Smoke is rising from the grate of a building out the 56th floor window and Kelly is considering his options. He is wearing a dark blue suit that highlights his taut frame; and tortoise shell vanity glasses, to hide his hair. He is smoking a Cuban cigar and has his black Prada loafers obstinately across the table. The men surrounding the table look at him with great anticipation, as if awaiting the grail to drop from his mouth. He is a little stoned from it all.

Now he is in a backyard and there is smoke rising off the hibachi—someone stole the gas grill—and the burgers are moderately burned on both sides. He is trying to cut one open but the knife he is using is old and blunt. He is stabbing at the burger, holding it in place with the tips of his fingers. He is swearing and violently shaking his hand. If he looked up he would see the suggestion of the 5:54 train well past, like goddamn Rickey Henderson on his way to the dugout. He does not look up, just like in Oakland.

He forgets the burgers and sits on the grass—they got all the lawn furniture too, the fuckers—and he is trying to remember the smell.

"Nike, Adidas, Converse..."

"Yes. That's right sir. It's pretty much your choice."

"Okay, Now."

He stands up; adjusts his glasses just like Olerud—that dandy college boy. He straightens his tie and smiles furtively. He walks around the group of men like DeNiro in the Untouchables, patting them each on the shoulder as he makes the circle. He walks by the charts, storyboards and mock-ups; briefly considers them all. He lowers his glasses and reads over them. When he is done he clears his throat authoritatively, and places both hands firmly on the table.

"What I want all of you to do is close your eyes; go on, I want your total concentration. Now, think on only this, 'what is the right move for The Kelly Gruber?'"

He laughs at the memory and without really noticing smashes a mosquito with the spatula.

"Still got the hands baby, no question."

* * * * *

Day 9 | Kelly Home | Day 11