Organic Nation Read online

Organic Nation

  Phil Wohl

  Copyright 2009 Phil Wohl

  ON

  “Please empty your pockets,” the prison guard said with all of the emotion of an extension cord.

  The prisoner placed a white rabbit’s foot and a hundred-dollar bill on the tray in front of him.

  The guard stated, “Prisoner 119076 has a single one-hundred dollar bill and… he rolled his eyes, “a white rabbit’s foot on a small silver chain.”

  “It’s from my nephew,” the grey-haired prisoner muttered.

  “I hope he gave it to you before the trial started,” the guard countered.

  “He gave it to me a few years ago, but it was the only thing I could find that was small enough to fit in my pocket. Besides, it’s made out of tofu.”

  The guard slowly got the joke, being that it came from the king of Organic Nation. He hit the security buzzer and then escorted the prisoner into the depths of the white collar, minimum-security prison in the outer reaches of Upstate New York.

  “You ever do private security, Carl? Because I’m thinking that I’m gonna’ need some when I get out of here.”

  Carl smiled, “I’ve done a little bit of everything, Mr. Green.”

  Green smiled and replied, “Haven’t we all, Carl. Haven’t we all.”

  Club Fed

  Five years without the chance of parole in a white-collar prison, seemed like a fairly light sentence for a man that had such a blatant disregard for business ethics and personal morals. Things got so bad at one point that Green’s own cousin, the company’s Chief Financial Officer, had to turn against him.

  Brad Green, almost overnight, became the poster boy for the common Wall Street tale - proving once again that greed, most definitely, kills. Giving away about 99% of his fortune was also front page news, but Green barely blinked at having to scrape by with only $200 million. The government seized all five of his homes, his three boats, two jets, a helicopter, 14 cars, and all of his assets except the $200 million he stashed for a rainy day in an offshore bank account.

  The Edward I. Koch Minimal Security Prison in Albany, New York, used to be called Club Fed in the 1970’s and 1980’s, but had tightened up a bit over the years. The prisoners had taken vast liberties in the form of golf outings, strip clubs, gourmet food ordering, and hookers making house calls, all of which led authorities to tighten the belt some. Outings now had to be authorized and vaguely supervised, and prisoners were restricted to a five-mile radius once a week. Ladies of the evening doing their thing in the parking lot, and meal deliveries were also more closely monitored, but allowed.

  Brad Green was looking forward to escaping the madness and losing control of his puppet show gone wrong. Officer Carl walked Prisoner Green to his room, which looked like the freshman dorm at Anywhere University. Part of the new prisoner orientation involved random meetings with other floor-mates. These inmates traded corporate war stories like maximum security prisoners dropping soap and using sharpened objects to cut holes in each other.

  Any nerves that Green felt were shaken loose by a familiar voice behind him. Dick Swanson poked his head out from his room and yelled, “Bradley Green! Is that you?”

  Green turned around and replied, “Dickey Swanson?” He walked toward Swanson, “Wow! I haven’t seen you since college!”

  The two men shook hands and then hugged.

  “I followed your case. We all thought it was quite compelling theater,” Swanson stated.

  “Yeah, it was really a circus. What are you in here for?”

  Swanson replied, “Tax evasion. The business was a lot more profitable without paying taxes every year.”

  Brad nodded, “You never really liked math.”

  Swanson laughed, “Will I see you at our investment club later?”

  Green looked at Carl, who nodded in approval. “Sure. It was great seeing you again, Dickey.”

  “Great seeing you again, too, Bradley.”

  The rest of the hallway was clear, as Carl ushered Brad toward room number 1044. Carl knocked on the open door and then walked in. He turned to Brad and said, “Brad Green, this is Charles Langford. Charles is one of our quieter prisoners.”

  Brad thought to himself, “Charles Langford of CNBC? He had one of the biggest mouths on Wall Street.”

  Langford was sitting on a chair playing the cello. The melody’s sweeping sound reeked of sadness and despair. He stopped playing, briefly stood up, and the offered his right hand in friendship. Langford nodded and said, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Green.”

  Charles Langford had been jailed for manipulating various stock activities through his popular CNBC show, Running with the Bulls. Companies lined up to stroke Langford’s ego long enough to have their companies painted in a positive light. Green had never met Langford, but Langford had touted Organic Nation on several shows without the help of payola persuasion. Langford wasn’t as honest in his other dealings, however, as he accepted mostly non-cash gifts from companies in the form of jet travel, limos, home entertainment equipment, all expense-paid trips, companionship, sports and concert tickets, food, clothing, golf clubs, and gift cards.

  The one thing the two men had in common was that they were masters at making people believe in their ideas. The truth was only an inconvenient obstacle in their web of persuasion. In reality, the truth was almost as boring as ordering a plain bagel at the Wall Street Deli. Anything short of eggs, bacon, cheese, salt and pepper jammed into the bagel would have fallen short of expectations. The coupling of Green and Langford must have been guided by some sort of divine, Benjamin Graham-like intervention. For two men that had taken advantage of the system, it was definitely time to get back to basics.

  School

  It was a brutal mid-winter day in the Northeast. A silver Chrysler PT Cruiser pulled into a high school parking lot and headed toward assigned space number 34. Brad unfolded his long frame out of the car and slung the strap of his black leather briefcase over his left shoulder.

  Ten years of teaching Life Sciences to a bunch of pimple-faced teenagers gave Brad an entirely different perspective on life. The cold air hit his face like a thousand tiny needles, as he forced an “Oh shit” out of his dissatisfied gut. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, and then exhaled a huge cloud of white smoke that disappeared as quickly as it had formed.

  Brad had talked at length with other teachers about branching out and investing in non-school ventures. Many of these educators were too young, too old, or just too shortsighted to grab the incredible opportunities that were in front of them.

  One year it was dry cleaning, the next it was sporting goods distribution. Being a high school basketball and golf coach had its advantages: one was the incredible payday, which was in excess of $8,000, the other was the unobstructed view of the lucrative sporting goods industry.

  Starting small was the only way to get going, so Brad petitioned the school board to supply the district’s sporting goods needs. Months of meetings turned into a one-page letter from the school board, which stated that it would be a “conflict of interest” for Brad to supply the district’s sporting goods needs. In actuality, the brother of a school board member already had the contact, and there was no way anyone else would be able to hone in on that exclusive action.

  Brad’s personality had gradually fallen apart as his dissatisfaction with his job and inability to launch a passionate business collided. He became especially distant after the sporting goods venture failed, pushing his wife Marjorie to flee the nest. She quickly packed up her valuables and drove down to Florida to live with her mother. Brad barely said a word when she called him from the road with the news. He was married to hi
s dreams and ambitions, not his wife. Their lives separated like there was an invisible line running through the house. Brad remained in their three-bedroom house for another six months until his escalating depression overtook him one steamy, summer afternoon. He had barely left the house in over two weeks, preferring to order in pizza every night and then chomp on the crusty remains for most of the day.

  Sitting on the couch in his baggy basketball shorts and an old Lutheran High School Basketball Camp t-shirt, Brad was completely oblivious to what would happen next. He was chewing on the crust of a cold piece of pizza when a shooting pain took hold of his left arm and wouldn’t relinquish its tight, kung-Fu grip. Brad barely made a sound as a Cadillac Escalade backed up and parked on his chest. It might have been one of the quietest heart attacks in lonely-man history. He hardly blinked, or even breathed, during the thirty seconds of hell, and then reached into the couch and found the phone to call 9-1-1.

  “Nine-one-one emergency,” the operator said.

  A dazed and confused Brad replied, “Yeah, I think I had a heart attack.”

  “Where are you located sir?”

  Brad gave his address and within minutes two EMTs raced up the driveway and walked through the unlocked front door.

  One of the men asked, “Sir. Is there anyone else we can contact on your behalf?”

  Brad shook his head “No,” as the men lifted his bloated 6’5”, 280-pound frame onto the gurney.

  Before leaving the house, a forward-thinking technician doubled back into the kitchen and swiped Brad’s keys off the kitchen table.

  “Are these your house keys, sir?”

  Brad nodded in approval and the technician locked the front door and placed the keys in Brad’s left pocket. Once inside the ambulance and on the way to the hospital, Gino asked Brad “Have you had any previous heart attacks?”

  Brad answered “No” to just about every medical question thrown his way.

  “Have you had any personal stress lately that could’ve brought this on?”

  For some reason, this simple question broke the emotional piggy bank. Brad started crying like a baby searching for a bottle, and the technicians were at a loss on how to comfort this grown man.

  Gary looked at Gino and said, “That’s the one that always gets ‘em.”

  Being in the hospital convinced Brad of one thing: life would only be worth living if he got off his ass and started chasing his dream again.

  Dr. Bristow said, “You’re going to have to change your diet. What have you been eating, because you had almost 85% blockage in one artery?”

  For three days, Brad sat in his room without even the slightest hint of a visitor or phone call. It was a sobering experience for a big guy that had always been the center of attention in life. His initial reaction was to quit his job and run like Forrest Gump to the outer reaches of the planet, but that wasn’t his style. Brad’s support system had completely abandoned him, because he had completely abandoned his support system. Two parents nestled in Arizona, an older sister with her family in Florida, an ex-wife that could have given two shits about him. It wasn’t exactly a beta test group for the nuclear family.

  “Life doesn’t always work out the way we want it to,” Dr. Bristow said to his patient, sensing that he needed a pick-me-up.

  Brad stared blankly at the wall in front of him, as the white-coated doctor patted him on the back and left the room.

  “Change is good,” Brad muttered to himself as he reached for the television remote that was buried under a pile of newspapers and paperwork.

  Daytime television is about as riveting as watching broccoli steam, but Brad attempted to buy into the paternity test-fest on a nauseating talk show before anyone else walked in.

  Minutes later, Brad turned his head at the tasty sight of Dr. Amanda Fellows walking through the door. Whatever the tall, blonde was selling, he was buying.

  She smiled, probably knowing the numbing effect she had on anyone with a steady pulse. “Good morning, Mr. Green. I’m Doctor Fellows…” and the rest of her introduction trailed off like a deejay turning the volume down all the way to the left.

  Dr. Fellows opened her cream-colored manila folder and pulled out a quarter-inch stack of sheets containing health and nutrition information. She then said, “Now, we can do this the hard way, or we can do it the easy way.”

  Obviously, attention-starved Brad was more willing to do it the hard way, but that would have probably involved enemas and various tubes shooting out of his butt. He smiled for the first time in weeks and nodded his head in agreement when she mentioned the words “artery blockage” and “eating healthy.”

  “Any questions?” the good doctor asked Brad, as she cleaned up the pile of newspapers and placed the information on the nightstand.

  “What’s your first name, Dr. Charles?”

  The confident late twenty-something professional instantly transformed into a shy school girl. With a lovely red blush covering her cheeks, she replied “Amanda.”

  “Well Amanda, you must be the angel of mercy because I can now see the future.”

  Brad went on to detail his plan to open a chain of health-conscious restaurants before Amanda said, “It sounds like a natural revolution.”

  “What it is, my friend,” he said as he sat up in his uncomfortable bed, “is an organic nation.”

  They looked at each other and smiled. “Do you have a card? I might want to consult with you once I get the ball rolling,” he stated.

  She pulled a flawless business card from the front of her white lab coat and handed it to Brad. He looked over the card and said, “I don’t see a cell phone number listed.”

  The schoolgirl was back as she took back the card and wrote her cell phone number with her black Bic pen. She put the cap on the pen and slid it back into her right front pocket.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Green.”

  “The pleasure was all mine, Dr. Fellows. And call me Brad,” the ever-charming patient replied.

  Three Pillars

  With the blockage removed from Brad’s path, it was back to civilian life for another year of teaching. The three days in the hospital seemed like a year in a dog’s life. Of course that analogy makes absolutely no sense, at least to a Golden Retriever, but it made sense to the guy sitting and thinking for 72 hours in a hospital.

  Quitting a decent-paying job with benefits for a long shot dream seemed like a good idea for a desperate loner, but not for a recovering heart attack victim. Flipping thoughts of death into dreams of life happened as easy as D.A.F., Dr. Amanda Fellows.

  Brad was more in love with the idea of turning the future direction of his life into his career, than simply falling in love with a nutritionist. While it didn’t hurt that the good doctor was drop-dead gorgeous, it wasn’t the main reason why he sprouted wood about the idea.

  Being a revisionist was a tough assignment for someone that was now being told to follow every life direction to the letter. Brad loved to take an idea and then turn it 90 degrees to put his own stamp on it. The district’s curriculum was always a focus of attack for a teacher that was constantly in search of the truth. While Bradley Green’s version of the truth was a very personal matter, it was nonetheless an honest interpretation of all of the facts in front of him.

  For instance, simply teaching the birds and the bees to a bunch of teenagers that giggled when the words breast, penis, or vagina were mentioned, was about as effective as handing them a copy of Playboy or Playgirl. The main difference between 16 year-olds and third-graders was the gossip factor. When Brad tried to explain that sex and love should never be separated, a wise-ass kid named Jamie barely raised his hand when he asked, “So what happened with you and your wife?”

  That bold question would not have been either asked or answered in prior generations in the classroom, but Mr. Green was pretty far gone before his heart attack.

  “I messed ev
erything up. I love my wife and I’m sure that she loves me, in some way, but I’m not very lovable right now.”

  Kids love that kind of candor because adults rarely show any weakness in public - behind closed doors is another matter entirely. Years of hearing parents argue about nothing, leads kids to believe that marriage is either miserable or something required by law. Hearing Mr. Green speak so honestly gave the class a chance to see a more human side of life that they were not usually exposed to. While he didn’t speak directly about his own sex life, because it would have raised more eyebrows than a hooker at a country club, Brad was as frank and as honest as he could be under the circumstances. Sixteen year-olds are also not adults, although they sometimes do an admirable impersonation of their older counterparts.

  A few weeks of rest and Brad started school a new man. Most teachers go out to pasture and mail it in once they surpass those first three tenure years, but Green had been reborn. His lessons were tighter and the discussions were crisper that they had been in previous years. Money was a bit tight since the divorce, so Brad sold his house and split the proceeds with his ex-wife. He then took his cut and prepared to sink it into the first phase of his outside venture.

  Launching a business involves a lot more than just having a good idea. In later years, Brad compared it to a kid wanting a car but not realizing that gas, insurance, and repairs also had to be considered in the purchase. His previous thoughts of dry cleaning and sports distribution were now distant memories to his new fascination with the food service industry.

  “Your usual black and white cookie and a Jewish Rye, Mr. Green?” the aged woman behind the counter asked.

  “Not today, Mrs. Margolis.”

  Joe Margolis, the women’s son, came out from the back with a tray of seeded bread. He slid the breads into a wire basket, wiped the sweat off his brow, and then turned to his contemporary, “You feeling better, Mr. Green.”

  Green never heard Joe Margolis speak, let alone had a conversation with him.

  His first question should have been, “How did you know?” but he went with, “Not well enough to eat that stuff.”

  “You shouldn’t be eating that junk anyway,” Joe replied.

  “Joey, not in front of the customers,” Edna Margolis yelled.

  “Mah, give me a minute up here.”

  “What kind of bread is that?” Brad asked.

  “It’s organic 12-grain. I can’t make it fast enough.”

  With that, five people came through the door in succession - obviously driven by the scent of bread - and the basket was emptied quickly at $7.50 per loaf.

  “What do you charge for a regular loaf?” Brad asked.

  “Four-fifty.”

  “Does it cost that much more to make?”

  Joe smirked, “I make about twice as much as I spend.”

  “Are you doing anything after close tonight?” Brad asked.

  “You asking me out on a date?” Joe quipped.

  “Yeah, something like that,” Brad teased.

  “You’re lucky that my wife left me, and my mother wants to retire to Florida.”

  Brad countered, “I guess we’re both lucky then.”

  Joe met Brad in the back of the bakery and then locked the door. The two men spent the better part of ten minutes trying to decide where to eat.

  “I don’t eat out much because I only eat organic,” Joe said.

  “Isn’t it hard to find the ingredients to cook?” Brad asked.

  “It is if you don’t know someone. I have hooked into this small local distributor called Salt of the Earth.”

  Joe continued, “Why don’t we just go back to my place and watch the Mets. I’m sure we’ll be able to find some food there that will get your heart beating more regularly.”

  “Sounds great. Where do you live?” Brad asked.

  “At the Beach Dunes town homes in Long Beach,” Joe said.

  “I’ve been looking for a new place. The closing on my house is in a couple of weeks.”

  Joe nodded and the two guys stood and watched Mrs. Margolis pull out of the parking lot in her new, speedy convertible.

  Brad laughed as Joe said, “My dad left her lots of dough.”

  The two guys cracked up until Brad asked, “Where’s your ride?”

  Joe walked around the corner and unlocked his bike, “I got a Vespa and a Prius at home.”

  “Why don’t you put that thing in the back of my truck? My wife took my PT Cruiser when she left me. If I don’t eat soon, I’m gonna’ start eating my arm.”

  Only if you promise to think about getting rid of that gas guzzler,” Joe countered.

  “Done,” Brad replied.

 

  The two guys were instant friends and proceeded to form the initial plan for Organic Nation on a blank piece of paper over a finger-licking plateful of oven-fried, free-range chicken with organic lentils and brown rice.

  “Is this your recipe?” Brad asked.

  “No, I got the recipe from my friend, Maggie,” Joe replied.

  Before Brad could ask the obvious question, a female voice bellowed from the bedroom. “Are you making that chicken again?” Then the voice and body joined together in sight. “I have to give you another recipe.”

  She noticed Brad and said, “Oh, hello. I didn’t realize that you had company. Good thing I didn’t walk out in a bra and panties.”

  Brad cocked his head to the side and interjected, “Good thing for who?”

  The three of them laughed and a solid foundation was formed.

  While eating dinner Joe said, “Maggie and I went to high school together. She’s living with me while finishing her organic chef studies.”

  “I have an idea that I want to bounce off you two.” They both nodded as they all took their first bites of the delectable chicken. “I want to go after McDonald’s.”

  “What do you mean?” Maggie questioned.

  “I want to open a chain of organic restaurants.”

  “Go on,” Joe said.

  All of our locations will be within a one-mile radius from the nearest McDonald’s. The first location I found was an old stand-alone Carvel store in East Meadow. I heard that Carvel is going to be closing many of its locations on Long Island over the next few years. My vision is to make these organic fast food restaurants - you could call them the Photo-Mat of the new millennium.”

  “I can see tables outside and…” Maggie said.

  “And hybrid vehicles and Vespa’s in the parking lot during the summer, like a new-wave of classic car outings on Friday night,” Joe added.

  “Wow, that was powerful,” Brad concluded.

  “My vision is to start with the carry-out format and then transition into full-scale restaurants once we get a following,” Brad detailed.

  “We should have a drive-thru and a decent area up front to walk in and pick up food,” Joe stated.

  Maggie added, “Yeah. Otherwise we’ll be just a seasonal business like a Carvel. How many people are going to get out of their cars to get ice cream or oven-fried chicken in the dead of winter?”

  Joe and Brad both had a mouthful of chicken and proudly raised their hands in the air.

  “Well, that’s a start,” she added.

  While Brad, Joe, and Maggie were building their cohesiveness and Brad had moved in a few doors down at Beach Dune town homes, plans for the first location of Organic Nation were in full swing. The initial target restaurant on Merrick Avenue in East Meadow was a hugely successful Carvel location for over 30 years. The recent retirement of the sole proprietor made the location available, and Brad waited like a lion in the tall grass to pounce on the prey.

  An Indian family had expressed interest in converting the locations to a convenience store but Bob Lundy, the owner of the Carvel, was a red-blooded American that wanted to sell to one of his own. The neighborhood had already undergone a series of changes, and was look
ing more like the United Nations than the traditional blue and white collar community it had always been. The Korean War vet was less concerned with diversity than keeping the location as a foundation of the community. With a 7-Eleven only steps away from his store, it didn’t seem necessary to have a cheesy, urban-inspired convenience store moving in.

  The Long Island real estate market had peaked a few years earlier and houses weren’t moving as fast as they once had. The same pattern was exhibited in the commercial real estate market, although it had lagged behind the break-neck pace of its residential counterpart. Negotiations between Brad and Bob Lundy were swift and were sealed with a Flying Saucer with extra chocolate crunch. For you ice cream aficionados unfamiliar with Carvel’s famous Flying Saucer, which was created in the era of initial space travel, it looks like a UFO with two chocolate cookie wafers surrounding either vanilla, chocolate, or swirl soft-serve ice cream. It was a no-brainer for Lundy to sell to Green, who he called “One of my best customers.”

  After digesting the Flying Saucer and saying his final goodbyes to his formative years, Brad called his partners and then decided to make another call.

  “Hello,” the sultry female voice exploded through the line.

  “Dr. Fellows?” Brad asked.

  “Yes. This is Dr. Fellows. Who is this?”

  Brad replied, “This is Brad Green.”

  He was about to explain who he was, but that was completely unnecessary.

  “Mr. Green! Wow! I thought I would never hear from you again!”

  “Well. I’m a man of my word, Amanda,” Brad explained.

  She beamed, “It’s good to know.”

  Brad went on to talk about recent developments and the need for her to sign on as a consultant and co-spokesperson. She didn’t put up much of a fight, which led Brad to feel confident that he had secured the pillars necessary to build a solid corporate foundation.

  Over the months, Joe and his mother sold their bakery and he and Maggie quickly went shopping for state-of-the-art equipment necessary to prepare succulent organic meals. It became obvious early on that Joe’s connections in the culinary world, would give him access to a level even below wholesale prices. Favors that had piled up over the years were cashed in, and the local nation was being formed in time for the spring opening.

  If Brad wasn’t an experienced teacher, his classroom surely would have suffered. He decided to give up his golf coaching gig but had trouble letting go of the basketball team, so he stayed on for another season, which proved to be his and the team’s best. Just as Brad was scratching and clawing to find more time for Organic Nation, his team went on a 12-game winning streak that powered them through the Nassau County championships and up to Albany for the New York State championship.

  It was March 1st and the grand opening was a mere three weeks away. Brad sat in his hotel room waiting for the state championship game to begin. His mind was split in two: one half focused on the basketball game plan and the other half wandering to the corporate game plan.

  Investment Club

  Brad changed into the standard Koch facility jumpsuit and was impressed with the comfort of the Carolina blue garment. The cotton/poly blend was utilized mostly for its washing durability, but also produced the added benefit of comfort like your favorite sweater. He slipped on a pair of white sneakers without laces and then looked in the mirror in the bathroom and said, "Ready."

  Jail was still jail, but it had different impacts on different people.

  Brad had thought for months about being away from all of the intense legal and media pressure. Five years seemed like an eternity; hell, five months in one place was an eternity for a man that was constantly on the move.

  Being the new guy in prison usually meant that you had to prove yourself, but this wasn't the case with Brad. He had earned his stripes on the outside, and his craftiness and blatant disregard for the law in the face of corporate profit was sure to be admired.

  The freedom within the walls of the jail was somewhat restricted during the day, but nothing seemed to stand in the way of the investment club meetings. Despite the billions of dollars of fines levied against the prisoners, their collective net worth still easily eclipsed that of many emerging market countries around the world. It became paramount to advance future income, with years on the inside yet to be served. Some of the greatest minds on Wall Street combined with private sector wizards to form a powerful consortium. This investment club didn't pool funds like so many around the world. The men and women of this group didn't trust as far as they could throw each other, and for these white collar criminals, that really wasn't too far.

  The head of the club was Chuck Raymond, a former CEO of Lehman Brothers. Raymond had been busted a few years earlier for Insider Trading, in a scandal that pre-dated the Organic Nation debacle. He had been trading in an off-shore brokerage account on information that he had received before it was published. Utilizing material non-public information is a huge no-no on Wall Street. People in the know had to wait at least a week after new research reports were published in order to act on the information. A person in Raymond's position was restricted for 30 days and, in some cases, he was barred entirely from acting on analysts’ recommendations.

  Raymond had designed the club like the inside of a corporation. Inmates were assigned to their specialties - Price Waterhouse castoff, Michael Prosser was assigned to record-keeping and spreadsheets; Citibank skimmer, Grant Burgess, focused on the banking industry; IBM insider trader, Gary Donaldson, was assigned to the tech industry along with corporate data thief/pirate, Raja Singh; Garrett Jones, a LILCO head man that overcharged customers and then skimmed the overages to finance the purchase of his vacation house, cars, and boats, was the utilities analyst; the oil and gas specialist, Tex Walters, had spent years at ExxonMobil before the authorities realized that he was understating reserve numbers in order to jack up the price for consumers at the pump and in their homes; the automobile industry was manned by William Heller, an ex-Ford executive, but no one ever listened to him and it was cloudy whether he had even committed a crime beyond laziness and stupidity in the first place; the telecom industry was watched by Roger Everson, the CEO of a telecom company that had the record for the largest overstatement of earnings detected and prosecuted in U.S. recorded history before Brad Green 'went yard.'

  Green was slated for the Restaurant/Retail segment even before he was convicted. His predecessor, Elaine Orbach, had served her two-year sentence for sales manipulation at Macy's, so there was an obvious hole in the team. Brad entered a large recreation room with a pool table and a poker table, and saw a group of men sitting around a board room-style table at the far side of the room.

  As he walked closer, the men stood one-by-one and put their hands together in applause. He smiled and waited for the noise to tone down, "That kind of welcome makes me wish that I would have made the numbers even bigger." The group laughed as Brad was directed toward an open chair.

  The Edward Koch Investment Club meeting let out and Brad went back to his room. He walked through the door and it was like time had stood still. Charles was sitting in his chair playing his cello and the suicide watch was on.

  Brad went into the bathroom to “walk the dog,” and then washed his hands and splashed some cool water on his face. He looked into the mirror and figured that it was a good time as any to begin the rehabilitation process. If society was so intent on him atoning for his sins, then the process shouldn’t wait any longer.

  He walked into the room and said, “I hear that if your roommate commits suicide they commute your sentence.”

  Charles picked up his head with the intense and vacant look of a serial killer.

  “It’s either freedom or straight A’s for the semester,” Brad said with all of the satirical emphasis of a night club comedian.

  While one joke wasn’t enough to coax a smile, the second barb hit a masked funny bone that must have been buried under a p
ile of Joni Mitchell albums. Charles dropped his not-so-magical wand and started to laugh hysterically.

  Brad never went to charm school, but he was naturally gifted. From the time when he could preach, his deep blue eyes always supported his trouble-free mind. Adults had always fallen for his “I’ll wash the blackboard,” or “Do you need help with your packages” line of bullcrap. His seemingly-tender actions were really set-ups to cushion the blow when he would eventually break the rules.

  “But mom, I didn’t break the window!” and eight year-old Brad pleaded with his mother.

  In Brad’s mind, the indisputable fact that he had thrown a baseball past his friend and through the kid’s front window was not the real story.

  Eight year-old Brad talks to us, “The fuckin’ kid couldn’t catch a cold, let alone catch a baseball! I literally threw the ball into his glove. That bitch was just as scared of the ball as he is with crossing the street!” He looks over at his friend standing next to him and says, “Pussy!”

  The scared, red-haired kid was picking his nose and cringed at the end of Brad’s rant.

  Brad shook his head and rolled his eyes in disbelief, “Fuck! Pick a winner over there, Josh.” He talks to us again, “Can you believe he wound up being an ear, nose and throat doctor?” He cocks his head and then nods from understanding, “Must have been the extensive inner-nostril study that inspired him.”

  Brad’s mom sat down at the kitchen table and put her hand up to stop the flow of toilet water flowing from Brad’s mouth.

  “Bullshit!” she yelled as Brad stepped back at hearing his mother curse for the first time.

  “Mom, are you feeling okay?”

  “Bullshit!” she yelled again. “And if you repeat that word, I’ll snatch up the nearest bar of soap and ram it down your throat!”

  Brad stood silently for one of those few moments in his life, and let his mom say her piece.

  “Since I was the person who created you, I’m also the person that knows when you’re angling a story so you come out smelling like a rose. Bradley Irving Greenberg, never bullshit your momma’ again! If you do, no matter how old you are, I’ll come find you with that bar of soap! Do you understand me?”

  He nodded, but still refused to admit that he had broken the window.

  “Did you do all of those things they are saying on the news?” Phyllis Greenberg said while on the phone from her condo.

  Brad was ready to concoct a similar story that he had told Organic Nation followers for years.

  “Before you answer, I just want to remind you that I’m not more than ten good steps away from a bar of soap, “Phyllis said to her grown-up son.

  Brad smiled for the first time in weeks and replied, “Yes, mom. I broke the window.”

  “Even though that Feldman boy was picking his nose?” she giggled.

  Brad laughed, “Yeah, mom. Even though Dr. Feldman was picking his nose.”

  She thought for a moment and asked, “Do I get to keep the winter house in Boca?”

  “Yes, the house, the boat, and the four cars are all free and clear.”

  Well, at least she got to keep one car. Brad was so high and mighty that he spoke freely into a line that had been tapped by the government for years. Shortly after, they seized the yacht and the three classic cars, leaving 77 year-old Phyllis with her zippy Toyota Prius to get around town.

 

  Back in Brad’s jail room, Charles stopped laughing long enough to say, “Wow! I haven’t laughed that hard in years.”

  Charles stated, “People always told me you had a certain something.”

  “In Brooklyn, they call it chutzpah,” Brad stated.

  Charles smirked, “On The Street, they call it iron balls.”

  The two men shook hands and Brad said as he looked at the cello, “Time to convert that wrist-slicer into a stand-up, jazz bass.

  Charles nodded and said, “I have to get back to being me again.” He stood up, opened a drawer on his nightstand, and pulled out a spiral notebook and a pen.

  “So, why don’t you sit down and tell me the real story about your company?”

  Brad smiled and said, “Let the comeback begin. Fifty-fifty on the book proceeds?”

  Charles nodded in agreement and the two men shook on the deal like gentlemen, albeit gentlemen that had committed multiple felonies and wore snappy jumpsuits with numbers across the left chest.

  Talking Shop

  Brad spent all of his spare time on the restaurant. He noticed that since his divorce, all he had was free time. No time was wasted on listening to his wife, or shopping for meaningless items for her. Divorce had a positive impact on this driven bachelor, and enabled him to focus all of his post-teaching energies on building his franchise.

  The following is the company’s initial Mission Statement/Business Plan.

  Organic Nation Mission Statement

  Organic Nation (ON) is focused on a corporate model that equally nourishes relational success.

  The ON mission consists of three interconnected ingredients:

  The three ingredients must effectively blend together in a cooperative and respectful manner in order to produce a flavorful result.