The Five Times I Met Myself Read Online Free

Beside his shoes was a brass putting cup.
    Ron glanced at the CFO before lining up one of his golf balls. “Anything else you need from me?”
    “No, I’m fully prepared.” He sniffed. “I’ll implement the changes right away.”
    Ron drew the putter back and sent the pristine ball toward the cup. The ball slowed, crawled up the short ramp, and dropped into the center.
    “Thank you, Richard.”
    “Of course.”
    Their CFO turned like a marionette on strings, then waddled toward the door. When he was within a few feet of Brock, he nodded but didn’t look into Brock’s eyes.
    “Brock.”
    “Richard.”
    As soon as the CFO stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him, Brock strode toward Ron. “What changes?”
    Ron rubbed his thick, short dark hair, then pulled another ball in front of him. His trademark business attire was black slacks, black shoes, and long-sleeved business shirts that were some variation of blue. Light blue, dark blue, checkered blue, blue stripes. At least he didn’t wear ties.
    Brock would come to work in nicely pressed jeans and T-shirts if he could get away with it. But his brother didn’t embrace the casual look, so Brock donned the proper clothes when he was in the office. But on his frequent trips along the equator—visiting the coffee farms where Black Fedora’s beans came from—his myriad T-shirts reigned supreme. Maybe he’d start dressing up someday. But at fifty-three, he didn’t think the dog would be learning any new tricks.
    “What changes, Ron?”
    Ron sent the ball at his feet toward the brass ring. He missed left.
    Brock’s brother sighed and set the putter against the back wall. “Saving eight million dollars a year.”
    “By doing what?”
    “We’re going to change our buying patterns for a few cycles.”
    “You can’t be serious.” Brock held out his hands and shook his head. “You mean we’re going to start buying beans from companies that employ slave labor to harvest their crop.”
    “Let me explain.”
    Heat rose in Brock, but he forced his voice to stay calm. “By purchasing our coffee from independent, worker-owned fields, we give them freedom. Their prices are five percent higher than what we would pay from other suppliers, but the extra money allows them to purchase land and change their lives. Radically.”
    “I know what the program does.”
    Brock ignored him. “The average yearly take-home wage for a worker harvesting beans is $1,200. But once they own just fifty acres, their yearly take-home jumps to $9,500.”
    “Brock? I was there when you set up the program.”
    Brock snapped his fingers. “Just like that they jump off the treadmill of barely making enough to survive. They make enough to save, to buy a small home, to send their children to school.”
    “Let me repeat: I know what the program does.”
    “I don’t think you do. If you did, you wouldn’t be suggesting we scrap it for even one day. What we do for the people down there is one of the foundational values of this company.”
    “We don’t have a choice.”
    “What?”
    “We need to switch. Just for a few cycles. Then we’ll get back to—”
    “Are we in trouble?” A chill wound through Brock.
    “Nah, not bad. Things are thin, yes, but just because of our recent expansions.” He walked toward Brock.
    “Don’t mess with me, Ron. What’s going on?”
    “Brock. Relax.” Ron opened his hands. “Things are fine. But we just laid out six million for expansion into the Philippines , and another eight for Japan. Return on those investments will be substantial, but they won’t start to trickle in for five, maybe even six quarters. And I am not one to let this company skate along on anything less than five hundred thousand in reserves. It’s the way Dad always did it, it’s the way we’ll always do it. That way we avoid the places where the ice gets dangerously thin.”
    “Turning our back on the heart of this company isn’t who we are.”
    “A few