Chapter 8: Walk Before you Run

Janet Shipley’s funeral was four days later, attended by her kids, friends, and some from her Methodist congregation. During the service, Peter and Veronica saw their paternal grandfather, Richard Shipley, a reclusive 76-year-old, sitting at the back. His presence testified to his respect for their mom despite her recent mistakes. They didn’t blame him for their dad’s actions and approached him, ignoring others’ stares. Peter wore a new black suit, and his sister wore a black dress.

Everyone watched as the elderly man rose nervously at their approach and dipped his head towards each of them as they spoke softly. He appeared to shudder when they hugged him before leading him back down the aisle to join them for the service. Tears ran down his face as he sat and relied on his silk kerchief during the somber eulogy.

The weather was bright and warm at the cemetery where she was laid to rest. The family plot was small, and her tombstone seemed sparkly and shiny amid the others. The marker was etched in resin and denoted her name, birth/death dates, and a generic inscription about being a loving mother. It was only a temporary marker to be replaced by the custom monument Peter ordered and spent a lot of money on. It was probably a breach of protocol, but nobody commented on seeing him holding hands with Kathy between his grandfather and sister.

The morning after the service, Veronica bid her brother and Kathy a tearful farewell and began her long drive to Washington State University. Peter had to prepare for his studies the following week, when classes at Green River College began. Most of his coursework could be completed from home, but he had to complete his elective courses on campus for his residency requirement.

Besides his physical therapy swim sessions and Computer Science curriculum, he asked Jeremiah and Scott to help enroll him in a remedial Driver’s Ed class for drivers needing refresher training after letting their license expire or by court order. Off-duty police officers taught the course, and he recognized several during the evening sessions. The normal course required attendance twice per week. Still, Peter was driven to complete the program—attending every evening class for three weeks before earning his certificate, which allowed him to take the road test and earn his early driver certificate.

Kathy made time for her family whenever possible, often when her boyfriend was busy with studies. She frequently came home with her baby cousin, whom she doted on and spent hours with while working on her music scores for upcoming games.

One significant benefit of adding Arty Fez to the company ranks was the dozens of self-created games he deemed too lacking for the gaming community. Peter and Alan reviewed and voted on the few they deemed PAAK material. After establishing the list, they rewrote the code according to their specifications. As they completed each game satisfactorily, it was presented to ORCA for licensing consideration. If accepted, they negotiated an agreement to add it to their collection.

One sunny fall day, Peter was sitting outside on the bleaChers, overlooking the track field, watching runners practice on the track. He missed his athletic days and running. Swimming was a good alternative, but it felt limited, confined to 50-meter pool laps. He recalled his first appointment at Puget Sound Orthopedic Solutions, where Dr. Richardson’s team fitted him with his current artificial feet. Like a science fiction robotics laboratory, the workroom walls were filled with futuristic-looking prosthetics. He set aside his textbook and pulled out his cell phone on a whim.

“This is Chris,” he heard after dialing the number from memory.

“Dr. Richardson, this is Peter Shipley.”

“Peter! Great Scott, man! We were just talking about you!”

“Al good, I hope.”

“Yes, of course,” he replied pleasantly. “I was going to contact you in the next week or so regarding a ... development...” there was a brief pause. “But you called me ... what can I do for you?”

“I’m sitting outside by the GCC campus track and thought I’d like to get back into running again.”

“I see,” the doctor replied thoughtfully. “Were you thinking about a pair of scoops?”

“Scoops?”

“Sorry. That’s Barry’s term. We call them ‘running blades’ in the professional vernacular. They are the curved spring steel prostheses we offer to our Paralympian customers and wounded service members who want to get back into sprinting.”

“Yeah, those. Would you recommend them to someone like me? I used to run cross country,” he stated.

“Of course. We already have your physical parameters, so we can get right to work on them. Can you come by in a week?”

“Sure.”

“Great, because I have a proposal that I’m particularly excited about it.” This came from one of the least excitable people he knew.

“Sure, Doc. See you next Thursday.”

The ‘proposal’ was made while Peter was fitted with his new ‘scoops.’ Kathy sat with him as Barry and Mike took turns fitting and adjusting the blades to achieve a perfect fit and profile for his stance.

In addition to Dr. Richardson, another familiar figure was nearby: the financial consultant who helped them set up Peter’s original venture stake in the infant company.

“Let me show you something,” the doctor said, opening a folder and holding a large 8x10 black-and-white photograph. Peter took it, and together, he and Kathy studied it closely. The heavy-duty flatbed truck was easy to recognize. The odd dome-shaped object in the bed threw them both.

“Looks like an industrial-sized igloo,” Kathy remarked, earning grins from the technicians as they grunted over the shape and spring on the metal blades.

“What is it?” Peter asked, handing the photograph back.

“It’s a smelter,” Dr. Richardson replied. “For blending and casting precise alloy mixtures.”

“It’s not as grand as Andrew Carnegie,” he replied, referencing the industrial steel magnate.

“Oh no, this one only produces fractional amounts compared to that,” the tall man laughed. “It’s made in Germany and designed for molybdenum, titanium, and aluminum, with graphite composites if necessary.”

Peter saw the intent and nodded. “You want to create and cast your alloy materials and save a ton of outsourcing capital. That’s damn smart, Doc.” He turned to the quiet man nearby. “How much?”

The man perked up when addressed. “Beg pardon?”

“How much more do you need for the metal melting thingy?”

“Oh, yes,” the man replied as he gathered his thoughts and pulled a ledger from his briefcase. “The unit is ready-made to order, and the proposed leasing site for the smelter is pending a rezoning permit, requiring an environmental impact statement. But given the unit’s low emissions, it will be...” he stopped when he noticed the quizzical looks from everyone in the room.

“Regis, he wants capital figures, not zoning regulations,” Dr. Richardson smirked.

“Half a million,” Barry quietly interjected as he reattached the left scoop to Peter’s nub. His remark earned him a cold stare from the doctor and an apologetic shrug from the consultant.

“Is that accurate?” Peter asked. “You can buy that thing, lease the land, and start making titanium alloys for your products for only $500,000?”

“The long-term expense will be about four times that amount, but we can secure financing to conclude the endeavor over time with the initial infusion of $500,000,” Regis answered.

“When do you need it?”

“Cash on hand would be ideal by year-end,” the consultant replied. “However, a promissory note from an established creditor like you would suffice to secure the remaining funding in the interim.”

“Man, I wish I’d brought Jeremiah,” he muttered. He looked at Kathy, who regarded him with adoring indifference. “So, you need me to sign a promissory note stating that I will provide an additional half million by December 31st.”

“Oh! Dear heaven’s no,” Regis stuttered. “We don’t seek an additional amount. We only require what you’ve agreed to provide ... but sooner.”

“Unless you want to give an extra half mil,” Barry said. The stares were colder this time, and he lifted his arms defensively. “What? Doesn’t hurt to put it out there, does it?”

Peter was quietly calculating in his head as they spoke around him. He was heavily leveraged with AMD futures. He was two days beyond the post-split adjustment, and the stock gapped again, causing a bullish surge that drove his existing Call options into orbit. He moved his Stops up and tightened his parameters, knowing he’d probably close them before their expiration next month. But with the massive profits, he had no qualms.

“Give me the affidavit,” he replied.

Soon, they had him struggling onto his new springy scoops. It was completely different than adjusting to static feet. These required a lower center of gravity and a stooped posture like a runner’s starting stance. And they flexed beneath him with every step. He tested them earnestly once he reached the flat treadmill and could hold the parallel bars.

“Whoa, babe, you’re at least three inches taller with those things,” Kathy observed beside him.

“I can tell,” he replied, gazing ahead. He wouldn’t repeat the mistake that he made getting used to his current feet tricky. It would take time and practice to master these. But he grinned sheepishly as he paced along.

When he logged into his E-Trade portfolio later that evening, he let out a joyful whoop that startled Kathy and brought her running into the room from her TV show.

“What the hell, babe?” she gasped, then moved to check the monitor he was gawking at. “Holy...” she mumbled as she deciphered the numbers.

After AMD’s stock split, Peter’s 2000 SEP 10 Calls and 2000 SEP 11.25 Calls jumped exponentially before settling back down and triggering his Stop-Loss orders. They closed at $13.75 and $10.5, respectively. After settling his margin, he realized a capital profit of exactly $4 million!

“Is that ... real?” she asked breathlessly.

“Yup,” he replied softly as he came to terms with the amount. “We’re wealthy, babe.”

“You,” she corrected. He shook his head and pulled her into his lap possessively.

“We.”

Friday was a windy day with sun breaks warming the air. Peter was nervous about trying his new scoops on the campus track, but he had few alternatives, so he put them in the BMW trunk before heading to class. That afternoon, he retrieved them before returning to the athletic complex. He sat by his usual spot on the bleachers and casually removed his loose sweatpants, revealing the titanium prostheses usually concealed by his leggings. He drew the attention of other students as he removed his feet and replaced them with running blades. A crowd gathered to observe as he carefully rose and tested their fit with several bounces.

“Dude, you look like RoboCop,” someone called out, causing laughter. He looked up and recognized several high school faces. The one jeering face was a jock named Emmit Stafford. They played football together and never got along, mainly because he couldn’t stand playing with a Quarterback two years behind him.

Peter ignored the jibe and stepped away from the seats where he had left his other feet and bag. The other students milled about as he walked to the track and swung his arms to loosen up.

“What? Are those supposed to make you go faster?” Emmit asked sarcastically.

“I’m about to find out,” Peter replied after a couple more test bounces before lining up on the starting line.

“I gotta see this,” he retorted.

“Well, don’t expect much,” he confessed. “This is my first time with them.” Most of the gathered students were merely curious. Stafford had a handful of jeering supporters who kept back and laughed.

He assumed an unsteady sprinter’s stance before taking six steps forward. He knew he was in trouble immediately. The spring steel tension affected his entire body, and he tried to overcome the sensation before his balance spiraled out of control. He began windmilling his arms to prevent falling. It was no use. Just as he entered the first left turn, his blades tangled, and he tumbled to the dirt and rolled over before settling onto his face.

Several students raced over as he pushed himself up and shook his head.