No Way Back by Matthew Klein Page A

purpose.
    With Amanda watching, I set up my desk. Which means: I open my briefcase, take out a spiral notebook, and lay two Ticonderoga Number 2 Soft pencils at an angle across the first blank page. Next
to it I place a battery-powered pencil sharpener. Finally, I take from my briefcase the photograph of me and my wife. I place it at the far corner of my desk.
    Amanda leans over and studies the photo with great interest. She says: ‘Wow. Nice picture,’ in a way that suggests it is not.
    ‘Yeah,’ I say. Still, I feel the need to explain, to apologize for the photo. ‘Actually, we didn’t bring a lot of photographs with us. We packed light.’
    ‘Is that your wife?’ she asks.
    ‘Libby.’
    Deadpan: ‘She seems so happy.’
    For the first time I realize that Amanda may actually have a sense of humour.
    ‘And why is Satan in the background?’ she continues.
    ‘That’s not Satan,’ I say, evenly. ‘He’s a satyr. Half-man, half-beast. From Greek mythology. You know Greek mythology, don’t you Amanda?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘They love wine.’
    ‘Do they?’
    ‘And dancing in the woods naked. And music.’
    ‘Hmm,’ she says.
    ‘Amanda,’ I say, ‘don’t you have a reception desk to monitor?’
    She curtsies primly, and without a word leaves my office.
    I sit at my new desk. Spread before me is Tao’s old marketing material – nearly a half-million dollars’ worth of glossy folders, three-colour inserts, and
slick brochures – offset-printed chum on the water. It explains how Tao’s P-Scan can identify the faces in any photograph. It goes on to describe how, by using Tao technology, online
media companies can enliven social networks, increase user ‘stickiness’, reduce account churn, and increase customer eyeballs. I was hoping we might be able to save a few bucks and
re-use this marketing material for our new customers – multi-national banks – but all the talk about stickiness and eyeballs nauseates me, and I think it unlikely.
    My cellphone rings. I look at the Caller ID. The number is unfamiliar. ‘Jim Thane,’ I say.
    ‘Jimmy Thane,’ a loud, raspy voice shoots back, ‘how’re you holding up?’
    It’s Gordon Kramer. Gordon’s my sponsor. Which means he’s somewhere between dear friend and parole officer.
    ‘Gordon,’ I say. ‘It’s great to hear your voice.’
    I’ve known Gordon for seven years. He was at my first meeting, in the YMCA basement in San Jose, which I attended two weeks after Cole died, when I realized how low I had fallen. Somehow
Gordon stuck with me, despite my best efforts to shake him loose. Over the years, we’ve grown close. Maybe it’s because he’s an ex-cop, like my father. There’s something
familiar and comforting about his presence – his bulk, his silver hair, his tired eyes and seen-it-all-before expression.
    ‘I’m calling to check up on you,’ Gordon says.
    ‘I’m doing great.’
    ‘Anything to report?’
    He’s asking if I’ve had a drink, or smoked crank, or placed a bet, or cheated on Libby – or even come close to any of those things.
    ‘I’ve been fine,’ I say.
    ‘Good. Good.’ He thinks about it. ‘Work stressful?’
    ‘A little.’
    ‘Because, you know, that’s when it happens.’
    ‘I do know.’
    ‘You’re a superman in the office, and the pressure builds up, and you need a little help, need to take the edge off.’
    ‘Right,’ I say. It’s hard to have a frank conversation with Gordon about meth addiction while I’m sitting in an office with my door wide open. People listen to the
CEO’s phone calls. So it’s probably best that I don’t insist loudly that my drug problem is under control.
    ‘Can’t talk, can you?’ Gordon says. Still the ex-cop.
    ‘Right,’ I say again.
    ‘Fine. We’ll talk later. In the meantime, I got that phone number for you.’
    ‘What phone number?’
    ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about,’ he roars.
    Damn. I promised Gordon I would