Free The Five Times I Met Myself by James L. Rubart

gray-skied Seattle afternoon was a desk piled with files and papers. Also unusual. Ron’s desk never had more than one file on it at a time. Brock turned to the right and spotted his brother slumped back into one of the two facing chairs in the corner of the office. A legal-size file folder rested on his leg.
    “Hey.”
    “Hey.” Ron’s head settled onto the back of the chair and rolled to the side. His eyes were vacant, his face pale in the dim light of the lamp to the left of his chair. Brock’s stomach knotted.
    “What’s wrong?”
    Ron stared at him before answering. “It’s not good, bro.”
    “What isn’t?”
    “This.” Ron held up the manila file.
    “And you’re holding . . .”
    “The lawyers sent it over this morning.”
    Brock eased forward two steps. “That’s who you’ve been meeting with for the past two weeks.”
    Ron nodded and tossed the file onto the floor next to his feet. The knot in Brock’s gut cinched tighter.
    “What does it say?”
    “I don’t know how to even start.” Ron raised his hands as if in total defeat.
    “Start anywhere.” Brock’s hands grew clammy.
    Ron motioned to the chair across from him and Brock stood behind it. Ron glanced at Brock, then at the file, then out the window, then back to Brock. He closed his eyes and jammed his lips together as he gave little shakes of his head.
    “Ron, talk to me. What is in there?”
    “Walking papers.”
    “For who?”
    “Us.” Ron blew out a long breath. “I wish it contained a lifeboat. But women and children first, right?”
    Brock asked the question even though he knew the answer. “What are you saying?”
    “I should have told you earlier so you could have come up with a final flavor.” Ron sat up with a sick expression on his face and pointed at Brock. “We’d have called it Titanic Morning.”
    A bowling ball appeared in Brock’s stomach. “I asked you about this.”
    “Yeah, you did.”
    “What exactly, and I mean exactly , are you telling me?”
    “I’m selling my company.”
    “You’re what?”
    “Selling my company.”
    “ Your company?”
    “Right. Sorry. Our company.” Ron gave a dismissive shake of his head and pushed a stack of papers to the side of his desk. “Doesn’t matter at this point.”
    “Yeah, it does matter.” Brock leaned forward, his hands resting on the back of the chair. “You want to explain to me what’s going on?”
    “Sit.” Ron stood, then flicked his finger at the chair across from him. “It’s not my choice.”
    “At least you have that part straight; it isn’t your choice. It’s our choice.”
    “Relax, Brock. Yes, it’s our choice. What I’m trying to say is there isn’t much choice left. At this point we can take one of two paths. Either sell for less than pennies on the dollar, or file for bankruptcy, which we wouldn’t climb out of. We’re right in the middle, right at the crossroads.” Ron ran his hand over his head and slumped into his black leather chair again. “Nah, we’re not in the middle. We’re at the end . . . and we lost. I lost. We sign papers in three days with an investment firm that’s going to take over.”
    “Let’s back up. Way back. How did I not know about this?”
    “I know.” Ron shrugged. “I should have told you earlier.”
    Brock picked up a bag of their coffee and shook it. “For the past year and a half you’ve told me things are as solid as they’ve ever been. Better than solid.”
    “I wasn’t entirely forthcoming.”
    Brock didn’t respond.
    “If it makes you feel any better, my house is gone. Or will be. I put it up to get some working capital. Yacht is gone, all but one car is gone. My vacation home is gone. You could put your houses up, but at this point it wouldn’t help.”
    “Again, what you talking about? This is ludicrous. Our sales have never been better. Crazy good. We’re adding new clients every month. Reviews of our coffee have never been this strong. We’ve launched three new