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Concrete Hurricane

Douglas J. Ogurek

    “Christ has no body on earth but yours, no hands but yours, no feet but yours.”
    ~ St. Therese of Avila

    Damp gray hair extended three inches beyond a woman’s forehead. Her cheeks shook. “So just get one of your minions to do it.” She laughed, yet her lips barely parted, and her face showed no expression. Five people in business wear stood around her. They laughed.
    Behind the group, a gray wall topped with windows that displayed a gray sky rose twenty feet over a studio. Billowing metal partitions carved out niches in which individuals stared at monitors and investigated floor plans on granite tabletops.
    The woman hid her hand in her sweater’s sleeve and looked at a gray football jersey encased in glass. “Joe predicted we’d win by 21. And we would have, if they didn’t try that flashy play in the first period.”
    A man tapped a tablet. “This guy, the sports writer? He said it was a noble attempt in the first quarter. It would’ve been great if they pulled it off.”
    “Know what Joe says about newspapers?” The gray-haired woman spun the sleeve, which made a clicking sound. “He says that the guy who has no education is better off than the guy who gets his education from a newspaper.”
    They laughed. One man with white-framed glasses and a white swirl on his tie laughed a “kh-kh-kh” sound. His white swirl cufflinks glistened and he used a handkerchief to wipe sweat from his face.
    The gray-haired woman’s cell phone emitted the sound of thunder. She puffed her cheeks, then blew into it. “What? Unf—why? I want to know why.” More spinning and clicking. “This is unfathomable. It’s not like she’s missing math or science. Beethoven . . . Beethoven’s . . . your daughter misses one recital? Trust me. Beethoven won’t rise from the dead to punish you.”
    A young man with a stiff gait approached the group. The man with the sweaty face pulled him aside. “Parrot, where’s that tie? I told you to wear that tie.”
    “I got something on it. I told you at the fundraiser.”
    The woman, still on the phone, remained expressionless and raised her voice. “This is common sense. You say you’re going to get his shirts cleaned today, you do it. It’s common sense.”
    The sweaty man, emitting a closed-mouth squeak, showed Parrot a magazine in which a man leaned on a concrete slab. Headline: “The King of Common Sense.” Callout: “‘In the whirlwind that is the building process, concrete remains the material with the biggest whomp.’ – Joe Branditch, president/CEO, Kiddon Slab.” Joe Branditch’s shirt bore the white swirl. His crossed arms concealed his hands, and exposed a bracelet with four gray squares.
    A crown of lightning bolts branded the sweaty man’s glasses. He dipped them in a glass of water, and then, squeaking, tapped the photograph. “Now I thought I told you to wear that tie.”
    “I . . . got to have it cleaned.”
    “Tell me you got the coffee, yes?”
    Parrot nodded, then snapped the rubber band on his wrist as he shuffled off.
    He returned with a canvas tote that said “Pine Haven Foods” in rainbow colors. He pulled out a package labeled Count Plush Coffee, then flipped it. “All right, Rich. We got Sumptuous Cinnamon Caramel Swirl. We got–”
    “Bwh-whoa, whoa-ah.” Rich fluttered his handkerchief near the tote. “What’s that? I said Styrian Imports.”
    “I got it cheaper here. And they do this thing. This ‘Shop for the Show?’”
    “Generally speaking, you should generally . . . do . . .”
    “The high school gets a percentage of what you pay. The theater program? It’s ‘Shop for the Show.’”
    “Now I understand you’re a great patron of the arts. And I appreciate Pine Haven’s support of tomorrow’s Oscar winners, but let’s be . . . the word is sensible, yes?” Rich squeaked, and waved the handkerchief toward the woman, still on the phone. “Let’s think about this.”
    The woman’s cheeks swelled. “Well the receipts are wrong then. Trust me. If my hus . . . my husband . . . my husband said it’s supposed to be ready today, then it is.”
***
    The conference room’s windows displayed a light snow and buildings rising into a sky as gray as the room’s walls. Parrot brought in three boards, and the gray-haired woman grumbled and expanded her cheeks. “He doesn’t look like a Parrot.”
    Rich flourished his handkerchief. “You are absolutely right, Mary Jo. But Parrot is one of our highest flying designers.” Then he laughed “kh-kh-kh.”
    “Well if he flies too high . . .”
    A young woman entered. She wore a bright green and orange sweater and a snowman pin. She had two funnel-shaped coffee cups and a plastic bottle filled with dark green liquid. “Happy Monday, everyone. Mr. Givins, you get Luxurious Deluge. And House Twist for you, Ms. Branditch.”
    “Mrs. Mrs. Branditch. And where’s the stirrer? Didn’t you leave room for cream?”
    “I’m so sorry. Here, I’ll get you another.”
    “No no no. I’ll just deal with this.”
    Parrot accepted the bottle, then placed his hand around its label. “Thanks Penny. Penny’s our administrative assistant . . . for now. She just got done with finals.”
    Branditch grumbled. “Secretary.”
    “She’s studying to be an architect.”
    Branditch, straight-faced, looked at the young lady’s yellow boots and released puffs of air. “Maybe before she becomes the next Frank Lloyd Wright, she should take a course in common sense.”
    As she backed out of the room, Penny, her lips contorted, stumbled. “Great I hope great day . . . your day’s great.”
    “Now go play in the snow.”
    Rich Givins squeaked. “Sometimes I think those bold colors? They kind of seep into her head.” He sipped his coffee. “Oh bow-WOM. This is exquisite, yes? Parrot, this is the stuff I told you about. Count Plush? Have you ever had this, Mary Jo?”
    Branditch stood, approached a photo of a building. Her gray hair touched the gray wall. “Who supplied the concrete for this?”
    “I’m not even . . . they were . . . what’s the word? We just had a lot of problems with them. Never again.”
    “You’ve learned from your mistake, then.” She stretched her hand over a cube-shaped gray candle. “Joe likes these. I gave him two.”
    “Oh those? Where did we get those? Sssss . . .” The handkerchief flapped. “Styrian? Styrian Imports, yes. Don’t they have common sense written all over them?”
    “They’re on his desk. They’re from me.” Branditch returned to her seat, then pulled up her sleeve. Four concrete squares sat on her wrist. She touched the letters embedded in the squares. “B, budget. S, strength. Time. Appearance. These, I want to keep these top-of-mind today.”
    Parrot curled the bottle toward his arm as he sipped.
    “S-T-A-B. Stab. That’s a way to remember these. The things with the biggest whomp when it comes to architecture.” She took two more bracelets out of her purse. “Now I want you two to wear these.”
    Parrot snapped the rubber band on his wrist.
    Givins held a bracelet in his steepled hands. “Absolutely. Let’s do it. It’ll keep us focused, yes Parrot? Help us think more concretely. Kh-kh-kh.”
    “I’ll just, what if I just keep mine here?” Parrot set his next to his drink.
    Branditch’s cheeks swelled. “What did your minion give you to drink there?”
    “This? Yeah, it’s called Green Indeed. A puree. It’s got a lot of vitamins, and it tastes good. And it’s super healthy.”
    “Sounds what I’d call . . . playful.”
    “Would you like one?”
    “No no. But I bet our daughter, she’d like it. She’s in third grade.”
    “I suppose. There’s apple in here, and grape. Even some veggies. I suppose . . . she’ll like it.” Parrot set the bottle behind a framed “Silver Award” from the Illinois Concrete Institute.
    Branditch, puffing her cheeks, touched her bracelet and stared at Parrot. “Joe, my husband Joe? He says that people who reject these things? They reject common sense. Do you reject common sense?”
    Givins traced the swirl on his tie. “Ahhh . . . Parrot’s . . . he’s a sensible designer, yes Parrot? Like budget-conscious sensible? Like timely sensible?”
    “Well, yeah yeah. Noted.” Parrot put on the bracelet.
***
    While Parrot presented the first two concepts, Givins often commented on how the “STAB” parameters applied. When Parrot responded to Branditch’s questions, her face remained expressionless, though her cheeks swelled occasionally. She also answered calls: two during which she repeatedly mentioned Mr. Kidwell, and one that ended with her saying, “I’ll tell you what. You failed. You failed to have it done on time, so you, you or one of your minions, will deliver it to him. And you will do it free of charge. That only makes sense.”
***
    Snow swirled outside the windows. Parrot set the third concept board on an easel, then gave Branditch a paper copy. “Now this one, it’s all about the kids. Truly. I think they’ll like it.”
    Givins wiped his cheek. “If I can? Just real quick, Mary Jo. This is strong aesthetically. It’s got this oomph, whoomph. No whomp, I mean. Whomp, with its aesthetic appearance? And it’s still strong.”
    Parrot jiggled his bracelet. “It’s mostly precast concrete. But this one’s also got this feature wall here. I’m thinking metal panels for this. Zinc, maybe. With this color, and the kids–”
    “I’m concerned.” Branditch leaned forward until her hair covered the children in the sketch on the table. “We’ve got a tight tight schedule. I’m concerned. I’m concerned about this slowing things down.”
    “These things, these panels? They go up quick. Quicker than concrete, actually. You just snap them right on.” Parrot used a green marker to write “Thrive” on a flip chart. “This green? They call this ‘Thrive’ green.’”
    “But what’s its function?”
    “It’s really for the kids. It’s inspiring. A fun entry statement.”
    Givins steepled his hands beneath his chin and nodded. “Inspiring, aesthetically, and time-sensitive.”
    “I’m not convinced. I’m talking about its function. Its building function. My hus—function. Form follows function. That only makes sense.”
    Parrot snapped the rubber band. “I think, to create an inspiring educational environment today? Form and function go hand in hand.” He flipped his green marker, then caught it. “It’s a strong entry statement. And it’s just cool.”
    “Just cool.” Branditch released a smileless laugh. “I can tell you this. I can tell you metal’s not as strong as concrete.”
    “Well, yeah, yeah. I suppose not technically. I’m talking about image here.”
    “They didn’t build the Colosseum with metal panels, did they?”
    Givins tapped his glasses, and, while the snow snicked against the window, released a quiet squeak.
    Branditch pulled her sleeves over her hands. “Trust me. You can get that same look much cheaper with concrete.”
    “There’s a tiny cost difference, and the metal’s got this gream—gleam, I mean. Gleam.”
    “You can’t convince . . . my husband likes to say, ‘Durable trumps flashy.’”
    “Noted. The panels are durable.” Parrot flipped the marker higher, caught it.
    “As board president, I’m concerned about this. What about the sun? Now I can see that color fading. Then there’s water. The rain and snow . . .”
    “If you’re worried about . . .”
    “Rain and snow . . .”
    “. . . have these special coatings.”
    “Rain and snow . . .”
    “. . . special resins . . .”
    “The rain and snow hit that? I’m concerned about rust.”
    Parrot sipped the Green Indeed. “I see your concern. But they’ve done studies. This stuff’s coated with these special resins. They protect against humidity, temperature, UV rays, all that.”
    Branditch’s sleeve lashed the sketch. “These kids . . . are gonna . . . scratch it up. Durable trumps flashy.”
    “Zinc’s self-healing. Over time, any scratches just blend in.” Parrot looked at his drink. “Besides, I think if the design respects them, they’ll respect it.”
    “I’ll tell you what. Kids, I know. Kids will not respect it. Kids . . . you cannot convince me otherwise.”
    Givins tapped his bracelet. “Parrot, let’s put this in perspective real quick, yes? Generally speaking, kids are, for lack of a better word, wild.”
    “This stuff, it holds up. I can show you examples. With weathering, and in rough communities. I think the kids–”
    A bang beneath the table by Branditch. “I’m gonna tell you, it looks expensive. As board president, I have to be aware of taxpayer perceptions. That just makes sense. Taxpayers. What do you think taxpayers will say when they see your . . . wall?”
    Parrot, stretching his hand over the bottle’s label, took a sip. “I suppose . . . I just wanted to design it for the kids. It’s not that expensive, and it’s durable. But it’s got something beyond that. There’s something inspiring here. When the kids see–”
    The sound of thunder from Branditch’s phone cut off Parrot. She exhaled into it. “Where’s Mr. Kidwell? I want to talk to Mr. Kidwell.”
    Givins stuck a finger in his coffee, then rubbed it on his forehead. Parrot mouthed “one second” to Givins, then walked out.
    “Now I’ll tell you what. I understand you’re a secretary . . . secretary, and secretaries aren’t what I’d call the brains of the operation. I’ll tell you what my husband said. He said when our son comes home with . . . comes home with a slip asking for permission to attend some musical? There’s cause for concern there.”
    Parrot returned with a magazine.
    “As board . . . as board . . . I want to talk to Mr. Kidwell and I want to talk to Mr. Kidwell now.” Branditch ended the conversation, then pressed the phone into her hair. Then she grumbled and gripped her keys.
    Parrot set the magazine on the table. “Here. You can see the artificial weathering here. It’s like twenty years here, and it still looks new.” He flipped the marker—it nearly hit the ceiling—then caught it.
    “You know the kind of schools my husband and I attended? Tiny brick . . . tiny little buildings, with none of this these extras. Just bare bones.”
    Givins tapped his glasses and bowed toward Branditch. “Sounds remarkably similar to my school.”
    She struck the air with her keys. “No flashy walls, none of these flashy colors.”
    “I suppose . . .” Parrot picked the bottle’s label. “But today, with baby boomers?”
    “Today . . .”
    “There’s this call . . .”
    “Today . . .”
    “. . . more inspiring stuff.”
    “Today, my husband is a principal at a successful company. He’s in charge of over three hundred people.”
    Parrot snapped the rubber band.
    “This is a school, not the Gugglenhein [sic]. Trust me. As board president, I’m out there. I talk to these Budron Cove people. What they want is bare bones. Form follows function.”
    “But when Sullivan said that? ‘Form follows function?’ I think he meant the facility—the way it looks?—should reflect its purpose. For a school, it’s about inspiration.”
    Givins flapped the handkerchief. “Actually, it kind of reminds me of a UFO.” The “kh-kh-kh” laugh. “Really, nobody wants their kids going to school in a spaceship, yes?”
    Parrot held the other two boards next to the one on the easel. “Here. If you were a kid, which one would you like best?”
    Branditch plunked the keys on the sketch and remained straight-faced. “Unfathomable. I’m not a kid. I have something called common sense. Now maybe with your Sullivan, and your little green drink, you don’t understand that. As board president though? I’m responsible, and I’m concerned.” Her key chain was a gem shape atop a curving funnel.
    Givins dabbed his forehead. “I can see where you’re coming from, Mary Jo. It’s a bit . . . what’s the word? Indulgent, or feisty. Too feisty.”
    The rubber band snapped. “Here. These are like wings. The Budron Cove falcon? It’s a wing, see? It’s inspiring . . . soaring and . . . potential.”
    “I’m board president, and I’ll tell you what. These people . . . you use the word ‘inspiring,’ they’ll think your head’s in the clouds. Maybe you’re flying too high, Parrot.”
    Parrot peeled off the bottle’s label.
    “Tell me. When people come to me—I’m the board president—asking why their school looks like a spaceship, what should I tell them?”
    Sounds of wind and sleet.
    “I’d like you to convince me. When these people, common sense people who paid for this school, complain that it looks too expensive, what should I as board president tell them?”
    While Parrot took a sip, Givins’s squeak joined the hisses and gusts. Then Parrot flipped the marker. “Tell them it’s all about exploration.” The marker hit the ceiling. Parrot toppled the bottle as he lunged for the marker. The marker deflected off his hand, then hit Branditch’s sleeve.
    A green puddle expanded on the table, and if you looked closely at the sleeve that covered Branditch’s hand, you could see a green dot, approximately three millimeters in diameter.

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