Glass crashed against the wall as the elevator dinged.
The few remaining assistants scurried into it, brushing past the tall man that just stepped out. Slim, impeccably dressed, but very obviously startled by the sudden noise and the mad dash to the elevator. He casually toyed with a set of old BMW keys before pocketing them.
Another glass plaque crashed against the wall. There was shouting coming from the corner office. It didn’t help that the door was open, but the mayhem hardly took away from the office it inhabited.
The view was stunning. Large windows adorned the walls and opened out into Portland’s Pearl District. He was only occasionally treated to views like this, but never quite like this. Big Pink was the only skyscraper in this small neighborhood, and with it, you had perfect views of the Columbia River and the rest of the hipster capital of the world. And from the 42nd floor, there was no better view in the city.
Bike messengers dotted the streets, caring little for the affairs of cars, pedestrians, or trams. Lawyers, bankers and the like sat down for coffee in the streets, instead of taking meetings in their own offices. It was a chilly morning, the decorative trees on the avenue below devoid of leaves. The occasional musician braved the cold to inevitably play some obscure instrument: the oboe, being the least mainstream incarnation at this moment, and consequently the most popular. Steam rose in thick puffs from small chimneys dotted around the city. But, from the 42nd floor, it all played out like watching a tiny model in a museum.
It was January.
“Is this Miller Nash?” the tall man inquired. He had retained much of his physique from his brief, albeit unsuccessful career in football. There were comparisons drawn to Socrates, the late Brazilian great, when he finished university while playing for his boyhood club. The whisperings of the next great Croatian footballer grew to a dull roar when he scored on his Croatia debut, against Italy of all teams, at the tender age of 17.
But those days evaporated. His knee buckled, and after one moderately successful European Championship, Croatia lost what could have been one of the best strikers the country had ever seen. He tried to continue playing with Hajduk after returning from his injury, but the magic was gone.
He retired, to the tears of the Adriatic, at the tender age of 22, only 5 seasons after breaking through the first team in Split.
A man scampered out of the corner office, and all but ran to the elevator, swearing loudly. A rather large chair followed him out before crashing against the open door. The Croatian came up to the only other person in the office, the assistant, who had her head in her hands. Traces of grey went through the put-together brunette’s hair, but she can’t have been older than 40. Her head was shaking, and a pack of cigarettes lay open and spilled across her desk.
“Is this Miller Nash?” the Croatian asked. He had begun practicing international law after his unexpected retirement and had flown all the way from Europe to work on an American case. He practiced alone, but business was good.
The assistant looked up, surprised, if not bemused by the existence of someone else in the office. “No.” She was curt, while her boss was throwing a tantrum in the expansive office. He had taken a decanter out of the cabinet, and had started drinking without a glass. It was a sloppy affair. “But go in anyway.”
Instinctively, he stepped into the office, his feet crunching the glass on the floor. An ornate plaque sat at the front of the desk, slightly askew: “MERRITT PAULSON”. A trophy stood on the back wall. “CASCADIA CUP CHAMPIONS, 2009”
“OI! YA LIKE SOCCAH?” Paulson was obviously very drunk. He weighed close to 300 pounds, and his suit was stained from the alcohol and inappropriately unbuttoned. His tie lied somewhere around the office, but no longer had a place around Merritt’s neck.
“I’m sorry sir, I think I’m in the wrong place.”
“YA LIKE SOCCAH. Ya that Ruski fellah who neahly died on the pitch”. Paulson was still very drunk but managed to land quite the emotional blow against the Croatian.
“I’m Croatian. Not Russian,” he scowled coldly.
Paulson had another drink. He probably should have stopped hours ago, but you had to praise his constitution. He scribbled something out on a piece of paper on his desk, before crumbling it up and throwing it at the Croatian who opened it, and did a small double take. This was a managing contract. In Portland.
“I just fiyed Caleb Porter. Whaass your name?”
“My name? Timmy. Timmy Bendiš.” He turned, and walked out of the office as Merritt Paulson crashed to the floor. He had work to do
The few remaining assistants scurried into it, brushing past the tall man that just stepped out. Slim, impeccably dressed, but very obviously startled by the sudden noise and the mad dash to the elevator. He casually toyed with a set of old BMW keys before pocketing them.
Another glass plaque crashed against the wall. There was shouting coming from the corner office. It didn’t help that the door was open, but the mayhem hardly took away from the office it inhabited.
A FM SCOUT EXCLUSIVE
The view was stunning. Large windows adorned the walls and opened out into Portland’s Pearl District. He was only occasionally treated to views like this, but never quite like this. Big Pink was the only skyscraper in this small neighborhood, and with it, you had perfect views of the Columbia River and the rest of the hipster capital of the world. And from the 42nd floor, there was no better view in the city.
Bike messengers dotted the streets, caring little for the affairs of cars, pedestrians, or trams. Lawyers, bankers and the like sat down for coffee in the streets, instead of taking meetings in their own offices. It was a chilly morning, the decorative trees on the avenue below devoid of leaves. The occasional musician braved the cold to inevitably play some obscure instrument: the oboe, being the least mainstream incarnation at this moment, and consequently the most popular. Steam rose in thick puffs from small chimneys dotted around the city. But, from the 42nd floor, it all played out like watching a tiny model in a museum.
It was January.
FROM 5 TIME SOTM WINNER
“Is this Miller Nash?” the tall man inquired. He had retained much of his physique from his brief, albeit unsuccessful career in football. There were comparisons drawn to Socrates, the late Brazilian great, when he finished university while playing for his boyhood club. The whisperings of the next great Croatian footballer grew to a dull roar when he scored on his Croatia debut, against Italy of all teams, at the tender age of 17.
But those days evaporated. His knee buckled, and after one moderately successful European Championship, Croatia lost what could have been one of the best strikers the country had ever seen. He tried to continue playing with Hajduk after returning from his injury, but the magic was gone.
He retired, to the tears of the Adriatic, at the tender age of 22, only 5 seasons after breaking through the first team in Split.
AND 2 TIME SOTY NOMINEE
A man scampered out of the corner office, and all but ran to the elevator, swearing loudly. A rather large chair followed him out before crashing against the open door. The Croatian came up to the only other person in the office, the assistant, who had her head in her hands. Traces of grey went through the put-together brunette’s hair, but she can’t have been older than 40. Her head was shaking, and a pack of cigarettes lay open and spilled across her desk.
“Is this Miller Nash?” the Croatian asked. He had begun practicing international law after his unexpected retirement and had flown all the way from Europe to work on an American case. He practiced alone, but business was good.
A TIMMY BENDIŠ PRODUCTION
The assistant looked up, surprised, if not bemused by the existence of someone else in the office. “No.” She was curt, while her boss was throwing a tantrum in the expansive office. He had taken a decanter out of the cabinet, and had started drinking without a glass. It was a sloppy affair. “But go in anyway.”
Instinctively, he stepped into the office, his feet crunching the glass on the floor. An ornate plaque sat at the front of the desk, slightly askew: “MERRITT PAULSON”. A trophy stood on the back wall. “CASCADIA CUP CHAMPIONS, 2009”
“OI! YA LIKE SOCCAH?” Paulson was obviously very drunk. He weighed close to 300 pounds, and his suit was stained from the alcohol and inappropriately unbuttoned. His tie lied somewhere around the office, but no longer had a place around Merritt’s neck.
“I’m sorry sir, I think I’m in the wrong place.”
TIMMY BENDIŠ PROUDLY PRESENTS
“YA LIKE SOCCAH. Ya that Ruski fellah who neahly died on the pitch”. Paulson was still very drunk but managed to land quite the emotional blow against the Croatian.
“I’m Croatian. Not Russian,” he scowled coldly.
Paulson had another drink. He probably should have stopped hours ago, but you had to praise his constitution. He scribbled something out on a piece of paper on his desk, before crumbling it up and throwing it at the Croatian who opened it, and did a small double take. This was a managing contract. In Portland.
“I just fiyed Caleb Porter. Whaass your name?”
“My name? Timmy. Timmy Bendiš.” He turned, and walked out of the office as Merritt Paulson crashed to the floor. He had work to do
