Jake's 8

Spoon
opens with a bartender making a Marlboro Man cocktail. However, I wrote this story while drinking my usual standby—The Manhattan. The ingredients for the Marlboro Man can be pricey, and they aren’t used too often in the home bar. Various hipster vendors do make nice tobacco bitters if you’re looking for them.

The ingredients that make up a
Manhattan should be in every bar. If you don’t have them, go out and get them now.

Got them now?

Good.

This is how I make my
Manhattan:

First, I use good, well-stored Italian (sweet) vermouth. Once opened, the bottle of this fortified wine should be refrigerated. Otherwise, it goes stale and musky quickly. If you’ve ever tried a
Manhattan and not liked it, my bet is the bartender used some unrefrigerated, skanky vermouth. He should have been slapped, not tipped.

I then chill my cocktail glass. A warm drink is rarely a good drink. Just toss some ice into it and let it be.

Next, I fill the metal half of my Boston shaker about halfway with ice then shake in about 3 dashes of Angostura bitters. Measure—always measure—in two ounces of rye. While a Manhattan has been made with many whiskeys—with bourbon being the most common now-a-days—rye, to me, makes for the best result. It’s not as sweet and offers a bit more spice and a deeper flavor. After the whiskey, I put a single ounce of vermouth into the shaker and stir using my bar spoon. How long do I stir? I stir until the metal shaker is too cold to hold any longer.

Finally, toss the ice out of your now well-chilled glass, place a single bourbon-soaked cherry in the bottom and strain the concoction from your shaker into your glass.

Enjoy your Manhattan and enjoy
Spoon
.

– Howard McEwen

Spoon

I’d just been gutted and
beheaded and shown the door and I knew right where to go. I needed to soothe my wounded soul on Molly Wellmann’s cocktail shakers.

I walked into Japp’s and took the first stool at the bar. It was a Tuesday night, but the place still had a decent sized after-work crowd. I looked down the bar toward the Tazza Mia coffee counter. Pretty, happy, shiny people were chirping away about their day. I looked behind me to the row of tables. More pretty, happy, shiny people. I looked to be the only sad sack in the place.

Molly caught my pleading eyes and floated over.

"What do you have for a guy who has just been fired?" I asked.

She leaned over the bar and gave me a sympathetic hug with her flower tattooed arms, then went to work. She pulled up a rocks glass and grabbed a bottle of absinthe. She doused a bit of the green fairy into the glass and gave it a swirl. She tossed what didn’t cling to the glass in the sink. Into a Boston shaker went a single scoop from an old glass jar labeled
vanilla bourbon sugar
. She doused the sugar with a few drops of her homemade tobacco bitters. Then in with the ice. She topped that with Bulleit Bourbon. Then the music.

Nothing is more musical than a rhythmically shaken cocktail shaker. She ran it through a julep strainer into the glass and garnished with a toasted lemon rind.

"That’ll ease the pain," she said. "First one’s on me."

I thanked her and took a long drink. The sweet heat of the bourbon was cut as anise filled my nose, and the bitters gave it the richness of all that is good about tobacco. I downed it too quickly.

Molly noticed my empty glass.

"Another?" she asked. I nodded.

"What do you call it?"

"A Marlboro
Man. My own creation. You like?"

"This is why I come here," I said pointing at the glass.

"You want to start a tab?" I nodded again and slapped down some plastic. I didn’t know how I’d pay for it next month, but I needed the drinks tonight.

I tried not to bring down Japp’s pretty, happy, shiny atmosphere. Molly set down another Marlboro Man partnered with a tall glass of water.

"Slow it down on this one," she said.

I answered her warning with a roll of my eyes. At the end of the second Marlboro Man, I thought my world might not end, but I still felt like kicking a dog. A pretty redhead sat down beside me, wearing a not-so-pretty brunette as an accessory. They were both talking too damn loud about too damn little. I gave half a thought to displaying my charms, but then they asked Molly to make them Cosmos, so I chucked the idea.

Molly sat a third Marlboro Man in front of me and a second glass of water. My cell phone gave me a round of rings. I ignored them. Another round started up.

"Yeah," I barked over the bar noise.

"Mr. Gibb?"

"Yeah."

"Mr. Jacob Gibb?"

"Yeah. Give. You called me."

"This is Mrs. Johnson from Prescott Carmichael’s office. Mr. Carmichael heard of your

recent termination and asked me to schedule you for a meeting tomorrow morning at nine."

"A meeting? About what?"

"About possibly joining his firm."

"I’ve never heard of him," I said.

"He’s one of
Cincinnati’s largest investment advisors, Mr. Gibb."

"If he was, I would have heard of him."

"Not necessarily. Can I put you down for nine tomorrow morning?"

"How’d he know I got canned?" I asked. I looked at my Fauxlex. I didn’t know I got canned until about an hour ago.

"I’m not sure of that Mr. Gibb. Can I put you down for nine tomorrow morning?"

There was a question mark at the end of that sentence, but her tone said you’ll be here at nine tomorrow morning. Where else did I have to go, I asked myself.

"Nine? Yes. Nine would be fine," I finally answered a bit more professionally. She gave me the address.

Prescott Carmichael, I thought. The address was on
Seventh Street. I pulled out my phone and googled the name and turned up nothing. I went to FINRA’s broker-check website and found him. It didn’t give me much.

I put my phone back in my pocket and stared down into the face of my third
Marlboro Man. He wasn’t as handsome as the first one but still turned my head. I drained the glass and tossed the lemon rind on a napkin with its two cousins then tossed back the tall glass of water.

"Another?" Molly asked.

I waved my hand in surrender over the glass and nodded no.

She cashed me out. "Things will get better," she said. "I promise."

I had a feeling she was right. But then again, I had three Marlboro Mans rolling around in my head. I walked home on jelly legs.

I quick stepped it from my apartment over to Seventh Street and got to the ‘Offices of Prescott Carmichael’ at 8:53 the next morning. I’d walked down this street plenty but never noticed this particular entrance to this particular building. A sign was hung by a nondescript door. It was a plain gold plaque with the words ‘Offices of Prescott Carmichael’ etched into it. I pushed my way through the door and walked up a brief flight of stairs and was met by a knock-out of a receptionist. She stood and shook my hand. She was five-foot-eleven with some elegant curvature. Her natural beauty was youthful even though she had to be forty-five, maybe fifty. A mound of auburn hair was piled up on her head in a design that involved lots of twists and turns I couldn’t follow. Her green eyes had the look that said, I’m damned good-looking but don’t condescend to me. I’ll crush you. I decided I wouldn’t condescend to her.

She sat me down in a comfortable chair and returned to her seat. Five minutes later, at nine sharp, she led me to an office. I fought getting hypnotized by her swaying hips.

"Mr. Gibb, Mr. Carmichael," she introduced.

The room I walked into opened up to me. It seemed to expand beyond its natural size. A single window looked onto Seventh Street. The walls were paneled with mahogany. I felt my wingtips sink into the carpet like I was standing on peat moss.

Prescott Carmichael was sitting behind a half completed model ship that was just shy of two feet long. It was one of those numbers from the 1800's with a wooden hull and deck and three masts going up. I noticed four similar ships on a book case to the right. Mr. Carmichael wore a jeweler’s eyepiece in his right eye and had his left closed. His right forefinger and thumb were holding a silver scissor-like tool about four inches long that looked like something a surgeon might use. In the tool’s jaws was a splinter of wood.

"My apologies, Mr. Gibb," he said without looking up. "I need one moment, if you please."

I remained standing while Mrs. Johnson closed the door behind me. She did it so quietly I barely noticed. It was quite a feat for her to move unnoticed. Maybe she practiced. I stood there and watched Mr. Carmichael. I felt if I moved I’d sink the ship. He slowly pulled away from the model, relaxed his hand and unsquinted his brow letting the eye piece fall into his left hand. He gave a brief satisfied sigh then looked to me.

Prescott Carmichael put down his tools and unfurled himself from behind his desk. He was about six-foot-three with a head capped with thick silver hair. He was trim with probably a thirty-four inch waist and—although I’m straight as Vine from Third to Mulberry—he was one of the most handsome men I’d ever seen. It was a broad face, perfectly symmetrical, high cheekbones and a strong jaw that tapered down to a chin so cleft you could wedge a poker chip in it.

"Mr. Gibb, very nice to meet you in person," he said in a deep resonant voice with a mid-Atlantic English accent I had only heard in old movies. He waved me to a chair opposite another chair he was draping his elegant body across. A small coffee table separated us. He crossed his legs at the knees.

I sat and fumbled with my folio and pulled out a hastily composed résumé and handed it to him.

"No, thank you, Mr. Gibb," he said waving it off. "I know all about you."

"You do?" I asked.

"I’m more interested in what you think than what you’ve done, Mr. Gibb. You’ve worked in the investment field since you got out of college. In two minutes give me your investment principles."

I sat for a moment. This wasn’t like any interview I’d had before. So I said to hell with it and let it all hang out.

"I believe in investing in equities," I said. "Investing in the great companies of the world."

"We all invest in the stock market, Mr. Gibb."

"No," I stopped him. "All equities. One hundred percent. All in."

"That’s risky. You should incorporate some bonds, no?"

"No," I said flatly. "Since nineteen twenty-six stocks have compounded at almost eleven percent a year. Corporate bonds at almost six percent. Subtract out three percent inflation and equities have two and half times the real return of bonds. Throw taxes into the mix and stocks look even better."

"There’ve been some substantial market downturns, though. A bad year can...."

"The downturns are temporary," I said. "The upturns are permanent. Most people want to retire at sixty-five, if not before. If they have a normal life span which statistics say will be about ninety-five, they have to live off that nest egg for three decades. Bonds can’t help you there. They’ll lag inflation."

"So why aren’t you on your own?"

"Excuse me?"

"You have a good background. You speak well. Why do you think you were still working as an assistant to Fred Grey up until five twenty-five last night?"

"I wasn’t his assistant. I was a paraplanner."

He nodded his head and motioned his hand slightly as if to say the point was irrelevant. It was. It was a distinction without a difference. He’d punched me in the gut with this question. It was something I had been wrestling with for some time.

Success was always about ten paces ahead of me. I had a few of my own clients but not enough to keep the wolves from the door. In this business, you eat what you kill and I’d killed too damn little.

"I’m a knowledgeable person," I said. "If you look at my résumé you’ll see I have degrees.”

He cut me off.

"It’s because people don’t trust you," he said. That pissed me off.

"You don’t know anything about me," I shot back at him. He was reaching into my psyche and slapping me around a bit now.

"People give their money to people they trust. If they’re not giving you their money they don’t trust you. Unless, of course, you’re just not asking for it."

"Again, you don’t know anything about me," I meant it to sound strong but a high pitched stammer never sounds strong.

"I know this, Mr. Gibb. You are thirty-three years old. You grew up in affluent Indian Hill. Your father was one of the area’s premier land developers. There’s even a street in some middle-income neighborhood named after you. You grew up rich. You went to a prestigious high school, The City Day School, which has a current tuition just under thirty thousand dollars a year. You went to the University of Dayton. You majored in economics and finance. At the beginning of your junior year, your father got caught defrauding his own company. The cash flow stopped. In very short order your parents lost their house and all their money and you lost your allowance and a way to pay your tuition. Shortly after that your father shot himself in his hundred thousand dollar car in the cul-de-sac of one of his bankrupt developments. You, however, pushed through and earned your degrees. It took a year longer than normal. You paid for it by working your way through those three years and borrowing a lot of money. You still have sixty thousand dollars in student loans hanging over you and you’ve not made more than forty thousand dollars in a single year since you graduated.

"That must be frustrating," he said.

I had heard the word flummoxed before, but I never understood what it meant. Prescott Carmichael just defined it for me. How did he know this? I asked myself. He wasn’t done.

"Your mother now lives in a mobile home park in Sarasota and your older sister is married and lives in town. You don’t keep in touch with either of them.

“Since college you’ve been at three investment firms as a", he halted then slightly dragged out the word "paraplanner. The last was Fred Grey."

We’ve all had the dream where you show up to school naked. That’s how I felt in front of Prescott Carmichael. I put my clothes back on and looked him in the eye.

"What do you think of Fred Grey?" he asked.

"Not much," I said.

"Agreed. Fred Grey is more lucky than smart and he has lousy judgment. He knows the price of everything and the value of nothing. Especially people. That’s the reason I called you. Did you really punch him?"

"To be honest, it was a glancing blow. I didn’t even hurt my hand."

"Did it feel good hitting Fred Grey?"

"Yes," I said and for the first time I saw Prescott Carmichael smile. It wasn’t in his lips but a smile of the eyes.

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