Head lion, p.1
Head Lion, page 1
Head Lion
Contents
Red Bull gives you wiiings.
1. I ❤ NY
2. Think Different
3. Where's the beef?
4. Because you're worth it
5. Got milk?
6. There are some things money can't buy - For everything else, there's MasterCard.
7. I'm Lovin' it
8. A Great Way to Fly!
9. What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas!
10. We try harder!
11. Go further
12. Maybe she's born with it. Maybe it’s Maybelline.
13. Intel Inside!
14. Impossible is nothing
15. Think small
16. I want you
17. The happiest place on earth
18. Obey your thirst
19. Just do it
20. Snap! Crackle! Pop!
21. The best a man can get
22. Open Happiness
23. The choice of a new generation
24. A Diamond is Forever
25. Quality never goes out of style
26. The most interesting man in the world
27. Whassup?!
28. We can do it!
29. Real Beauty
30. Be all you can be
31. Connecting People
32. Here’s to The Crazy Ones!
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Afterword
Head Lion
Neil Peter Christy
Head Lion is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2022 Neil Peter Christy
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address Neil Peter Christy.
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Published 2022
Print ISBN: 979-8-9863321-0-9
E-ISBN: 979-8-9863321-1-6
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For information, visit www.neilpeterchristy.com
All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.
Created with Vellum
To the shoulders that lift me
My mother Dulcie, my wife Sabrina, my sisters Charmaine and Nina.
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To the arms that are my strength
my children; Chanel, Cy, Nia, and Jeremiah.
Red Bull gives you wiiings.
Prologue
Thud! the sound was deafening. It was unlike any she had ever heard before. It was profoundly immoral and unholy. It kept playing in her head over and over again. The sound froze her movement and nestled in her mind as if it had found its home.
She wasn’t blinking; she wasn’t moving; she wasn’t even breathing. She was only trying to make sense of what had just happened. A ghastly sight accompanied the ungodly sound, an unholy pair made for each other. A body had just fallen.
She knew it was from the penthouse forty stories above. She recognized the emblazoned “HR” on the silk slippers that landed a few feet away from her. Even the slippers seemed crouched as if of the disfigured body sprawled on the pavement.
A splash of warm blood had hit her face, synchronized with the sound she heard. The blood wasn’t just on her face but also the child’s face clinging to her waist.
Her firm black hand clasped the child’s tiny white hands even more tightly. She immediately covered the eyes of the shocked girl and picked her up in her arms. Her chubby warm palm covered the white girl’s entire face, not just the eyes. She hurried inside the building toward the elevator. The personal elevator that opened to their penthouse was just around the corner.
For the last five years, the maid had taken the girl for walks, and for the last five years, she knew where the elevator was when she got back. Not today!
“Ding!” the sound muffled the “Thud” echoing in her mind. It reminded her where the elevator was. The world outside her seemed silent. The screams, the cries, the shrieks were no longer audible, they had become visible, as if someone had muted the sound on the picture. All she could hear was the “Thud” echoing in her mind. The maid rushed inside the elevator and let the girl slide down from her large bulky arms.
She pressed the penthouse button, hoping the elevator would go up as slowly as possible. Ignorance, she felt, was better than confronting the truth. The doors slid shut, and the elevator moved upwards. The maid finally felt safe in the confines of the cubicle and looked at the girl.
The little girl was speechless, and her head was tilted upwards, staring at the maid. She was trying to make sense of everything happening around her. Her blonde hair was drenched in red blood dripping on the shining floor of the elevator. The girl’s face was covered in uneven splashes as if someone had splattered red paint across her face.
The little girl stared at her maid like a frightened caged animal looking at the visitors across the glass. The maid looked at her distorted reflection and realized why. The blood also covered her own face. She gazed down and looked at her plain dress that now seemed patterned. Tiny red and white pieces adorned the fresh stains of blood.
The bewildered maid looked down on her dress and picked up a small lump. She managed not to throw up the moment she realized it was her employer scattered across her dark grey dress.
The maid quickly took off her scarf, covering her large frame. She wiped her face, then the girl’s face, and then her hair. She kept on repeating the ritual, even though it was hardly making any difference.
“Ding!” slowly the maid stepped out, grasping the girl’s hand, which now seemed tinier than before. Sweat poured down her body, scared she could feel the silence staring at her as she walked in. She hoped to see Mr. Raymond sitting on his favorite club chair, sipping his Martini.
She had planned the entire week to ask for a raise and quit if Mr. Raymond refused. He had hardly paid her salary in the last few months, giving part payments. She knew he was going through a rough patch. She had seen the letters from his creditors and the overdue utility bills. She started to feel guilty. I can manage for a few weeks, she thought.
The maid walked slowly toward the door; her feet felt heavier. She was now oblivious to everything except the silence in the hallway. The deafening silence was mocking her. She knocked on the door even though she never did; she had the keys. She was hoping Mr. Raymond would open the door, and everything going through her mind would stop. She would have a glass of water, have a warm shower, and talk to Mr. Raymond about her salary or not. “I’m just being ungrateful,” she said to herself.
She knocked again, a few extra knocks, a little louder than before. Still no answer. She clutched the handle with her left hand and turned it clockwise. She entered the house, tightly grasping the child’s tiny hand that was turning blue. She realized that the worst-case scenario was an empty lounge. The best case would be Mr. Raymond scolding her for being late.
It was the first time she was praying for a reprimand. An apartment with no one inside would validate her worst nightmare. Her eyes had seen everything, but her mind was unwilling to believe. She was holding on to that tiny glimmer of hope that Mr. Raymond was alive, and all this was just a nightmare she was going to wake up from in a few minutes.
The maid entered the luxurious penthouse. Everything seemed normal except for the oval mirror above the console table. The large mirror encased in wrought iron was one of the most insignificant objects in the house. Today she noticed the mirror and the ornate metal that held it on the wall. She recognized the writing as she read the three words written in capital letters. “I AM SORRY!!!”
She put her hand across the little girl’s shoulder, pulling her closer to her large frame. The girl almost disappeared in her faded cotton dress. The embrace lasted a few seconds as she stared at the writing. She knew what it meant. She finally saw her face as the focus tilted toward what was behind the writing. She could feel the liquid on her face and taste its saltiness in her mouth. She ran and threw up in the kitchen sink.
She needed a shower, and so did the little girl. She led the little girl to the bathroom, took off the girl’s clothes, and turned on the hot shower. She decided first to bathe the girl. She soaped and washed the little girl under the hot shower, drenching herself with the splashing water. Her clothes were now soaked in water as she wrapped a large towel around the little girl and brought her out. The tiles were still red as the pressure from the shower pounded on the floor, diluting the color with passing seconds.
She dried the little girl, helped her get into clean clothes, and took her to the living room. She brought a warm glass of milk and finally said her first words.
“Have the milk, watch some TV. I’ll shower in five minutes.”
She walked toward the phone in the kitchen, turned back, and saw the girl settling in and drinking the milk. She called the police. She gave her version, not even sure if it was true. Mr. Raymond had jumped from the penthouse. Her mind pictured him falling as she told the police what had happened. She could hear the “Thud” again in her mind, and a c old shiver ran down her spine. The police told her to stay at the apartment as they had a few questions.
The maid took off her clothes; they felt heavy. She turned on the shower, keeping the temperature higher than usual. It was the first time she had showered in Mr. Raymond’s house, and it felt strange. The luxurious shower, the bright lights, the tiled floor, and the scent of lavender was a far cry from her small and dingy bathroom. Just the shower cubicle was bigger than her bedroom.
The maid looked down as she vigorously soaped herself. The tiled floor turned red again as the shower scraped off the blood that embraced her. The hot water felt good, like a warm hug, almost telling her that things would be fine. She didn’t want to be afraid anymore. After all, she hadn’t done anything wrong. She wondered what would happen to the girl. The girl’s parents had died a few months after she was born. The girl had no one except her grandfather.
The hot shower enticed her to stay a little longer. Loud banging on the door interrupted her thoughts. The cops were here. She forced herself out of the shower. She was now desperate to get back home and put all this drama behind her. She missed her bed and her two sons. She dried herself and found a dry bathrobe in the closet. The knocking stopped, and the house fell silent again.
She walked out, thinking about what to do next, until she heard the sounds that defied the silence in the apartment. The sounds felt strange and out of place. The peculiar voices echoing from the TV room became recognizable. She picked up her pace, walked into the lounge, and saw the little girl staring at the large TV. An old black and white film was flickering on the screen.
There was no other sound besides a man moaning in pleasure; the picture was even more distressing. The film seemed to be shot on those vintage cameras and converted to video. She stared at the TV. It took her a few seconds to comprehend what was happening. A young man was having sex with an older man, and there was nothing gentle about it. She panicked, abruptly looking for the remote.
The little girl was tightly holding the remote. The maid sprang toward her and snatched the remote from her hands. She couldn’t find the stop button and was pressing all the wrong ones, and the frustration was now making her cry. She froze, screaming in anger. Then she felt the little girl’s hand on the remote as she pressed the pause button. She wiped her tears, her eyes focused. It was Mr. Raymond. The little girl’s grandfather. She gasped. Her legs weakened, her hands trembled, her fingers loosened up.
The remote slipped out of her grip and fell on the tiled floor with a gentle “Thud!”
Chapter 1
I ❤ NY
(New York State Department of Economic Development, 1977)
Ryan had less than an hour. Fifty-two minutes to be exact, to fix the mediocre pitch that could make or break his life. He shouted in frustration as he stepped out on the sidewalk. Only one pedestrian stared at him. The rest of the thousand behaved as any New Yorker would. They ignored him and kept walking.
The immense frustration was not because the pitch was mediocre or because a lot was riding on it. It was because Ryan couldn’t come up with a winning idea, and that had never happened before.
His mind was distracted, swinging between thoughts, from the most banal to the most bizarre, from buying a dishwasher that broke down a day earlier to figuring out a convenient day to kill himself. His mind had declared a coup d'é·tat, and it was a battle he was losing. The autumn in his life was waking up and stretching out. He felt like October. The month that stood alone from the rest of the eleven, especially in New York.
October, and you knew winter was here. You knew life would be slow. The leaves would fall. Scotch would become more tempting, and women would be lonelier than ever before, especially in New York. The city had a surreal effect on people. It made you invisible. Everyone was oblivious to everyone. It was me, myself, and I, he reminded himself, again losing sight of the crucial pitch due in less than an hour.
Walking through the maze of high rises, Ryan Walker smiled, mocking his memories. He swayed through the fast-paced New Yorkers, walking heedlessly like zombies on steroids. He knew he would get into trouble if he bumped into someone. He had no time to apologize. Ryan tugged at his tie almost violently. He hated to dress up formally. He could feel the sweat building up in his armpits, soiling his wrinkle-free new shirt.
Think, think, think he scolded his mind three times, like a teacher reprimanding the class brat three times. Oddly, he lived most of his life in threes. He drank three cups of coffee. He did coke three times in a day and not the drinking kind. He dated three different women every month. The women would always know about each other because he didn’t lie. He hated lying, even though he worked in a profession that thrived on lies.
Professionally, he was a terrific liar. He had won many awards for lying, albeit the juries had a fancy name for it. They called it “Excellence in advertising.” He knew it was lying with a bit of make-up. No, a tire wouldn’t make you more lovable, a photocopier couldn’t make you more intelligent, and a stapler would never make you sexy, he would tell his interns.
Advertising was like parents telling their kids hard work would solve all their problems. Of course, everyone knew that wasn’t true. You needed to throw betrayal, treachery, and pushing someone off the proverbial cliff in the mix, the three secret elements that added to the rise of his spotless career.
Ryan had even thought of three ways not to kill himself. He didn’t want to die with a rope hanging around his neck (too much work). He didn’t want to jump out through his glamorous penthouse on the 55th floor (too much splatter). He didn’t want to poison himself (too much time to change his mind if he panicked). It had to be creative. The news should not be that he killed himself but how he did it.
The only thing that was not in threes were the chapters in his life. He had just two: before and after his wife and two children died in an accident. The accident gnawed at him like a parasite eating him up from the inside. He carried the guilt with him wherever he went. The “What ifs” lurked behind him like his shadow, only disappearing in the night when he was asleep. What if he had missed the meeting and driven his daughter? The routine meeting was avoidable.
Even though Ryan hated his work, the reason why his life shattered into a million pieces, he immersed himself in it. Advertising became the ventilator that kept him alive. It was the only room his mind allowed him to enter to escape the guilt. His life was the only thing that had two chapters. Ryan didn’t expect his life to have a third.
The coke helped. Ryan was aware snorting cocaine every day could kill him, and that was the reason he enjoyed it. He had discovered the most pleasurable way to end his life. It didn’t affect his work. Since using cocaine, work was all he did, interspersed with sporadic bouts of meaningless affairs. As far as he was concerned, drugs were saving his life.
I need to change, he lied to himself. Every day, he thought of quitting coke. Every night he would give up quitting. Today was another quit-day, not a good day to quit, he thought. Even at 59, his willpower had the same schedule. It would wake up every morning with him and fall asleep as soon as he left the office. That was usually around midnight.
Think, think, goddammit think, he tried to compose his thoughts. Miamart was coming at ten. The agenda was the make-or-break pitch for Ryan and also the company he worked for, “Sun Advertising.” Miamart was Sun’s biggest client, and was looking for a new agency for their new brand.
