A Reunion Isn’t Always Useless
February 1992, Cambridge, Massachusetts.
A deep shadow of recession hung over the streets.
The shops along the sidewalks stood empty.
Going Out of Business
For Lease
Unsold
.
.
Signs and banners littered the vacant storefronts, while flyers skittered through the alleyways.
Outside the laundromat, plastic bags full of unclaimed clothes were piled high by the door.
The only place with its lights on was a pawnshop on the corner, where rings, necklaces, televisions, and even someone’s wedding album were displayed behind the glass.
On the sidewalk, a Hispanic homeless man sat on a flattened cardboard box, holding out a paper cup, while pedestrians hurried past with their eyes averted.
The vacancy rate in the buildings near Harvard Square had long since climbed past 30 percent.
Even the cafés and bookstores that had once bustled with life now sat silent behind closed shutters.
In the middle of that desolate street, one gold-leaf sign blazed with an almost obscene brilliance: a large real estate office called Miller & Associates.
Deep in the office, a white man in his fifties sat sunk into a leather chair with his feet propped on the desk, reading the newspaper.
A sensational headline dominated the front page.
////////
Laid-Off Father Robs His Own Bank to Pay for Daughter’s Surgery
...On the 1st in Youngstown, Ohio, a man carrying a toy pistol broke into First National Bank in downtown Youngstown and demanded $5,000. The suspect, arrested by police, was Wayne Chen, 47, a former GM parts factory worker who had been collecting his paycheck from that bank for seventeen years until just three months ago. Wayne Chen was laid off last November in a restructuring triggered by the factory’s relocation to Mexico, and at the same time lost his family’s medical insurance. His daughter, Meilin Chen, 9, had been diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia and was waiting for a bone marrow transplant, but the surgery bill, once insurance was gone, came to $87,000. In court, Wayne Chen testified, “I couldn’t bear the thought of telling her I had to give up on her.” The judge sentenced him to five years in prison, and Meilin Chen’s surgery is scheduled for next Monday...
////////
“Tsk, tsk. Stupid bastard. If you don’t have money, you should get a job and earn it—robbing a bank? This is why Oriental people just don’t cut it. Born thieves, the lot of them.”
The man named Miller crumpled the paper and flung it to the floor.
“Hah. Not a single customer again today. Goddamn recession. The landlords need to bring their noses down if they want any deals done.”
On his desk sat a fancy nameplate that read Miller & Associates.
Miller picked up the telephone and made a call.
“Hello? Ah, Peter? Got any clients today? No? Then come over here and find something to do in our office. I’ll pay you some part-time wages. There’s plenty to clear out.”
After hanging up, Miller yawned and sank back into his chair again.
A little later, the office door opened and a young man in shabby clothes came in.
Peter was a small-time broker who ran a one-man real estate office on the second floor of a ramshackle commercial building across the street.
With clients disappearing in the recession, he had reached the point where he had to scrub floors for a big broker like Miller just to scrape together pocket change.
Peter started sweeping from the corner of the office.
Miller clicked his tongue and called him over.
“Hey, Peter. You’re kicking up dust, so sweep later. And go refill the coffee. Make it hot.”
“Yes, Mr. Miller.”
Peter stood without complaint and headed to the coffee pot.
Miller yawned and closed his eyes, and only the sound of dripping coffee and the ticking of the clock filled the office’s silence.
Then the bell on the office door rang cheerfully.
Jingle!
The one who came in was a young Asian man.
Neatly dressed in casual clothes, with a youthful face that made him look like a college freshman.
Miller opened one eye, just enough to see past the nap he had been pretending to take.
His gaze swept over the young man from head to toe, then settled on the cheap sneakers on his feet.
...Tch. A bum.
Deciding he was just another student with no money to spend, Miller picked up his magazine again and hid behind it.
Then, with an irritated wave of his hand, he dismissed the Asian youth.
“Hey, kid. If you’re looking for a studio or a share house, check the bulletin board on the wall and pick one yourself.”
“...”
The young man turned his gaze and slowly looked around the office.
Peter, who had been making the coffee, hurried over and bowed politely.
“Welcome. Are you looking for something in particular? It’s cold out there, so please have a cup of hot coffee first.”
“Thank you. I’m looking at buildings that could work as an office.”
Miller snorted in amusement.
“An office? What, you planning to open a laundromat? Or sell sauces only Asians eat? Kid, this is Harvard Square. Even if your parents spent their whole lives doing laundry and washing cars, they still couldn’t cover a single month’s rent here.”
“It should be fairly large. Secure, and ready for immediate occupancy.”
The Asian youth ignored Miller and spoke to Peter instead.
Peter’s expression sharpened, and he pulled out a notebook to take notes.
That was when the young man’s gaze locked onto the property posters on the wall.
They were listings for properties being sold at fire-sale prices.
One of the photos showed a 28-story high-rise with a red brick exterior, with the Charles River flowing serenely behind it.
“How about that 28-story building over there?”
“Bwahahaha!”
Miller lowered the magazine that had been hiding his face and stood up.
“Kid, that’s a full-sale building. Guess how many zeroes are in the price tag? If you get it right, I’ll buy you a candy. You’ve got some serious dreams there.”
Peter looked embarrassed as well, though he managed a small smile.
“Ah, that one belonged to a former owner who went bankrupt, so the bank took control of it. The location and the view are top-notch, but the building’s so large that... I’d estimate the sale price at around $4.5 million.”
“Is the title clean? Any liens or back taxes?”
“Yes. Since the bank is disposing of it right before auction, the paperwork is perfectly in order. The only concern is that it’s been vacant for so long that the maintenance condition is a little worrying...”
Right then, the Asian young man nodded.
“Good. I’ll take it.”
Silence fell over the real estate office.
“Pardon? Y-you mean you want to buy that...?”
Peter only then fully understood what he had heard, and his mouth fell open.
Whether the others reacted or not, the young man opened the bag slung over his shoulder and showed the stacks of hundred-dollar bills packed inside.
“Let’s close it today. This is the earnest money and the advance for the brokerage fee. Two hundred thousand dollars.”
$200,000. All in cash.
The sight of those bundled bills made Miller’s eyes bulge as if they might pop right out of his skull.
Thud, bang, crash!
Miller shoved his chair aside and came running over, then pressed his palms together and rubbed them furiously in front of me.
“Oh my, oh my! I’ve kept such a distinguished guest waiting and wasted your time! Please forgive me! That property is one of my premium listings, handled exclusively by me! Peter here just helps with odd jobs, he doesn’t even really know how to draw up contracts. From this moment on, I’ll take complete care of you, sir. Shall we start by checking the registry documents? Please, this way. I’ll help you personally in my office. I can offer you very special terms...”
“That won’t be necessary. I’d like to continue speaking with this gentleman.”
The Asian young man smiled gently as he spoke.
Completely ignoring Miller, he turned to Peter beside him.
“You said your name was Peter, right? Could you handle the procedure for me? I’d like to receive the keys today.”
“Yes, yes! Of course! I’ll contact the bank’s representative right away! I’ll do everything I can to assist you!”
With Miller standing there dumbly in the background, the young man and Peter began discussing the details of the contract.
Peter pulled out a file folder and spread open the building plans and title documents.
The young man checked them one by one with meticulous care, asking questions at each step, and Peter answered every one with earnest precision.
A quiet sense of trust began to form between the two of them.
Watching it all, Miller could neither leave nor stay. He just stood there, tearing at his own hair.
A 3 to 6 percent brokerage fee on a $4.5 million building would mean at least $135,000.
In this recession, that was more money than Miller could earn in five years of grinding work!
The fact that it would go to Peter instead of him made Miller feel as if he were about to explode on the spot.
But he could only keep forcing a smile; he didn’t dare show any anger.
After all, there was always the chance that this wealthy Asian client might change his mind and look his way instead.
***
Several days later.
I stood on the top floor of the newly acquired 28-story building.
Beyond the wide wall of glass, the Charles River flowed in view.
Lights hanging from the high ceiling illuminated the marble floor.
On the first floor of the building, a brass sign had been installed reading Lee Energy.
...At last, I really feel like a businessman.
Only a few months ago, I had been holding a telephone in a Harvard dorm room, talking business.
My secretary, Caroline, had even rented Conference Room 91 under my name.
Well, I could have kept doing that. But still, I needed at least one building that looked the part.
I hadn’t bought this building just to show off.
To gain access to the Angel Fund operated by the Harvard Alumni Association, I needed proof that I wasn’t some half-baked paper company but a real enterprise with physical substance.
A 28-story building overlooking the Charles, a marble lobby, a brass nameplate.
This physical presence was that proof.
And the building itself could serve as a value-play real estate acquisition, as well as collateral for bank loans.
The big banks on Wall Street loved a combination like “a Harvard-educated businessman who owns a commercial high-rise in Harvard Square.”
It boosted your credit rating and brought down your loan rates.
Best of all, if you handed someone a business card with this address on it, investors in New York would trust you even on first meeting.
I remembered the advice Vito and Soren had given me the previous week.
Boss, American businessmen judge people by appearances. No matter how capable you are, if you call from a shabby office, they treat you like a con artist. But if you call from a building overlooking the Charles? They’ll be begging for your business card first.
They had been right.
I looked around the office.
Since the furniture hadn’t all been brought in yet, the middle of the empty space held only the desk, chair, telephone, and fax machine I would be using from now on.
Facing the view of the Charles River in the distance, my own mind settled into a calm stillness as well.
Then—
Click.
With the sound of the elevator doors opening, footsteps approached.
Vito and Soren greeted me when they saw me.
I asked them, “Is the move complete?”
“Yes! The 16th and 17th floors for the legal team are all set! My office, too!”
“The 18th and 19th floors for accounting are done as well.”
From now on, Vito and Soren would be commuting here.
Vito would bring in his partner attorneys, and Soren would bring in his own staff.
The empty floors were being filled with people and things.
I asked Soren, “How’s the Wishville gold mine?”
“It’s running 15 percent above projections. Apparently Chief Armstrong drove the shaft through like a miracle. The first refined batch alone came out to 100 gold bars.”
At current spot prices, that was $14 million.
Enough to cover the early costs of oilfield development and still make the building price look like pocket change.
And that was only the first refined batch.
“The gold mine is going wonderfully. Now the oil field is the problem...”
In truth, the oilfield development itself was progressing smoothly.
I had already instructed Paul Hemsworth to accelerate development of the Garden Queens field as much as possible, and he had brought not only King Baboon Pipeline Services but also veteran team leaders from subsidiaries such as Salmond Pink Bird Eater and Black Gigantia to the site.
Well 1 had already been drilled and fitted with a pumpjack, and according to reports sent by Armstrong and Riddle, it had already surpassed 200 barrels a day, or about 27 tons.
Light crude, 38 degrees API.
High-quality oil with excellent refining efficiency and a strong gasoline yield.
Drilling equipment for Wells 2 and 3 was still being installed, and if Paul’s plan went as scheduled, total daily output could exceed 1,000 barrels before the year was out.
But.
The problem was the legal handling of all that oil once it had been pulled from the ground.
“Mm. On that front, I’m ashamed to report, boss.”
Vito’s face darkened a little.
“Things are getting noisy over in Garden Queens. Those Black Bog bastards are stirring up trouble...”
Black Bog.
Originally the name of a mid-sized drilling company based in Texas.
It was effectively a subsidiary of the Wall Street giant hedge fund Black Diamond, which held controlling power as the main creditor.
Black Diamond was the kind of outfit that would do anything for money, but instead of dirtying its own hands, it preferred to use Black Bog as the front line while it used local oil fields and mines as cheap buyouts.
That was why I had named the oil field I was developing in Garden Queens Black Bog.
One day, I would crush them and take that name from them as a trophy.
“How are they moving against us?”
“The usual tactics. Black Bog’s lawyers are preparing a suit claiming there’s a defect in the land title for the Garden Queens oilfield site. Their argument is that there was a flaw in the mineral rights registration process back in the 1920s. It’s pretty much baseless, but if the legal battle drags on, it could slowly delay the development schedule.”
“Black Bog doesn’t even own that land. On what grounds are they suing over someone else’s title?”
“They’re exploiting a loophole in American real estate law, just as expected, boss. In Texas, surface rights and mineral rights are separate, and Black Bog is claiming the mineral rights to that land were sold to a third party in the 1920s and never properly registered.”
“So they’re just throwing a tantrum.”
“Exactly. They’re insisting they inherited that third party’s rights. Of course, they have no evidence. But the moment the suit is filed, a Lis Pendens gets recorded at the courthouse, and the land becomes a disputed asset. If they then seek an injunction and start all kinds of dirty tricks, anyone short on capital would find it absolutely blood-draining.”
“Of course. Bank loans get blocked, insurance becomes hard to obtain, and negotiations over pipeline usage rights get delayed. Even if you eventually win, you’d be tied down for two or three years, and in a recession like this, bankruptcy would be inevitable.”
But they had picked the wrong opponent.
I had money, and I had time.
And I wasn’t the kind of pacifist who would postpone oilfield development just because a dispute was dragging on.
“They’re lobbying too, I take it?”
“Yes. We investigated, and it looks like they’ve hired lobbyists to work on the county land office and the environmental regulator. They’re aiming for administrative sabotage—another review of the environmental impact assessment, or a hold on the drilling permits.”
“What about public opinion?”
“So far there hasn’t been much change, but... it seems they’ve been spreading absurd rumors among local residents—that the oilfield is nothing but a source of sewage water, that it’ll make every drain in town back up, that it’ll contaminate the surrounding wheat fields and ruin them.”
“Haha. Textbook stuff. Did they say anything to our side?”
“They did. They sent over an opinion letter a little while ago. They said they’d buy the land where the oilfield sits for $250 an acre. They made it sound like we should be grateful they were willing to take contaminated land off our hands... I couldn’t even finish reading it because it was so ridiculous.”
If the people who had discovered an oil field on their private land had been an ordinary family of Asian immigrants, then maybe—just maybe—they might have been cowed into accepting such an offer, whether by temptation or fear.
Their thugs, or even professional agitators, would have shattered that family’s peace and stirred up discord throughout the town.
But I was different.
What a bunch of clowns.
Black Diamond was hardly a stranger to me; before my regression, we had been entangled in plenty of bad blood already.
I asked Vito and Soren, “Those Black Bog idiots must think we’re just lucky country bumpkins. The fact that they haven’t even set up a formal negotiation table and are only sending notes through brokers says as much.”
“That seems to be the case.”
“Keep oilfield development on schedule.”
I pictured the pumpjacks, storage tanks, and towering drilling rigs rising over the dark horizon of Garden Queens.
The nodding donkey, as the industry called it.
Clank... clank... clank...
Great iron horse heads bobbing up and down twenty-four hours a day, sucking the black gold from deep underground.
Even now, my father would be at the refinery side, manipulating valves and checking temperature gauges, while my uncle sorted parts and organized the materials needed for equipment repairs.
As the forty-foot drill pipe spun down into the earth, mud pumps would keep forcing drilling mud through the borehole in an endless cycle, and beneath the hot Texas sun, derrickmen in helmets would be climbing up and down the rig, drenched in sweat.
There would be laid-off town residents on that site too, and they would be the fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, and friends of the classmates I had gone to high school with.
I nodded.
“We can’t stop developing the oil field. There’s no reason to. If anything gets in the way, I’ll go clear it myself.”
“Ah, so you’re using that method, boss?”
“Yes. I think Black Bog needs a lesson.”
I picked up a piece of mail from the corner of the desk.
Printed on the worn recycled-paper envelope was a familiar school emblem.
Garden Queens Public High School Reunion Invitation
I slipped the invitation into the inside pocket of my suit jacket.
“For now, let’s make sure public opinion in the local community is completely on our side.”
The reunion invitation from this rural high school would become the key to oilfield development.
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