even had an inkling of his imminent sea change, one would need to have been cut from the same cloth.

“His stroke of genius was to purchase Mandry’s outright — lock, stock, and wine barrel. He wanted the new ownership kept secret, so the transaction was carried out anonymously by three trusted successors. What he told those gentlemen next was shocking: he would be pleased to now vanish off the face of the earth! (Or at least wished to give the appearance of having done so.) For all intents and purposes, my Sir would henceforward be dead to the world , whereabouts unknown. Only the handpicked triumvirate would be privy to his new role as spectral CEO and ringmaster, running the whole circus from a cheap motel room. In order to effect such a plan, my Sir drew up an encyclopedic contract worthy of Borges — oh, I loved Borges, wrote three papers on him at Loyola! — that would make it virtually impossible for any person, entity, board member, or trustee to compromise Franklin MacKlatchie’s status as majority owner , regardless of perceived quote-unquote absenteeism or, say, on the basis of perceived quote-unquote abandonment and dereliction of duties; nor could he be deposed or expelled by the assertion he was in breach due to mental incompetency. The contract was signed by the necessary parties forty-eight hours after the defamation case against Mandry’s was resolved, which coincidentally happened to be the day his put-upon wife made her last stand, with a renowned psychiatrist in tow. (My guru indulged the missus, knowing he’d be vacating the Drake that evening and disappearing for good.) After a brief interview and some careful consideration, the learned man suggested a diagnosis of idée fixe , optimistically suggesting the condition would eventually ‘clear’ with the same mysterious abruptness with which it took hold — though naturally, it was impossible to say just when . Mrs. MacKlatchie was despondent.

“While spouse and handicapped child were generously provided for in perpetuity , those selfsame handpicked men thought it cruel, both to ‘the widow’ and to them —the triumvirate — to be forced into telling her lies of omission. The ex cathedra whims of their boss now seemed punishing and unsavory, but, alas, the contract tied their hands; if they dared reveal to anyone the peculiar actuality of the situation, well, the draconian provisions of the signed agreements would trigger immediate termination, along with financial penalties designed to be ruinous. My heart went out to Mrs. MacKlatchie when Sir told me of the numerous detectives she hired to find him — if he should ever leave me, I wondered what desperate measures I would resort to! — but their efforts came to naught. Though it’s probably more accurate to say that whatever she paid them, her husband increased by multiples sufficient to allow the investigators to sidestep their professional ethics and report back to their client empty-handed. They even returned her fee.