Agents of Change Read online



  Agents of Change

  Second Edition

  By Guy Harrison

  Copyright 2012, 2013 Guy Harrison Publishing

  To my dearest Lindsay, for putting up with all of the late nights and wasted days I spent in front of my laptop.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part I: The Agency of Influence

  Part II: The Agents of Change

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Agents of Chaos

  Prologue

  Awake at an obscene Saturday hour for a teenager, the girl looks into the distance as the rising sun behind her gives her otherwise golden hair a bright orange hue. Biking along Pennypack Trail, one of Philadelphia’s most scenic paths, the girl stares down the challenging stretch that awaits her while also ignoring that which she’s already traversed.

  The trail takes the girl over its eponymous creek before turning west. Ahead, another cyclist sprints in her direction. If the girl is running a marathon, her counterpart is running a hundred-meter sprint.

  As the cyclist draws nearer, the girl can see that her counterpart wears a vintage light blue Phillies cap and is female, expressionless, and in an apparent hurry. The girl breathes a subconscious sigh of relief. She’s been told countless stories of young women being sexually assaulted, even murdered at odd hours along the trail.

  The girl moves to her left—closer to the creek below—to clear the way for the cyclist. Her counterpart only mirrors her movement. One of those awkward moments, the girl thinks as she moves back to her right.

  Closer still, the cyclist again mirrors the girl’s maneuver and shows no signs of slowing down.

  This isn’t funny.

  The gap between them closing, the girl clenches her bike’s breaks and swerves to her left.

  Swoooop!

  Crash!

  The girl and her bike spin off the trail and tumble over the guardrail, sending the girl hurtling towards the creek. In a helpless panic, the girl attempts to brace herself for the rocky earth that lines the creek’s embankment.

  Before she can shed her bike, before she can reach out a hand for protection, her left cheek meets a rock. Her face cracks as her legs and bike are sent flailing into the air.

  As the girl continues to drop toward the water, unable to regain control of her body, she catches a glimpse of the cyclist standing on the trail, staring down at her bounding body. Soon, the girl’s joints seem to rap every possible protrusion along the embankment and her bike splashes into the creek.

  Tumbling backwards, the girl sees the cyclist and the sky in one final blur before succumbing to blackness.

  Crack!

  Part I: The Agency of Influence

  Chapter One

  I slide my dark finger down the page, never minding the newspaper ink that’s certain to rub off on my finger. I’ve come this far, I must find the information I’m looking for.

  I scratch my closely-coiffed head and separate my tie from my neck; it’s a bit stuffy in here. I would have gathered the information I was looking for last night but I crashed early. I can’t stay up as late as I used to—are you supposed to get all grandfatherly in your late twenties?

  Ah. Found it.

  The local hockey team, the Flyers, won last night, 3-2. Awesome.

  I look away from the newspaper and remember the envelope that occupies the desk space next to it. Having already stamped and addressed it to Celia Williams, I sign the bottom of a five-hundred-dollar check and place it in the envelope. I lick the seal and press it shut.

  When I turn my attention back to the newspaper, I’m interrupted by a knock at my door. Paula, my assistant, stands before me with her arms relaxed at her sides.

  “Mr. Grace is on line one,” she says, sweetly as always.

  “Thank you, Paula.”

  “Can I get you anything? Coffee?”

  I grin and raise my eyebrows.

  She smacks her forehead with her right hand. “Oh, right. Sorry.”

  “It’s cool. Don’t worry about it.” Really, it was. As she leaves my office and closes the door behind her, I recall the day I hired Paula, not more than three weeks ago. Because I’m in the minority of bosses who don’t like coffee, I’m sure that’ll take some getting used to. I’m also in the minority of bosses at Maxwell that are, well, minorities. I imagine that, in combination with my age, will also be an adjustment for Paula, just as it was for me. It’s still odd telling people that are older than me what to do.

  Knowing what’s coming next, I exhale as I close my newspaper and pick up the phone. “How are you, Mr. Grace?” I press the receiver closer to my ear and look at the set numbers and formulas scribbled on the whiteboard in front of me.

  “Not happy.”

  I play coy. “Sir?”

  “That moron you have down there, Keeling—”

  “Oh, Keeling?” I say, with a blasé wave of my hand. “I can explain. He—”

  “Don’t explain, Newsome. Just fix.”

  “He had a bad quarter. He’ll bounce back.”

  “You’ve got a lot more faith than I do.”

  “I guess. What do you want me to do?”

  “You’re the director, man. Direct.”

  “Wait, are you asking me to fire him?”

  Silence from the other end.

  “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?” I say.

  “You might want consider it. Look at the guy’s numbers for chrissakes. You can’t ignore that kind of decline. ”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Fine. I’ll call him in.”

  “Good. And don’t be nice with him, either. I know how you like to play psychologist.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I hang up the phone and dial Paula on speakerphone.

  “Hi, Calvin.”

  “Paula, can you let Trevor Keeling know that I need to speak with him, please?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Thanks.”

  I hang up and turn to look through the window. I never used to think that corner offices were everything people made them out to be. That changed when I moved into this office. I get unobstructed, breathtaking views of Philadelphia’s skyline, its glass skyscrapers glistening in the spring sun.

  On the other hand, I used to think that being the director of business analytics had its vast array of advantages. Other than my office, though, I can’t say I’ve enjoyed this experience; it’s not what I thought it’d be. Heck, not even my salary increase was worth celebrating—it simply meant that I was in a new tax bracket. Yippee.

  Despite a bevy of efforts to circumvent it, I’m now that guy that everyone tries to avoid. I’m the guy who, when you’re called to my office, you get a knot in your stomach. It’s a feeling I’m sure Mr. Keeling feels now, though I can’t say it’s unwarranted from his point of view.

  I pull a granola bar out of my desk drawer, unwrap it, and take a bite. I look down at my desk and look at the headline on the front page of the newspaper. City Pall. Clever.

  When I hear a knock at my door, I wave my visitor in. Trevor Keeling was a holdover from my predecessor, so he’s not my guy. I can’t say I feel a ton of loyalty to him.

  “You wanted to see me?” he says in a hushed tone.

  I take a deep breath. “Take a seat.”

  He sits down in a wooden chair in front of my desk and straightens his tie. His hands are trembling.

  “I’ve had a chance to look over your numbers from the last quarter.”

  He averts his gaze. “I know. No good, right?”

  “No good? Try inexplicable. Unfathomable.”

  Keeling doesn’t say a word. He only rocks anxiously while continuing to avoid my gaze.

  “I mean, what the fuck h
appened?” I say, holding his report between my thumb and index finger. “You’ve never—”

  He places a hand in front of his face to hide his trembling lips.

  “I’ve been given the green light to terminate you,” I say.

  “No…” he says, his eyes moistening.

  “The fact is, my ass is on the line, too. And I refuse to lose my job because of you.”

  “Please, don’t do this to me.”

  I rub the back of my neck and look down at my desk as I avoid Keeling’s pathetic gestures. My eyes flick over to my partially-eaten granola bar before settling on the random numbers and formulas scribbled on the dry erase board behind him again. I furrow my brow with contempt as I catch myself reciting each formula in my head. I hate this crap.

  Keeling’s whimpering draws me back to the task at hand. “What am I supposed to tell my wife?” he says.

  I force myself to look at the man again and take in his pained, involuntary movements. I then look him in the eye as I lean forward and place my elbows on my desk.

  “I want you to tell her that she has nothing to worry about,” I say in a soft tone.

  Keeling sits slouched in his chair with a confused look on his face.

  “I know how much you love your family,” I say. “I’ve been by your desk, I’ve seen your screensaver. You’ve thought about what you’d tell them if you were ever fired, yes?”

  He nods his head.

  “And I’m sure you’ve imagined the looks on their faces.”

  “Yeah…”

  “Remember what that looks like going forward, Trevor. I expect to see you kick ass this quarter.”

  Keeling stifles a grin. “Wait. What?”

  “You’re going to meet with me every Friday—arrange it with Paula. We’ll get you back on track.”

  He looks to the floor as he tries to hide his swaying emotions. I watch him silently for the next few moments. The man doesn’t move.

  “Trevor?” I wait for his eyes to return to me. “You can go back to your desk now,” I say, slowly.

  “Oh, right,” he says, breaking out of his trance. He gets up and walks to the door, stopping just before he leaves. “Thank you,” he says, now wearing a broad smile. I wave him off as he closes the door behind him.

  I shake my head and look at the digital clock on the wall: 12:28. I better get going if I want to make my appointment.

  As I hop out of my chair, my cell phone rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Calvin, where are you?” It’s my adoring Ronni.

  “Uh, at work?”

  “Did you forget?”

  “Forget what?” When I remember that I was supposed to meet Ronni for lunch today, I press my fist against my forehead and swear under my breath.

  “Ugh! I knew you’d forget.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. How about tonight? Your place?”

  “Fine,” she says like a spoiled teen. “You better bring Italian.”

  “Spinach ravioli?”

  “Yes, please.”

  After we hang up, I grab my suit jacket and the envelope, and leave my office. Paula greets me at her desk just outside my office.

  “I’m taking my lunch now,” I say. “I’ll be back at 1:30.”

  “Sounds good,” she says. “Hey, when’s the next community service outing?”

  “Next Saturday. Want me to add you to the list?”

  “Where will it be?”

  “The SPCA.”

  Her eyes light up.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” I place the envelope on her desk. She’s been good at taking care of my mail.

  “I didn’t think you were into animals.”

  “Every dog has his day,” I say with a shrug.

  “Good one,” Paula says, just as her phone rings.

  When she recites the standard Maxwell greeting, I walk away toward the elevator and wait to take it down to the underground parking garage.

  Veronica Lee—Ronni for short—is Chinese-American, first generation, in fact. I’ve known her since we were little kids. Her parents immigrated to the States in the ’70s. They were among the few Asians who flocked to the eastern seaboard as opposed to the west coast. And as is customary in her culture, Ronni’s parents were very strict with her, especially in regard to her studies. When Ronni would beat herself up over the occasional B, she would tell me, with great disappointment, that she could see her father reminding her, “You no B-sian, you A-sian.”

  Despite the fact that her academics took precedence, Ronni still found a way to love me in a way no one else ever has. When I’ve had my heart broken—or when I’ve done the occasional heartbreaking—Ronni’s always offered herself as a sounding board. She also never laughed at me when I sought her out for college calculus help, even though I went to Penn, and Ivy League school, and she inexplicably went to Philly U. Now, that’s true love.

  In the garage, I climb into my car—a late-model Kia—and open the sunroof but not the windows. It’s a gorgeous spring day outside but if I have any shot of making my appointment on time, my only chance is on the expressway. I turn the ignition, emerge from the garage, and head west.

  As I drive through the high rises that comprise the city’s skyline, passing the intermittent gobs of pedestrians and the exhaust-coated homeless lying along the sidewalk, my thoughts wander to what has me driving quite far from work on my lunch break.

  In my spare time, I am a matchmaker and, today, I’m meeting a new client. Don’t laugh. It seemed like a cool thing to do at the time.

  I’m a matchmaker and fairly wet behind the ears with it, too. I’m so new to the industry, I haven’t yet posted a bio or photo on my website. See, in a field inundated with folks who are older and much more experienced than I, my services need to speak for themselves. I need to allow word of mouth to do the advertising for me.

  Initially, in order to get my name out there, I had to offer a few free sessions to wrangle my first handful of clients. It was a strategy I learned in business school. It also illustrates my current predicament: as I try to make a difference, I still have to take a businessman’s approach to things. And that’s not what I want.

  I want my work to mean something without having to think about numbers and customers and cash flow. Despite my management degree from Penn’s Wharton School, I’ve never had a job that I would consider significant. My current job is cushy, don’t get me wrong. But I never found much meaning in my work, even with the employee stock options and the silly-nilly corporate office games like hallway bowling. Call me too cool for school but that isn’t me.

  While I’ll be okay if I end up being a matchmaker for the rest of my life, I really view it as a stopgap, something I can do immediately to fill a void as I explore other, more meaningful opportunities. Eventually, I need to do something everlasting, something the world can profit from, and not necessarily in a financial way. I want to do something that, when people see it, they know Calvin Newsome’s hands have been all over it. I want it to be different. I want it to stand out.

  I’ve always been good at that, standing out. I use big words you’ll only find in the dictionary. I like hockey. I like rock music as well as rap. As a black man, those things make it hard to blend into the crowd.

  Turning my right blinker on, I merge to my right as I approach my exit.

  East Falls is a very woody, slice-of-Suburbia part of town, although it’s certainly not without its warts. Despite its greenery, sloping throughways, and desirable location, it still possesses Philly’s most common property, the row home. This neighborhood is also home to Ronni’s alma mater, Philly U, or “P.U.” as I used to say whenever I wanted to piss her off.

  When I pull up to my client’s house for the first time, I’m struck by how large it is. It’s a colonial—red bricks, white window details and all. The house stands as a fortress along the two-lane road in front of it.

  Before opening my door, I take off my tie and leave it in
the passenger seat, undoing my shirt’s top button for a more casual look. I climb out of the car and grab a notepad before closing the door.

  Two large trees surround both sides of the home’s expansive, forward-sloping front lawn. A small stairwell of about three steps leads me from the sidewalk onto a concrete path through the lawn up to the front door. Startled, I look up when I hear the loud kazoo-like squawking of a bird from one of the large trees.

  As I approach the door, I remember this new client being female. I ring the doorbell, expecting Blanche Devereaux to answer.

  The door swings open and standing before me is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever laid eyes on. She’s a Latin goddess and is far younger than my usual clientele.

  “Hi,” she says.

  I take a moment to study her shoulder length brown hair—adorned with highlights—and light, caramel-colored skin. Her form-fitting T-shirt and jeans accentuate her curvaceous figure. To top it off, she’s wearing my favorite scent: vanilla.

  “Uh, hi,” I manage to say through clenched vocal cords. Consider me speechless.

  “Come in,” she says, all business as she opens the door even further. I step inside and blown away by the home’s interior. Polished hardwood floors, vaulted ceilings, classic yet tasteful window valances and beautiful, nearly-mint condition leather furniture beckon the home’s guests.

  The woman reaches out her hand. “Elena Jimenez,” she says, her face emotionless as her large brown eyes fixate on mine.

  “Calvin Newsome. Nice to meet you.” Despite her allure, I can’t hold her gaze. I choose instead to take her in just a little bit at a time.

  “Take a seat,” she says, pointing to a leather chair in the living room. Still no smile.

  Elena walks briskly to the kitchen as I take a seat in the chair. One of the perks of this job is getting to see my clients’ homes. This one is the nicest, by far.

  “Can I get you some water?” Elena says from afar.

  “That’d be great.”

  I pull a pen out of my pocket and, as I put it to my notepad, there are only two words I can think to write at the moment. Hot mamacita.

  The only downside to this is that I don’t really have an age-appropriate male to set her up with. That’s not entirely bad, though. At the very least, I could post her photo on my website and use her as bait for both my male and female clients—my practice is flexible like that.

  She comes back with a glass of water in hand, still very much poker-faced. She may be beautiful but if this is the extent of her personality, I can see why she’s single. I take a swig of water and place the glass on an end table. Elena sits on a couch across from me.

  “So, what can I do for you?” I say.

  “Tell me about the process,” she says. “How does it work?”

  “Well…” I suddenly feel the urge to close my eyes and begin to fall forward, despite a steadfast desire not to. I hit the hardwood floor with a thud, landing in the fetal position. Before my eyelids call it an afternoon, the last thing I see is the bizarre image of the beautiful Elena standing over me … with a rope in her hand.