Chapter 1

When Molly threw me out, I didn't know what hit me. Why the hell would she want to get rid of me? She said she was bored with me, and that I obviously didn't love her any more, if I ever did. Can you imagine a woman you'd been happily married to for over thirty years saying something like that?

We were sitting at the kitchen table one Saturday morning in early June, just like we did every morning. She was pretty quiet, and that wasn't so unusual, but she seemed to have something on her mind. Anyway, just as we finished eating, she got up and went to a drawer in the counter, opened it, and pulled out an envelope. She sat down and passed it to me.

"You better look at this," she said.

I looked down at the envelope and saw the neatly printed name and address of a well-known legal firm. A cold feeling came over me, and my guts tightened. I looked back up at Molly but she was stone-faced, giving away nothing. I picked up the unsealed envelope, and pulled out the contents. I unfolded the papers inside and stopped cold when I saw the title of the first page: PETITION FOR DIVORCE.

"What the hell is this?"

"What does it look like, Jack? I want a divorce and I want you to leave this house. It's as simple as that." She said it like it was a comment about the weather, or maybe the price of bread.

I was stunned. I couldn't think of anything to say that would sound intelligent. I just sat there speechless. I finally managed something.

"Why?"

"I don't love you, Jack. My life is a bore, and we don't talk to each other. I don't think you love me, either. We're just living together," she said, continuing her matter-of-fact tone.

"I don't plan to live the rest of my life with someone who doesn't love me, who doesn't have anything to contribute to my life. There's not enough time left for either of us."

"Jesus, Molly ... this is crazy. You can't just throw me out. I live here too. I'm the only person who earns any money. I have something to say about this," I began shouting.

"Don't get all bent out of shape, Jack. I don't want your money despite what my lawyer tells me. We'll split the savings and retirement stuff. I'll sell the house, and you'll get half of the net. I'm not trying to cheat you."

I sat there for a while, looking down at the still folded papers and then up at Molly.

"What are you going to live on, Molly? You know what I earn ... not enough to support two households." I was beginning to fight back.

"I have a job. I can look after myself. I don't need you or your money, Jack," she said in that flat tone again.

"When the hell did you get a job?"

"When I knew I was going to divorce you. I found something I can live on, and maybe salvage something of my life for the future."

"Salvage? Is that what you think you need to do?" I asked incredulously.

"When something is wrecked, that's all you can do, Jack. You salvage what you can, and you go on from there."

"What about the kids? Our folks? What am I going to tell them?"

"I've already told them. You can tell them whatever you want. I don't care. They already know the truth."

She spoke in an irritating monotone that was really starting to piss me off.

The conversation went back and forth for a while longer, with her telling me in so many words what a useless asshole I was, and me trying to figure out what I was going to do. She convinced me she wasn't going to change her mind.

After I while, I got up and went to the back closet where we kept the suitcases. I pulled out a couple, taking them to our bedroom. I packed my stuff as best I could manage, and hauled them out to the car. I threw them into the trunk and went back to the house.

I figured I should say something. I stood in the kitchen and looked at her for a moment. Her head was in her hands, and I couldn't be sure, but I thought she might be crying. I picked up the envelope and walked out the front door, closing it behind me. I never said a word.

-0-

Molly kept her part of the bargain. She set up her own accounts, and only withdrew half of what had been our joint accounts. I drove by the house a few days later and saw the realtor's for sale sign on the lawn.

I was living in a crummy motel on the edge of town, but two nights in that dump told me I needed to find a better place. I looked in the classifieds, found several listings for furnished apartments, and started my hunt. Two days later I found an affordable, not too disreputable apartment in a quiet part of town, and signed the lease. My first priority was to work toward getting the hell out of this jail cell as soon as humanly possible. There's only so much pacing you can do in a six hundred square foot box.

I planned to spend my nights watching television and little more. Cablevision gave me a choice of fifty channels, one or two of which actually had programs I wanted to see. I had no choice in my prior life. I watched what Molly wanted to watch, and that was that. Now, I could watch what I wanted, when I wanted. I could also drink beer and eat Cheetos whenever I felt like it. I didn't have to get permission -- or feel guilty. I was free, and for a few days it was a good feeling.

A couple of things changed fairly early in my new bachelorhood. First, I wasn't sleeping well. I was able to get to sleep, but I was waking at all hours of the night with my mind operating at full speed. I tried to find things to think about that would put me back to sleep, but I was mired in all kinds of weird thoughts that were tumbling around in my mind.

Another change happened one Sunday morning when I got out of the shower. I walked into the bedroom to find some clothes for the day. The back of the closet door had a full length mirror, and I stopped and looked at myself critically for the first time in quite awhile.

What looked back at me was a five-foot-nine-inch, overweight, white skinned, fifty-four year-old male with a beer gut, and more hair on his chest than he had on his head. In short, I looked like hell. I couldn't think of a single thing that would attract a woman, and I began to see what Molly had seen. She never said I was ugly, but she beat all around that bush. Now, I saw for myself that I needed to do something about my appearance and my health if I wanted more out of life than a heart attack and a lonely funeral.

What got me going was a TV commercial for a pharmaceutical with the tag line: "Consult your doctor if you plan to use..." My doctor was Vic Chapman, M.D. and G.P. He was a good guy, in his mid thirties, and pretty fit. I decided to get a checkup and some advice to lose weight.

Sometimes I do the right thing even when I don't realize it. Vic was a cool guy, and he laid it on the line pretty straight. First he gave me the usual physical and had me provide some blood and urine samples. His office called me a few days after the exam and set up another appointment for me.

"Well congratulations, Jack. You've finally made it into the club," he said sarcastically.

"You have managed to combine hypertension, also known as high blood pressure, with elevated cholesterol levels, and topped it all off with type 2 diabetes. That's quite a combination. It could also be a death sentence."

I was completely thrown by his blunt comment. "What the hell does that mean? Do I have to have an operation?"

"No ... no operation ... at least not yet. The club you've joined isn't exclusive. Over half the men past forty belong to it in one form or another. It comes from bad diet, no exercise, stress, and an assortment of other things including a genetic predisposition."

At least he said it in a more conciliatory voice.

"You asked me what it means. It means you're headed in a dangerous direction, and if you want to live a reasonably long life, you need to make some changes." Then he added emphatically, "And you need to make them now!"

"What kind of changes ... can't you just give me some pills?"

"Sure, I'm going to prescribe pills to manage your blood pressure and help with your cholesterol. For the time being, you can probably control your diabetes with diet. But none of it will be worth a damn if you keep going the way you've been going."

I looked at him and I could see that he was deadly serious.

"Jack, what made you come to see me? Have you not been feeling well?"

"No ... nothing like that. Molly kicked me out of the house, and I saw myself in the mirror the other day. I didn't like what I saw."

"Good ... sounds like you're motivated to fix that. I can give you some suggestions."

For exercise, he suggested walking, biking or swimming, but not running. At my age, it was too hard on the joints and too little benefit for the effort. For diet, he gave me a notice from the Diabetes Association, and suggested I go to one of their introductory clinics for some advice. He said they would tell me to lay off fats and salt, reduce carbohydrates, and balance my meals throughout the day.

I looked pretty forlorn when he finished with me. I was still upset with Molly and the pending divorce. It was going to be very difficult for me to make a lifestyle change like this and make it stick.

That's when Vic came up with a better plan.

"Jack, what you're going through with Molly ... that's one of the most stressful things anyone can face. Now you've got this health issue piled right on top of it. I'm going to make a suggestion to you, and I hope you take advantage of it. I'm willing to write a letter to your boss that you are suffering from a serious stress disorder, and that you are currently unfit for work. Your insurance would cover you for up to six months, but I will suggest they allow you three months.

"The insurance company probably won't protest since it's only your second claim, and the first one was for your broken arm ten years ago. That will give you three months to get your life in order without having to worry about your job, or how you were going to find the time to make all these changes. In three months, you can do a lot of good things for your health and your outlook."

I looked at him for a long moment. "You can do that?"

"Yes, and frankly I think it's very important for your health that I do."

"Old man Sandivale will flip. He'll can my ass the minute he hears about this."

"Nope ... he can't ... it's the law. And, even if he does, that gives you three months to find something better, or at least different. You aren't that old, Jack. You can survive this and come out better on the other side."

He was probably right. I hated my job and the asshole boss that made every day miserable. I had tolerated it because I still had two mouths to feed and a mortgage to pay, but all that was over now. I just had myself to look after, and I decided right then and there that I was never going back to SandStacker Stone again. The day my medical leave ended was my last day with them, no matter what.

As it turned out, it was an academic decision. As I expected, Sandivale flipped his lid when he found out I was off for three months, and fired me on the spot. I calmly advised him of the law, and suggested he talk to his lawyer brother-in-law and get his facts straight.

A day later I got a phone message from him that the day I came off Short Term Disability, I was fired and there would only be a month's salary as severance. If I wanted to fight it, I knew who my lawyer could talk to. Frankly, I had no interest in fighting it unless I couldn't find work by then. I would wait him out, but I was getting what I wanted from the miserable bastard anyway -- my freedom after twenty-seven years of continuous frustration.

I couldn't believe how much better I felt almost immediately. It was like a weight had been lifted off my back. I had an income, and I had the sense that my future was in my own hands for once. I began my exercise program by walking every morning and again after supper. I went to the community center and checked the schedule for public swimming, finding two useable times for mixed adult swimming: at three on Wednesday afternoons, and Sunday evening at seven.

I hadn't been swimming since I was in my twenties, and I was hoping I wouldn't drown the first time out. It was more difficult and more strenuous than I had remembered, but I was trying to move a lot more mass through the water than thirty odd years ago. I kept at it and it got a bit easier, but never truly easy. It also gave me a bit of social time, as several women were in the Wednesday class. I had someone to talk with, and compare my progress. They were all giving me encouragement to stick with the plan.

I had begun to extend my walks after the third week, and I was feeling a lot more energetic in the mornings. The evening walks were a little less aggressive, more for end-of-the-day relaxation purposes. I got a little tired of my usual routes, and began to seek out alternatives to reduce the boredom.

One morning I was walking down the main drag and I passed an office that I hadn't noticed before: The Ohio State Office of Employment. I made a mental note of its hours, and later that day I walked back to the location, and went inside.

A very pretty young lady in her mid-twenties asked me what she could do for me, and I explained my employment situation, and what I had been told was my severance. She smiled and said something about being glad I had stopped in.

"Mr. Tompkins, I think I can help you. Under state law, anyone with more than fifteen years of continuous employment with a single employer is entitled to the maximum severance, provided you were not fired for cause. Thanks to your long service, you are entitled to ninety days with full benefits, plus any owed vacation.

"What I can do for you is write you a letter with a copy of this regulation. I suggest you send a copy of it to both your former employer and their lawyer; then wait to see what happens. If necessary, we can intervene if he fails to live up to his legal obligations. If he decides to fight his obligation, then we can take more decisive action based on a formal complaint from you. Will that help?"

"Boy, will it ever. I can't thank you enough. You just made my day ... hell, you just made my summer!"

I leaned over the counter and gave her a big, wet, smacking kiss on the cheek, and watched her blush a crimson red. I left the office floating on air. I now had six months of that bastard's money and plenty of time to find another job. I couldn't remember feeling this good, and I began to think my luck had changed.

When I stepped on the scales at the end of the month, I knew I had lost weight but I didn't know how much. Eleven pounds! From 207 down to 196 in just over four weeks. I couldn't believe it. More than I thought possible. I was on a high, and I was more committed than ever to my new lifestyle.

I began to push myself a little harder walking and swimming. I was going to be in the best shape of my life when this summer was over, and it was only going to get better from there.

At the end of the second month, I was disappointed because I had only lost another seven pounds. I talked to a couple of people at the pool that Sunday night, and they both said the same thing: the first pounds are the easiest, and every month after that it gets a little harder. They don't come off as quickly.

I checked what they told me at the library. It was certainly true, especially because I was not losing weight with a crash diet but rather with a lifestyle change. The bad news was I was losing weight slower. The good news was that it would probably stay off, provided I kept to the new lifestyle. Why shouldn't I? I felt better, I looked better, and Vic told me I'd live longer

Hey, it took me years to put on the gut I'd been packing around, and now it was going to take some time and effort to get rid of it. On top of what the scale told me, when I looked in the mirror on my closet door, I could see the difference. I kept putting off buying new clothes until fall. I could live with pants that were a bit baggy in the ass and shirts that were a bit loose. It was a badge of progress in a way.

At the end of the third month, a week after Labor Day, I had lost another six pounds and I now weighed 183. I definitely needed new clothes and, thanks to the generosity of SandStacker, I could afford it. I had sent the letter from the State Employment Office to Sandivale and a copy to his shyster brother-in-law, then bided my time.

It took them six weeks to get around to acknowledging my letter, and I had to laugh out loud when I read the double-talk bullshit those slimy bastards used to admit they couldn't get out of paying me the three month severance. Another banner day in the resurrection of Jack Tompkins!

When I walked out of the men's store in the local mall, I felt like a new man all over again. I had three pairs of khaki slacks, stain resistant and stretch fit. I had bought three oxford cotton button-down no-iron shirts in solid colors and three more pattern sport shirts in the same material.

I put the bags in the trunk of my car and returned to the mall and headed for the shoe store. I spent over a hundred dollars on a pair of Rockport dress shoes, and almost seventy-five on a pair of Bridgeport boat shoes that were too comfortable not to buy. I had already bought a pair of Columbia all-weather walking shoes when I started my exercise program, and I would never go back to ordinary shoes again.

I took my dress-black Bostonian's into the shoe repair, and had them re-soled and re-heeled to complete my shoe wardrobe. I had spent nearly three hundred dollars on footwear in the last few weeks, probably more than I had spent totally in my adult life. I didn't regret one dime of it.

My final trip that day was to the J.C. Penny store for new underwear, socks and some cotton polo shirts. I picked up a couple of simple cotton pullovers for cooler weather walking, and I was set for the Fall.

I looked in the mirror in my new ensemble, and smiled at what I saw. The newly improved Jack Tompkins was looking a lot better. I had cut my hair short, leaving nothing on the sides and back but a half inch. It seemed to make me look younger, especially since the beer gut was gone.

When I called Vic to make an appointment for my examination at the end of my three month stress leave, I was pretty sure he would be satisfied.

"Jack, you look terrific. I'm impressed! I'm also really happy for you. I've received your blood tests and you're controlling your diabetes. Your weight is almost down to 180, a huge improvement. Your blood pressure is normal and your cholesterol is better, but still a bit high in one area. We'll have to see if we can come up with a plan for that. Otherwise, you've worked wonders in the last three months. Congratulations!"

"Thanks. I feel a lot better and strangely enough, I have a lot more confidence in myself. I've got another three months to look for a new job and I've got a couple of leads that I want to follow up, so there's hope for this old guy yet."

"How does Molly feel about all this change?"

"I haven't seen Molly since I left. I talked to her on the phone a couple of times, but nothing to do with my health or what I was doing. She knows I was off on stress leave, but that's about it."

"Oh ... sorry. I shouldn't have been so nosey," he apologized.

"No need. I've been thinking about seeing her to find out how she's doing, but now I'm not sure about that. Maybe I just want to rub her nose in it a bit when she sees what changes I've made."

"Well, she couldn't help but be impressed. I want to see you every three months for the next year, Jack. I want to make sure everything is stable. Here's a card for the clinic. Get them to take blood samples each time a few days before your appointment, OK?"

"Sure. Listen, Dr. Chapman ... Vic. I can't thank you enough for your help. You got me going in the right direction. I just wish I'd come to you a lot sooner."

"It's never too late, Jack. Good luck with your job hunt, and plan on seeing me at year end."

It was another high. I had put a stop to my deteriorating health. I wouldn't ever be perfect, and I would always need medication for my blood pressure and cholesterol, but I felt better and more optimistic about my future. Now I needed something to do to earn some money to make that future better.

I had answered an ad for a new position at a plastics manufacturer in Reardon, about twenty miles north of town. It was apparently a fast growing business, and needed some people to get their systems under control. I got a phone call in mid-September that they were ready to interview, and could I make myself available on Thursday, at 10:30 am.

I called back immediately and told them I would be there. A couple of weeks earlier, I had bought an old computer and dot-matrix printer in a garage sale with the idea that at least I could have a word processor and some basic functions available. When I booted it up after I got it home, I discovered it had an older version of Office, including Word, Excel, PowerPoint, and an early version of Access. I had everything I needed for a home office.

I initially resisted an Internet hookup, but recognized I would need an e-mail address sooner or later, and signed on with the phone company for a basic high-speed service. I typed up a resume and printed it out, looking it over carefully for errors. I had something to offer when it came to organizational skills, as well as being pretty handy with computer-based programs, particularly those that used a Windows platform.

I had no idea what to expect. The last job interview I'd been to was nearly thirty years earlier, and it consisted of showing my high school diploma and demonstrating I could keep records accurately. I worried I wasn't exactly prepared for the new business world. I decided my best option was to go with honesty, to tell them what I could do and what I couldn't.

I was fifteen minutes early getting to the new Interstate Plastics plant. Instead of sitting in the car, I decided to walk around the site and view the surroundings. It was new, so there wasn't much to judge about the neatness of the site. It had a rail siding with room for about five, maybe six cars. It had five truck bays, and a large turn-around area for the truckers. It had been well thought out. I was encouraged. About five minutes before my interview, I walked into the office on the main floor and asked to see Mr. Rothmann.

A smiling Aser Rothmann walked out from the corridor leading to the back offices. He was a thickly built man with powerful looking arms and a short neck. His hair was going gray, and I guessed his age to be mid-forties. I was wearing my one and only blue blazer, new for the occasion. I had a light blue oxford shirt and tan khaki pants with my new dress Rockports. For the first time since my daughter's wedding, I wore a tie.

Rothmann, on the other hand, wore a forest green polo shirt, tan khakis, and a pair of Top-siders. I needn't have worried about my dress for the interview. He introduced himself and asked me to follow him down the corridor to his office. It was large and simply decorated, very neat and tidy.

"Please sit down, Mr. Tompkins," he gestured to a comfortable chair in a semi-circle of chairs with a coffee table in the middle. "May I call you Jack?"

"Of course, sir." My quick reply betrayed my nervousness.

"Relax, Jack. You can call me Aser. We're pretty informal around here."

We chatted for a few minutes about what I had been doing at SandStacker, and what specific skills and experience I had on systems and logistics. He didn't take notes, but I got the sense he wasn't missing anything either. I felt the interview was going pretty well. He was asking the kind of questions that would bring him the answers he needed to know, not useless stuff. I wasn't ready for the one question he asked near the end of the interview.

"Jack, what would you say is the most important value when a company is buying its raw materials?"

I sat back and gave the question some thought before I answered.

"I think ... no ... I know ... that too often companies make buying decisions on price alone. I saw it all the time at SandStacker. The problem is that the money saved on the purchase price was usually thrown away on the shop floor when the product didn't perform. I don't pretend to know the resin business, sir, but I'm betting not all resins are created equal, and the trick is to get the balance that gives you the best cost out the back door as finished goods."

I sat back waiting for his response, hoping I hadn't stepped on some sensitive toes.

Aser smiled and nodded. "Couldn't have said it better myself. Jack, I'd like you to meet Keith Slocum. He's our Production Manager, an ex-Brit and very knowledgeable. I want him to get a feel for you as well. Do you mind?"

"No, of course not, sir," I said quickly.

Rothmann picked up his phone, punched a single button and waited for a moment. "Keith, I have a candidate in my office. Can you spare some time for him now?" There was a brief pause. "Great! Pick him up in my office, and you can use the board room."

He put the phone down and turned back to me. "Keith will be here in a moment. Do you have any questions for me, Jack?"

"Uh yes ... the job description was pretty vague, and I wondered if you could tell me what your expectations are?"

"Good question. In fact, it will depend on the skills of the best candidate. We need someone with good organizational skills, able to communicate with various departments, some negotiating experience, and generally the type of person who would fit well into what I call the 'Interstate Culture.' That's a fancy way of saying that he gets along well with our kind of people."

"Well ... Aser, I feel pretty comfortable with everything except the negotiating part. I haven't done that before. The boss did all that. I don't think I'm the kind of person who would do well at beating down a supplier. I always tried to make them want to do well for us."

"Jack, I think you're going to do just fine. I don't beat down suppliers either. I just don't want them taking advantage of us. Some of them are among the world's largest corporations, and they get funny ideas in their head sometimes. The resin business is a loosely formed cartel of like-minded chemical companies. You don't negotiate with them as much as you seduce them."

I breathed a little easier except for that bit about my doing just fine. Did that mean I had the job? I hadn't even asked how much it paid. I had just about opened my mouth to ask when a slightly built, younger man walked into the office.

We made the obligatory introductions with a minute's small talk, and then Keith ushered me out toward a large, open, windowless room. There was a long table with at least a dozen chairs around it. The walls were decorated with pictures of products, and samples were displayed in glass cabinets along the end wall.

Like everything else in the place, it was new, and the fabric-covered chairs were very comfortable. Keith and I chatted about business philosophy for several minutes. I couldn't detect any points of disagreement, but maybe he was playing his cards close to the vest. I found him easy to talk to and we certainly agreed on the need for back and forth communications to stay on top of things.

He was anxious to see some systems implementation in the near future for both production planning and materials management. We chatted about what the key requirements were, and I already had an idea in the back of my mind what might fill the bill without breaking the bank.

We talked for about twenty minutes before he led me out to the production floor. It was amazingly clean and well organized. It was such a pleasant change from my previous environment.

Keith explained what each machine was doing and showed me the resin delivery system, as well as their shipping and finished goods area. We spent over a half hour on the floor before he looked at his watch and apologized, excusing himself for a shop supervisor's meeting. He escorted me back to Aser's office and I thanked him for his time. He smiled, nodding to Aser, and left the office for the shop floor.

"Well, congratulations, Jack, you must have made a favorable impression on Keith. He just gave me the 'thumbs up, ' English style."

"I like him," I said simply. "He's sharp and sensible. He was listening to ideas without any preconceptions."

Rothmann smiled and we sat down again. "I suppose you're wondering what this job pays."

I smiled. "The thought had crossed my mind."

"Well, the truth is, I don't know yet. The reason is, the more the candidate is able to do, the more he'll earn. I'd like you to meet with our sales manager, Chuck Freeman. I suggested he take you to lunch. He's another key part of this business, and you'll need to know what he's up to as well. Are you OK for time?"

"Yes ... I'm fine. Thanks for all this attention. But I do have one other question, if it's OK?"

"Shoot."

"Will my age have any bearing on my chances here?"

"None. First of all, age discrimination is illegal, even though it's hard to prove. Secondly, I want the best person for the job, regardless. Out in the engineering department I have a man who's 72 years old. He specializes in die design and modification. He's a valuable employee, and we would be lost without him."