1
Hi Dad
Eisenhower Mills was positive the blade that was pressed against his neck was a sword. His friends would later argue the point that it was a large knife or a machete, which it actually was, but Eisenhower, called Ein by his friends, would argue to the death that it was a sword.
How did I get here?!
Ein’s mind wandered away with him as he gulped and focused all his energy on the task at hand, which was not wetting himself. He was completely unable to see his captor and had failed to get a look at him before. However, whatever it was had just moved in like a wrath. It had wrapped Ein’s arm in a powerful and painful lock of some sort and just as quickly, the blade was at his throat.
Now all Ein could do was stare ahead at the terrified face of his friend, Harriet who stared, unable to figure out what to do.
Suddenly, the faceless wrath spoke. He had a heavy south of the border accent. Mexican, maybe Puerto Rican, “Who are you people?”
“Um…. Us? Well…we…” Harriet stammered. Hey, who are we?!... Well I… Who are you?”
The wrath whispered into Ein’s ear. “Is she always like this?”
Ein gulped, “You have to excuse us, this is the first time we have been violently threatened with a sword.”
“I see,” said Ein’s captor. “I can assure you from experience that you are both doing a terrible job.”
The blade touched Eisenhower’s throat and he let out a whimper. One more time he asked himself….
How did I get here?
****
How Eisenhower got there.
Ein sat in, what had to be the nicest waiting room he had ever seen. Even the chairs looked like they cost more than one month of Ein’s rent. The place made him feel awkward and unhappy; like he shouldn’t touch anything because he was afraid a cranky grandmother would drop from the ceiling to yell at him.
Behind the large built-in desk was a beautiful woman in a red business suit wearing a head-set. She constantly answered calls and directed people to where they needed to be in the maze that was the phone system. Eisenhower stared at her and counted in his head how long it would take a woman like that to notice he was staring.
Ein lost count and became depressed.
Ein was the shortest man he knew, standing only five-feet, six-inches tall. He had close cropped, short, flat hair, thick glasses and facial hair that resembled peach fuzz. He wasn’t fat, but he wasn’t thin. Instead, he seemed to eternally hover somewhere in between. Needless to say, the woman was out of his league, probably not even playing the same sport.
But it still would have been nice to be noticed.
Story of my life.
Ein sighed and went back to the visual investigation of the room. He continued to sit in the chair, wondering what a lawyer who was this big and rich wanted to do with him? Ein was 25 years-old and rented a room just outside of L.A. He was working on his master’s in English, which would get him nothing. So why?
“Eisenhower Mills?” The elegant and soft business tone came in from the desk and Ein perked up.
“Um… That’s me.” Ein stammered out nervously.
“Mr. Berkman will see you now. Just follow that hall to the last door on the left,” she said, without so much as a smile. She then returned to her stalwart management of the communication system.
Ein sighed, stood and walked off down the hall. He found the door. It was hard to miss. Ein had a sudden crisis of wardrobe. He was wearing a pair of long, Dockers shorts that covered his knees, sandals and an old ‘Elect Obama’ t-shirt. He straightened himself and decided it was too late to worry about it now.
Ein nervously pushed the door open, only a crack. He then lightly knocked as he poked his head in. The office within was gargantuan, easily twenty times the space in his room, with a cathedral ceiling, walls of books, most on the subject of law. There was a couch on the far wall and across from that, a wall that was made of windows which led to a beautiful view of the Los Angles sky-line. Toward the back side, there was a large desk and a couple of chairs. Behind the desk sat a man who looked to be in his late forties, but was probably somewhere in his fifties. He was well dressed and well built. He sat, talking on a phone in an angry tone. The man waved Ein in and motioned for him to sit while he finished brutalizing whoever was on the other side of the call and hanging up.
The man stood and offered his hand over the desk. “Mr. Mills, my name is Preston Berkman. It’s a pleasure.”
“Sure,” was all Ein could muster, as he shook hands with Berkman.
“You must be wondering what you are doing here?” Berkman smiled as he sat back in his chair.
Ein had this sudden vision of Berkman as a bond villain, sitting in his giant chair in his giant office overlooking a city.
All he needed was a cat.
“Yes sir, I’m not quite sure what a man like you would need with me,” Ein responded nervously, while twiddling his thumbs.
“Are you familiar with Holster Oil?” He asked.
Ein frowned, this guy was an Oil company lawyer. They were worse than Mob lawyers and they got paid more.
“Yes,” Ein said quietly, feeling very uncomfortable in his surroundings.
Berkman’s face took a weird mocked concern. “Well Mr. Mills, what I have to tell you is going to be rather difficult to take in, so please bear with me.”
Ein’s eyebrow raised and he nodded, now thoroughly unhappy with everything that was happening around him.
“Your mother’s name is Sandra Mills, correct?” Berkman asked.
“Yes, what does my mom have to do with this?” Ein asked, now slightly aggressive. He didn’t want his mother involved in whatever this was.
“Quite a bit, actually.” Berkman continued, completely unaffected by the anger in Ein’s tone. “Has your mother always been single? Have you ever spoken about your father?”
Ein remembered the talks that he and his mom had. A running joke that he had been born to the force like Anakin Skywalker from Star Wars.
“No. What is this about, Sir?” Ein asked, getting more and more fidgety.
Berkman took a deep breath, “Alright, here it is… twenty-five years ago, your mother had a brief affair with Harrison Holster.”
Ein did the math. “This is a joke? Some kind of Joke, right? Did Thad put you up to this?”
“Eisenhower, we have proof.” Berkman said as he opened a drawer and pulled out a file folder. He dropped it in front of Eisenhower.
Ein stared at the folder like it was a demon, summoned from hell. “What is that?”
“Correspondence,” Berkman began, “between your mother and Harrison Holster. They speak of you in great detail. Not only does she admit that you are his son, but they both decide that it’s best you not meet.”
Ein stared at the folder, then at Berkman and back again. “So, what is this then? He wants to see me now? After twenty-five years? Some sort of joyous reunion?”
Berkman shook his head. “Quite the opposite, Mr. Mills. He’s dead.”
TO BE CONTINUED….
