CRYEO - PART 2
Godspeed Airlines had undergone a significant re-branding around a quarter of a century during Cooper’s sixty year frozen sleep.
In its current incarnation as Atlas Airlines, the company had never truly recovered its original prestige as the premier aviation service in America and across the globe. It had certainly fallen a long way from grace on the stock index and the shareholders weren’t happy.
Top of the agenda for the first general meeting of the week was the possibility of cutting flight routes (mostly as a result of the COVID19 lockdowns) and yet another possible re-branding strategy.
The board were assembled in an open space, similar to that of a community centre counselling session where everyone sat round on their chairs in a circle. It had been determined that the boardroom table was a symbol of toxic masculinity and had therefore been omitted from all meetings henceforth.
“What’s this all about?”
Cooper’s strong baritone voice carried across the room like sudden gust of wind.
One of the executives stood up, alarmed at the intruder.
“This is a private meeting! I don’t want to have to call security, sir.”
“Do that sunshine and you’ll be dusting the pavement with your ass. Besides, you call that bunch of clowns outside security? Looked more like happy hour at my grandfather’s favourite burlesque club.”
The entire group looked collectively unsettled by this powerful handsome figure who seem to emit charisma like a fragrance.
Meanwhile Devlin surveyed his old board room with a look of incredulity.
“Where’s my Sheraton table gone?”
A pencil-thin looking executive piped up.
“We no longer have tables here at Atlas.”
If Cooper wasn’t confused before, he most certainly was now.
“Atlas? What Atlas?”
After five or ten minutes or competing explanations, Devlin barely got the measure of what had happened to his company since he last consciously had control of it. Currently the name Atlas was also now under review due to the titan being a man. Devlin could understand little of this insane fever dream of reality he had woken up to. Gods were apparently not exempt from gender politics either according to the most outspoken of this seemingly leaderless team of fools.
The mayhem was momentarily interrupted when one earnest looking woman with pink hair stepped forward and asked in a monotone voice.
“I’m sorry sir. But who are you exactly?”
“I’m your boss. At least for now. But rest assured, heads will roll soon once I can ascertain whose responsible for trashing my company. This is tantamount to shitting in the mouth of the one that feeds you.” Devlin was still a little groggy from his suspended animation so it was understandable he might get his idioms mixed up. Nevertheless, they appeared to get the point he was making loud and clear.
When it was explained to Devlin that there had been a vote on disbanding the entire constuct of having a hierarchal structure within the company, he asked for them all to leave the room so he could compose himself. In all his long long life he’d never heard of such bullshit before.
With no alcohol on the premises, he needed more than time to get his thoughts together.
As the bell jangled in the Bell In Hand Tavern, the old Boston bar he used to frequent for so many afternoons back in the day, he wondered if he was back in his own time as “In The Still Of The Night” by The Five Statins played on the retro jukebox.
The bartender greeted him as if he was a regular and that warmed his still thawing spirits.
“Afternoon!”
Dev smiled for what had probably been only the second time since he’d awoken to the 21st century.
“It’s colder than a witch’s tit out there!” he proffered to the chubby cheeked bartender, who nodded in the affirmative.
“It’s plain unseasonable is what it is.”
Dev hung his jacket up on the old fashioned coat stand by the door before he approached the bar, eying up the gleaming honey coloured bottles of booze before him.
“What’ll you have?”
“Ward Eight. The old staple.”
The bartender grinned.
“Don’t have many people ask for that these days.”
Dev smiled ruefully.
“Maybe it’s my age, but everyone I see out there looks like they been getting drunk on their mother’s milk.”
“Powered milk more like!” The bartender riposted compelling a clap from Dev.
Taking a seat on a stool, he knocked the oak surface of the bar top as if to ground himself after his long sleep through history.
“Feels like home.”
“You been away?”
“Yep. You could say that.”
The bartender presented Dev with his Bostonian cocktail before heading off to serve the next customer.
Staring at the ice cubes bobbing along the surface of his drink, Dev wondered if this whole experiment was worth it. He'd made a lot of sacrifices, both personally and commercially. His legacy now hung in the balance which hadn’t been a concern of his before he stepped into the ‘big fridge”. The re-adjustment of his mindset in a culture he felt was more alien than War of the Worlds prepared him for left him feeling a little intimidated, loathe that he was to admit it. To his mind it appeared that the threat to humans wasn’t extra terrestrial but more terran, more local. Had the entire human race lost its mind? It sure looked that way to Dev Cooper. Taking a lengthy sip of his Ward Eight, he started to feel marginally better. The world always seemed better after a drink or two.
As he looked across at the cherubic bartender laughing jovially with his customers, he suddenly recognised a genetic similarity with Boston Al, the guy who used to serve his drinks back in the 50’s when he was in his hey day.
He remembered something Al once said to him when they were having a mildly philosophical conversation one late afternoon back in 56.
"Nothing changes but the barrels.”
And with that, Dev gestured to the bartender for a replenishment.
“Say. Are you related to Al by any chance?”
“Yeah, he was my grandfather.”
“Grandfather?”
Dev remembered that he had skipped sixty years of his own ageing process and was now the last man standing of his peers no doubt.
“Is he still with us?”
“No and yes.”
“What do you mean?”
The bartender started to clean a few wine glasses with a freshly laundered cloth.
“I mean technically he’s dead. But I believe the soul lives on beyond the frailties of the human body. Sometimes I think he’s here right now, watching over us.”
The bartender replaced the dried glasses to the glass rack above him as Dev, somewhat unsettled by the possibility of Boston Al watching over them, checked either side of his shoulders to make sure no ghost was lurking around. There was no escaping the fact that he had cheated father time and was now in uncharted territory. Who would he relate to in this predicament? Walt? Had he made the trip as he had to the future in one piece? He hoped so, but right now he would have his hands full rescuing his company from its “woke” ruin.
The bar was filling up now and Dev was feeling warmed by the human activity surrounding him.
Over the next few days, Dev had fired everyone except the night cleaner and a college intern who turned up late one morning, oblivious to the ‘blood bath’ that had just taken place but who seemed to know his way around the tech side of things. Learning about the internet and mobile phones, Dev caught up to speed pretty quick. He was a sponge for information and could understand things at an impressive rate of knots. History was history and he'd now discovered the phenomena of YouTube which allowed him to catch up on the sixty years he'd missed whilst working his way through a bottle of scotch and several packs of Lucky Strikes.
A surprise meeting with the shareholders was called and as they all waited round Dev’s re-installed Sheraton table, the group’s anxiety levels were slowly rising.
With no idea what chaos had been occurring behind the scenes over the past few days, there was a palpable sense of dread from the persons assembled. No-one liked surprise meetings as it evoked the threat of a margin call.
“Good morning!”
Audible gasps were heard as the death defying appearance of Dev caught everyone off-guard.
“Let’s not waste time on how and why. We haven’t got time for exposition right now. Let me just assure you all, I am back for the long haul (pun intended) and I am very much still the CEO of this company. Now, I need you all to understand that when I last had control of everything with Godspeed, we were flying (once again, excuse the pun I can’t help myself), and now we might as well be converting our planes into submarines cos we’re sinking and sinking fast.
Being out of the loop for sixty years can certainly bring with it some disorientation, but I consider myself a man who could drop into pretty much any moment in world history and take control of things with a firm grip. And right now, we are about to raise a barn from the ashes. You obviously heard that God created the World in the space of a week. Well if it’s good enough for the big guy, then it’s good enough for me. My new friend here, Isaac, will run you through the six day strategy as I see it and then we’ll regroup.”
Leaving the pale looking and now surprisingly well-tailored Isaac to command his first board meeting, Dev left the building in search of a golf course. He always managed to clear his head whilst playing a round or two.
As he sat in the back of his Continental Mark II, gazing out at the pandemic ravaged city of Boston he pulled out the same dimpled golf ball Walt had given him as way of trophy for beating him so comprehensively that time at Greenbrier.
Then his ears pricked up as he recognised the familar voice of Frank Sinatra playing on the radio. He'd never heard the song before but the lyrics seem to fit his current state of mind.
If it takes forever I will wait for you
For a thousand summers I will wait for you
Till you're back, back beside me, till I'm holding you
Till I hear you sigh here in my arms
As he contemplated the golf ball, cosmic thoughts were forming in his mind.