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Bruce Borger had spent twenty-three years learning that the secret to advancement in corporate accounting was preparation.

Preparation could overcome almost anything.

A weak quarterly report could be prepared for. An acquisition could be prepared for. An audit could be prepared for. A hostile board member could be prepared for. Even a meeting in which everybody else knew one another and you were the new man could be prepared for, provided you knew the numbers, remembered the names, wore a good suit, polished your shoes, and arrived fifteen minutes early.

What Bruce Borger had not prepared for was the Dancing Frijole.

That particular oversight began Sunday evening, when Bruce and his wife, Ellen, decided his new position with Pecos Oil & Gas deserved something more celebratory than meatloaf.

Pecos Oil & Gas occupied a suite of offices on the third floor of the Bluebonnet Loan & Trust building in downtown Fort Stockton, which meant the company was large enough to have a corporate jet but sensible enough to let somebody else worry about mowing the grass. Bruce had been hired as lead accounting supervisor, reporting directly to CFO Gerald Pritchard, and Gerald had made no secret during the interview process that retirement was somewhere over the horizon.

Not tomorrow.

Not next year.

But coming.

Bruce and Ellen had consequently spent much of Sunday evening discussing the future over enchiladas, chile rellenos, refried beans, guacamole, queso, chips, salsa, and two margaritas apiece at the Dancing Frijole.

“To the next CFO of Pecos Oil & Gas,” Ellen said, raising her glass.

Bruce smiled. “Let’s get through my first day.”

“You always say that.”

“It’s worked so far.”

They touched glasses.

Bruce had one more chip.

This would later assume historical significance.

At 5:17 Monday morning, Bruce awakened before the alarm.

He stared into the darkness.

First day.

New company.

New responsibility.

New people.

He felt something unfamiliar in his stomach.

Butterflies, he decided.

Bruce had started new jobs before, but this one mattered more. He was forty-eight years old. At twenty-eight, you could make a career mistake and call it experience. At forty-eight, you made one and called a realtor.

He showered, shaved carefully, dressed in a charcoal suit and burgundy tie, and selected his Johnston & Murphy wingtips. In the kitchen he poured coffee but decided against breakfast.

His stomach felt unsettled.

Nerves.

Definitely nerves.

By 6:35 he was driving toward Fort Stockton Municipal Airfield and Feed Lot, where the corporate Gulfstream G550 waited on the apron in the blue light before sunrise.

Bruce had seen private jets before.

He had never traveled aboard one.

The Gulfstream sat gleaming beyond the hangar, white and immaculate, looking less like transportation than evidence entered at a tax hearing.

Gerald Pritchard was already there.

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He introduced Bruce to the others: CEO Wallace Keene, operations vice president Don Ralston, land manager Harold Beasley, and chief field geologist Tom Wills.

Five executives plus Bruce.

Within ten minutes, Bruce relaxed.

They were normal men.

Nobody tested him. Nobody challenged him. Wallace asked about Ellen. Don told him where the good coffee was kept in the office. Harold made some remark about accountants being useful because geologists could count only as high as the number of fingers they still possessed.

Bruce laughed.

This was going to be fine.

They boarded.

The Gulfstream’s cabin was quieter and roomier than Bruce expected, beautifully upholstered in pale gray leather, with polished cabinetry, tables, individual executive chairs, and the unmistakable aroma of money.

Bruce took a seat near the rear.

The engines came alive.

The aircraft taxied.

Bruce’s stomach rolled.

He swallowed.

Butterflies.

The G550 accelerated down the runway and lifted effortlessly over Fort Stockton, climbing into a cloudless West Texas morning.

Gerald opened a folder.

“Okay, gentlemen. Palo Dura.”

Maps came out. Geological reports followed. Bruce opened his legal pad.

The proposed acquisition was considerably larger than he had understood from his preliminary briefing. Palo Dura Gas Exploration controlled leases Pecos wanted badly, but the asking price remained fluid. Bruce began asking questions.

Good questions.

Wallace noticed.

Gerald noticed.

Bruce noticed them noticing.

He was doing it.

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First morning, first meeting, thirty minutes into the job, and Bruce Borger was establishing himself as the man Pecos Oil & Gas had been smart enough to hire.

Then something moved through his lower abdomen.

Bruce stopped writing.

Not pain exactly.

Pressure.

He shifted slightly in the chair.

Gerald continued discussing depreciation schedules.

Another movement.

Lower this time.

Bruce tightened muscles whose existence had not concerned him since infancy.

The sensation passed.

He resumed writing.

Then came a gurgle.

Not audible.

He hoped.

Bruce looked around.

Nobody reacted.

The airplane banked gently as they approached the first company lease.

Wallace pointed through the window.

Bruce looked.

He saw derricks, access roads, storage tanks, and several million dollars’ worth of petroleum infrastructure.

His intestines saw opportunity.

A cramp seized him.

He inhaled sharply.

“You all right?” Gerald asked.

“Fine.”

“You look a little pale.”

“Didn’t eat breakfast.”

Bruce smiled.

The smile had too many teeth in it.

Five minutes later he was no longer concerned about making a good first impression.

He was concerned about surviving.

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The human digestive tract is normally an astonishingly orderly piece of plumbing. The small intestine moves liquefied food gradually toward the colon, where water and electrolytes are absorbed before the remaining material is eventually expelled. When something irritates that system, however, the intestines can accelerate their contractions while secreting additional fluid into the bowel. The colon suddenly has neither sufficient time nor sufficient enthusiasm to reclaim the water.

The result is diarrhea.

In Bruce Borger’s case, the result was less diarrhea than an evacuation order.

His abdomen cramped again.

A bead of perspiration formed beneath his hairline.

Bruce looked toward the rear of the airplane.

“Gerald?”

“Yeah?”

“Does this plane by chance have a lavatory?”

Gerald pointed at him.

“You’re sitting on it.”

Bruce waited for the punch line.

There wasn’t one.

“What?”

“Lift the cushion.”

Bruce looked down.

Then back at Gerald.

“This chair?”

“Yep.”

Gerald pointed toward a nearly invisible curtain recessed beside the cabin wall.

“Pull that around you.”

Bruce stared at the chair.

It was beautiful.

Wide.

Gray leather.

Adjustable headrest.

Armrests.

Seat belt.

It looked like something from a Park Avenue psychiatrist’s office.

Bruce had not realized he had been sitting on a toilet for the last forty minutes.

“I’ll try to make it until we land.”

Gerald looked at his watch.

“I’m afraid that won’t be for about two hours.”

“Two hours?”

“No place to put down until then.”

Another cramp answered for Bruce.

This one arrived with authority.

He closed his eyes.

There are moments in a man’s life when dignity becomes negotiable.

Bruce Borger’s opened at 7:43 Monday morning somewhere above Pecos County.

He stood.

Every man in the cabin looked up.

Bruce reached for the curtain.

His complexion had acquired a greenish-gray color ordinarily associated with municipal infrastructure.

“I apologize in advance.”

The curtain closed.

There followed the unmistakable metallic click of a belt buckle.

A zipper.

The soft collapse of trousers.

And silence.

For perhaps three seconds.

Then the Gulfstream G550 became a place none of the six men aboard would ever be able to forget.

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The first eruption produced a noise so startling that Don Ralston instinctively looked toward the engines.

The second removed any possibility that the engines were involved.

Harold Beasley froze with a coffee cup halfway to his mouth.

Tom Wills slowly lowered the Palo Dura geological survey.

Wallace Keene stared straight ahead.

Gerald Pritchard, sitting perhaps three feet from the curtain, whispered:

“Good God.”

Inside the tiny enclosure, Bruce gripped both armrests.

His gastrointestinal tract had abandoned peristalsis in favor of artillery.

The cramping contractions were now propelling intestinal contents through him faster than his colon could remove water, producing repeated waves of fluid evacuation accompanied by gas generated by whatever microbial uprising had apparently begun overnight.

Scientifically, it was intestinal hypermotility.

Operationally, the Dancing Frijole had achieved escape velocity.

Another explosion rattled the dignity out of the cabin.

Bruce moaned.

Outside the curtain, five senior officers of Pecos Oil & Gas sat absolutely motionless.

Then the smell arrived.

It did not enter the cabin.

It occupied it.

Harold immediately covered his nose with his hand.

Tom pulled his shirt collar over his mouth.

Wallace turned toward the nearest air vent and placed his face beneath it.

Don whispered, “Jesus Christ.”

Gerald said, “Don’t bring Him into this.”

The cockpit door opened.

The pilot looked back.

“What happened?”

Nobody answered.

The pilot inhaled.

His expression changed.

“Oh.”

He shut the door again.

Ten seconds later his voice came through the intercom.

“Gentlemen, I’m checking alternatives.”

Wallace leaned toward the cockpit.

“Find one.”

Another sound erupted behind the curtain.

“Find one quickly.”

The Gulfstream continued north.

Bruce’s entire professional life passed before him.

Twenty-three years.

College.

CPA examination.

Promotions.

Late nights.

Audits.

Budgets.

Management seminars.

Every decision had led to this moment, bare-bottomed behind a curtain at 41,000 feet while his new CEO breathed through a handkerchief.

Eventually the first wave subsided.

Bruce sat exhausted.

Then he realized something worse.

He was going to have to emerge.

There was no sink.

No real lavatory.

No sanctuary in which he might compose himself and perhaps begin a new life under another name.

There was simply Bruce, the chair, the curtain, and five men waiting outside.

He cleaned himself as best he could with the supplies provided, pulled up his Fruit of the Looms and trousers, fastened his belt, and remained behind the curtain for several additional seconds because there are problems a man solves through action and others he addresses by hoping the universe ends.

It didn’t.

Bruce opened the curtain.

Nobody looked at him.

That was worse.

“Gentlemen,” he began.

Gerald suddenly grabbed an airsickness bag.

The smell had finally defeated him.

He vomited.

Most went into the bag.

Most.

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Gerald looked down at the pale gray leather seat beneath him.

Bruce looked.

Wallace looked.

Everybody looked.

The CFO slowly raised his eyes toward Bruce.

Bruce said nothing.

Gerald said nothing.

There are apologies too large for language.

The Gulfstream landed in Amarillo at 9:58.

The cabin door opened before the engines had completely spooled down.

Six men emerged onto the ramp with the urgency of passengers leaving an aircraft that had technically not been on fire.

Ground personnel approached.

Then stopped.

One man looked toward the open cabin door.

“What happened in there?”

Wallace Keene kept walking.

“You don’t want the assignment.”

Two executive seats were subsequently determined to be beyond reasonable salvation.

One belonged to Gerald.

The other, of course, had been Bruce’s.

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Pecos Oil & Gas ordered two replacement seats to be flown to Amarillo. The pilot volunteered to remain with the airplane while the new seats were installed.

Nobody asked whether he wanted to.

The negotiations with Palo Dura Gas Exploration went surprisingly well.

Bruce, having already endured the worst possible outcome of his first day, discovered he was no longer nervous about anything.

He was sharp.

Focused.

Unflappable.

When Palo Dura’s CFO challenged one of his valuation assumptions, Bruce calmly dismantled the argument line by line.

Gerald watched with something approaching paternal pride.

By five o’clock they had not agreed on a price, but both sides had moved significantly closer.

At the hotel Wallace called the group together.

“We’ll rent something and drive back tomorrow.”

Everyone agreed.

Then Don Ralston said the words that changed the evening.

“Well, since we’re stuck in Amarillo…”

Bruce knew immediately.

“No.”

Nobody had proposed anything yet.

Harold smiled.

“The Big Texan.”

“No.”

Wallace began laughing.

Gerald pointed at Bruce.

“Seventy-two ounces.”

“I nearly died six hours ago.”

“Exactly. You’re empty.”

“I am not eating a seventy-two-ounce steak.”

“Free if you finish it.”

“I make a good salary now.”

Gerald smiled.

“Welcome to management.”

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An hour later Bruce Borger sat before seventy-two ounces of beef, a baked potato, shrimp cocktail, salad, roll, and whatever additional provisions Amarillo had deemed necessary to determine whether a human digestive tract possessed a sense of humor.

His five new colleagues surrounded him.

Bruce stared at the steak.

The steak stared back.

Somewhere inside him, an intestinal bacterium packed a suitcase.

Wallace raised his glass.

“To Bruce.”

The others joined him.

Bruce looked around the table.

These were the men he had been terrified to meet twelve hours earlier.

Now Gerald had vomited beside him.

Don had breathed through his necktie.

Harold had spent twenty minutes with his face pressed against a Gulfstream window.

Tom had offered Bruce his handkerchief and subsequently told him to keep it.

Wallace Keene, CEO of Pecos Oil & Gas, had personally authorized the destruction of Bruce’s trousers in the hotel laundry because nobody wanted them returned.

Bruce began laughing.

Not politely.

Not professionally.

He laughed until tears came.

The others joined him.

Finally Gerald said, “You know, Bruce, you made one hell of a first impression.”

Bruce wiped his eyes.

“I was afraid of that.”

Gerald raised his glass again.

“Don’t worry. Nobody’s ever going to forget you.”

Bruce looked down at the steak.

Then at Gerald.

“So how badly do you really want me to be CFO someday?”

Gerald considered this.

“Badly enough that I’m willing to retire early.”

That finished the table.

Bruce pushed the enormous steak away.

“Nope.”

“You’re not even going to try?” Harold asked.

Bruce shook his head.

“Gentlemen, sometime around seven forty-three this morning I learned something important about myself.”

“What?”

Bruce lifted his water glass.

“I now know my limitations.”

They drank to that.

The next morning six executives climbed into a rented Lincoln and began the four-hour drive south.

Bruce sat in front.

Nobody argued.

Nobody even suggested otherwise.

Somewhere behind them at the Amarillo airport, two brand-new pale gray Gulfstream seats were being installed in the company G550.

The invoice eventually reached Bruce’s desk.

Two replacement executive lavatory seats, upholstery, installation, expedited freight and cabin sanitation.

$31,846.

Bruce stared at it for a long time.

Then, because he was lead accounting supervisor and already beginning to think like a future CFO, he entered the expense under:

NEW EMPLOYEE ORIENTATION.

Gerald approved it without comment.

And from that day forward, whenever Pecos Oil & Gas hired a new executive and Wallace Keene welcomed him aboard the company Gulfstream, there was one additional item included in the standard preflight briefing.

Emergency exits.

Seat belts.

Oxygen masks.

And the lavatory.

Because corporate knowledge is expensive.

But occasionally, if you are very lucky, somebody else has already paid for it.

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