Pumpkin

Chapter 2

2

CRACK!

ARMAND “MANNY” CHARMAYNE’S FACE burned from the impact of the palm colliding against his cheek. Who knew petite Honey Timmons packed a strong, right hook. She stood before him, in a yellow sundress and black stilettos, vibrating with indignation and fury. Manny blinked his right eye and flexed his jaw, his teeth still rattling. It wasn't the first time he'd been slapped, but each time it happened came as a surprise.

"You led me on," Honey accused.

Those words echoed what Rachelle Simpson had shouted at him their junior year in college. During that summer, both Manny and Rachelle worked at the same summer camp that took inner city kids into the Driskill Mountains for character building and goal setting activities. Manny and Rachelle continued to keep each other warm in the cold mountain nights. When summer ended and senior year began, with an influx of new coeds, Manny ended things. Rachelle's manicured talons streaked across his face before he'd gotten out the phrase "We can still be friends."

"I thought you were the one," Honey pointed her finger, red and shaky from assaulting his face.

Shanti Rodriguez had thought that, too. Shanti and Manny had been assigned to the same Malawian village during Manny's year in the Peace Corp. They'd met during his last few months there and spent their days working to build schools for the children. Inevitably, they ended up spending their nights together. Manny enjoyed their time together and felt he'd met a kindred spirit. He was certain the two would remain friends throughout their lives. Only, Shanti had assumed their lives would be spent together. The slap she'd delivered him continued to ring in his ear after he'd crossed the Atlantic on the plane ride back home.

"You won't find another woman like me," Honey declared before storming out the door.

The problem was Manny wasn't looking for another woman like her. Unlike regular people, love wasn't a Hasbro guessing game for Manny. He wouldn't need to ask a bunch of questions or flip a playing card to know if he'd met his match. Like every Charmayne man or woman in history, when Manny's true love finally showed up, he'd know for certain.

If she ever showed up.

Though Manny had no need for the adolescent Matching Game, as a red-blooded man he took a great interest in The Dating Game. With one major rule change.

He'd been dating Honey for nearly three months now. Well, technically it had been five months if you counted the first time they'd gone out together. And Manny was sure Honey counted that far back. Rule number one: Manny kept his relationships on the underside of three months, because after that women got serious. He didn't want to lead anyone on when he knew after that first glance if the relationship would last a lifetime. But he'd been traveling across the state for the last two months, testing the waters for this new venture in his life. And he hadn't broken it off with Honey in time.

"You okay? We could hear that slap all the way in the other room." Darrell Walker poked his head in the door.

"Yeah, I'm good," Manny answered, rubbing his still sore chin.

He looked up at his friend. Darrell stood basketball player tall with long limbs and big hands. Only, Darrell lacked any coordination that the sport required. In exchange, Darrell had been blessed with the gift of brains and strength.

"You sure? I could give you a quick spinal adjustment. Sounds like she may have knocked you out of alignment."

Manny had met Darrell after a minor fender bender. He entered Darrell's chiropractic offices feeling mangled and tense. Darrell cracked him straight in just five minutes.

"I think the best thing I can do for my health is to swear off women for a while."

Darrell shook his head. "Trust me, that won't make it better."

Unlike Manny who never lacked for company, Darrell, with his gangly height and proclivity for shyness around the opposite s*x, was perpetually single.

"Well," said Manny, "at least until the mayoral campaign is over. I don't need any new distractions."

"You're really doing this," Darrell dropped a stack of papers on the desk.

Manny looked down at the fliers. "Charmayne for Mayor," they announced in royal blue. Across the middle, in red accents, it proclaimed he was "Putting the Community Back Together." The candid photo captured Manny smiling proudly in profile with a hammer in his hand as he helped to rebuild a home damaged by the storms.

"Looks like it," Manny answered looking out the window of his new campaign headquarters. He'd chosen to house the “Charmayne for Mayor” offices in the market district. At the top of Market Street loomed executive offices for manufacturing, refineries, tech companies and banks. Farther down, an outdoor flea market burst with activity in the middle of a lush green park that ended at the docks. Manny had situated himself at the cross roads of the concrete enclosures of business and open booths of the community. Hello, capitalism; meet communalism.

"I'm still surprised you're taking this on," said Darrell. "You could spend the rest of your life running the charitable arm of Charmayne Industries."

Manny had been the face of the Charmayne Charitable Foundation even before graduating college. Both of his parents had been successful in the corporate world, but as a child, Manny saw brightness in both of their eyes when they extended a hand to the less fortunate. Manny believed his parents were more proud of his philanthropy than any of his other accomplishments. And Manny was proud of himself, but helping a handful of troubled kids in the summer, building a woman's shelter that could only house ten families at time, was no longer enough. He wanted to make a bigger impact. To establish a road between the haves and the have nots. There were so many unheard have-nots, and not enough haves to listen, or more importantly, act.

The flaw with social programs is that the poor start to believe they can't do for themselves without it, and the rich believe the poor can't act without their help. It winds up being a vicious cycle with each side resenting the other.

He recalled her view of the world... Malika was her name. Or was it Pumpkin? Her view of the world was unlike the one he saw framed outside his window.

"Darrell, you do a lot of work down at the community center, right?"

"Yeah."

"Do you ever feel that people there are resentful?"

"Resentful how?"

Manny turned and rested a hand on his desk. His fingers grazed the Faberge egg that was the color of his birthstone. "You grew up in that neighborhood and now you're a success. Do you ever feel that people in the community resent you for that success?"

Darrell opened his mouth to answer, but then paused to think. "Well, there are always those who feel they're entitled to whatever you have to give, without doing anything in return."

Manny could understand that mentality. He'd endured enough over the top birthday parties as a kid where an heir or heiress threw a tantrum if the presents weren't big enough, or weren't better than the Jones'. He'd attended his fair share of excessive, socialite soirees as an adult where he couldn't meet the eye of the Average Joe serving his appetizer.

"But," Darrell continued. "It’s been my experience that anyone who wants to succeed will take all the help they can get, and be thankful for it. Where's this coming from?"

"Just working out my stump speech," Manny shrugged. "I've gotta get to the board meeting at Charmayne Industries."

"They haven't endorsed you yet?"

"It’s just a formality." Manny grabbed his suit jacket and walked Darrell out.

It was a sunny afternoon and Manny decided to walk the mile to the top of Market Street to the offices of Charmayne Industries. Entering the glass doors, he was hit with a wave of nostalgia. He'd spent much of his childhood in this place. Hiding in empty offices, sending slinkies down the marble staircase, playing in the corner while his dad negotiated business deals on the phone.

"Armand, it’s been too long." Ed Satterfeld shook Manny's hand as he entered the boardroom. It was more of a jiggle than a shake as Manny's firm hand met with the excessive pudge of Satterfeld's palm.

Satterfeld had been a junior partner when Manny was in high school. During his father's time, Charmayne Industries supplied a great deal of jobs in the community to the upper, middle, and lower classes. Under Satterfeld's leadership, many lower class jobs had been outsourced, pay cuts shoved out many of the middle class, but the executive suite had plush, new carpeting and upgraded fixtures.

Manny looked around the square table at the heads of six men in various stages of balding.

"We think it’s a great decision for you to run." Satterfeld levered himself into a seat at the head of the table, the seat that once belonged to Manny's father. "Your father would be proud. This will look good for the company, having the Charmayne name in politics."

"I'm not doing it for the company," Manny said taking a seat. "I'm doing it for everyone in the community: businesses, the middle class, the poor, the children. Everyone in our community needs a voice, someone to listen to them and be their advocate."

There was dead silence at this. Then—

"Put that in a speech and it'll get you elected," Satterfeld grinned, white teeth flashing like a shark. "But if you're naive enough to believe you'll get there with the people alone, you're living in a fairytale, son."

A chorus of unintelligible grumbles rumbled around the table, reminding Manny of the adults in the Charlie Brown cartoons.

Manny didn't respond. He wasn't naive. Though he didn't prefer the boardroom, his father had taught him the rules of this game. This was the part where the men in power would haggle for the little man's soul. Manny crossed his arms over his chest, like armor, and waited to see if he could stomach the price.

Satterfeld steepled his pudgy fingers and rested his double chin at the bridge. "You've always been an honorable man, Armand. Just like your father. But the unions are bleeding us dry, son. We've had to cut so much already."

Manny looked around the room at the nodding heads inside of tailored designer suits.

Satterfeld continued, "If the demands of the masses eat up the foundation, who will hold them up? Without Charmayne Industries there'd be no jobs. Any pilot worth his salt will tell you that you have to put the oxygen mask on yourself before you save anyone else. We just want to survive. We need to know you have our interests at heart."

"That's what I want, too," Manny reached for the common thread. "Us all to survive and prosper. So I can count on your endorsement?"

"Of course, son. You thought you even had to ask?" Satterfeld flashed his whites again.

It couldn't be this easy. Could it? If these were the terms, ensuring that the company survived and thrived, Manny would take the deal. Everyone would succeed under his leadership, and without any flaws or cycle of resentment. He'd make sure the haves and the have-nots saw that they needed each other in order to survive.

"Just one more thing," Satterfeld held up his index finger.

Manny felt his soul take a step backwards into himself and curl around his heart.

"Though we feel that your philanthropic reputation is infallible, we are concerned that your social life leaves much to be desired. And it’s not just the board, there are many families and religious-minded voters in this community. We feel you should... tidy that up."

"Tidy that up?"

"With marriage. The public trusts a man on a ball and chain more than one who's free."

The ball and chain joke brought forth laughs and a few comments from the men around the room on their second, third, and fourth wives.

Manny's brain tried to unscramble the cartoonish walla around him. "You're saying you want me to get married?"

"Oh, no, no. Just engaged. For now." And then Satterfeld clarified, "To a woman of quality. You're pitting yourself against Preston Whitely. A family man who's older, with more experience, and more ties to the business community. You've spent a lot of time flitting around the world —doing admirable things, yes, I know. But while you've been home, you've been in the social section of the papers with a different girl on your arm every few months. That doesn't scream stability. You will get the youth vote, if you can get them up after their hangover. You will get the lower class vote, if you can get them to the polls after a day standing in the welfare and unemployment lines. But if you want the establishment vote, you need to show that you can make a commitment. The best way to do that is to tie yourself to a woman of quality."

Satterfeld stuck out his hand to shake on it. Manny's empty palm lay frozen on the cold, marble table.