“Jack!” Jack said, then, “no not you, colleague of mine. I say if we get it to legal by Friday, one second Jack, then they have it for us again by Monday.” He listened at the phone, paper shuffling slowing. “Yeah, but,” another pause, the eyes wandered, the shuffling picked up speed, “Fine, whatever, Thursday, but don’t tell them Tuesday tell them Monday. Okay. Okay? Alright.” Jack expertly flipped the phone off his shoulder into his hand, cradled it, looked up at Jack. “Ganja?”

“Yes.”

Jack Scarlatti, 43, balding, decent suit, cheap tie (gift) middle management, accidentally killed a small boy who ran in front of his car 3 weeks after his 18th birthday (Jack, not the boy), a mild passion for collecting Tiki statues, pulled a bottle of Jack Daniels out of a lower desk drawer. An old joke. Whenever Jack had a chat with Jack, they brought in the third Jack. The bottle was long empty, relic from a late-night meeting with Samuelson, Ops Director, 56, ex military, ex wife, ex shaped scar where they took out a kidney. But Jack kept the bottle for the joke.

Jack Johansson sat down in a chair opposite the desk.

“Papers?” Jack rummaged around his desk, looking for bags of weed.

“E-mail.” Jack Johansson put one ankle on one knee and clasped the other knee in a casual manner.

Jack referenced his computer. Fwd: MJ Request #12358 iProcurement FROM: “Samuelson, Birch” b.samuelso@aesop.com DATE: June 7, 2010 3:12:23 PM EDT TO: j.johanso@aesop.com CC: t.dango@aesop.com SUBJECT: MJ Request #12358 iProcurement --_004_2D360E7 Content-Type: multipart Boundery = _00_2D360. “Why can’t Birch just send these straight to me?”

Jack shrugged “Chain of command?” Jack Scarlatti had 13 years seniority on Jack Johansson. They chuckled.

“Or CC me, at least?”

“You’d deprive Jack here of our little chats?” Jack smiled. The bottle maintained its inertia.

Jack acupunctured the keyboard in reply. “Alright, that’s done.” He lifted errant stacks of paper, folders, pamphlets, heaps of pressed wood pulp that screamed “et cetera.” He eventually produced a baggie. “Ah.” He tossed it to Jack.

Jack caught it, opened it, inhaled, did one of those frowns that goes with a nodding head to show approval, slipped the baggie into his pocket. “Shit,” he said, skipping the word “good.” He leaned back into his chair.

Jack leaned back too.

“How’s tricks.”

“Same old, same old. How’s the wife and kid.”

“Don’t ask. Dating a biker.”

“Which one?” They laughed again. Another old joke. Jack Johansson was not married, had not kids. But was probably not gay, either.

“So did you hear?” Jack Johansson asked, raising an eyebrow to indicate intrigue.

“No.” Which was a lie. Jack Scarlatti got five to ten procurement orders for sweet Mexicali every day. He talked to everyone.

“Bullock’s out.”

“Fired?”

“Quit.”

“Why?” Jack knew why. When Bullock was on PTO, they gave Smack and PCP distro to Berthcut. When he returned, they didn’t give it back.

Jack shrugged. “No clue.”

Jack nodded. “That’ll be Rindaahl then.”

“You think?” They laughed again. Jack glanced at the bottle of Jack. Rindaahl had been positioning himself for Regional Manager since Q309. Jack and Rindaahl played racquetball together. Rindaahl was awful. Jack was only barely good, practiced but uninspired, borne on the momentum of a deep-city corporation ethic that didn’t have access to golf courses, so forged dynasties on wooden courts instead. Jack could take it or leave it, but Rindaahl insisted, and frankly, Jack could use the excuse to leave for work early, since the 13 train was packed by 6:30 on days when he didn’t meet Rindaahl at 6:00, while Jack’s wife poo-poo’d the inconvenience of a sardine train and insisted, otherwise, he snuggle for the extra half hour on non racquetball days. She was an ogre, and he hated her. He hid it well, wore the ties she bought. He occasional wiped his balls on them, as an act of mute defiance.

“How ‘bout you, Jack? Ever consider RM?”

Jack shrugged. “Nah. I’m not the management type. You, you know where your shit is at. Me, I’m a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kinda guy.”

Jack surveyed the landscape of his desk. Disarray. Every piece of paper recognized. Jack was probably right.

A knock on the door, and opened unbidden.

“Guys,” the head that popped in said.

“Whadaya want, Cage,” Jack Scarlatti asked.

“See the paper? The governor’s legalized Motorcycles.”

“And?”

“So?”

“So,” the head continued, “so, you know, for medical purposes. People with balance issues, dizziness, loss of appetite.”

“Good for you, Cage,” Jack Johansson supplied.

“Guys, I don’t ride.”

“Anything else, Cage?” Jack Scarlatti asked with eyes that seemed to say if you were half as diligent with your iProcurement pick-ups as you are about MotorCycalia I wouldn’t hate you as much as that little fucker I killed 25 years ago. Dizziness. A day on a moped, nothing special, no big deal, his cousin’s, then two hours later, driving to the supermarket to get his mom some ‘shrooms and a dime bag for his dad and the kid the tires screeching and a lot less blood than he woulda thought and cops asking questions and his sweat the answer but no charges, accidental death. Asshole.

The head just blinked at them for a few seconds. “I guess not.” It withdrew, leaving the door ajar.

Jack Johansson sighed, stood up, one hand on the doorknob. “Prick. So, anyway, heading to Ballinger’s tonight for a few beers. You in?”

Jack glanced at the bottle. The night Samuelson killed it, finishing up quarterlies, becoming increasingly drunk, increasingly belligerent, finally confessing a love for boys, little boys, “not little, thirteen, fourteen, it was a god damn honor back in ancient Greece,” thought about his wife, waiting at home, steak on the table, she wrapped in cellophane at the front door, 6.7 pounds overweight, dye job three days past due, so god damn supportive, made him golf appointments on alternate Sundays so she could spend those mornings antiquing, filling his garage, his god damned man space with knick knacks and curious and other e-bayable desiderata. “Yeah, sure, I’ll be there. Let’s get fucked up.”