“Just picture it,” his hands gesticulated wildly, “best resort on the whole freaking island! We’d be millionaires in no time!” Jonathan wasn’t surprised that Gary talked about sandy beaches, sunshine, and surfing. It was his longstanding passion. Living in Chicago wasn’t conducive to the tanning bed California look, nor his love for surf, beautiful women, and convertible sports cars. All three were things he spent most of his chasing. The car? Straight from the assembly line, he owned a pewter gray 2017 Mercedes-Benz SLC-300 convertible with less than 100 miles. He had the car. The lifestyle. And even the clothes. But Gary didn’t get much mileage in the wintertime in Chitown. California drivers didn’t last long in the Chicago winters. Not in a small Mercedes convertible. He really missed his life in Southern California. Yet, the money in Chicago more than made up for it. At least twelve times a year, Gary was surfing in Orange County. And he was hoping to get his car out there, too. Ladies loved the Mercedes even in the brutal cold Chicago winter.    

               Jonathan rubbed his hands together, encased in the finest Italian leather gloves, knowing it wouldn’t warm his hands faster. The silk scarf around his neck kept out some of the cold. The sidewalks were clear of snow and ice, the crunching sound under their feet from the salt used to melt it. “Gary, we’ve been working together for almost a year, right?”

               “Sounds about right, Johnny,” he said, slapping him on the back. Gary liked calling Jonathan anything but his name. At least he stopped using ‘dude’ about five months ago. But it was a hard fight to lose that one.

               “Why would you give up this?” Jonathan pointed at the snow and ice, the cars driving through the slush. “I mean, you make thousands every day. You’d give all that up to live on the beach and have the headache of running a resort? Sounds like ‘dreamer-ite-tist.’ All you young hotshots have dreams. No aspirations, more like. You think you can move here, live high on the hog, and turn around and invest your hard work into a loser of a business model and plan. Then you come back.” He walked faster, outpacing his coworker, muttering, “You always come back.” Jonathan was walking too fast for Gary, so he didn’t see him roll his eyes.

               “Woah, du-“ Gary stopped midsentence. “Slow down there, G-man.”

               Jonathan stopped. “G-man?” He stared at the younger man. Gary had no grey hair. No receding hairline. No wrinkles around his eyes. Gary looked like he would never age. Jonathan knew that wasn’t true, but it frustrated him. “G-man.” He put his hands on Gary’s shoulders. “I’ve listened to you call me everything except my name for months. Today, Gary? G-man? It stops. Right here. Right now. On this very sidewalk,” he looked at his Louis Moinet Meteoris Tourbillon Asteroid watch, the white gold glittering in the sunlight, “at precisely 7:56 Thursday morning, December 19, 2017, you will start calling me by my birthname: Jonathan. That is the only acceptable name for you to say to me, even under your breath in the hallway when you are cussing me out. Is that clear?”

               Gary blinked, staring at his boss. “You seem a little upset there.” He paused for a second. “Jonathan.”

               Jonathan stared at the younger man. “Okay.” He looked at his watch, people streaming around him and Gary. “We’re late.”

               “But they can’t start without us.” Jonathan picked up his pace, Gary chasing him down. “Can they?”

               “Well, they are the board. I guess they could start ten minutes earlier if they wanted to.”

               “But you’re the executive director. They can’t do that without you.”

               “We’ll see.”

               A doorman held open the door of the Aqua, bowing to the older man and saluting the younger of the pair. “Thank you, Mr. Nacuri.” Jonathan shook his hand. Gary never understood how his boss would take the time to shake the hand of someone who wasn’t critical of his professional growth. But he did.

               “How’s your mother doing?”

               “Better now. Thank you for your generosity, Mr. Howoliwitz. The treatments are working.”

               “Wonderful news.” The younger man didn’t see him slip several large bills into the doorman’s hand. “Are they here?”

               “They arrived about three minutes ago. Probably taking off their coats right now, sir.”

               “Thank you, Mr. Nacuri. And a Merry Christmas.”

               “Merry Christmas, Mr. Howoliwitz. And a Happy New Year.”

               Jonathan smiled and walked through the open door. Gary didn’t so much as acknowledge the doorman.