Coffee Break Fiction, Funny

Kid Mentors Man

May 14, 2015

short story fiction
It was the same old circus. ‘A project manager was arrested today at work after he was caught stealing coworkers’ lunches. In his defense, he did put the dishes into the dishwasher,’ buzzed the television. ‘The lawyer’s child was caught in a crossfire of verbal exchange. She’s in critical condition. The police believe it’s corporate related,’ hummed another story. Carson moaned. He rubbed his blonde head. ‘It was a case of mistaken identity, the male teacher was released today,’ the perky newscaster announced.

“That’s because all teachers look alike,” Jenny giggled.

“Why do we watch this?” Carson groaned.

“I’m kidding.” Jenny glared at Carson, her brown eyes connecting with his.

“To celebrate Corporate History Month, the museum is honoring those who were able to break through the corporate structure paving the way for entrepreneurship,” the evening news chattered.

“I’ll call you tomorrow. I have to go.” Jenny puckered her lips and planted one on Carson. She had luscious lips that made Carson go weak.

“Love you,” Carson whispered. She smiled.


Carson was raised to be a kid proud of his corporate heritage. ‘You can’t change the past,’ his mother, Glenda, would remind him. Glenda, a naturopathic doctor, was also a social activist. She would have all sorts of people gather in their home to discuss issues of fairness in business transactions, to empower the individual and rebuild trust.

Carson rebelled in high school. While a diverse group of people looked to Glenda’s leadership, Carson chose to stick with what he deemed ‘his own kind’, the lost children of corporate culture. They walked through the school halls wearing ties, quoting antiquated economic theories and hedging their bets on imaginary markets. The group went through a period of time where they used secret handshakes, wore the same team colors, held board meetings, and only spoke brand.

“Nice shirt.” A distinguished musician commented at dinner one night.

“This Lacoste?” Carson tugged at the teal collar. “Just got it today. I took the Subaru to Marshall Field’s . . . I also bought Ray Bans and Levis. Please pass the Grey Poupon.”

The man smiled. Glenda sighed.

He would practice speaking brand at home. When his mother hollered, ‘get your shoes off the couch!’ ‘My Nikes are not on the Biedermeier,’ he argued and promptly dropped his feet from the couch to the floor. Carson swore she had eyes in the back of her head.

At times, Glenda’s patience would be tried with Carson. She would usually just walk away when he was on his soapbox, but one day she snapped. ‘You don’t have a clue what it was like to grow up in the shadow of a corporation,’ she spouted at him, her clenched fists at her side. With this, Carson held up the board game Clue and retorted that he would figure it out. Instead of flying into a rage, she doubled over in laughter, which left Carson shaking his head in wonder. Had he pushed his mother over the edge?

They lived in a multi-career neighborhood in the suburbs. His father was more into sports than social gatherings. It was hard for Carson to live up to his father’s image. Dirk, his father, had retired his lemony-yellow with brown collared shirt when Carson was in college. The brown thread on one side of the shirt was stitched with Dirk in cursive. It was thought that Carson would follow in his father’s footsteps as a pro bowling champ. Carson had the tall, lanky build with nimble fingers for the sport. Even people who didn’t know him would see the heft in his middle finger and ask if he bowled in high school. Carson opted for video games instead. ‘Your brain’s gonna turn to mush,’ Dirk would moan. Then he would mottle on about stories of growing up and the few options he had as a company man’s kid. But he was one of the lucky ones. Bowling was his ticket out of corporate America.

As he got older, Carson switched gears, placing himself as far away from the corporate structure as he could. He would get irritated when someone would ask if he grew up downtown in the skyscrapers. Through gritted teeth, he would stammer and shake his head no. Just because I look corporate, the thought would flare in his mind. It was annoying.


The downtown neighborhood was a world unto itself. Video screens either playing music or showing commercials perched high in the air and at street level, tantalized the locals to buy products and services to enhance their well being. It was easy to fall into that trap when surrounded by the ‘had to have it’ buzz. Locals crowded their condos and lives with the next best thing.

A businessman walking down the street and hollering into his cell phone even made neighbors saunter back into their doorways, under the awning, next to the doorman. “My deodorant lasts longer! It’s effective on odor and perspiration!” He yelled. The angry employee with unbalanced spreadsheets was not uncommon downtown, but usually cordoned off in a cubicle with his instant messenger.

One day while in the neighborhood, Carson encountered a haggard-looking advertising executive muttering things like content optimization, smart phone compatible, social engagement and on and on. She eyed Carson from afar and spouted out, ‘how much applied experience do you have?’. As Carson quickly crossed the street, the woman shouted, ‘who said I wasn’t billable?!’.

Magnifying glasses were a problem on the streets. Even with a background check, they could end up in the wrong hands. Verbal battles over fine print sent locals into a tizzy. Lawyers would step in with threatening words such as ‘sue’ and ‘litigation.’ Neighbors and local community centers came together to draw attention to the red tape and dangerously stressed out people on their streets. Carson had to be careful, too. Red tape was sticky.

Downtown was littered with empty, dilapidated office spaces as corporations collapsed. Employees with no where to go, still showed up on time and gossiped or complained about each other while drinking coffee out of extra large mugs. It wasn’t until the building would be deemed hazardous, polluted with negative thoughts, and then shut down before micro managers would lead everyone out, one by one. Tears would be shed as people dispersed throughout the city and suburbs.

It was in one of those empty, skyscraper buildings that Carson with the help of neighbors had designed and built a mini golf course. It was a chore as they disassembled cubicles and removed the walls of corner offices. Framed certificates and achievements fell to the rubble on the floor. Carson eyed the golden awards sitting in the glass case under a burned out light bulb. ‘I’d like to thank this statue for making me feel relevant,’ Carson hummed as he held an award.

Someone inquired about the cubicles, which the group happily gave away. The young fashion designer hauled the pieces of metal and fabric up a floor. Once the neighborhood found that a mini golf course was going into the building, it was a positive sign of change. Independent services, entrepreneurs and community groups started to occupy the building.

The mini golf course had come together through donations of wood, paint and equipment. Corporate sponsors stepped forward to provide the supplies and in return, they asked that their logo be plastered all over the course. This was not the objective of the project. Instead the team created a miniature thriving community of buildings such as music halls, alternative health centers, independent coffee shops, co-op grocery stores, bowling alleys, rooftop gardens and an elevated train. It was Carson’s idea to create the mini golf course to mentor neighborhood children and ignite their imaginations. He wanted to show them a different way of life without chain restaurants, franchised gas stations and nationwide retail stores.


“Barry, put your glove on . . .since you insist on wearing it,” Carson sipped from his paper cup. “Let’s get started.”

“If you weren’t so in to your Starbucks grande soy latte you’d see that I was putting on my Titleist,” Barry announced. His curly brown hair piled high on his head under a sun visor. The kid almost came up to Carson’s chest, already tall for his age.

“Black coffee dude,” Carson shook his head.

“I wasn’t able to get Addias, my mom wouldn’t let me,” he moaned and kicked his foot out.

“What’s wrong with your tennis shoes?”

“But she bought me a Polo and Dockers,” he grinned as he wiped at his khakis with his gloved hand. They stood on the mini golf course, just starting the weekly lesson.

“Pants and shirt,” Carson corrected.

“Don’t you know it’s casual Friday?” A nearby kid taunted and pointed at Barry’s khakis. The room was filled with cheering and booing as kids of various ages used miniature golf as a networking opportunity.

Barry scowled at the kid and then turned to Carson. “You have a problem with the way I talk?”

“You don’t need anything fancy for this sport.” Carson quickly switched his tone. It was true, Carson was trying to veer him from brand speak. As a mentor, he felt obligated to guide the child to know that he had other options in life. Miniature golf could be a way out of the brand lifestyle. The fun, non-combative sport taught focus.

Carson’s girlfriend Jenny argued that there were other ways, besides sports, to help the kid. Carson could teach him art history. That’s what he taught to elementary students. So, he had tried exposing Barry to art by taking him to a gallery one day.

“I can do better than this . . . looks like scribbles,” Barry bragged and pointed at the painting.

“Then do it,” Carson urged. “I have all the supplies.”

“I mean, look at this one, the use of colors is atrocious. Is that a man or a ham sandwich?”

“Let’s go paint.”

“I don’t want a lecture.” Barry wagged his tongue at Carson.

“I don’t lecture, even in my art history class. It’s interactive.”

As much as Carson tried to get the boy to paint, Barry didn’t have the patience. He found complaining about the art show much easier. Once he realized that people could make money critiquing, Barry started a club in which they critiqued everything from French fries to the amount of sweat each kid could produce.

Carson needed to show Barry alternatives in making huge sums of money or the kid would end up as a head of some corporation. Barry was that bright and ambitious. It was a fine line and Carson wanted to show him the other side of success. After all, he didn’t want the kid to end up in prison. That’s why he chose miniature golf.

“My dad says that your mom was the black sheep . . .” Barry focused as he narrowed his green eyes on the hole and putted. The golf ball went straight in. A recording of people in the tiny dance hall cheered.

“See, shows you how your thoughts direct the action. Good job,” Carson clapped. There was a huge change in Barry in the few weeks he had mentored him. The kid had started out by throwing his golf putters across the room and stomping on buildings, frustrated when a ball wouldn’t go in the hole. Now, he seemed calm and confident. But not the bragging, faux confidence at the beginning of how he was going to whoop Carson’s ass.

“Is she the black sheep?” Barry asked as he leaned on his putter.

“Well, she took a different path but I wouldn’t consider her to be the black sheep,” Carson shrugged. “What are you doing?”

Barry pushed a button on his phone and put it back into his pocket. “Recording you.”
Carson furrowed his brow and stared at Barry.

“I’m going to play it back for my dad . . . in case he doesn’t believe me.”

Carson shook his head. The boy was looking for drama. Barry’s father was Carson’s cousin. His mother and his cousin’s father were siblings. They grew up in a skyscraper under the stress of the downtown neighborhood. Carson’s grandparents worked and never saw their children. Childcare providers, pet walkers, bellhops, barbacks, cleaning ladies, television, and teachers raised the kids. Carson had a hard time wrapping his head around the rigid time structures and required hours of employees. It seemed a glamorized factory assembly line. His grandparent’s worked in the medical field and felt like failures when his mother opted for an alternative health career. They had wanted their daughter to be some type of specialist, like a plastic surgeon.


“I want an Oscar Meyer, let’s go to Delicious Dogs,” Barry pleaded. They stood outside on a street corner after the miniature golf lesson. Tall buildings loomed over them.

“Do you know what they’re made of?”

“I told Bill that you were coaching me and he said to come over for lunch,” Barry announced. “He wants to see you.”

Carson took a deep breath. When he would visit his grandparents as a child, they would always eat hot dogs. Bill owned Delicious Dogs. Carson would beg to see Bill because he made him laugh. When Carson would tell Bill, ‘hey, did you know that lettuce could cause diarrhea?’ Bill would laugh and say, ‘at least it’s not suicidal thoughts’. It had been years since he had seen him. Carson really didn’t want to stop by to be reminded of his past. “I have a better idea, let’s go eat sandwiches at the café you like.”

Barry whined, “We always eat there.”

“I’m not in the mood for hot dogs.” Carson furrowed his brow.

“Yeah, but Bill wants to see you,” Barry crossed his arms over his chest.

“Next time . . .”

“I’ll only go if we take my dad’s BMW,” Barry argued and cemented his feet to the ground. Carson huffed, but nodded okay.

Just then a car rolled through a stop sign. Carson heard the automatic doors lock. In the car was a family of three who looked wide-eyed and lost. Their electric car was a dead giveaway that they were not from the neighborhood. Large, gas-guzzling vehicles loomed over them. They appeared scared. The kid ducked down in the back seat as the woman in the front scanned her digital device trying to find a way out. But there was so much interference in the area that it was nearly impossible to get reception.

Neighborhood people j-walked in front of them, wearing designer and name brand clothes with the tags prominently displayed. High heels, low heels, tall boots and wing tips crossed the street. Some had purses or backpacks, while others carried messenger bags and brief cases imprinted with designer labels. Arguing and competitive banter among the stern faces was at a low rumble. Blinking advertisements wearily pleaded for new customers. They had to watch for the occasional throng of professional cyclists zipping down the street with logo gear painted on their svelte bodies.

The family drove slowly through the pedestrians. It was mind-boggling for Carson to witness it because he had no fear of the neighborhood. But he could feel the craziness of it.

“You lost? Need help?” Carson walked along the slow moving car. The woman looked straight ahead, trying to ignore him. “I can help you get out of here,” Carson pleaded. The kid in the back peaked up to look at him. The car stopped and the front window rolled down a crack. “Where you going?” Carson asked.

“The interstate,” the woman replied.

Carson lifted his finger to point in the direction and the woman ducked. He was puzzled. They thought he was an angry corporate man. After cupping his hands behind his back, he gently told them how to get to the interstate.

“Thank you, here’s a meditation CD . . .with soothing whale sounds,” the lady said as she squeezed her hand out the window.

Carson narrowed his eyes. “I don’t need this, I already have my own.”

“Take it,” she whimpered.

“I’m not from here!” He hollered. The car sped off.


Barry relaxed into the leather seat of the BMW. He felt cool with his sunglasses but was annoyed that he had to switch his sun visor for a safety helmet. Carson stood by waiting for the keys as Barry’s father had lectured the kid. ‘Helmets are necessary for bikes, roller blades, skateboards, jet skis, ribbon cuttings, and convertibles,’ his father preached. Barry whined. But it was the only way he got the privilege of riding in the car with the top down.

Carson cruised down the street, weaving to avoid pedestrians. They were almost to the café, just out of downtown, when Carson heard the siren behind him. He popped his eyes wide open and looked over at Barry as he pulled to the curb.

“What’s up officer? I wasn’t speeding,” Carson commented as the man walked up to the car.

“I’m not so sure,” the man in the blue uniform leaned against the car and heavily eyed Carson from behind his dark shades. Barry reached under the seat and pulled out a box of donuts. He lifted a chocolate covered one and was about to hand it to the officer, but Carson intercepted the transaction.

“Just what I suspected. Son, we don’t eat donuts anymore.” The officer puffed out his chest. “Do you know the sugar content in those?” He shook his head and pursed his lips. “Are you a W-2?” The cop lifted his chin and bounced his head towards Carson.

“1099,” Carson commented. “Is that why you stopped me?”

“Do you have your papers?”

“No,” Carson huffed. “This is my cousin’s car. We’re just driving to lunch.”

“It’s my dad’s car,” Barry nodded.

“I’m not an employee,” Carson commented.

“Let me guess, you have a diversified portfolio.”

“No, I’m an artist, I live for the moment, not for the future,” Carson argued.

“In a loveless marriage?”

“No,” Carson scowled.

“Leave the house at dawn and return at dusk?”

“No. I told you, I’m an artist . . . and a teacher.”

“What health insurance do you carry? And life insurance, car insurance, property insurance, electronic product insurance and pet insurance?” He scoffed.

Carson dropped his mouth open. “None,” he blurted. Carson didn’t need insurance to insure his own free will.

“Do you sign contracts when Mercury is in retrograde?”

“What?”

“On a scale of 1 to 10, how stressed are you?”

“Arrrrrgghh,” Carson growled.

“Just what I suspected,” the officer snorted.

“Really, why are you harassing me like I’m an employee?”

The officer lifted his sunglasses up and gazed at Carson. “Get outta the car.”

“Why? On what charges?” Carson narrowed his eyes.

“Do you have your papers?”

Carson shook his head no.

The officer tensely asked him again and told him that he was going to take him to the police station. Barry started screaming at the cop. Anti-corporate! Careerist! Carson tried to shush the kid as he opened the car door and stepped out. He quickly pushed the officer out of his way and took off running. The last thing he wanted was to go to jail.


“What are you in for?”

“I don’t know . . .they’re reviewing my case,” Carson muttered. He was resting in an ergonomic chair with matching footstool. Large flat screen televisions hung on the wall in front of him. A computer station, with multiple laptops lined the opposite wall. One side of the room was all glass and overlooked the lake. The room had a mix of chairs and designer couches. A Zumba dance class was in session across the hallway.

Carson had heard about the jail, but never thought he’d end up there. He remembered when they changed the name from Morse County Prison to Bank of America Correctional Facility. People were up in arms about the name change.

“I already saw this episode,” a guy in a dark suit argued. He reached for the television remote control. Another man held the remote tightly behind his back. Loud arguing over the device echoed throughout the large room. The man dropped it down his khakis and lifted his arms, like come and get it. The remote fell through his pant leg, to the floor landing by his leather loafer. He clenched his jaw. A calm, sweet woman came to the rescue as she gently coaxed the men to quiet down. She alerted them to the fact that there were four televisions to choose from. They snarled and then moved away from each other.

“Why are you here? What charges?” Carson asked.

“Sober and disorderly. A fight with a co-worker . . . I got a message from her telling someone that I was a bitch. It quite obviously wasn’t for me. So I confronted her. You should’ve heard the language she used, like it was my fault . . .she’s in another lounge.”

“Wow,” Carson responded. The woman wore a long sleeved silk blouse and a pencil skirt. She looked conservative and professional but frazzled. Stray clumps of hair hung wildly from her tight bun. A deep crease was carved into her forehead, between her brows.

“The truth of it . . . I know she wants my job. She’s jealous,” the woman nodded at Carson. “I definitely took a better mug shot than her. I’m gonna use it as my profile pic. Everyone’s doing it.”

“Get away from me!” A small woman nestled into a couch sneered at a man. Her fingers were covered in greasy butter as she ate popcorn out of a striped box. The man wore suspenders and slouchy jeans. The cuffs of his jeans were soiled and frayed. A long wiry beard covered his chin. He plopped down on the floor, set down his knapsack and took out a sandwich.

“She’s hobophobic,” the woman whispered. “She’s the mastermind behind a Ponzi scheme, took everyone’s money.”

“Really?” Carson asked.

“Get me out of here!” A cry went out.

“What’s that?” Carson furrowed his brow and clenched his jaw. He crossed his arms over his chest. Chills went up the back of his neck.

“From the think tank.” She pointed at the wall. “It’s behind that wall . . . if you’re thrown in there it’s because you have some type of addiction. They make you detox as you think about all your problems in there. I wonder what he’s in for?”

“What day is it today?” A howl came out of the room. “Only Tuesday!”

“Ahh, a Friday addict . . . very common. I saw that on a recent episode of Cops and Lawyers.” She eyed Carson seriously. “You have to be careful. My friend was once thrown in there for her shopping addiction. She tried to buy one too many sweaters, but it exceeded the discount the store offered. The police were called because she was relentless.”

The glass sliding door opened and a woman stepped in. “Who ordered the Manolo Blahniks?”

“Me,” the gal raised her hand. She slipped into the new shoes and handed the woman her old shoes. “Please put them with my other purchases,” she smiled and then turned to Carson. “Have you checked out the ClinkMall catalogue? Good stuff.” She turned her ankle towards Carson and batted her eyes. The new and old shoes looked exactly the same to Carson. “They also have the in-prison magazine. It’s free . . . some good articles.”

“Cappuccino, macchiato, espresso, cigars . . .” A man pushing a cart wheeled into the room. Some of the inmates happily reached for the drinks.

“It’s decaf,” the lady mumbled. “Can you believe it? Can’t have caffeine or sugar in here.”

“I don’t mind decaf . . .I got used to it,” Carson commented.

The woman rolled her eyes. “See that guy over there with the briefcase? He has shots of caffeine and cubes of sugar. But don’t let them catch you,” she nodded in the man’s direction. The man wore a suit and tie. His eyes shifted and flitted about the room. “Can you believe how hard we have it in here?” She huffed.

“Who ordered the pizza?” A boy popped into the room and looked around. He dropped the pizza off with a man in the corner.

The glass sliding doors opened again. As the boy zipped away, he almost ran into a man entering the room. The man had a baldhead and wore a monogrammed bathrobe. His plush slippers padded across the carpeted floor. “I highly recommend the hot rock massage,” he commented and sat by the lady.

“I missed you.” He leaned over and kissed her. Her eyes softened and her demeanor turned to mush.

“You might like the seaweed wrap, sweetie.”

“Okay,” she gushed. “I was thinking of trying the laughing yoga class.”

“Those the shoes? Lookin’ good.” He pointed at her feet.

“Yep.” Her eyes twinkled. She looked over at Carson. “This is my boyfriend.”

Carson nodded and smiled. How long did he have to wait to hear about his case? He was growing weary of the idle chitchat. It was draining being in the chaotic atmosphere.

“We met two hours ago when we both arrived here,” she sighed. “We found love in a hopeless place.” She softly touched his cheek. He placed his hand on her knee. His fingers disappeared under her skirt.

Carson nodded. He quickly changed the subject before the room became X rated. “They have a spa here?” Carson inquired. “How’s that possible?”

“Political fundraisers. The politicians are committed to improving the prison system . . . if they don’t they won’t be reelected,” the man snorted. “We need to see the benefits of our tax dollars.”

“Oh,” Carson lifted his eyebrows. “What’d you in for?”

“Sexual harassment,” he smirked and casually brushed the woman’s boob. She giggled. “I’m being accused of not promoting my secretary because she won’t play along. Ridiculous. My lawyers are on it.”

Carson jumped. The dark, round digital device in his lap was buzzing and lighting up with chasing, red dots. ”Guess that’s me. Good luck.” He picked up the device and scurried out of the room. The glass sliding door silently closed after him.

“Carson?”

“Yes.” Carson dropped the digital device in a basket on the front desk.

“We’re releasing you, hold out your hand,” the officer commented. Carson did and was slapped on the hand. “That was for running away. But this guy here is in more trouble . . . for profiling.” The arresting officer sat in a lounge chair along the wall. His feet were up and he was typing into his phone.

“I’m suspended,” he huffed. “They’re sending me to Vegas, all expense paid trip for my family of four for a week. What am I going to do in Vegas for a week?” He gasped.

“Well, maybe you’ll think twice before profiling again.” The man furrowed his brow.

“My family had a trip planned to cruise the Mediterranean. I was looking forward to seeing Istanbul, Turkey and Athens, Greece . . . now this.”

“Instead, you’re going to Luxor . . . Las Vegas,” the officer smirked. “You’re free to go.” He looked up at Carson.


After wandering aimlessly for some time, Carson hovered on a sidewalk against a building. How had he ended up there? No one needed to know about his run-in. It was embarrassing. His shoulders slouched over as he lay on the cement. He strategically placed financial newspapers over him so he would be mistaken as a corporate wash-up. His exhaustion clouded his mind. He would need to shake his anxiety. But for now, all he could do was lay there. His stomach turned with regret. Was Barry okay?

The afternoon was windy and the newspaper lifted to reveal his face. He struggled to pull it down but not before he was recognized.

“Carson?” A sweet child’s voice asked.

Carson looked up. Four little children had gathered around him. Their large, concerned eyes popped wide open in recognition. Fleeting thoughts filled with excuses zipped through his head. He was just reading the newspapers and they had crumpled up over him. How weird, right? One of the kids dropped coins into the biodegradable cup beside him.

“No sweetie, I don’t need that,” Carson laughed uncomfortably. He dug into the cup and gave her the coins back.

“Carson, what the heck?!” Jenny squealed as she approached from behind the kids.

“Oh,” Carson moaned. He looked behind him at the building. “I was just going to the museum to see the Corporate History Month exhibit.”

“You didn’t want to see that exhibit.” Jenny placed her hands on her hips and eyed him suspiciously.

“I changed my mind,” he croaked.

“Do you know where Barry is?” She asked.

“Uhhhh, home?”

“Yes, he is . . . he drove himself home . . . your mom called. She wanted to know where you were,” Jenny replied.

“The cop stopped me for no reason . . .”

“I know, I heard all about it. Come in to see the exhibit with us. What were you going to do, hide there all day?” Jenny teased.

Carson shrugged his shoulders. As much as he had no interest in the exhibit, at least Jenny was there.


They wandered through the exhibit, scanning the photographs along the wall. History notes were posted throughout the interactive display. In one section, they showed that the DNA of a corporate person was nearly the same as an entrepreneurial person. It was important to inform people to encourage equality for all. Carson got hooked on a video history of one man who described his life in the corporate world but then was lifted out of it. Freedom was in his eyes. His story was impressive and only reminded Carson of how easy he had it. It was his parent’s who had to rise out of it.

“Carson, come here,” Jenny waved at him. Carson strolled up to her. “Look, it’s you!” She giggled.

“What?” Carson peered into the photograph. Sure enough, it was his mother speaking in front of the group. Off to the side, sitting in a chair was Carson. His little legs barely hung over the edge of the chair as he intensely watched his mother. Carson dropped his mouth open wide with surprise. He didn’t remember the event and hadn’t seen the photo before. The caption mentioned Carson and said something about handing the baton over to a new generation. Another photo showed kids playing on the mini golf course.

“Hah! See you’re making the change, too!” Jenny declared.

“Not really,” Carson uttered.

“Mentoring?”

Carson bounced his head around like maybe.

“Don’t you see the impact you have on Barry? And the community with the mini golf course? Why don’t you embrace that this is your heritage? It seems you’re running from it . . .trying to change it,” Jenny crossed her arms over her chest.

“Well, you see what corporate culture does . . . greed and envy . . “

“Carson,” Jenny snapped, “it’s not all bad. Didn’t you see the section on what some corporations are doing? They’re empowering their people.” She pointed to one wall. “Saying that all corporations are greedy is like saying that kids in the ‘hood are conniving.”

Carson twisted his mouth and paused. “Yeah . . . I gotta go. I’ll call you later.” He turned around and walked away before Jenny could say anything.


“Which hot dog do you want?”

“You still on the lam?”

Carson rolled his eyes. “Which one?”

“The Dizzy Oscar Meyer Weiner Dog with everything,” Barry pointed at the menu.

“Okay,” Carson responded.

“I heard you were here, good to see you!” Bill walked up to Carson and patted him on the back. “Mr. Success . . . I heard that your art shows have been a hit.”

“The perspective was off on one of his watercolors,” Barry commented.

Carson chuckled and nodded. “You, too, still thriving,” he responded. The small hot dog shop had a line out the front door.

“Had to change with the times. We have all sorts of free range, grass fed, chemically free meats. We’re even carrying vegetarian options, if you can believe that!” Bill crossed his arms over his thick chest. He rocked on his heels as he towered over the two.

“And milking vegetables,” Carson pointed at the menu to the green smoothies.

Bill’s belly laugh rose above the crowd. “It’s local and organic, I go pull weeds from the cracks in the sidewalk every morning!”

“Really?” Barry popped his eyes open. His mind was working on a way to turn it into a business. He could hire people to pick weeds and sell them.

Carson clapped his hands together and laughed.

“I kid, I kid,” Bill patted Barry’s shoulder. “I’ll take your order and sneak behind so you don’t have to wait in line. Grab that table.”

Carson and Barry plopped down at the table after letting Bill know what they wanted. “I’m sorry about today,” Carson stared at Barry. “It was irresponsible.”

“It was fun! I got to drive the BMW!” Barry exclaimed.

“I know, once the cop caught me and dragged me back to the car I noticed you were gone.”

“You ended up in the slammer? Did you get a pedicure?”

“No,” Carson chuckled.

“I heard they had pedicures.”

“They do,” Carson paused. “But I have to be honest . . .I was embarrassed to be in your dad’s car . . . I was trying so hard not to look corporate that I actually came across as corporate. Why else would that cop stop me?”

“I thought for sure the donut would get him.”

“Thanks for trying to help me . . . sorry for trying to make you into a mini me,” Carson snorted.

“What’s wrong with that?”
“You should just be yourself . . .that’s pretty cool . . .you’re pretty cool,” Carson smiled.

“I know I am,” Barry nodded.

Carson chuckled. “Did your parents want to kill me?”

“Yes. But then my mom felt sorry for me so she bought me Addidas.” Barry lifted his foot up.

“You mean . . .,” Carson stopped short before the word, shoes, could come out. He paused fighting the urge to correct the kid. It was he who needed to change, not Barry. Once his resistance towards corporate culture shifted, Barry and everything in Carson’s world would change. “Nice,” Carson commented.

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