I was the division director for the company. I managed teams that mostly worked on large scale urban development and redevelopment, literally millions of dollars in projects, but I knew what he wanted to talk to me about, and it wasn’t one of my million-dollar development projects.
Two weeks ago, Mr. Braithway had sent me an email that simply said,Work this project.There were a few files attached. The project was a small-scale redevelopment in North Georgia. The project was so simple that I assumed Mr. Braithway had mistakenly sent me the email, but he wasn’t the kind of person you could easily second-guess. Mr. Braithway was a giant in corporate real estate development. He understood his influence and how eager people were to please him. Mr. Braithway was intentional in keeping his inner circle impossibly small. And there was one person who commanded respect and dare I sayeven, deference from Mr. Braithway: his executive assistant, Marla. I knew she would help me get to the bottom of the Creekstone assignment.
I reached out to Marla and asked if he had intended to send the note to the division director of the rural redevelopment team. They usually work the smaller rural projects, but at huge volume. Marla assured me that Mr. Braithway intended for me to work on the project, and she gave me a stern warning not to delegate the project to a junior project manager on my team.
When I saw the email that morning, I knew he wanted to talk to me about the Creekstone project. I was not eager to report my progress, or lack thereof, to Mr. Braithway. I had spent the last few days in Creekstone, and while the mayor was extremely eager to start a project with us, the land owners were hesitant. I didn’t understand the appeal of putting resources into working on a project like that.
I took a deep breath and forced myself up from my desk and down the hallway to Mr. Braithway’s office. Our Atlanta office was in a high-rise downtown. The offices had glass walls with sleek contemporary furniture. This early in the morning, the lights were off in most of the offices. When I reached Mr. Braithway’s office, I saw Marla sitting behind her computer.
She looked up at me and smiled as I approached. “Good morning, sweetheart. He’s expecting you in there.”
“Good morning, Marla. How’s it going today?” I asked, pointing a thumb toward Braithway’s door.
Marla laughed. “Good thing you’re getting in there first thing. He’s got board meetings later today, and you know the kind of mood that puts him in. But go on in. He’s on the phone with his daughter, but he’s expecting you.”
I blew air through my lips and pushed the heavy mahogany door open. Mr. Braithway’s office was a stark contrast to the rest of the office. He rejected any type of contemporaryoffice interior design. In all six of our regional offices, Braithway had his own office, and every one of them looked like a Bass Pro Shop with a desk in the middle of it. Mr. Braithway stood at a table by the windows, his back to the door. He was organizing fishing flies in a clear container and looked up when he saw me.
Mr. Braithway poked his phone with his pointer finger and then held his phone up for me to see. He had put the phone on mute.
“I’m on the phone with Terra, my oldest. That coffee is for you and there’s a chicken biscuit in the bag for you,” Mr. Braithway said, using his chin to point toward the bag. Sensing that I might decline the biscuit, he added sternly, “You’re in the South. Trust me. Do it.”
Then he poked his phone again. I took a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs that sat in front of his desk. I heard Braithway impatiently sigh. I knew that sigh.
“What grade is Dash in?” Mr. Braithway asked his daughter, raising his eyebrows. I knew this look on Mr. Braithway’s face. I knew this setup. He’d asked a question he knew the answer to.
I heard Terra’s voice. “He's only in tenth grade, but Vanderbilt is really competitive. I think he needs some help.”
“If it’s too competitive, maybe he should go somewhere else.” Mr. Braithway rolled his eyes.
“He wants to go to an SEC school so he can go to college football games, but I don’t want him to go to a big party school. I think Vanderbilt is a good place for him. Can you call your foundation friend about him?”
“Honey, I would call someone at Vanderbilt, but your son is a turd,” Mr. Braithway said, taking a bite of his biscuit.
“Dad! Please,” Terra cried. I had worked with Mr. Braithway long enough to know how this would go. My guess was his oldest daughter also knew how this was going to go.I pulled the paper sack toward me and reached inside to find a warm foil-wrapped biscuit. I pulled it out, unwrapped the chicken biscuit, and took a bite. It was the best thing I had tasted in months. I held it up and nodded. Mr. Braithway looked satisfied.
“You can’t call kids turds, Dad. Especially your own grandson,” Terra scolded.
Mr. Braithway started laughing and said, “Well, he is a turd. Tell him to work on that and then I’ll call any damn college he wants, but I’m not going to bat for a kid whose best and only quality is that he fell out of you, like a turd.”
“Gross, Dad,” Terra protested. “You have to say something besides he’s a turd. What’s the deal? You didn’t hesitate to help the girls when they went to college. Is this just because you don’t like his dad, Winston?”
I ate my biscuit and looked at the fly-fishing magazines on the table situated next to the overstuffed chair.
Mr. Braithway pivoted. “Terra, you’re a dream. Your girls are amazing, intelligent women, just like you. Making a call on their behalf was merely a formality because they could have gotten there on their own. I did it as vote of confidence, an act of love and loyalty. I’m so proud of you and the girls that I can’t even put it into words, but your son is a turd.Like your husband.Tell the kid to prove me wrong, and I’ll help him. You said it yourself. He’s only in tenth grade. That is plenty of time to grow some legs, stop floating around like a turd in a toilet bowl, and do something for himself.”
“What is it that you think he should do?” Terra said with a sigh.
“Anything, Terra,” Mr. Braithway said. “Hell, he can be one of these boys selling water on the corner of the streets in Atlanta for all I care, but he can’t just do nothing.”
“Dad, he has a 3.2 GPA at a prestigious private school. He’s not doing nothing,” Terra countered.
“Terra, a 3.2 GPA at a private school is like a 1.5 GPA anywhere else. Why do you think people send their kids to private schools?” Mr. Braithway said dryly. “It’s because real competition against real talent would eat them alive. Rich people insulate their children from the real world and then make their kids believe they’re really doing something, and that's a dangerous disservice to your progeny, my dear.”
“Okay, Dad,” Terra conceded with a heavy sigh.
“All right. I’ll see you at dinner on Saturday night. Love you, honey,” Mr. Braithway said.
“Love you, Dad.” Terra said with another sigh. Mr. Braithway dramatically raised his pointer finger again and poked the phone.
