Off Topic
June 30, 2055 -
Carlos Camacho steps into the office of Ron Collins, a fact that Collins comes to realize is true simply because he feels Camacho’s presence looming over the other side of his desk. He puts away the reports of development, and the pitch from Unem Ploid’s agent. He’s been studying, thinking hard about making extensions because he’s heard Ploid is considering making an agreement with Bertram “Bertie the Squirty” Myers, the CEO of SPREAD’EM Wide, Inc, and more importantly, the agent of Carlos Flores—who is also in Collins’s head when it comes to extensions. He's pretty sure that the idea of representing both of Sacramento's stars at the same time makes Bertie go more than squirty. If the two sit in the same representation stable, Collins is worried the company’s acronym will become something of a reality.
Finances are going to be tough next year as it stands.
“What is it?” Collins says to Camacho.
The Assistant GM runs fingers slowly down his mustaches, which are grand and iconic enough that the club has painted logos of them at various places around the Basilica. “I think you called me in to talk about my raise,” Camacho says.
“Your raise?”
“Your summons mentioned something along that line.”
“Your contract isn’t even due until next season.”
“Waiting until the last minute is sure to raise your blood pressure to dangerous levels. I’m willing to talk early as a preventative.”
“I see,” Collins says. He pushes back from his table to reduce his need to strain his neck, looking upward, then runs a hand over the back of that same neck. “And what did you have in mind?
Camacho’s eyes glisten, and for a moment, he feels the pull of gravity from someplace deep under the ballpark outside his window.
“I don’t know,” Camacho replies with an almost dismissive wave of his fingers. “Perhaps $621,172. 08?”
“Six hundred twenty one thousand, one hundred seventy two dollars and eight cents?”
“Well, now that you propose it, I will definitely have to take that number under consideration.”
“You’re only doing $220K now, right? Six hundred is more than I make!”
Camacho lifted his gaze as if to ponder the stars. “I'm sure you are right, but really," he waxed philosophically, "What are numbers but silly counting stats?”
“Two hundred percent is a promotion, not a raise.”
“You are so kind,” Camacho said. “I can see taking a higher office. Are you thinking something like Director of Baseball Operations?”
“That sounds a lot like the GM to me.”
“Well,” Camacho said with a sigh. “If you insist on me as a co-GM, I am obviously flattered. It does seem to make sense, though, seeing how sympatico we seem to be, am I right?”
Collins blinks. The headaches are coming on again. He puts his head into his hand as outside the window a green flash flares from the tallest tower outside center field.
“I see,” he finally replies. “Yeah. I guess that all makes sense. We can probably cut a player to make room in the budget.”
Camacho sighs. “Ask not what your team can do for you, am I right co-boss?”
“I’ll have Pascual draw up the papers,” Collins said, nodding in a daze.
A moment later, Camacho was gone.
All that remained was the lime-laced scent of his aftershave.
It was aftershave, right? Collins thought as he turned back to his work.
At least his headache was subsiding.
Carlos Camacho steps into the office of Ron Collins, a fact that Collins comes to realize is true simply because he feels Camacho’s presence looming over the other side of his desk. He puts away the reports of development, and the pitch from Unem Ploid’s agent. He’s been studying, thinking hard about making extensions because he’s heard Ploid is considering making an agreement with Bertram “Bertie the Squirty” Myers, the CEO of SPREAD’EM Wide, Inc, and more importantly, the agent of Carlos Flores—who is also in Collins’s head when it comes to extensions. He's pretty sure that the idea of representing both of Sacramento's stars at the same time makes Bertie go more than squirty. If the two sit in the same representation stable, Collins is worried the company’s acronym will become something of a reality.
Finances are going to be tough next year as it stands.
“What is it?” Collins says to Camacho.
The Assistant GM runs fingers slowly down his mustaches, which are grand and iconic enough that the club has painted logos of them at various places around the Basilica. “I think you called me in to talk about my raise,” Camacho says.
“Your raise?”
“Your summons mentioned something along that line.”
“Your contract isn’t even due until next season.”
“Waiting until the last minute is sure to raise your blood pressure to dangerous levels. I’m willing to talk early as a preventative.”
“I see,” Collins says. He pushes back from his table to reduce his need to strain his neck, looking upward, then runs a hand over the back of that same neck. “And what did you have in mind?
Camacho’s eyes glisten, and for a moment, he feels the pull of gravity from someplace deep under the ballpark outside his window.
“I don’t know,” Camacho replies with an almost dismissive wave of his fingers. “Perhaps $621,172. 08?”
“Six hundred twenty one thousand, one hundred seventy two dollars and eight cents?”
“Well, now that you propose it, I will definitely have to take that number under consideration.”
“You’re only doing $220K now, right? Six hundred is more than I make!”
Camacho lifted his gaze as if to ponder the stars. “I'm sure you are right, but really," he waxed philosophically, "What are numbers but silly counting stats?”
“Two hundred percent is a promotion, not a raise.”
“You are so kind,” Camacho said. “I can see taking a higher office. Are you thinking something like Director of Baseball Operations?”
“That sounds a lot like the GM to me.”
“Well,” Camacho said with a sigh. “If you insist on me as a co-GM, I am obviously flattered. It does seem to make sense, though, seeing how sympatico we seem to be, am I right?”
Collins blinks. The headaches are coming on again. He puts his head into his hand as outside the window a green flash flares from the tallest tower outside center field.
“I see,” he finally replies. “Yeah. I guess that all makes sense. We can probably cut a player to make room in the budget.”
Camacho sighs. “Ask not what your team can do for you, am I right co-boss?”
“I’ll have Pascual draw up the papers,” Collins said, nodding in a daze.
A moment later, Camacho was gone.
All that remained was the lime-laced scent of his aftershave.
It was aftershave, right? Collins thought as he turned back to his work.
At least his headache was subsiding.
