Melodic RedemptionChapter 5
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We had dinner one more time before her mom and dad were due to hit town. We found a little place that served some good Italian cooking and talked about our respective days, mine at the engineering house, hers in school.
Eddie's deal was, at least on the surface, solid. It had better be. He turned in his notice at work. That move got me a run into the big boss's office where I was grilled pretty heavy.
"No," I said, "I'm not planning on going anywhere. I kinda like the place."
He asked, "This thing that you and Eddie worked on, we're looking at it being our property. You signed the intellectual property agreement when you started work."
Okay, I know the answer to this one. "That would be a bad move. First, none of the work was done on company time or using company resources. Second, it's completely unrelated to our core or our peripheral businesses. Third, do you really want to show the rest of the company that this is the treatment they might expect?"
He laughed. "You've given this some thought."
"You bet," I said. "You didn't hire me because I was stupid. I gave it a lot of thought. You don't need me doing some sort of conflict of interest thing, nor would I consciously rob the company of anything. I wasn't raised like that, Bob. Eddie wasn't a bad engineer, and neither am I."
"That's what I thought," he said.
"As a matter of fact, I treated that whole exercise like a research lab. I've learned some hardware and software things that might have some application in just the right places. If we have a client doing something that's fast and unpredictable and unstable. I have a bunch of notes. Might publish. Under OUR banner, you know..."
Bob laughed. "That would be a kick. Just let us clear it before it goes out."
"Sure," I said. "That's in the employment agreement."
I explained all that to Jo over dinner. "I can understand some of Bob's trepidation. You're telling me that Eddie's getting a few hundred thousand dollars for the system you guys built. And you're getting a third? How does that stack up with one of your company's engineering projects?"
"Bottom end. We do billion-dollar facilities. If they were asked to pick up a quarter-million dollar engineering project, they'd look at what else was on the schedule and they'd probably dodge the little project. But I can see where a lawyer and a bean-counter might look at tagging something that already exists, like our recording and production system, as low-hanging fruit, just waiting to be picked. But Bob says we're clear."
"Good! What're you gonna do with the money?" she asked.
"Investment, I guess. I have everything I want. Nice place to live. My boat. The car's two years old. I don't need a vacation right now, and if I did, I'd take one..."
She looked at me. "Seriously now. If Stoney was going on vacation, where would he go?"
"You know, I haven't really thought about it. I usually take a few days and go away on the boat. I'm afraid I'm not much of a tourist."
"Why not?"
I had my reasons. Let's see how the main one fits. "If I'm having a good time, I'd like to have somebody to share it with."
"So you don't, like, take a lady friend?" Jo asked seriously.
"Those that might go, I don't want to take. I figure I don't want to damage my karma by spending a good time with somebody who might not be in it for anything more than a free week someplace and sleeping with me is the only down side."
"That's rather harsh, don't you think?"
"I've been burnt, Jo. If I'm not good enough to hang around your friends here in town, then why am I good enough to go with to New York?"
"Uh..."
"I don't like shallow people, Jo. Guys or girls."
"What makes you think I'm not shallow, buddy?" Her face almost looked serious. The little quiver as she struggled not to smile is what gave her away. I was becoming an expert on Jo. There are worse areas in which one might claim expertise.
"'Bout seventy-three reasons, red-headed girl," I said. "You don't have the affectations. You smile when you play. You smile when you're talking with friends. You're too darned intelligent and you don't seem to waste your time on following the lives..."
"'Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people.' Eleanor Roosevelt said that. My dad, whom, may I remind you, you're going to meet for dinner Thursday, hammered that into my poor little head as soon as I was old enough to know what 'discuss' meant." She smiled.
"And what did your mother say about that overbearing exhibition of paternal control?"
"My dear mother," she said, broadening into a semblance of an Irish brogue, "thinks to this very day that the sun rises and sets upon the command of Colonel Anders Solheim. And she never fails to remind me that I have been a particularly happy experience in child-rearing for the two of them."
I laughed. One thing I'd never heard escape the lips of Miss Johanna Solheim was the typical 'my parents are sooooo old/boring/uncool/etc." To be honest, I was looking forward to meeting a couple that could produce a Jo.
"See," she said, "you're thinking again, aren't you?"
"Guilty," I said. "Was just thinking of some of those other reasons. Came up with a flute solo."
"Speaking of," she said, " can you read music?"
"Yeah, why?"
"I mean, can you read music and translate it to your banjo?"
"I am not as proficient as you seem to be with your flute. I can sight-read, but my mind and my fingers aren't nearly as fast as I wish they were." I looked at her face. "Where's this heading?"
"Oh, a silly exercise..."
"This is gonna be good, I bet."
She smiled. "You know how I want to do that Mozart flute and harp concerto?"
"Yeah ... Soooo..."
"Mozart didn't know about banjos. They weren't invented yet. I have the music. The harp part."
"Johanna, I have listened to that piece a hundred times. There's no earthly way that I can get those sounds out of a banjo."
She gave me a giggle. "No, I know that, and I think you'd burn out a finger if you tried. But you know that a lot of Mozart is scales and arpeggios. You can cut those down to single notes or simpler structures within the chord progression."
I smiled back. "There you go talking like a music major," I said.
"I think that you and I need to try."
"Lemme have it. I'll try, on the condition that you don't laugh. I'm going to attempt to take a banjo back in time..."
We finished our dinner.
"You need to come up to the apartment. The music is in there," she said.
"You just want Key to make fun of me again," I said.
"Oh, poor baby. I'll tell 'er not to make fun of you again." Jo laughed. Key and I had a running laugh about me beating up a band member. She made a point of mentioning it every time I showed up.
We walked hand in hand up to Jo's door and went inside. Key was curled up in an impossible twist with a laptop. She looked up when we walked in. "Hi, Jo's white boy," she grinned. "I got an angle on an uppity violinist if you want something to do."
"You're just evil," I returned. "But you're Jo's friend, so I tolerate you."
"Not to mention that I'm an endangered species. I'm the only black oboist I ever met."
"And you're my second-favoritest orchestra person," I replied.
Jo had her hand on my shoulder, leaning against me. Key smiled. "Oh, yeah, sure! My parents see me playin' oboe, an' that's all cool 'n' stuff. But I think they gonna draw the line at me bringin' home a white boy!"
That statement got Jo to giggling. "Key, you know we NEED to do that! We can show up at your mom and dad's for lunch. You walk in with Stoney on your arm, and introduce 'im. I'll just tag along."
"No way," I said, "I ain't getting beat up by a big black guy!"
"Oh, you so racist," Key laughed. "Dad ain't that big. 'Sides, he played trumpet. You can whup those guys."
"Seeeeeee," I whined to Jo, "She's doin' it again!"
"Well, baby, you just go home tonight and I'll have another talk with her," Jo said.
It was getting late. "Okay," I said. "Had a wonderful evening."
"Then you just need to give me one more thing, dear," she said, swinging me around to face her. We kissed. I let my hands slide around her waist, feeling her softness.
"One more," I said.
"Okay. Just one."
I left with my feet barely touching the pavement.
During the day at the office Thursday, I was at my desk, a huge drawing on the big monitor of my workstation, a pad full of notes and rough calculations before me, and the phone rang.
"WB Engineering. This is Stoney Jackson. Can I help you?"
"You can escort me to dinner. That would be a big help! How's your day going?" Jo's voice.
I smiled. Pleasant face filled my head, replacing the power distribution drawing that was sucking the life out of my soul. "I'll rescue you if you rescue me," I returned.
"What do you need rescuing from?"
"I'm in the middle of the power system for a small Central American country. I need rescue."
"Then how about you pick me up at five-thirty. That gives us both time to clean up and look presentable."
"Should I wear a suit?"
"No. I've seen what you wear at work. That's plenty good. That 'tie and dress shirt' thing you do."
"Got it," I said. She'd showed up for lunch one day. Caught me on the day I was doing my part of a big presentation to a client. My normal attire didn't include a tie. As a couple, Jo and I stayed pretty informal and comfortable when out together, but tonight was different. It had been a month or so since she'd seen her parents and if she was bringing me along and she wanted me wearing a tie, then I'd better be wearing a tie.
"And Stoney?"
"Yes, Jo?"
"You're my friend, okay? But you're the first guy I've brought to meet Mom and Dad since I got out of high school."
"I shall be on my best behavior," I said.
"I'm not worried about you, Stoney. Just that it might be a shock to Mom and Dad."
"You asked ME, remember?"
"Yes, I did. You're my friend. You and Dad are both soldiers. And Mom knows that there's this guy that I hang out with. That would be you."
"As long as it makes you smile, princess."
"'Kay, baby. I'll let you finish your day."
"Okay, sweetness. See you after work."
"Sweetness? Who's 'sweetness'?" came a voice from outside my door. That would be Bradley Sykes, another engineer in a building full of engineers.
"A particularly interesting lady," I said.
"Oh, really? How'd you meet 'er?"
"I put a microphone and camera in front of her and asked her to play her flute."
"Oh," he said. "That was you an' Eddie's media system, then?"
"Yeah. She's in the university's orchestra. We used 'em for guinea pigs when we were doing the shakedowns of the system."
"College girl? Little young, huh?"
"Not too young. She's a senior. Twenty-one, almost twenty-two. I have a few years on 'er, but not much. Besides, friends, okay?"
"Got pictures?"
"As a matter of fact, I do." There was a file on my workstation. At first it was there because the company foots the bill for a full-blown PhotoShop package, and I wanted to give her some pictures. Of late, though, I find myself spending idle moments with that face in front of me, blue eyes, red bangs pushed sideways by an errant breeze, and the smile that is almost a defining feature on that pretty face. I pulled up one. "Here she is," I said.
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