Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance (34 page)

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The next few months are a whirlwind. Lawyers, shareholders, investors, clients, donors, Mom sets up meetings with all of them and lets me outline my plan for them. A plan which she helped me shape and articulate: we set up a non-profit corporation—which we name Beyond Thirty-One, for obvious reasons—dedicated to raising money, gathering supplies, and recruiting volunteers and skilled tradespeople, all for disaster relief efforts.
 

Mom meeting Utah was pretty funny. I fully expected Mom to hate the big hairy dog, but they seem to have bonded. Mom takes Utah to doggy salons for pampering, and takes her for walks around her glitzy neighborhood. Mom, in four-thousand-dollar heels, walking a mammoth beast like Utah who, in turn, is wearing a Swarovksi crystal-encrusted harness, pulling my elegant mother along, tongue lolling, sniffing, pissing. It’s hysterical. But it’s also helpful, because it lets me work without having to put Utah in doggy daycare or hire a professional dog walker.
 

And yes, for the interim, I’m living with my mother. Nearly thirty-two, and I’m living with Mommy. But honestly? It’s great. Her house is so large that we both have our own privacy, and I’m not ready to be alone just yet.

We found a floor for lease in an office building in LA where we’ll headquarter Beyond Thirty-One, and Mom lines up about a thousand interviews for interns and office staff. But then, instead of helping me with those interviews, she hands me a printout with a few sample interview questions, and tells me she has her own businesses to run, so I’ll have to handle this part myself.
 

The first dozen interviews are a mess. I’m nervous, have no idea what to say, or what to ask, or what I’m looking for. But by the time I’ve interviewed the hundredth person, I’ve got the hang of it.
 

A week of interviews, and I’ve got my staff, a couple dozen young, talented, passionate kids with fire in their bellies for the work we’re going to do.

Now I’ve just got to get the financial structure in place, and that’s where Mom comes in. I’m not planning on doing this small. This isn’t going to be a handful of college kids raising a few thousand bucks to install some wells. This is going to be on an epic scale, with major money for major impact. I’m going to need a board of directors, as well as serious investors and donors.
 

But they can’t be idle ghost partners, or uninterested, invisible, never present investors. They have to be involved. They have to understand.
 

Mom has to understand.

And that’s when I come up with another idea.
 

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Uganda

One month later

“You look ridiculous, Mom.” I grab her arm and direct her back into the hotel. “You can’t wear that. This isn’t Beverly Hills.”
 

She balks. “Clearly, Lachlan. But I will not comprise my appearance simply because we—”

“Your appearance will not matter. And you’ll be miserable wearing that out there. Trust me on this.”

This being Africa, it’s a little hot outside, and Mom is wearing a Chanel pantsuit, Louboutin heels, and a massive straw hat,
à la
Audrey Hepburn. Pearls. Jesus, the woman is wearing pearls. We’re in Uganda to help out with relief efforts connected to the ongoing civil wars in the north. We’re not going to the front lines by any stretch of the imagination, but we’ll be close enough for Mom and the other potential investors to get an impression of the kind of relief work I want to do.
 

All the board members and major investors are here as part of what I’m calling, as CEO, an “operational awareness exercise”. Meaning, get the rich, sheltered assholes out of their cushy Malibu Barbie lives and make them see what they’re investing in, what we’re doing. So far, I’m no one’s favorite person. When these people travel, especially on a long trip like this, there are five-star accommodations waiting, limos and helicopters and massages and Mai Tais and cool pools and white sand beaches. But not on this trip. Here, there’s dust, dirt, brutal baking heat, smelly, broken-down buses, tiny, cramped, hot rooms in ramshackle, run-down, roach-infested hotels. Languages they don’t understand, food they don’t understand, cultures they don’t understand. They’re no more than ignorant white foreigners here, and no one cares how much money they have.
 

And Mom is the worst complainer of all of them.
 

And we haven’t even gotten to the relief station, yet.
 

It’s another two and half hours of jouncing, jolting, and sweating in a pair of thirty-year-old Land Cruisers. Everyone is wilted, cranky, and glaring daggers at me.
 

We finally arrive at a rearward aid station, primarily used for dispersing supplies and volunteers to the stations closer to the worst of the fighting. When the vehicle is parked, we all hop out and stretch, working the kinks out of our backs.
 

A tall black man approaches, dressed in faded khakis and a blue and white striped collared shirt, head shaved, sweating, with a clipboard in one hand.
 

“You are Lock Montgomery, I think, yes?”

I extend my hand, try not to wince from the pressure of his crushing grip. “Yeah, I’m Lock. You’re Peter?”

He nods vigorously. “Yes, yes. Peter Obote. Thank you for coming, we very much need your assistance today. There was a bomb set off in Gulu, many dead, many more injured. Now the fighting has got worse than ever, and all the aid stations are past full. We are a small place here, and there are not many of us to do the work.” He eyes my companions, none of them under fifty, all of them inappropriately dressed for the location, the work, and the weather, and all of them looking frightened and out of place, especially when a truck full of UN peacekeeping forces rumbles past, hauling soldiers carrying fully automatic weapons. “You are sure about this, Mr. Lock? You, maybe this is good work. Them? I am not so sure.”
 

“I’m sure, Peter. Lead the way. We’re here to help.”
 

He leads the way into a low cinderblock building covered by a corrugated tin roof. Inside is a jumbled, chaotic mess of crates and boxes, cases of water, canned goods, medicine, food, and medical supplies.
 

Peter points with his clipboard. “We have convoys of supplies coming and going all the time, and we do not have enough manpower to even organize this. It is a mess, and when they come to get supplies for other stations, it is most impossible to find anything.”

“You need it organized?”

“I would be most grateful, yes. I have a group of children coming as well, to help with this work.”
     

And then Peter is gone, and I’m left with nine rich old white people who have never lifted anything heavier than a bottle of wine, and a mountain of supplies to organize.

I clap my hands. “Well, folks, this is why we’re here. Let’s get this party started. Milton, Henry, Vic, why don’t you start piling those cases of water by the wall near the door? Jane, Mom, Amy, Martha, get these medical supplies sorted and stacked—like with like, as much as possible. Bob, Thierry, Elaine, we’ll work on the food supplies, get them stacked and organized in the back. And…don’t hurt yourselves, but don’t wimp out on me. Yeah?”
 

The next two hours are brutal. Everyone complains and no one wants to put their back into anything; this is probably the first time most of them have done hard physical labor in their lives. And then, all at once, a huge gaggle of Ugandan children arrive, everyone shouting and chattering in their native language, a good twenty of them all shepherded by two older women wearing headscarves and severe expressions. The kids don’t bat an eye when they see us. The women in charge of them immediately size up the work we’re doing and divide their charges into several groups and instruct them to help us.
 

Those kids put us adults to shame, even me. They work like dogs, scrambling as if their lives depended on it, working in effortless unison when something is too heavy for one person.
 

This is the first breakthrough.

The second comes the next day when Peter sends us with a convoy carrying supplies to a nearby village. More hours by truck, in the dust and heat. And then we’re in among the straw huts, surrounded by curious faces and strange voices, hands reaching out desperately. The convoy helpers push back the crowd, and now I can see why Peter sent us here; I think he understood my purpose in bringing the board members here rather well. This village was obviously hit hard by a recent battle of some kind, and one that wasn’t localized to organized adult male fighters.

Nearly everyone is sporting a bandage of some kind. Faces are still bloody and bruised and swollen. Limbs are missing. Agony and desperation is on every face. Thirst. Starvation. There are very few adult men, and the few I see are crippled by injury. Women, children, the elderly. All battered and cut and wounded.
 

I watch the faces of my board members; they are horrified. Shocked. Distraught.
 

They move on autopilot, following the instructions of the aid workers. Handing out food and water, helping set up a medical tent, assisting the medics in re-wrapping bandages, checking wounds, dispersing medicine. I see tears. Vomiting. Shaking.
 

I see Mom with a male aid worker, who seems to be translating for the woman Mom is helping. The woman has a bandage wrapped around her head, speaking rapidly, gesturing. The more she speaks, the more upset I watch my mother become. If I’m reading the woman’s gestures correctly, she’s telling my mother about being struck on the head, thrown to the ground, and likely raped. When the medical aid worker finishes re-wrapping the woman’s bandage, Mom leans in and hugs her. Mom, who is the single most standoffish and least physically affectionate human being I’ve ever known, is hugging a perfect stranger.
 

We spend the day in that little village, helping. We don’t leave until well past sundown, and the ride back is utterly silent, everyone staring off into space, lost in thought.
 

I don’t give the board members a chance to think too hard; we spend an entire week living in that aid station, helping Peter and his people. By the time the week is over, pretty much everyone has picked up a few useful words and phrases, has learned to jump into situations and help out without being told.
 

They’re not bad people, these board members, just sheltered. Privileged.
 

When the week is up, we make our way back to Kampala and the international airport, and we board a private jet bound, not for Los Angeles, but for Monaco.
 

You can’t put people like this to work like I did and not reward them at the end, after all.
 

I give them forty-eight hours to unwind, catch up on sleep, relax by the pool, sip some champagne, and then I gather them in a meeting room.

When everyone is seated around the table I stand up, move to the front of the room, and wait until the silence has grown uncomfortable.
 

Mom breaks the silence. “Your point is well-taken, Lachlan.” Her voice is soft, containing a note of what I would normally call humility, if I didn’t know any better. “Thank you for this trip. I know I balked at the beginning, and…honestly, I feel a bit foolish, setting out wearing Chanel and pearls. But then we went to that village, and I met that woman. Oh—look at me. I’m a mess just thinking about her.” Mom is crying again, which sets everyone else on edge, makes them shift in their chairs, clear throats and look away, remembering their own similar experiences, most likely. “Seeing the things we saw last week…I get it now, Lachlan. I get it. So…thank you.”

Milton stands up. Shifts on his feet. Clears his throat. “I have a motion for the board. I know this isn’t how things usually work, but we’re all here, and I want to pass the motion while it’s fresh in our minds. I propose we do this again. Once a year, at least, as a board. Uganda, somewhere else, anywhere. Wherever Lachlan sends us. We’ll put our feet on the ground in the places we’ve spent the year sending supplies. We’ll get down there and meet the people. I’ve always prided myself on staying in touch with every part of my companies. I visit the mailrooms and the break rooms, attend company picnics, visit employees in the hospital, things like that. Stay connected.”
 

Milton clears his throat again. He’s the oldest, stodgiest, most cantankerous of the lot, so this is immensely surprising to me, to everyone. “But this…this is different. You all know, you felt it. Those people have nothing, literally
nothing
, and then the fighting breaks out and they get hurt or killed, and for what? Tribal differences? I don’t even know. This is not just making a donation. It’s not like sitting in my office, writing a check and patting myself on the back. What you’re doing here, Lachlan, with this company is phenomenal. I signed on because your mother is a piranha with balls of steel, and she left me with no choice
but
to contribute. I signed on for the tax deduction, and to appease your mother. But like your mother said, I get it now. So, the motion: every member of the board must attend a minimum of a once yearly trip to a location of the CEO’s choosing, to experience an operational awareness exercise. All in favor say ‘aye’.”

There’s a chorus of aye’s, and not a single dissension.

I think I’ve won over the board.
     

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I’m sitting in an office in Geneva, wearing a suit and tie, waiting for the meeting to start.
 

The office is that of the International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies, and the meeting is to negotiate an arrangement between Beyond Thirty-One and the Federation.
 

Our corporation is in place, funded, and staffed. We have warehouses full of supplies and a distribution network. We have teams of volunteers on standby, from general labor to skilled trades, doctors, lawyers, building contractors, anything and everything I could think of, and a bunch more suggested by our staff and board members. Now we just need places to send it all. I contacted the Federation and obtained this meeting, and now I just have to sell my services. I have another similar meeting with MSF next week.