The Fighter Read Online Free PDF Page A

fill
his jacket pockets. At night, they collapsed into bed, newlyweds too exhausted
to do what might have come naturally.
    That
first winter Jack made the rounds of local bars and restaurants. Though many
owners expressed skepticism at the idea of southern Ontario wine— What's your next plan, one said, growing taters
on the moon? —Jack's
salesmanship resulted in a flurry of orders. Springtime found them back in the
fields. When Barb saw that first yellow bud flowering on the vine she broke
into a giddy jig that collapsed her husband into reckless laughter.
    It
was a success from the outset. The wine was clean and crisp, made distinctive
by the soil of a virgin growing region. The first vintage sold out by
mid-winter; retail orders tripled. Word of their success spread, and the
farmers who'd scoffed at Jack's plan were soon selling their own farms to those
hoping to copy Jack's business model. Ripple Creek became the first, and was
still the most successful, winery in Ontario.
    Paul
was four years old when the family moved from their tiny home in the field—which
was really no longer a field but rather an estate—into their massive gated
manor.
     

     
    The
winery offices were built on the foundation of Paul's childhood home: his
father, no teary-eyed nostalgic, had had it bulldozed. The foyer was paneled
with oak slats bellying outward: visitors often remarked that they felt as
though they were inside a wine cask— indeed, the intended effect.
    Their
receptionist, Callie, was pale with long blond hair, skinny but in a good way
and cute. Her perfume held the bracing aroma of a car air freshener. Paul often
fantasized about her: passing each other in the narrow hallway, their bodies
brush accidentally-on-purpose and next thing they're on each other, kissing and
clutching, ducking into the supply room where he gives it to her bent over the
photocopier.
    "Mr.
Harris," she said. "Are you all right?"
    "Not
to worry. A mild misunderstanding."
    "You
were in a fight?"
    Paul
didn't care for her tone of voice: incredulous, as if he'd told her his night
had been spent spinning gold out of hay.
    "There
was a ... an altercation."
    He
couldn't quite bring himself to say fight. The word implied an exchange of
blows, mutual bloodshed. Beating better expressed the reality.
Mauling. Shellacking.
    "Are
you hurt?"
    "It's
nothing much. You should see the other guy."
    "Is
that so?"
    Paul
was filled with a sudden dreadful certainty that Callie had been there last
night. She'd witnessed the whole sad affair and now could only smile as he
stood there lying through his teeth.
    His
office was located off the lobby. On the desk: Macintosh computer and blotter,
German beer stein, three high school rowing trophies bought at a thrift store.
These were his father's idea, whose own trophies—for wrestling, and
legitimately won—sat on his own desk in a much bigger office down the hall. His
father thought athletic trophies accorded a desk, and by proxy its owner, that
Go- Get-'Em attitude.
    The
nameplate on his desk read paul Harris ,
and under his name, in small engraved letters, his title: organizational adviser. When he'd questioned his father
regarding the precise duties of an OA, he was told it was crucial that he
"keep his fingers in a lot of pies, organizationally speaking." But
since his father had his own fingers in every important pie at Ripple Creek,
Paul's were relegated to inconsequential ones: the "Refill the Toner
Cartridge" pie; the "Reorder Staff Room Coffee but Not the Cheap
Guadeloupian Stuff Because It Gives His Dad the Trots" pie.
    His
nameplate may as well have read tour guide .
Every so often a buyer happened by and Paul was ordered to show him around.
He'd lead a tour through the distillery with its high cathedral ceilings and
halogen lights, pointing out the presses and pumps and hissing PVC tubes,
rapping the stainless steel kettles and commenting on their sturdy
craftsmanship. He'd lift the lid on a boiler and stir its dark