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
"Nike, Adidas, Converse..."
"Yes. That's right sir. It's pretty much your choice."
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
"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
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