How Bob Became The Emperor’s Turner

Chapter Three “Bills, Penelope and Chez Wong’s”

Almost a year had passed since The Move. In that period Bob devoted
every waking moment when he wasn’t at work earning a living - an odd
concept, earning the right to live - at either his JET mini or his Nova.
Sometimes he had two pieces going, one on each lathe, and two or three
in chucks while he decided how to refine the shapes he had which weren’t
quite right - but close.

Had it not been the accumulating bills, Bob would have felt content.

OK, so having to Go To Work five days a week was an inconvenience. But
even “work” wasn’t so bad. His co-workers still thought he was a bit
odd, but after he’d brought a few of his best pieces into the office to
decorate his cubicle and they discovered that he’d MADE THEM HIMSELF -
they were impressed. They were even more impressed when he told them
that the one everyone loved was turned from a piece of what was going to
be firewood.
Jan from marketing even wanted to BUY one of his pieces. The piece was
one of Bob’s favorites so he declined her offer. “I’ll make you a piece
I think you’ll like - as a gift.”

That started The Office Rumor Mill. “Did you hear about Bob and Jan?
He’s gonna make her a ‘special’ bowl. She’s going over to his place
this weekend ‘to pick out the wood and watch him make MY Bowl.’ I bet
Bob has already bought the wine - and probably some candles! Bet he’s
going to make more than just a bowl (Nudge, nudge, wink, wink - know
what I mean?).”

To nip that one in the bud, Bob brought in a few of the pens he’d done,
one for each of his immediate co-workers. That did the trick nicely -
and prompted a lot of Ooohs and Ahhhs. It also generated some pen sales
when others in The Company saw them. The pens also generated a few
platters, bowls and “hollow form” sales. The extra money helped put a
small dent in the pile of bills but he still had creditors calling him
at home in the evening.

One Saturday, while looking for the box of finishes that seemed to have
disappeared during The Move, Bob found his sketchbooks. One had
Penelope Shawnee’s business card taped to its cover. The sight of her
card caused Bob to shudder, remembering how this woman had disrupted his
life so dramatically. He also remembered the words “designers” and
“decorators”.

“Oh damn! She’s got my old phone number AND my old e-mail address!”

He dialed her number, got an answering machine and left a message.
” Penelope - this is Bob, Bob the wood turning guy. Remember? You sold
the house I was renting. You know, Daryl Finsterdorten’s place on
Fernwood Drive? I found a place, but had to change my phone number as
well as my internet service provider. I should’ve called sooner but
with all the chaos of the move .... You know how it is. My new number
is ----” and recorder beeped again - and hung up.

He frantically redialed the number and when the recorder answered he
quickly said “Please call Bob at (and he slowly and clearly spoke the
numeric digits of his phone number)” and hung up the phone.

“She’s never gonna call back. All that “I love your stuff” was probably
just Real Estate Agent banter. “She may actually know a decorator or
two, but I doubt she told them about my work.” Bob thought to himself.
“Sure would’ve been nice to hook up with some fancy smantzee decorators
and designers. Maybe someday . . .”

The sound of the phone ringing startled Bob out of his depressing
daydream of What Might Have Been.

“BOB! It’s Penelope! I’ve been trying to find you for MONTHS AND
MONTHS! I showed some pictures of your stuff to my decorator and
designer friends and they went absolutely Ga-Ga over them. I hope you
don’t mind, but I told them I “represented” you and a few other
Artists. Had to make up a story about why I couldn’t reach you so when
you speak with them, tell them you had a Nervous Exhaustion Breakdown
and have just recently returned - from a Recovery Center - in
Switzerland - and Don’t Want To Talk About It.” She went on and on for
another five minutes before she had to stop to catch her breath.

Bob just stood there, phone to his ear, mouth hanging open in stunned
surprise, franticly trying to process the stream of words he was
hearing.

“Bob? Bob? Are you still there? Bob?” - Penelope was asking.

After what seemed like an eternity, Bob was able to get his mouth to
work and managed to say “Yes, I’m listening.”

Penelope, mistaking his response for artistic indifference, kicked it up
a notch, fearing Bob had already found a “representative”. The 20%
agent’s fee she’d already mentally spent was slipping away.

“Bob, I’m going to make you a very rich man. With your talent and my
connections this could be a very long and mutually beneficial
relationship. Let’s have lunch at Chez Wong’s - tomorrow - say
noonish? I’ve got to run now - calls to make, meetings to set up. See
you tomorrow - Chez Wong’s - noonish!” - and she hung up.

“Chez Wong’s. Chez Wong’s” Bob kept repeating to himself as he searched
for a pen to write it down. “I’ve made a thousand pens and I can’t find
a damned pen when I need one!” Bob yelled, rummaging through the nearest
drawer. Chez Wong’s, Chez Wong’s, Chez Wong’s he kept repeating - like
a mantra. He found one of his pens and then went looking for a piece of
paper. Chez Wong’s - Chez Wong’s - Chez Wong’s. He wrote it down and
then went searching for the phone book. “Where the hell is Chez Wong’s
- Chez Wong’s - Chez Wong’s?

He found the address and phone number in the phone book and then got on
his computer to find and print a map of directions from his workplace to
Chez Wong’s. Accounting for lunch hour traffic delays, he figured if he
left work at 11:30 he’d be at Chez Wong’s with 5 minutes to spare.

Bob fell asleep mumbling his new mantra Chez Wong’s, Chez Wong’s, Chez
Wong’s. He woke several times during the night - Chez Wong’s, Chez
Wong’s, Chez Wong’s - and fell back to sleep.

As soon as he got to work the next morning he told his boss he had to
leave early around lunch time. “My great aunt Hildegard called last
night and would like to have lunch with me at LAX. She has a stop over
on her flight to Seatle to see a Specialist, She has (and Bob made up a
disease that sounded fatal) and wants to see me - just in case the
surgery doesn’t go well. She’s my only living relative and I HAVE to
see her - alive.”

“Of course - no problem. And tell her she’s in my prayers.” said The
Boss (no, not Bruce - Bob’s Boss).

The morning seemed to go at a snail’s pace. How could there be so much
time between 8:00 am and 11:30 am? Will this morning EVER end?

Bob, for the first time in his life, bit his nails. To be perfectly
truthful, he only bit one of his fingernails. He’d never actually
tasted any of the hand applied wood finishes he used, and the residue of
the one he used last night - tasted terrible! He would never bite one
or more of his nails ever again.

(Note to Nail Biters: Become and turner and discover the advantages of
having unbitten fingernails)

Great! Just when I’m about to become famous - and rich - I’ve poisoned
myself! Bob thought, while spitting and sputtering. That only added to
the Bob Office Mystique. (Bob’s a bit “different” - but you should see
the stuff he creates - out of firewood!”).

On the way to his car, Bob just knew that his battery would be dead, or
he’d have a flat tire or he’d snap his key off in the door lock, if not
in the ignition switch. Just when he was on the verge of SUCCESS, fate
was going to snatch it away from him. He envisioned himself as Charlie
Brown and The Gods, like Lucy, would snatch the football away just as he
was about to kick it. Bob expected to find himself flat on his back -
staring up into the face of a smirking Lucy.

When he arrived at Chez Wong’s in the che che part of town he made two
passes around the block before turning over his Ford Taurus to the valet
parking attendent. “God I hope I’ve got some cash in my wallet for his
tip. What are you supposed to tip a parking valet? Is Penelope going to
expect me to pick up the check for this lunch? I’m so far in the hole
now, this lunch could be what will put me into bankruptcy. I’m WAY over
my head here.”

He was flabbergasted when the maitre de approached him smiling
charmingly “Mr. Smith, what a pleasure. Ms. Shawnee is already seated.
If you will follow me sir.”

In a fuzzy haze Bob followed him to what might be the best table in the
place.

“Bob, dahling. I’m so glad your here. Have a sip of this champagne
before you look over the menu - it’s Deeeeliciousssss. The duck ala
orange salad is my favorite on the lunch menu and fits into my diet
nicely. You might find the Beef Wellington more to your liking - you
obviously have been working out and don’t need to worry about becoming -
over weight (she couldn’t bring herself to even say the word FAT).”

The waiter who suddenly appeared wrote down Penelope’s suggestions and
vanished immediately.

The champagne was delicous - the chilled glass helped a little. Bob had
skipped breakfast and the champagne went to his head by the third sip.
This whole Lunch thing seemed so surreal and the fifth “sip” of champage
did nothing to break The Spell.

Penelope’s voice broke into his consciousness.

“I hope you don’t mind, but, after showing the pictures of your WORK in
situ as it were, I’ve already sold seven of your pieces. Here’s my
check for them, I’ll swing by and pick them up at your earliest
convenience. I’ve already deducted my 20%. I’m sure the amount will
please you.”

Bob looked at the amount on the check. SIX THOUSAND, FOUR HUNDRED AND
TWENTY SIX DOLLARS - and no cents. Bob did, what is known in the comedy
trade as A Spit Take, spewing cold champagne onto the check and his
lap. Disblief and embarassment clashed in his brain. He coughed for
almost a minute in order to have some time to regain his ability to
speak.

Six grand!” he managed to practically shout.

Penelope, fearing that she’d insulted her gravy train, apologized
profusely.
Thinking guickly she offered to take no commission at all - this time.
She mentally doubled the prices of the other pieces that were available
and, without the need for a calculator, planned the purchase of the
Porsche she’d been lusting after. “Rodeo Drive here I come!” she
thought to herself.

The rest of the lunch was a blur for Bob, champagne, beef Wellington, a
check for over six thousand dollars - and an “air kiss” from Penelope
before she hurried off to “represent him”.

The latin looking fellow who brought his car around and handed him his
keys was - shall we say - less than ecstatic about the five dollar bill
Bob pressed into his wating hand as he got into his car. Even in a
haze, Bob told himself “NEVER again forget The Little People.” as he
drove off back to work.

more to come

charlie b