The Goal

201

"Keep drinking. It gets better," says Donovan.

I'm just about to hazard a second cup when I notice Fran beside me.

"Mr. Rogo?"

"Yes."

"Bill Peach is on the line," says Fran.

I shake my head wondering what the hell it's going to be this time.

"I'll take it at your desk, Fran."

I go out there and punch the blinking button on my phone and pick it up.

"Yes, Bill, what can I do for you?"

"I was just talking to Johnny Jons," says Peach.

I automatically grab a pencil and pull over a pad of paper to take down the particulars on whatever order is causing us grief. I wait for Peach to continue, but he doesn't say anything for a second.

"What's the problem?" I ask him.

"No problem," says Peach. "Actually he was very happy."

"Really? What about?"

"He mentioned you've been coming through lately for him on a lot of late customer orders," says Peach. "Some kind of spe- cial effort I guess."

"Well, yes and no. We're doing a few things a little differently now," I say.

"Well, whatever. The reason I called is I know how I'm al- ways on your case when things go wrong, Al, so I just wanted to tell you thanks from me and Jons for doing something right," says Peach.

"Thanks, Bill," I tell him. "Thanks for calling."

"Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou," I'm blith- ering to Stacey as she parks her car in my driveway. "You are a truly wonderful person for driving me home... and I truly meant that truly."

"Don't mention it," she says. "I'm glad we had something to celebrate."

She shuts off the engine. I look up at my house, which is dark except for one light. I had the good sense earlier to call my mother and tell her not to hold dinner for me. That was smart because the celebration continued onward and outward after

Peach's call. About half of the original group went to dinner to- gether. Lou and Ralph threw in the towel early. But Donovan, Stacey and I-along with three or four die-hards-went to a bar after we ate and we had a good time. Now it is 1:30 and I am blissfully stinko.

The Mazda for safety's sake, it still parked behind the bar. Stacey, who switched to club soda a couple of hours ago, has generously played chauffeur to Bob and me. About ten minutes ago, we nudged Donovan through his kitchen door where he stood there bewildered for a moment before bidding us a good evening. If he remembers, Donovan is supposed to enlist his wife later today to drive us over to the bar and retrieve our vehicles.

Stacey gets out of the car and comes around and opens my door so I can spill myself onto the driveway. Standing up on uncertain legs, I steady myself against the car.

"I've never seen you smile so much," says Stacey.

"I've got a lot to smile about," I tell her.

"Wish you could be this happy in staff meetings," she says.

"Henceforth, I shall smile continuously through all staff meetings," I proclaim.

"Come on, I'll make sure you get to the door," she says.

With her hands around my arm to steady me, she guides me up the front walk to the door.

When we're at the door, I ask her, "How about some cof- fee?"

"No, thanks," she says. "It's late and I'd better get home."

"Sure?"

"Absolutely."

I fumble with the keys, find the lock, and the door swings open to a dark living room. I turn to Stacey and extend my hand.

"Thank you for a wonderful evening," I tell her. "I had a swell time."

Then as we're shaking hands, I for some reason step back- wards, trip over the doorstep and lose all my balance.

"Woops!"

The next thing I know Stacey and I are sprawled on the floor together. Fortunately-or maybe not as it turns out-Stacey thinks this is colossally funny. She's laughing so hard, tears start to roll down her cheeks. And so I start laughing too. Both of us are rolling on the floor with laughter-when the lights come on.

"You bastard!"