“Yeah,” she said and let out a deep breath. “I know exactly what you mean. This boy in my class, Genesis, told me he liked me and then told everyone else that I wouldn’t leave him alone.”
“Genesis? That’s his name? Um, red flag right there. What kind of name is Genesis?” She just shrugged. “Well, I’ll tell you. That is an English New Age rock group from the seventies and eighties. His parents are either really old or they’ve been dropping acid for way too long. My guess is the latter, hence Genesis’s bizarre behavior. Don’t sweat it. Someone else will come along. Unless, of course, you realize now that being alone is better than having your heart broken over and over again. Realize that now, kid, and save yourself the trouble.”
“So being alone is better?” She was looking me right in the eye. Could I really lie to her?
“Are your parents married?”
“Yes, they’ve been married for twenty-two years,” she said with a smile.
“Well, I guess it’s a case-by-case basis. Don’t listen to me. It happens for some people. Maybe you’ll be that person.”
“Maybe you will, too. You just can’t let all that bullshit make you hard.” That, from a twelve-year-old.
“You’re probably right. Hey, do you want to help me? I have to write this article . . .”
Page 11
* * *
Never Start a Sentence with “So”
After traveling most of the day and scribbling the article down on the back of a couple of flyers I grabbed from the rental car company, I finally made it back to my cold, dark Lincoln Park apartment. I immediately opened my laptop, shot an e-mail off to Jerry, then went to sleep and stayed that way for the next two days.
To: Jerry Evans
From: Kate Corbin
Subject: Fuck it!
This is it, Jerry. I don’t even know what to call it. This is all I have. I’m sure I’m fired or severely demoted. Maybe I can be the coffee cart girl? I know R.J. won’t approve of this, so I feel like I’ve totally let you down. I have some vacation time accrued and I’d like to take next week off if I still have a job. I need to get my head straight. I fucked up, Jerry. I shouldn’t have gotten involved with that guy. I fucked up and I’m sorry. —Kate UNTITLED ARTICLE ON R. J. LAWSON AND WINERY
So you have two birds. One is long, lean, and powerful, with sheer physical strength on its side. The other is colorful, small, and fast, and prized for its beauty. Who will win? First, you must know that the challenge is the game of business, otherwise known as deception, and the winner of this game will always be the more cunning player, regardless of his physicality. Forget what you’ve seen—looks can be deceiving. You have to search inside the competitor’s heart. You have to detect the rhythm that drives him, what fuels the challenger’s willingness to sacrifice dignity and integrity for money. That’s what it all comes down to in the end. The winner of this game gets a gold, diamond-encrusted cage. But success comes with a price—in this case, the freedom to fly. He may have the promise of admirers, but his majestic wings will never dance across the sky again.
The world wants to know why everything R. J. Lawson touches turns to gold. Well, I’ll tell you: he’s the more cunning bird. He was a genius who peaked at eighteen, made his money, and now proudly waves his wallet at anything that interests him—in this case, wine. I spent one week at R. J. Lawson’s famed Napa Valley winery during the harvest season to learn more about him and his seemingly worthwhile cause. While there, I observed that he spent little time at the winery, but he does take credit for all the work. He described his approach as hands-on, yet I didn’t see him complete a single task during my visit, with the exception of sipping a glass of Pinot.
His image is held together by a few loyal pawns who are willing to do his dirty work. I saw right through it. I saw that R.J. had mastered the game of buying people and buying success. Maybe inside the man there is a boy whose curiosity earned him a great deal of adoration and money, but there is no trace of that exceptional wonder and gift in the man I met.