Benny paused long enough to unwrap a cigar and plant one end between his teeth. The other end began to describe circles in the air as he plunged into virgin territory. “Here’s how we do it. I call numbers at random, ask them if they can define the word ‘begonia,’ send them scampering to their dictionaries, arouse their curiosity about the wonders of nature, suggest that they call several of their closest friends and start an indoor gardening club, invite this expanding network of plant-lovers down to the station, show them around the premises, take them over to meet our sponsor, and in no time at all ‘Benny’s Begonias’ is the talk of Kirkland and the bottom line is decorated with the color black and the Kingdom of God has been reconstituted on a capitalist basis.” “Numbers do not like being called at random,” observed Bright. He was busy scribbling on his writing pad. “You scored a point, Dennis.” Benny gestured toward the pad with his unlit cigar. “What’s the score by now?” Bright consulted his pad. “The score is five to one in favor of management, who’s sitting here checking the numbers, which at this point in time simply do not add up!” He glanced up at Benny, who had returned the cigar to its natural position between his teeth. “The one thing in your favor is the fact that you got the gift.” He looked back down at his pad and frowned and began to sketch the outline of what appeared to be an evergreen. “The question is, finding the tree to put it under.” Benny consulted his fingernails. He might have been thinking, That’s a very good question. Or, That’s the story of my life. Or perhaps, When was the last time I cleaned my nails? Possibly even, Would this be a good time to light my cigar? The one thing certain is that he wasn’t just being modest. Bright’s chair became untilted. “Come back tomorrow with an idea,” he said. “A halfway decent idea wins you a one-hour slot and maybe a little extra pocket money.” He placed his elbows on the desk and cupped his chin within his two sets of knuckles and gazed at his employee, following the instructions on page 127 of The Personnel Manager’s Manual. Benny removed his feet from the desk, following his instincts. “What about two ideas?” “Sure. Give me a choice.” Benny removed the cigar from between his teeth and gazed at it thoughtfully. “Think you could handle a dozen?” Dennis Bright consulted his appointment calendar. “My schedule only allows for a lunch hour.” He looked up. “Tell you what, Benny. Hold it to two ideas and everybody goes home happy. Okay?” He flashed a facsimile of a smile. Benny stood up and stretched. “Great,” he agreed with a yawn. Then he saluted, clicked his heels, did an abrupt about-face, and ambled out of Bright’s office. § Benny Good had enjoyed a long and distinguished career as a truck driver. He had roamed the interstate highway system of America, transported a wide selection of its products from east to west and back again, eaten in a high percentage of its better truck stops, made the acquaintance of many of its friendliest truck stop waitresses, and talked his way out of more than his share of speeding tickets.
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