The mark of a good business-person is foresight. One is not to be caught napping. Surprises, so delightful to children, are not so pleasant for forty-one year old printing shop owners scratching out a profit during a pandemic.
That would be Walt, and then some. He had a new baby. And a new wife. He spent his days adding new names to new insurance policies, then signing up for new health plans. The shop needed a new van. The New Year would soon be upon them.
Is there anything that isn’t new?
He heard the front entrance door jingle. “Walt?” a familiar voice demanded. “Are you back there?” Some things aren’t new at all. The appearance of John Schatz, unannounced, is one of them.
Walt walked out of his office and removed his reading glasses. “Why, John. What are you doing here?”
“I was out running, and thought I’d stop by.” Schatz wore a blaze orange running jacket and black running pants. He took off a knit cap, black, reading Asics. Under one arm he carried a football. It occurred to Walt the man never went anywhere empty-handed.
“Ran from where?”
“My office.”
“That’s three miles.”
“Four.” Schatz smiled. At sixty, he was still capable of running remarkable distances. He had to. Walt knew he had long ago lost his car. “My Mercedes is in the shop” only works so long.
“You ran four miles with a football?”
“Oh, this?” Schatz said, suddenly aware of the ball. “This is for you.” He tossed it to Walt.
“You bought me a football?”
“For the baby, little James. It’s a Christmas gift. How is he, anyway?”
“He’s fine, John. And he’s a little young for athletics, don’t you think?”
“Nonsense. You can give the boy one of those cloth books. Or a teddy bear. I suggest a football. Start him off right.”
“He’s starting off just fine. And thank you, but no thanks.” Walt tossed the ball back.
Schatz caught it easily, one-handed. “It’s a good football,” he said, looking at it. “The Official Ball of the NFL.” He tossed it back. As the ball went back and forth Schatz started talking. He also had a gift for Walt, he said. A splendid gift. He knew of a warehouse for sale, grossly underpriced. In Eagan, Minnesota. It was currently empty. It wouldn’t stay empty for long. He had a tenant all lined up, a big tenant. A major furniture retailer, very major. The lease was signed. Or would be. All Walt had to do was put his name on a purchase agreement and in a few months, a year at best, they would split a profit in the high six figures…
“I’m not buying a warehouse, John. I’ve got enough expenses as it is. I’ve got to think of Reba. And James.” He threw the ball back to Schatz.
“That’s why you should buy it.” Schatz dropped back. “And we’re not really buying it. We’ll sell the contract to an investor. That’s another thing I have all lined up. Go long.” Schatz fired the ball. He had a good arm. But a poor aim. He missed, the ball bouncing off the order desk and taking out a Chamber of Commerce plaque on the wall.
“Oops,” the older man said. “Guess I don’t have the snap I once did.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Walt said, hanging the plaque back up. “None of us do.”
They spent a pleasant half hour drinking coffee in the break room. Once you got him off business, Schatz could be good company. They talked babies, parents, wives, the holidays, Mazatlan, the best skiing in the Rockies. With the sun setting (in winter in Minnesota, the sun is always setting) Schatz abruptly pulled on his knit cap. He had better be going, he said. No one likes to run at night.
“Can I give you a ride?” Walt asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t talk a runner out of running.” Wishing him the merriest of Christmases, he trotted out the door.
Walt realized he still had the football. He thought of James. It was hard to be away from him. You counted the minutes. He tucked the ball, halfback style, under an arm, picked up his lunch bag, and headed home.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com