FICTION EXCERPT:

The tic in Ivar’s face was more pronounced that morning but he had become so used to it that he ruled it out of existence.  That’s why the tic existed — his monumental effort to ignore all that did not serve him and keep an unswerving focus on what was important to his own survival.  His lids blinked over his bug eyes and his mouth kept making that sort of pursed action, like a guppy puffing for air in a soupy fish bowl.  Nervous fingers continued to tidy his gold laden fountain pen in its mahogany leather stand and the paper in his mahogany leather portfolio and Vivienne’s photo in the gold rimmed frame on his desk.  Today was the day that the new controller suggested by the Limited Partners came to spy. 

Despite his little nervous habits, Ivar was not an unattractive man.  He was, of course, short, but stature did not make the man.  Success was the standard, the gold standard, he chuckled to himself.  As soon as he had managed to pull himself up from those grubby days as a salesman and mastered the patter of an entrepreneur, life had changed.  The dumpy wife with the dingy blond hair and dingier chenille bathrobe faded from memory and Vivienne materialized, petite, coiffed, buffed, coutured.  He read envy in every brute face. 

The joint venture to import Mexican tiles into the building trades had worked well in this border state, and had given Ivar opportunities to meet contractors of every stripe, along with wealthy professionals terracing their estates, and after a cocktail or two at the Houston Club, Ivar was suddenly in the real estate development game. This latest endeavor —garden-style low rises — had been the most lucrative of all, counting all of the personal incentives from the savings & loan officer he had befriended and contributions by various building tradesmen, Vivienne’s design fees, his own General Partner fees, and other accommodations here and there.  Except for a paper trail that needed tidying up, life was good.  The wedding and honeymoon in the Netherlands was only six months away, and today the new controller. 

The phone rang at his desk, sharply interrupting and for a moment unsettling Ivar’s composure.  The phone, oh yes.  “Hello.  Ah, George, I was just thinking about you.  This is the day your son has his personal interview at Harvard, isn’t it?  Yes, well he is a fine young man.  He’ll do well.  You have a lot to be proud of, George.  You’ve done a good job.  That’s all we can hope for in life, isn’t it George.  Raise our children, hope they learn right from wrong, hope they do respectfully well in business.  Harvard will be a good start.  No, no.  No doubt in my mind young. . .George, Junior isn’t it? . . . He’ll get in easily enough.” 

Ivar fingered the diamond ring on his right hand, blinking, puffing, ticking.  His mind wandered again to the imminent arrival. Had he scrubbed all of the files?   “The financials?  Yes I think the CPA will have those ready in tine for the partnership meeting.  Will you be here?  Good, good.  And Robert? Will he be here?  No we should get the draw in plenty of time to meet the construction loan deadline.  And remember, we always have that Letter of Credit to draw on.  You needn’t worry.  And besides Robert’s niece arrives today to take over the financial end of things.  What? Oh I agree.  It’s a red letter day.”