8 a.m - Short Story

African American Review, Spring, 2002 by Raki Jones

EST

I chose this jet and put the Atlas logo on the tail when it was green, fresh off the assembly line. I had this engraved glass partition installed, to separate my office from the rest of the passenger seats. I need my own zone to work and think, even on short hops. Hell, come to think of it, I dreamed up this classic Grecian cabin. All the overpriced designer had to do was pick out the materials and supervise the construction. When you travel in this plane, you're flying in a piece of my mind.

Good, take off is right on time. It'll be a quick flight to Indianapolis, the press conference to unveil the new shoe, some meetings with the Midwest reps, and the game tonight. A no-sweat day.

I created this company when sneakers were little more than canvas and rubber moccasins. Who put the terry cloth footy inside the shoe? I did!

Morning, Bev. No, I didn't call for you. Just mumbling again. But since you're here, I'll have a mineral water.

I ripped the rubber out of a bulletproof vest and molded it into the sneakers' inner soles. Damn, that prototype felt good. Moves like that put the flying "A" on the world's feet, and stamped it in their minds. If you're in with Atlas, you must be flying.

Thank you, Hey.

They're nothing but a pack of social scientists, marketers, and mountebanks who don't even look at the game but analyze the arena for logo penetration and recognition. How in the hell did her PR department get so powerful? Ten years ago I used to put her and her people in the worst seat in our skybox. Now she has her own skybox, where she entertains board members with twelve-year-old scotch, served by twenty-year-old interns. A potent and deadly solvent that unglued the name of our best line. If I don't play this game carefully, I'll be ejected from my own plane...

Bey, what's the current altitude? Thanks.

... at 35,000 feet above the earth with a golden parachute.

Got to convince Fort to play one more year. He owes me. I helped to make him into a national icon. Icon, I-can, I-con. So we're putting the B-17 into mothballs, huh? This is my game plan. I'll listen to Fort. If he thinks that the shoe'll fly, then we'll launch it full-throttle. But if Wayne has one sore heel, blister, or reservation, then we'll stop production immediately, sell the remainders as limited editions, and go back to the Flying Fortress. Call them classics, like the soda people did when they almost blew it with their new product line.

Can't see them clearly behind this chiseled glass, but if I peek between Atlas's biceps and forearm there's a triangle of clear glass. What's she think she's doing, holding court with her lackeys in my plane? Swiveling around 5000 gracefully in my calfskin leather seat.

So what if her market research staff reported that the target demographics didn't relate to the World War II symbol anymore. What's not to relate to? The B-17 Flying Fortress helped to win the biggest war in history, and Wayne Fort is the best basketball player on the planet. It's a winning combination that's worked for over a decade. Target that, Miss--swivel those long legs. Miss--"latest research validates that the new logo medallion of Wayne in action creates a more spontaneous purchase reaction." Bullshit. It'll never fly with that ridiculous name Fort Fadeaways. In a month the street slang will go back to calling them the Flying Fortress. Then we'll see who misses the target by a mile. It was a smart move on my part to insist that the new logo medallion be put on the sole. When we revert back to the plane, all we have to do is make a cosmetic change: manwith-a-ball to plane-with-a-bomb. The "FF" on the back can stay the same. If Wayne stays in the game, that fadeaway shot of him in the medallion will ma ke as much sense as a... as a bucket shot. After this line crashes, I'll just cut back on a few of her young assistants: a Harvard MBA here, a Wharton grad there. She'll see that I am Atlas Athletics, and Atlas will fly through this mess. I should have made her department fly to Indianapolis on a B17, or coach, which is about the same thing.

You know, I really like how this cabin looks. It's real tasteful, with the marble bar and silk carpets. And they call me a nouveau riche marathon runner with a chemistry degree. I've been rich for so long I can barely remember what it was like to postdate a check to a supplier. Thick clouds. Used to call them marshmallows, but now they look more like mountains of white rubber bubbling in blue vats. Liquid money.

Can't leave the office yet. The moment I walk into the rest of the cabin, the statheads can double-team me about press agents, promotions, publicity, advertising, marketing, target audiences, surveys, content analysis, concentric effect, perception, image analysis, merchandising, public-fucking-affairs. I can avoid talking to the bastards as long as I keep my eyes down in this magazine: "The Aviator Express IV. Coast to coast without refueling. Large oval windows, swivel leather chairs, wet bar, galley, bigscreen DVD movie system, full electronic office..."