---

Southern Man

by

Connie Chastain

Excerpt 

Chapter Four

"Shame to lose Bear Bryant," said Robert Hughes. "He was one of a kind." 

It was early afternoon on Wednesday and the Scoreboard Tavern was nearly empty. Hughes and the six other men gathered around a table didn’t need a crowd to enjoy themselves, but his observation momentarily dimmed their good mood. 

They had stopped for a drink after looking over the seven-acre tract ideally located for a warehouse and distribution center for both Commander and Shearwater-Ingram products. 

Jeff Craddock, who worked security at Shearwater, had been drafted to drive the van and photograph the outing for the company archives. He and the company pilot, a younger fellow who held himself somewhat aloof from the suits, had ordered colas. So had Troy, to Max’s scorn. Everyone else ordered scotch. 

Hughes and another board member from Commander, James Ferragamo, and the pilot sat at the far end of the table. At the other end, to Troy’s right, Hamilton Ingram sat like a hard-nosed judge looking over his courtroom. 

He was taller than Troy, and lean, his face almost gaunt under silvery hair. There was little of him in his son but the blue eyes. Most of Max’s appearance had come from his mother, Mary Catherine, a Tutwiler distantly related to the famous Alabama family. 

The conversation had begun with a discussion of the pros and cons of a warehouse complex on the tract of land they had just inspected but when the drinks came, perhaps inevitably in a sports bar in the South, talk turned to football. 

The legendary Bryant had died four months earlier, just weeks after retiring from coaching. 

"Was he as great as his reputation, Stevenson?" said Ferragamo. 

"Yeah, he was." Troy nodded, his face a touch pensive. "He had a lot of impact on his players and coaches. Only my mama and daddy had more influence on me. He taught his people teamwork and he understood motivation better than anyone I’ve ever known." 

"Did y’all keep in touch after you graduated?" 

"A few times. We sent him birth announcements of our children and he called. Now and then we’d swap howdies in person when I went to a game." 

"Did you go to Tuscaloosa for the funeral?" Hughes asked. 

"No. It looked like it could turn into a media circus and I was ... grieving." 

There was a moment of silence before the talk worked around to Troy’s prowess on the gridiron and that was when Max joined in.

"If you ever get a chance to see any old sports reels of the Troyster here, be sure you watch. He was phenomenal. He could juke a defensive back outta his shoes, and he did, a lot. And he had them long legs that added up to a great, long stride, which made him a fantastic runner right there, but that was only part of it. The rest was speed—awesome speed. I mean, he could run so fast, if he ever got in front of his pursuers, that was all she wrote. He was gone and there was no catchin’ him." 

Troy was half-smiling, looking at his friend and listening with detached enjoyment, as if Max were talking about someone else. 

"That would get tens of thousands of people in the stands all worked up and chanting his name, and it was somethin’ to hear—Tro-wee, Tro-wee, Tro-wee! And you know what? In all that fancy maneuverin’, I never saw him fumble the ball." 

"Wow, that’s pretty amazing," Ferragamo said. 

"Yep," Max agreed, "but there was a good reason for it. Remember in Alien, that thing with the long fingers clamped to Harry Dean Stanton’s face?" 

"John Hurt," said Jeff. He wallowed a piece of ice in his mouth and looked at Max. 

"Huh?" 

Jeff crunched the ice between his molars and spoke around the bits. "The one with the alien on his face was John Hurt. Harry Dean Stanton played some sort of maintenance guy." 

Max rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Anyway, that was the way Troy’s hand looked when he clamped it around a football. There was no way anybody was gonna strip it from him." 

Troy grinned. He’d be sure to tell Patty that one. 

"Do you ever miss it?" Ferragamo asked. "Wish you’d played pro ball?" 

Troy shook his head. "Nah. I played football in college to get an education. I started playing in the youth leagues when I was eight and I played my last game January first, 1973 when I was twenty-one. I figured thirteen years of getting tackled, knocked down, slammed around, kicked, kneed, elbowed, and stomped on was enough." 

"Seventy-three ...." Hughes frowned in concentration. "That would’ve been the ... Cotton Bowl?" 

"Yeah." Troy nodded "Billed as the Battle of the Wishbones. Texas came from behind to beat us twenty-one to seventeen. Four ... freakin’ ... points." A rueful smile flitted across his face. 

The football talk evolved into Georgia’s prospects for the fall and Troy left the table to visit the men’s room. When he stepped out, Hamilton Ingram headed him off. 

"Let’s sit and talk a few minutes," he said, indicating a nearby booth. "Let me tell you about some developments." 

"All right." They sat opposite each other and Troy’s eyes narrowed as he tried to read the old man’s expression. 

"You knew this trip was just a formality, didn’t you?" Ingram asked.

"No, sir, I didn’t." 

"The decision was made to buy this tract a month ago. In part, the land acquisition and the construction of the the buildings have been made possible by the increase in Shearwater’s revenues since you took over marketing and sales. By our preliminary calculations, a warehouse complex in this location is going to save us twelve percent in shipping costs over a five year period. For that contribution to the company, I thought you merited a raise and a bonus." 

"Well, thank you," Troy said, his face neutral. Suspicion grew strong in him because the old man’s good news clashed with his sour demeanor. "So what’s the bad news?" 

"I won’t beat around the bush," Ingram said. "I’m between a rock and a hard place, here. I now find I’ve advocated for a raise and a bonus for a marketing vice president who has let sales fall three and a half percent in a single quarter." 

There it was. 

"I’m taking care of it," Troy said. 

"Do you know the reason for the drop?" 

"Not yet, but I have my people looking for it right now. I would be there looking for it with them, if I hadn’t ... come here today." 

Troy knew he was skirting the edge of dangerously thin ice, but he was too furious to care. 

"It’s not so much the fall in sales that concerns me. I’m more concerned about your lack of a proactive plan for such an eventuality. Everyone I’ve talked to since the report came out yesterday—from your CEO all the way down to my son, and that’s quite a distance—tells me it took you by surprise. As if you never expected sales to fall, so you’ve never formulated a response. Now sales are down and you’re scrambling." 

When he had played football in both high school and college, Troy had learned to take horrific humiliation and verbal abuse and seconds later, go out on the field and give an optimal performance as if nothing fazed him. The experience had stood him in good stead at Commander and now at Shearwater. Hamilton Ingram did not get red-faced, scream curses, stomp around and throw clipboards, but his brittle, understated expressions of disapproval had the same effect. 

Troy kept his emotions and demeanor under tight control but he could not let these slights to his management go unchallenged. "Respectfully, sir, when I scrambled on the football field, a good percent of the time the result was a first down and sometimes a touchdown." 

Ham’s lips did not smile, but his eyes did. "I’ve always been impressed with you. You show respect, but you don’t cower. You’re competitive, but not ruthless. I would just remind you of one thing. Business is not a football game." 

Troy kept a steady gaze on Ingram but made no reply. 

"There’s something else you need to know. The financing for the land acquisition and construction of the buildings is a done deal. Shearwater sales projections figured significantly in calculating the loan repayment. If sales remain depressed, or do not rise at the rate expected, it’s not going to be pretty." 

Ingram effectively ended the conversation then, cutting off any response Troy might be formulating, although he wasn’t planning one. He was done with this discussion, too. 

How dare Ingram do this? How dare he put such a burden on this little company, and on Troy, without a consultation? Without so much as a heads up? 

Back at the table, Troy was too furious and disturbed to follow the conversation around him until something—he wasn’t sure what—dented his preoccupation. 

His eyes went to the faces around him. Craddock and the Atlanta visitors were glancing about the room looking uncomfortable. Max had an elbow on the table. He was studying the tumbler of scotch he held in front of his face. His expression was cocky but Troy saw glints of pain and humiliation in his eyes. 

What had he missed while caught in his own turbulence? 

He looked at the older Ingram, who was gazing at his son with utter scorn. 

"So for four years you’ve been head of personnel down here and you haven’t done a damn thing but change the name to Human Resources. Now you’ve made this, this discrimination department, which is like an engraved invitation for some unscrupulous woman to sue the company for all its worth. Maxwell, son, where is your sense? Were you born stupid or does it come from the way your mother raised you?" 

No one else at the table knew as well as Troy what Hamilton Ingram’s rejection and criticism did to his son, or the depth of Max’s hurt and humiliation behind his cocky mask. 

Enabled by alcohol, Max chuckled. His laughter grew harder until his face flushed and his hair fell across his forehead. "Good one, Daddy. I can’t hardly wait to call Mama and tell her. She’ll appreciate that as much as I do." 

Nobody spoke and Max’s laughter faded. He returned his father’s look of contempt and said, "Mama’s only done two stupid things her whole life—marry you and give birth to me." Max drained his glass and looked at the silent, embarrassed faces around the table. "S’cuse me," he said hoarsely. He got up and walked to the far end of the bar. 

Troy watched him go and turned his disbelieving stare back to Ingram. "I don’t agree with what he’s doing, either—at least, I don’t agree with the way he’s doing it. But he didn’t create the EFO to jeopardize the company. He did it to protect it." 

"You’ve talked to him about it?" 

"Yes, I have." Something warned Troy not to say what he was about to say, but he ignored it. "He’s not stupid and he doesn’t deserve what just happened." 

Hamilton’s eyes narrowed. "He doesn’t deserve the loyalty you give him, either." 

Pointless. Pointless to even try to converse with this man. 

"Excuse me." Troy got to his feet and walked to the end of the bar where Max sat hunched on a tall stool. With both hands, he squeezed Max’s shoulders at the base of his neck and shook him slightly, following up with a slap on the back. 

Max turned his head as Troy took the adjacent stool and they looked at one another for a moment. The bartender appeared nearby and Max said, "Have a drink with me, Troyster." 

Torn by inner turmoil and his friend’s pain, Troy said, "I reckon one won’t hurt." He looked at the bartender. 

"Scotch on the rocks. Make it a double." 

The Odyssey Falcon lifted off the tarmac at Yancey Regional Airport as the company van rolled out of the parking lot. 

At the wheel, Jeff had a perpetual grin on his face listening to Troy and Max behind him, trying to converse. They were both high as kites and neither could start a sentence without dissolving into mindless laughter before it ended. 

"Hey, driver!" Troy doubled over with an explosive snicker. He took out his breast pocket wallet, extracted several bills of varying denominations and handed them across to the front seat. "Go to the drive through at the liquor store and get me a pint of scot-cha-cha-cha." 

"Which one?"Jeff asked. 

"Glenfid—Glenfidget."

"Do you mean Glenfiddich? Or Glenlivet?" 

Troy looked at him suspiciously. "Glen ... Glen ... Johnnie Wawker." 

"Which store?" 

"Th’ first one." 

When the van pulled into the parking lot at Shearwater, Troy was clutching a pint bottle. The men got out and headed for the building. 

Troy said to Max, "C’mon to my office for a nightcap." 

Max grabbed hold of a small sapling and slowly tilted his head back, squinting toward the sky. "It’s day." 

Nonplussed, Troy followed Max’s gaze upward. "Oh. Never mind." 

"Well."