Eileen Slovak

Chapter Twenty: Don’t Drink Yellow Tea

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and locales are products of the author’s imagination. They are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is coincidental. Copyright © 2024 by Eileen Slovak.

Scarlet

There’s one thing that sets Lucky Chance Corporation apart from the competition. It’s Frank’s willingness to hear pitches made by inexperienced inventors. In Frank’s mind, the next great invention might come from the most unlikely of sources. Why set limits on who can pitch their ideas? It’s one of the things that makes him a visionary. He’s a legend even in the industry. Unfortunately, it also exposes him to pitches by some interesting characters.

      Monday at 1 p.m., Frank and I are sitting in the conference room waiting for a meeting with potential new inventor, Darren Duhamel. While we wait, I update Frank on the progress of the company’s other accounts. By my watch, Duhamel is fifteen minutes late, already losing points with me. I sip my water and check my watch for the third time, tapping my fingers. Frank is shifting in his chair, checking his cell phone messages. As I’m about to ask Emilie to call Mr. Duhamel when she ushers him through the door. He makes a beeline for Frank. One arm is extended while the other arm clutches a tattered box that nearly slips from his grasp.

      “Mr. Chance, I’m so pleased to finally meet you! My apologies for being late. But wait until you lay your eyes on this little beauty.” He says, tapping the box. “I’m certain you’ll see it was well worth the wait!”

      Looking at me he winks saying, “You’ll want to take good notes on this one miss.”

      Narrowing my eyes, I study the disheveled disaster of a man before me. Presentation is everything in our business. So far, I’m unimpressed. He’s sweating profusely. Emilie pours him a glass of water without asking. He spills some of it on his wrinkled shirt. I’m thinking it’s possible he spent the previous night curled up on a park bench. I’m not fond of unruly, long hair on men, especially not this gray, ratty ponytail he’s sporting.

      Over the last few years, Frank has seen hundreds of inventors. I usually deal with the clients whose inventions have already made the cut. Inventors are unique individuals, often quirky. Some remind me of Corky’s artist friends, while others are serious scientists or nerdy engineers. Corky would say I’m being too judgmental. I try to remain open minded. However, the best inventors do their research. They’re professional. The good ones are not late for a meeting with Frank Chance. Not if they truly want an opportunity to sell him on their idea.

      Mr. Duhamel hurriedly sets up his invention on the conference table. He rambles on about his ten years of experience as an inventor. When he finishes, we see it’s a banged-up espresso machine with a few additional tubes and parts added to it. Next to the machine, there’s a container of yellow liquid. There are tiny paper filters, a bag of some herbal substance and a stack of small, empty plastic cups. Mr. Duhamel proceeds with his off the cuff presentation. Plugging in the machine, he inserts a filter into the space where the coffee grounds would normally go. He pours the contents of the yellow liquid container into the machine, then turns it on. My eyes fixate on the liquid, struggling to determine its origin. Within seconds, my worst fears are realized. The liquid slowly drips into the glass container normally used for expresso. It emits a strong stench. Mr. Duhamel pours the emerging hot, slightly paler, yellow fluid into three cups. He sprinkles a dash of the herbal mixture into each cup, stirs, then hands one to each of us.

      “This herbal tea, I grow and dry myself. It has medicinal properties. I guarantee this invention will revolutionize the camping industry.” Then he adds triumphantly, “I call it the Urine Purifier!”

      I muffle a gasp. Frank and I sit in stunned silence while Duhamel sips on his “pee tea”. I look down into the cup in front of me at the ‘purified’ urine, likely the inventors own. Using a tissue, I push the cup across the table as far away from myself as possible. Even from where it sits on the table, I detect a pungent odor. Frank carefully picks up his cup and moves it to the side, while opening the file he has marked D. Duhamel. I’m beginning to see why he’s brought me in, suspecting he wants to extricate himself from these types of meetings.

      Duhamel prattles on oblivious to our revulsion. “I’m working on a more powerful filter that will render the liquid completely colorless. But if you taste it, you’ll be amazed. It tastes just like water,” he says, taking another sip.

      My stomach heaves. Fearing my lunch might make a messy reappearance, I stare blankly at Duhamel while Frank riffles through his file.

      “Maybe try it once it’s cooled off some,” Duhamel adds.

      “What did you plan to do about the odor?” I ask, with raised eyebrows.

      Duhamel sniffs the cup he gave me. “I don’t smell anything.”

      Clearing his throat Frank says, “It’s a very interesting concept, Mr. Duhamel. You say this product is for campers? Is there a battery pack or something?”

      “Oh, excellent question, sir! That’s something I’m sure we could work out in development. It’s for survivalists in particular. That’s what I am. The recycling possibilities are endless. This machine will put the bottled water companies out of business. Plus, you can still use the machine to make coffee if you’d like. It’s versatile.”

      “Did you bring the lab reports on the filtered liquid to prove that it’s free of impurities?” I don’t know why I am bothering to ask questions. Clearly, we’re passing. Part of me just feels like giving this loon a hard time.

      “I don’t have those on me, but I will get them to you, ASAP.” Turning back to Frank he asks, “So, when do we start production? Will I be receiving my advance today, by any chance?”

      “Mr. Duhamel,” Frank says, showing remarkable restraint. “I should tell you we have a very thorough review process for all new inventions. We need to determine marketability and production costs. If we have an interest in the product, the next step is to ascertain if the item fits our criteria. We also need to be certain there are no patenting issues. Then we draft a contract. It’s a lengthy process. Should we decide your idea is viable, we’ll be in touch.”

      “Mr. Chance, I should tell you, I plan to show this product to other companies. You were the first on my list, but you won’t be the last. I can assure you.”

      “I completely understand. By all means, you do whatever you need to do. I want to thank you for bringing it to us first. But I’m afraid we have to pass on the idea. My assistant will see you out. It was a pleasure meeting you. Please excuse me. I’m late for another meeting.” Frank opts not to shake hands, and immediately exits the room.

      “Mr. Duhamel.” I say, nodding with a tight smile before exiting on Frank’s heals. We leave him to pack up his invention.

      Stopping at Emilie’s desk, I ask her: “Can you please make sure he leaves? After he’s gone, you’ll need to open all of the windows, probably spray some Lysol. Oh, if you find any cups filled with anything, use gloves to please flush the contents down the toilet. The table will also need to be sanitized.” Emilie looks confused but agrees to take care of it. I find Frank hiding in his office.

      “I hope your next meeting isn’t in the conference room,” I say, poking my head in.

      “What meeting? I’m going to lunch. I wanted to get rid of that weirdo. Can you imagine trying to market a product like that?” He says, shaking his head.

      “No, I can’t. Thank you for not asking me to. I’m officially off espresso forever after meeting Mr. Du-Du Duhamel.”

      Frank completely misses my attempt at humor.

      “The problem is Scarlet; the company needs new inventors.” He looks concerned. “I’ve decided to put you in charge of pre-screening all future potential inventors. I’m counting on you to find us some new talent. I’ll have Emilie bring you all the files this afternoon. I hope you weren’t planning on taking any vacation time in the next few months.”

      “Frank, I’m honored you’d trust me with such an enormous responsibility.”

I go back to my office with renewed enthusiasm.

      “These are the first one hundred files,” Emilie says wheeling in a cart with two file boxes on it. “Where would you like them? Oh, there are two more boxes coming.”

      “We have two hundred files? What on earth!” This is going to be a nightmare.

      “I’ll take those Emilie. You shouldn’t be lifting those.” I say, stacking the boxes next to my desk.

      “You know Frank. He loves to procrastinate! Oh, that guy, Mr. Dumarshall…”

      “Duhamel.”

      “Whatever. What a complete creep! I was about to call security to get him to leave! He kept insisting that I try some gross herbal tea he made.”

      “You didn’t try it, did you?”

      “No, are you kidding me! It smelled disgusting! I was nauseous, not that it takes much to make me queasy these days.” Emilie pats her belly, wrinkling her perfectly formed nose making her look younger than her twenty-four years.

      She wears her blond hair in a short, sophisticated bob. It’s the second thing you notice after her striking emerald eyes. I had my doubts about Emilie when Frank first hired her. He has a soft spot for pretty, young blondes. Emilie is his third receptionist/assistant in a year. The others seemed to think looking pretty was the crux of the job. Emilie surprised me by proving to be highly efficient. I have plans to promote her to the marketing team if she comes back after maternity leave. Frank is holding me back until he finds a new assistant. 

      “Anyway, he finally left, thank goodness,” she says. “He wanted me to give you this.”  She hands me a handwritten piece of paper with Duhamel’s contact information scrawled on it.

      “Oh, excellent,” I tuck the paper into Duhamel’s file. “I know where to turn if we run out of toilet paper. Say Emilie, I could use some help on this project. If I clear it with Frank, are you up for it?”

      “Sure, sounds great. Between us, Frank doesn’t really have much for me to do. I mostly answer the phone, arrange his travel and make his lunch and dinner dates. If you know what I mean. I’m not ungrateful, but it’s kind of a waste of a college degree, wouldn’t you say? It seems like he asks you to do everything. You’re the one who needs an assistant.”

      “Yes, well, he does depend on me. Hang in there, things will get better. I know Frank has bigger plans for you. I was his assistant when I started here years ago.”

      “That is encouraging. Oh, there was a call for you, but when I went to transfer it there was no one there. Sorry about that.”

      “No problem, if it’s important, they’ll call back.”

      I stare at the stack of file boxes that’s almost as tall as me. Emilie organized them in order of date received, which is helpful. Some date back to over a year ago. The first thing I’ll do once I weed out the definite no’s is to ask Emilie to start calling the maybes. If they’re still looking for representation, we’ll bring them in. Sighing, I pick up the first file to begin reading.

      By 6:30 p.m., my stomach alerts me to the fact that I need to stop working. I email Frank requesting Emilie’s help on the project. Although it isn’t, I mark the message urgent, knowing these are the only messages Frank ever reads. I pack up the files, beginning the process of closing the office. The lights are off in Frank’s office when I walk by. I see no evidence that he returned after lunch. There are no sounds save the hum of the office machines and the buzz of fluorescent lights. I consider taking a box of files home before thinking better of it. With the added responsibility, I’ll need to do more delegating, less doing.