A Novel Page 2

  I took a last swig from a can of energy drink as the announcer boomed, “Ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve been waiting for, the man of the hour, the direct descendant of the legendary outlaw Jesse James, the incomparable . . . Charles James!”

  Music blared as I walked out from behind the curtain, both of my hands raised triumphantly in the air. Somewhat appropriately, my theme song was Tears for Fears’ “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.”

  I walked to the center of the stage as the crowd roared. I snatched the microphone from its stand and just stood there, looking out over the cheering audience for more than a minute, waiting for the applause to settle. When I sensed it was starting to slow, I raised my hand. “Thank you. Thank you, you’re very kind. That’s enough. Now calm down. Time’s important. We’ve got things to talk about. Important things. Vital things.”

  When the crowd had hushed, I said, “Henry David Thoreau wrote, ‘The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.’ There is one great truth in life that will determine whether your life is one of success or one of quiet desperation.” I stabbed at the air with my index finger. “Just one. Do you want to know that truth?”

  I paused for their response. After more than seven hundred presentations I already knew how they’d respond. I always did. I saw some heads nodding. Then a few brave souls shouted, “Yes!” or “Tell us!”

  I looked at the audience in feigned disappointment, tapping the microphone against my chin. “That’s not promising. I saaaid”—holding the word like a television evangelist—“do you want to hear that truth? Because I’m not casting pearls before a bunch of swine. Not here. Not now. Not ever. In fact, will all swine please leave the hall right now.”

  Not surprisingly, no one stood. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Sooey!” Everyone laughed.

  Perfect. I looked the crowd over until they again quieted. Then, speaking in a softer voice than before, again asked, “Do you want to hear the one great truth?”

  “Yes!” came the resounding response. “Tell us!”

  I took a deep breath, feigning disappointment. “If that’s all the passion you can muster for the one great truth of life, you might as well leave right now. In fact, you might as well just die right now, because your life is going nowhere.” I looked at them for another thirty seconds for effect, creating a strained atmosphere in the room. Then I said, “All right, let’s do this one more time. Last chance. I want to hear winners, not whiners. Do. You. Want. To. Know. The. One. Great. Truth. Yes or no?”

  The chorus was deafening. “Yes!”

  “All right then,” I said, lowering my hand. “All right. I knew you could do it. Now you’re sounding like winners.” I walked to the edge of the stage, looking into the eyes of those in the front row. “This is it. Listen very carefully.” I knelt down on one knee and softened my voice. “This is the one great truth.”

  The room fell dead quiet. You could hear a credit card drop.

  “In life, you are either the butcher or the sheep. There is no in-between.”

  I waited a moment, and then stood. “You are either the butcher or the sheep!” I shouted. “Which are you? Am I talking to a room full of sheep?” I looked out over the audience. “Anyone who is a sheep, stand up and walk out right now. I don’t waste my time with swine and sheep. If you’re not strong enough, if you don’t care enough about your life enough to choose to be an apex predator, to be a warrior, then go right ahead and join the millions of sheep outside this convention center. There’s always room in their flock. Go ahead, I’m waiting.”

  Again, predictably, no one stood. They never did.

  “All right then. You want to be predators. You want to be lions. That’s good. But even lions must be taught how to kill. They must be prepared and tested. But lions have an advantage over you. They are raised to be lions. You, on the other hand, were raised, by society, to be sheep. To be timid and weak. Not your fault. Society fears lions. A world of lions is impossible to control. Impossible to slaughter. While a world of sheep is easy to lead, easy to butcher. Many of you came here today as sheep. The good news, if you have the courage to choose to win, is that you will leave as lions.

  “What I’m talking about is change. Deep, personal change.” I pounded my abs. “Core change. And change is coming whether you like it or not. Sometimes you can feel it, the way old people can feel changing weather in their joints. Change is always coming. Nothing is more unchanging than change, just as nothing is more certain than uncertainty.”

  I looked out over the audience, their faces barely visible in the dark, as the hall’s spotlights were all on me. “Look around you. The wave is coming. Not just any wave, but a tsunami. Will you ride it, or will it rush over you, drown you?”

  It was the perfect segue into my near-death story. Every presenter I knew had a good “brush with death” experience, even if they had to make one up. I didn’t. I just embellished it.

  Nine months earlier, my now ex-girlfriend and I had spent the day at Flamands Beach in St. Barths, an immaculate white-sand beach where beautiful people sunned beneath skies as clear as the turquoise water while white-clad beach servants ran from chair to chair taking drink orders.

  I had swum and bodysurfed for several hours and was just about to head in to shore when I saw a large wave coming. I swam into it, catching the crest. I soon discovered that I hadn’t caught the wave, rather it had caught me. I felt myself tumbling through the water like a sock in a dryer. My tumbling came to an abrupt stop as I hit ground.

  “There was a loud snap,” I told the crowd. “As sharp as a breaking tree branch. My first thought was that I had broken my neck. It’s remarkable how quickly your thoughts run in crisis. This is how you die, I thought. Right here, right now, underwater, unseen. I imagined my lifeless body washing up on shore.

  “I was angry. Death wasn’t on my to-do list when I got up that morning. It never is. But I was still alive, and I knew I had a choice. I knew I was broken, but I still had a choice. I could give up or I could live.

  “At that moment, I decided to live. In spite of the pain, in spite of my body being in shock, I began clawing my way toward shore. It was only when I had got my body halfway out of the water that I passed out.

  “I woke in an ambulance. They drove me to a small medical clinic where no one spoke English. I had crushed my scapula and broken all of my ribs. I was bandaged up and given nothing but Tylenol for the pain. That night, I flew back to Chicago and the emergency room at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. I’ll never forget the doctor walking into my room carrying my X-rays.

  “ ‘You shouldn’t be alive,’ he told me. ‘That’s the worst break I’ve seen on anyone still breathing.’ ”

  The audience listened intensely. It didn’t matter that the story wasn’t true. At least, not completely. I had been bodysurfing in St. Barths when I broke my arm. But that was it. The truth didn’t matter, just the story.

  “You’re either living or you’re dying,” I said softly. “So what is it? The financial waves of life are drowning you. Every time you think you might get ahead, they pound you down again and again. Will you live or will you die? That’s a question only you can answer right now.” I took a deep breath and said, “For the survivors in this room, for those who choose to be warriors and apex predators, for those who choose to live, I’m going to teach you how to ride those waves. I’m not just talking about treading water, I’m talking about surfing those babies onto white-sand beaches. I’m going to teach you how to make money in your sleep. Who is with me? Where are my lions?”

  The crowd roared. A half hour later people lined up with their credit cards, checkbooks, and hope.

  Chapter Two

  Sometimes the darkest moments of our past return to us in human form.

  —CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY

  After my speech, I swapped my suit jacket for a black turtleneck and put on my Ray-Ban Wayfarers. It was something I always did as I left the stage to avoid being accosted by fans or
detractors.

  I was walking out the back entrance on the way to my room when someone shouted, “Hey. Gonzales.”

  It was a name few people knew and even fewer called me. I turned around to see a large gray-haired man walking toward me. He was dressed in an oversize Tommy Bahama silk Hawaiian shirt with loose-fitting pants. Even though I hadn’t seen him in more than a decade, I immediately recognized him. It was McKay Benson, the man who had brought me into the business.

  The last time I’d seen McKay was in court, where he had unsuccessfully sued me. We hadn’t spoken since then. He hated me, but I had my reasons to hate him as well. I couldn’t imagine what he wanted.

  “Speak of the devil,” I said.

  “And the devil appears,” McKay replied. “Good job in there. You’ve still got it. Mass mind control at its finest.”

  “I learned from the best.”

  “Yes you did.”

  Surprisingly, he reached out his hand to shake. I didn’t shake, and not just because of my OCD. After what we’d been through, it didn’t seem natural. He took back his hand, looking neither surprised nor offended.

  It was surreal seeing him again. He had changed a lot. He was tan—not surprising, since he now lived in Florida—but he’d also gone completely gray and he’d gained weight, at least thirty pounds.

  McKay was tall, six foot three, though he had always seemed larger to me on stage, like a heroic-sized version of himself. But that was then. Now he looked mortal and old and a little stooped.

  He was older than me by nearly thirty years. I’d met him when I was twenty-one. He was not only my mentor, he was one of the pioneers of the seminar sales industry, the presenter we all emulated and hoped to be someday. The media had dubbed him the Godfather of the seminar stage. He was even the one who got me to play up my Jesse James connection.

  But all that was before our falling-out. Even though McKay had lost his company and the lawsuit, he had already made millions, and rather than start over again he retired. His exit was a Florida beachfront condo, a thirty-six-year-old trophy wife (a former Denver Broncos cheerleader), and a sixty-two-foot motor yacht he christened Reel Living, which he docked near Hollywood, Florida. At least that’s what I had been told. I also heard that he now had two sons.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I came to have dinner with you.”

  “Thanks, but I’m exhausted. I’m just headed back to my room.”

  “I flew all the way from Florida just to see you. You can spare an hour for your old friend. I already made reservations for us at Ruth’s Chris over at the Hyatt.”

  “We haven’t talked in more than a decade and you made dinner reservations?”

  “You know my mantra: Name it and claim it.”

  I had to give him credit: he not only said it, he lived by it. “All right. When?”

  “Seven thirty. I figured that would give you enough time to go back to your room and recover. Or skip town.”

  “I’ll see you there at seven thirty,” I said. I turned and walked back to my room. Speak of the devil.

  The St. Louis Ruth’s Chris Steak House was located in the lobby of the Hyatt Regency near the Arch. The restaurant was crowded, and the hostess led me past full tables to the back. McKay was seated at a small corner table lit by a single candle. He stood as I approached. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “I gave you a fifty percent chance of showing.”

  “More like thirty percent,” I said. “But I’m here.” I sat down, studying his face cautiously. “How are you, McKay?”

  “Living the dream.”

  “How’s Florida?”

  “You know. I never wanted to move there, but I turned sixty and that’s the law.”

  I suppressed a grin. “You look good.”

  “If by good you mean grayer and fatter, you’re right. How are you?”

  I was surprised that he was being so congenial. Considering our history, I expected a confrontation. “Healthwise, I’m good. Always good.”

  “You can thank God for that.”

  “I’ll thank science and exercise for that.”

  “As you will.” He leaned forward and poured me a glass of wine. “I got us a Chianti, from Greve, Italia. You always liked the Italian wines.”

  “I’m amazed you remember that,” I said.

  “I remember a lot about you,” he said. “The Italian wine, the Italian women. Who was that one . . . Sofia.”

  “Sofia. Or Sonia. They were both the same as the wines—full-bodied, intoxicating, expensive, and didn’t last long.”

  He grinned and lifted his glass. “To Italian wine, then. At least you can always buy more.”

  We tapped glasses and I took a sip. It bothered me that I still couldn’t figure out what he was up to. McKay was smart, and he played people like pawns in a chess game. The only way to beat him was to move first, which was how I had ended up with his company.

  “So why are you really here?”

  “We’ll order first, then we’ll talk.”

  He signaled the server and she came right over.

  “What may I get you gentlemen?”

  “Go ahead,” McKay said, deferring to me.

  I set down my menu. “I’ll have the rib eye, medium well, the lettuce wedge salad, and your sweet potato casserole.”

  “Very well, and you, sir?”

  “I’ll also have the rib eye,” McKay said. “Medium well, a small chopped salad and your lobster mac and cheese.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I should hope not,” McKay said. “That’s enough calories for today and tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be right back with your orders.”

  When we were alone again, McKay started. “To answer your question, for the third time, I came to see you. I certainly didn’t come for the weather. It’s April, and it still feels like winter.”

  I looked at him pointedly. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  He smiled and took a drink. “So, you’re still working for a living.”

  “And you’re still playing for a living?”

  “I don’t know how I ever found time to work. Marissa keeps me busy. Too busy. Never marry a woman a decade younger than you, you’ll feel it in your joints. She’s got me doing Pilates now.”

  “Just a decade younger?”

  “All right . . . two and a half.”

  “But you miss it, don’t you?”

  His forehead furrowed. “Miss what?”

  “The business. The cheer of the crowd. The adrenaline rush of the stage.”

  He took another drink of wine and said, “No.”

  I just looked at him, trying to decide whether I believed him or not.

  “I’m telling the truth. I don’t miss any of it. The rush, the audience. Not one thing. I thought I would. But I don’t.”

  Sour grapes, I thought. “So what gets you up in the morning?”

  He smiled. “Usually the kids. Starting a family at my age . . .”

  “Yeah, I thought that seemed a little crazy.”

  “It is. But it’s nice crazy. My only regret is that I didn’t start earlier.” He grinned. “You should have stolen my company from me sooner.”

  I had to force myself not to react. “The Godfather has been domesticated. Or is it Stockholm syndrome?”

  “That’s good,” he said, chuckling. “Stockholm syndrome. You seem surprised.”

  “I am. It’s like they say, there are three rings in marriage. The engagement ring, the wedding ring, and the suffering.”

  “It’s work, you know. All relationships are work. But it’s worth the effort. She has my back, I have hers. In this world of dog-eat-dog, that’s not a small thing.” An easy, content smile crossed his face. “How about you? Do you have someone?”

  Before I could answer, the waitress brought out our salads and set them down in front of us. “Ground pepper?” she asked.

  “I’m good,” I said.

  “Please,
” McKay said. “Just a few twists.”

  She lightly peppered his salad, then walked away.

  “I don’t have time for anyone right now,” I said.

  “And you won’t until you stop.”

  “Stop? I’m just getting started. So is that it? You’re trying to get your company back?”

  He chuckled. “I wouldn’t take it back if you gave it to me. Are you sure it’s worth the money?”

  “Is my company worth the money?”

  “No. Being alone.”

  “Being alone isn’t the problem. It’s getting away from the crowds.”

  “Loneliest place there is,” he said. “Crowds.”

  “Well, it’s not about the money. I’ve got more money than God. I don’t need more.”

  He looked amused. “Good. Then you’re going to start giving away your packages?”

  “Now you’re being stupid.” I took a few bites of salad, then said, “I used to think that money was the goal. But it’s not. The bank register just lets me know the score.”

  “If money isn’t the goal, what is?”

  “The goal is winning. It’s putting the ball over the line while everyone is trying to stop you. It’s my will be done, not yours. That’s the heart of every competitive endeavor. It’s the heart of society. The goal is to dominate the other man.”

  “Like me?”

  I just glared at him. I was considering lashing back when he smiled and waved his hand. “Sorry, that was a cheap shot.” He took another drink. “You might be right. I’m not saying it’s right, but you might be right.”

  “Of course I’m right. It’s all about the win. And for someone to win, someone has to lose. You’re the one who taught me that. How did you say it? Losers lose. That’s what they do. That’s why they invented participation trophies.”

  He breathed out heavily. “I said a lot of stupid things back then. Things I’m ashamed of.” His humility surprised me. This was definitely not the McKay I had once worked for.

  “Are you happy?” he asked.

  I laughed out loud. “What kind of question is that?”