Wayne Michael DeHart  (May, 2023)

It was almost 9:00 PM by the time Hannah Gray and Gary Glidden checked into the Commerce Hotel, in downtown San Antonio, on Thanksgiving Eve. Holiday traffic from Austin had been heavy, and their late arrival had already delayed the secretive session of privately-owned Harrison Foods’ nine-member Board of Directors.

The five men and two women had been sworn to secrecy regarding the time and location of the gathering and, for that matter, the fact that there was an ad hoc meeting at all. The remaining directors, brothers George and Jason Crane, had not been notified, and for a very good reason. Word was that their conduct had been deemed by The One to be detrimental to the company’s reputation. Their futures would be decided that night as they unwittingly gathered with their families back in Austin.

It would be fitting to say, in light of the fact that Harrison was rooted in the commercial baking sector, that the sugar was about to hit the fan, and no sweet deals would be forthcoming. The One was reportedly irate and unforgiving, and had issued a very harsh motion for the  seven directors to approve. All seven were based in Greater Austin, the corporate home of Harrison Foods; thus, the San Antonio locale, some 80 miles to the northeast, had piqued curiosity.

Gray and Glidden dropped by their room to don their mandatory Director Suits, then joined their associates in  Executive Suite 507, where Chairman John Horne’s escape bag rested conspicuously by the door. Horne cohabitated in a downtown Austin penthouse loft with The One — a powerful, enigmatic, magnate who always commanded the last word in company business.

In addition to Horne, Gray and Glidden, directors present were Elizabeth Murphy Durrow, Walt Schroeder, Barlow Giles, and Craig Traylor. All were properly attired in the traditional Harrison Director’s Suit, which was actually a yellow, cotton blend sweat-suit, adorned front and back with a baker’s dozen images, in various sizes, of the company logo – the brand’s  iconic dark chocolate chip cookie.  Scattered haphazardly across the yellow material, they looked like weathered sunflowers tumbling askew. The offbeat garments were informal, gender-neutral, and comfortable, and reflected the casual quirkiness of Harrison’s guru, who embraced eccentricity.

The One’s personal attorney was also present in the room, to everyone’s dismay. Even though he did not represent the firm, he had become an opinionated and unwelcome presence at company events for years, and was known to be a pain in the collective assent of the corporate attorneys.

The other directors had been firmly instructed by Horne not to communicate with the Crane brothers about the meeting. Their absence confirmed the weight, though not the substance, of the  innuendo and rumors. This was something big, and they relished the power they were surely about to employ.

John Horne called the meeting to order at 9:32 PM. The attorney immediately handed him a sealed and taped 9×12 Kraft envelope. Horne dramatically held it up, displaying it to the others as if it was a message from On High. After momentary frustration as he fussed with the tape, he tore it open with an air of grandiosity, and quickly skimmed through the single sheet of paper it contained. He breathed deeply, his nostrils flaring. Then he spun himself around, grinning maniacally. His eyes caught fire. He rolled them left and right, taking in the faces of his colleagues, then howled with a sick blend of contempt and elation.

He gleefully told them they were all fired, canned, sacked, given the heave-ho,  effective immediately, and that the new Board would operate with just three members, with George and Jason Crane having been absolved of their sins and retained in good standing. Gasps, then silence. He autonomously declared a 7-0 approval vote, then abruptly adjourned the meeting. He callously wished them each a pleasant holiday, and herded them out the door, like cats astray. His only regret was that he didn’t have a six-pack of symbolic, rubber axes to hand out as mementos of this special occasion. Parting gifts are always appropriately delicious. The boss taught him that.

The One’s attorney appeared to be stunned at Horne’s unexpected arrogance and incivility. He picked up the sheet of paper, perused it, put it back into the envelope, and tossed it at Horne in disbelief.  The Chairman had always resented this smug turd who acted like he owned the business and was always dismissive of Horne’s interactions with The One. He proceeded to usher the shit-bag out the door, with a parting shot –  the third cousin of the aforementioned parting gift. “Should have fired you too, asshole!”

The unfazed attorney looked back and offered a knowing laugh, before returning to his own deluxe suite, where a bottle of champagne was chilling and a female guest was likely warming up the sheets. He wasn’t about to let a buzzard in a cookie-covered sweat-suit ruin his Thanksgiving getaway. Still, he was puzzled over the Chairman’s bizarre response to The One’s directive.

Meanwhile, the severed six shed their silly suits and gathered in the hotel bar, where they drank themselves into a group stupor. Gray and Glidden slept it off in their room. The remaining fired four, suddenly in the role of irrelevant pawns, faded into the silent shadows of the Texas night.

John Horne was not, by nature, a people person. Buttressed by the events in Suite 507, however, he had further morphed into a cold-blooded cutthroat. He theatrically placed the envelope into his new leather attaché case, locking it for safekeeping, After donning jeans and a company hoodie, he swaggered out of the hotel. In the parking lot, he gently laid the briefcase on the rear seat of his prized ’65 Thunderbird, then headed back home to Austin, to inform The One that the deed was done. Surely, he would receive “Attaboy” accolades and the usual “special favors.” Images of pink SnoBalls and Kentucky Bourbon filled his head, and he pressed down harder on the gas.

When he got to the penthouse, the door was locked. He tried his key, but it didn’t turn. A recluse extraordinaire, The One rarely left the nest, so something was off. He knocked. Nothing, He shouted. Nothing. He called in on his phone. It went straight to voicemail. He texted. Nada. It was well past midnight. Worried, he placed calls to the resilient Cranes to fill them in and feel them out, suspecting corporate foul play.  Both answered, despite the hour. Both hung up on him. Not a good omen. As a three-member Board, they could overrule him on a whim, out of pure spite, despite his steering capacity as Chairman.

Reluctant to make waves that might anger The One, the despicable douchebag checked into a budget motel to get some much-needed sleep. He was certain that Thanksgiving morning would bring simple answers and a reunion with his housemate.  It didn’t. He left more voice messages, to no avail. Distraught, he had one too many at the only open downtown bar he could find, then foolishly tried to drive back to the residence.  Suddenly, WHAM! His T-bird was T-boned by an unforgiving  4×4 as he ran a red light. Just before impact, the briefcase still rested in peace where he had placed it the previous evening. After impact, well, it didn’t matter, because, in the blink of an eye, he had become just another irrelevant pawn, a jaundiced John, a silenced Horne.

Days later, The One eulogized him at a near-empty chapel.  Unsurprisingly, none of the six directors he had ridiculed and sent packing back in San Antonio were present at the brief service. Gerald Murphy sat alone in the back row, expressionless. Later, The One brought him home. Home to the penthouse loft, the one she previously shared with her late husband.

Seventeen years earlier, John Horne had gotten down on a knee in Paris, popped the question with a stunning, three carat diamond ring, and told her he knew  that she would always be “the one.”

Karma. Kismet. A Kodak moment in a selfie world.

A blind date with a 4×4 had deprived John Horne of a second reading of the letter, from which he would have learned that, in addition to the Crane Brothers (who had been  active participants in the upheaval), the revamped Board would include a new Chairman – the aforementioned Gerald Murphy, The One’s  personal attorney.

At 9:34 PM,  after he had wasted  more than a minute berating the buxom Ms. Durrow for making her sunflower cookies “prance around in a provocative manner,” on Thanksgiving Eve, in Suite 507 at the Commerce Hotel in San Antonio, Chairman Horne had scanned the page too quickly, jumping the gun with his assumption that he was to be the third member and retain his role as Chairman of the downsized Board. In his exuberance over the sacking of his fellow directors, he had  started waving the page around and doing a happy dance without reading the last couple of lines. ALL directors present were to be declared terminated, without cause, immediately upon the directive being read aloud to the attendees in the presence of The One’s personal attorney. On her authority, as sole owner of Harrison Foods, ALL, including the one who was about to receive divorce papers, had been kneecapped.

Gerald Murphy had indeed been baffled at Horne’s apparent celebration of his own dismissal. Even more so than the woman waiting for him with the champagne and warm sheets. Before their night of drinking and playing and giving thanks began, he initially feigned a serious tone, somberly and dutifully reporting the results of the meeting to her, including Horne’s obviously incomplete reading of the page, as well as his unhinged celebration. Then he grinned. “Olivia, get this. After they all left, the numb-nuts said, ‘I sure as hell Horne-swoggled them sunflower stooges to hell and back. Did you see their faces? Did you see ’em squirmin? Oh, man, revenge is sweet sayeth the Chairman. Now, time for you to hit the road, Skippy.’ He called me Skippy!  What a friggin’ hoot.”

From a dim corner of the room, clad only in a blue-velour Commerce Hotel bathrobe, The One slithered sensuously toward him, making a cackling sound, a blend of witch and hen, while letting out a howl of her own. “Show me, hon. I wanna see.” Then an impatient, “No, not that, that’s for later. The video.” The beaming Mr. Murphy, at her request, had stealthily, clandestinely, videotaped the meeting and the aftermath, just the way he had most of those company events (and affairs!) that he had routinely dropped in on. Poor John Horne. She had seen and heard everything, all of it, over the years, and kept the tapes as evidence in the upcoming divorce proceedings.

“See there, I specifically told him that when you handed him the envelope, he was supposed to actually read the order to them, not read it to himself and ad-lib an announcement. He never listens. Did he keep it as a souvenir?” “Probably, not sure.” “So he could be re-reading it as we speak? And realizing he’s out the door too?” “Yep.” They both imagined him looking at it again to recapture, and savor, the thrill of victory, only to be hit between the eyes with the real story. It was  a moment of shared ecstasy, and they hadn’t even begun to make love yet. She turned off her phone and salivated over the panic the old boy would feel when he got home and she wasn’t there. This would be her best Thanksgiving ever. “Serves him right for perving on Beth’s big tits just before the bomb was dropped.”

“Olivia, do you want to see that other thing now? It’s Murphy’s law, ya know.”

“What a braindead meathead I married! What a sap. Took his money right out from under him and he never had a clue. “

(Guess not, Mr. Murphy.)

“I give the chump a few bucks here and there,  let him cop a feel now and then, and the schmuck toes the line. Easy-peasy. Johnny Boy keeps thanking me for letting him use that clanky, old Ford the Governor signed over to me for giving him my, um, full-throated endorsement three years ago.  ‘Gee, the Governor is such an honorable and generous man!’ he says.  ‘Maybe you can do it again next time around.’ he says.  ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure I will, dear. Now fetch me my red heels, I’m going out for the evening.’  I swear, the clueless dipshit walks around in such a daze that I wouldn’t be surprised if someday he steps off a curb in front of a bus.”

(Well, Mrs. Horne, Johnny Boy wasn’t walking, and it wasn’t a bus, but sixteen  hours later . . .)

_____________________________________________

Weeks passed. On New Year’s Eve, at midnight, Hannah Gray and Gary Glidden, proud new owners of a party supply store at an Austin mall, tooted horns, lit sparklers, and danced spitefully on John Horne’s grave.

They wore their chocolate chip cookie sweat-suits, and they left dead sunflowers on his newly-placed headstone.

That done, they felt whole again. They no longer had an axe to grind, not even a rubber one.

Because the sugar had hit the fan . . .

and it was one suite deal after all.

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My own sweet deal: