“What d’you think of Bob?” While he asks me, he fishes on his plate with the tines of his fork for an elusive morsel. After he asks, he puts his fork down, lowers his chin on a fisted pedestal and eyes me intently.

“I thought this wasn’t a business meeting,” I say. I keep my tone neutral.

“You’re right, you’re right. You don’t have to answer that, but I’m curious. Sometime during the first few weeks of any project I’ve worked on with Bob, everyone I’ve ever hired seems to not only have an opinion about him, but finds it necessary to tell me what it is. You’re the first who hasn’t beaten a path of exasperation to my office.”

“Okay,” I concede. “You want to know what I think of Bob? He’s a hard ass. If I had my druthers, he wouldn’t be on the project.” I stare back at him defiantly.

Frank’s eyes narrow. “Do you understand why we’re working with him?”

“This is what I understand. I like what I do. Bob likes what he does. Part of what he does is create divisiveness. Part of it is shrewd ass-kissing. I guess he thinks it’s stimulating. Part of what I do is try to incorporate everything I’m aware of at any particular time in my work. Conflict is the last thing I think of, unless as a subject, certainly not an object. I don’t trust his perspective. I think it’s tied to an acquisitiveness that’s...that smells. He eyes everyones’ work as though it’s a woman. Like he can’t just appreciate something, he to penetrate it. And, yes, I understand why we’re working with him. Sumitomo wouldn’t have contracted to us if we’d overlooked him. The project is his brainchild. And, I understand one more thing. He doesn’t like what I’m doing to his brainchild.” My head is at an angle. I probably sound insufferable, I think. I hope my voice comes across as a dare. I drop my head and pretend I am paying attention to whatever piece of food I’m shoveling into my mouth.

Frank drops his clasped hands into a triangle over his dinner plate. He looks at me head on. “Wait until Bob decides to fuck you for business.”

My head jerks up. My forehead contracts. I’ve never heard Frank talk like this. I’m expecting to see a sneer, but he is still calmly staring at me. Formidable control, I note. No wonder he’s started so many companies.

“He’s never been charged with sexual harassment,” Frank continues. “From all reports, his companions consider it a perk.”

“That’s nasty,” I state, and look away.

Our dessert brandy arrives. I dip two fingers into the liquid in the bowl of the snifter and reach out with my tongue for the dripping sweet.

He picks up his snifter, swirls it, sips from it, and returns it to the table. “Look. I’m not a business-for-business’ sake man. Bob is dangerous, but he’s also valuable, especially to us, especially now. I’m not asking my subcontractors to psychologize their experience with Bob. Or, maybe I am. I don’t want a bunch of yes men.”

“Bob certainly isn’t a yes man!” I slap the table and laugh.

“And neither is anyone else when he’s around. Sides are always taken. Ideas are always debated. Things get done, in spite of Bob. And, they get done better because of Bob.”

“What happens when Bob starts playing dirty?”

“Tomás. Tomás knows Bob. He’s worked with him before. He has an inside line. Tomás will pick up on anything nasty long before Bob becomes a problem.”

“Tomás, huh? Tomás knows Bob?!? Why am I not surprised?!”

Watch it, Shenar. That’s what Frank’s expression says. Before he can rub his neck, I wave out-turned palms in front of my face and turn my head. “I know, I know, I haven’t met Tomás. I haven’t met Tomás.” The brandy is sending a warm tickle down my throat. I snort and cough and occupy myself, innocently, I hope, with recovering my physical composure. I focus on my brandy.

“I love sweet brandy,” I say. My voice is just above a whisper. I am not looking at Frank but I notice him lean in toward me. I raise my hand, but not my eyes. “I know how to deal with difficult people. Bob’s pretentious...”

“I don’t think he’s pretentious,” Frank interrupts. I look at him. He is frowning, but not unkindly.

“You’re right, of course,” I raise my hands in secession, again. “What I’m saying is, I know how to deal with difficult people. I know where he’s coming from. I knew someone who was like that. I loved someone who was like that.”

Frank’s expression doesn’t change. “Really. What happened?”

“He died. Killed himself. That was the end of the relationship.” I’ve said this so many times to myself it isn’t hard to say it out loud. “Ralph was a fighter, just like Bob is. He thrived on conflict. Ralph was kinder, though. Winning wasn’t important to him, just conflict, which he incited over and over, without resolution. When I deal with Bob, I think of Ralph, and what he might have been if he’d had a little more of Bob’s bluster. So, while on the one hand, it’s easy for me to find Bob offensive, on the other hand, offensiveness can have its place...” my voice trails...

Frank doesn’t respond immediately. He stares through his snifter, studying the circular tide he’s creating. Finally, he sets his glass down.

“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” he offers.

I stifle an urge to automatically respond, “That’s all right.” His tone wasn’t apologetic. It’s not necessary to dismiss an offense, here. “You’re right. You shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Text & Graphics © 1999 by Gail Rae Hudson

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