Photo: © Depositphotos.com/DesignPicsInc
Written by Don Schuerman

 

The pain was getting worse.

“Shit,” thought Bruce. He rolled over and pressed his back against the cold tile floor. His watch—he was wearing the Brietling—said 4:11 AM. He was meeting the MidAmerica team for breakfast at 8. “Shit,” he thought again.

It had started over drinks. Most messy things did. Harry Mason was bragging about his deal at First National. It was a good sale. A big one. Harry deserved the victory lap. And Bruce was working a big deal, too. He usually wouldn’t have mentioned it. He didn’t like talking about big deals in flight. It was bad luck. But Harry was getting smug—and he had been pouring shots of Blue Label all night. And so, Bruce had blurted it out, “No way I don’t close MidAmerica this quarter. No way.” That was June. The quarter ended in July.

It was September, and Bruce was still trying to close the MidAmerica deal. He just needed to nail this meeting. But do that, he had to get off the floor of the damn Marriott bathroom. He tried to sit up, but the pressure in his colon was intense. His colon, right? It was definitely down somewhere in the lower intestine. He eased himself back onto the floor. “Goddammit!”

“Really?” Harry had said. “MidAmerica is a sure thing?” He poured Bruce another shot.

“Two and half million, easy. This quarter. If it doesn’t close, I’ll eat my hat.”

“Eat your hat? Who says that anymore? Who even wears a hat anymore?”

“Fine,” said Bruce. “I’ll eat my tie. If I don’t close the MidAmerica deal this quarter, I’ll eat my effing tie.”

Bruce pulled the bath mat off the side of the tub and hugged it like a pillow. He had tried to convince himself he had just picked up a stomach bug from the kids, but this was different. For the past few days, the pressure had been building up in his abdomen. He just needed a little release—a fart, a burp, a puke, a shit—but nothing was moving down there. He hadn’t been able to eat at Morton’s last night. Mike Saunders—an EVP bigwig at MidAmerica who Bruce needed to sign off on this deal—Mike had leaned across the table and asked, “Too much steak for you, big guy?” Bruce had mumbled something about a diet, but the whole dinner had come off weird.

He had been at the Morton’s a week ago. Harry had booked a private room for the “big night.” Just the two of them in a sea of dark wood paneling. The object of their attention laid out on a large platter. “No cutting it,” Harry had said. “You gotta slurp it like a big noodle.” Bruce had gagged a couple of times getting it down. To prepare, he watched a couple of YouTube videos about how followers of a certain meditation practice—that one Andy Kaufman was into—would pass a length of cloth through their bodies. It would be hard, but doable. It took a two hours and a couple of pitchers of water, but after about ten minutes and a few glasses of wine, Bruce didn’t feel too bad. Harry ordered him a 12 oz New York strip. Bruce ate the whole thing.

The Brietling said 6:18. Bruce had been dry-heaving for the last hour. Nothing came up. Or out. He had to get to a doctor. That meant the ER. They’d pump his stomach, probably. And extract a fully intact Jerry Garcia-print tie. That would be an interesting story for the nurses on duty. It would also take hours, which meant missing the MidAmerica meeting. If he called Ted Stoughton, the regional Sales VP, he could probably get coverage. But Ted would send Harry Mason. He was the only other rep in the area. If Harry helped close the deal, Bruce would have to share commission with him. No way. No fucking way.

Bruce pulled himself onto his knees, grabbed the edges of the toilet and heaved himself up. The pain was everywhere now. Stabbing pain. Was this what Denise felt giving birth to Liam and Megan? This had to be worse. The lights in the room seemed to flicker. He was on the seat now, his hands digging to his knees. Bruce closed his eyes and thought about the MidAmerica deal. He thought about the commission on two and half million dollars. He thought about Harry Mason. And, one last time, Bruce pushed.

 

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Don Schuerman is a techie / marketer by occupation and a improvisor by avocation. He’s also a committed bike commuter, a lucky husband, and a proud, albeit exhausted, father.