GOMEZ

GOMEZ

Ed San Luis

Copyright © 2024 Ed San Luis

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2024

ISBN 979-8-89157-138-9 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-89157-162-4 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

About the Author

Good things seldom happen late at night! Who has not lain awake in bed, far past midnight, watching the hours tick away? Or sat alone in a silent darkened room plagued by emotional or physical pain? It's a bad place to be. Thus, in the final hours of night, the lighted window you see in the distance is often a place where trouble lives.

And so it was on this night for George Mez. His windows were ablaze with light.

Sitting alone at his kitchen table in his Battery Park apartment set on the lower west side of New York City, he pondered his fate.

Hopelessly awake and painfully sad, he sat there until he was finally distracted by the drop of water lying on the table. It brought back memories of his childhood when, as a science fiction fan, he often practiced mind over matter. Not seriously at first. But later, it became an obsession.

He actually tried to move objects with his mind. He did so unsuccessfully every day for a month, then tapered off, but he never gave up trying. He truly believed that eventually, he would make it happen. Spurring him on was the knowledge we only use a small portion of our brain. What could we do, he thought, if we controlled more?

And time had taught him patience. It gave him the ability to think beyond normal boundaries. He learned you don't move matter with force but with imagination.

Forceful imagination and the dark power within, either most believed, only existed in outer space. So said most of the world's esteemed astronomers—they were wrong! Dark power, an acknowledged entity, is the DNA of the universe and exists everywhere.

With all that and stimulated by his wild imagination and boundless confidence, he tried again and again—until, by accident, in a moment of stress—it happened.

That was many years ago—a lifetime ago.

Now an old man of eighty-eight, he thought of his wife, Maria, and his son, Teddy, his loving family. Life had been wonderful then, filled with challenges, opportunities, hope and love—until their murder.

Then, with anger rising, he refocused on the drop of water on the table and vaporized it with the snap of his fingers.

That action provoked an evaporating hiss and a thought: As the most powerful person that ever lived—my life should have more meaning. Instead, I'm alone and miserable. I miss Maria's laughter and loving ways and my son, Teddy. Teddy, he who could have become anything he desired, and Dad would have helped.

Frustrated, sad, and lonely, he thought, As time keeps ticking away, what can I do? How can I stop thinking of them? I can't. I've sat in my shit, as Maria would jokingly say—for these past two years. It's too late.

How could a man like me, who always professed a love for life—done nothing? Me, George Oscar Mez, immortal, all-knowing, and more powerful than any comic book hero ever imagined yet I've done nothing!

Then, in desperation, he said aloud, Maria, help me. What should I do?

And—there it was! In all this time, why hadn't I seen it before? I loved who she was, but I never thought to do what she did or thought in simple terms as she did.

After all these lonely nights, a simple question with a very simple answer.

I'd been in such a fog, and the answer was always one simple question away. Or was it because loneliness and a broken heart prohibit thinking beyond tears and pain? How could I? How can anyone with a sad heart think logically?

Sure, Maria would help people—she would—she always did. Just talking to people made her happy. More so, she would tell strangers such personal thing that in hearing her talking, I would interject And soon she will give you her Social Security number and laugh in saying so.

Sitting there, he laughed until tears replaced his humorous moment. I love you, babe, he whispered. You helped me again. I'm an empty shell without you.

The next day, after a restless night, George slowly realized having an answer is not a solution. Sure, Maria liked people and liked to help them, so what does that mean? How do you really help others?

Looking through his Battery Park Manhattan window at the people in the streets below, each mindlessly trudging their way to a work, he realized he needed a plan.

Giving people money would not really tax his wealth, but that was not the answer. Creating a new charity would not fill the empty void he felt. Building a new local hospital was also only about money. No! He wanted to be involved personally.

His cell phone chimes rescued him from his dilemma. The display said Desmond was on the line.

George cheerfully greeted his lifetime friend. Hi, DB, what's happening?

Hey, George, Joy and I are having a cocktail party Friday night for Councilman Bradden. So come on over and talk some politics. Let's have some fun. You know he's up for reelection. We can ‘roast' him a little. He has a good sense of humor. What do you say?

No, I'm working on some problems—

DB interrupted, So just leave them home. We'll smoke some cigars and have a few drinks. Anyway, sometimes, you need to get away from your problems and start fresh. Look, we're expecting you, so I'm telling Joy you'll be here. See you Friday.

DB hung up, so George just smiled and shook his head, saying, Son of a gun.

*****

Friday came and went. The drinks were good, the cigars were great, and the talk was as expected. But George came away with a gleam in his eye.

Politics and being involved is what I need to do. People need help. The individual has become a voice in a desert—unheard, unwelcomed, and totally disregarded. Most people want some form of gun control, but nothing happens. That, and so many other problems are unattended by selfish politicians.

George believed America needed a leader who truly believed in the American people and what democracy stood for, not someone who had grown into politics as a studied practitioner or one who spoke well but did little. America deserved better.

I'll need help to become president—someone like a young James Carville.

Wow, did I really say president?

Of course, if I ran, my life would become very public. What would I tell them about me and what should I mask? I think being as honest as possible is best because masking is very time-consuming and physically draining.

What will I tell them? Starting with my childhood, we were so poor we often had no money? There were times my mother would send me to the small local grocery store, where I would buy fifteen cents worth of baloney, a loaf of tasty bread, and a bottle of milk? Of how Sal, the grocer, would record it in his credit book and how embarrassed I felt as other customers looked on? What they would never know is we would always pay our debt, eventually.

Would we talk about our cold-water flat? Of how I would get our five-gallon tin can filled with kerosene bought from our local ice man? The kerosene heater and the coal stove in the kitchen being our only source of warmth. No television, no phone, and no refrigerator—just an icebox.

But I could say I enjoyed going to summer camp, which was free and provided by The Big Brother Movement. Of course, we will never say how I finally became preternaturally powerful.

While he wondered what parts of his life would be of public interest, he remembered the moment his life changed forever.

It happened one year at camp; I was thirteen.

We were hiking up a mountain in New Hampshire. With the camp councilors leading, we hiked in a single file to prevent anyone from wandering away and getting lost.

As we climbed, the boy in front of me would purposely push the tree branches forward and let them spring back at me—it was just boys being boys.

Much later, though, with fatigue setting in and hunger becoming a factor, in anger, I instantly stopped the next branch that was springing toward my face—and I did it with my mind!

It seemingly was an automatic reflex action—thankfully, no one noticed.

But I was stunned, amazed, and actually frightened by this incredible event.

I felt strange as though suddenly possessed by a demon

I was fearful of everything and tried to control my thoughts so I wouldn't do something else that would create panic. Yet I was both panicked and, at the same time, so unbelievably satisfied.

It was a feeling I never again felt. It was awesome!

I was quiet the rest of the day and hardly slept that night. Even so, I could barely suppress the need to do something else.

In returning to camp, I waited until the next day and slipped into the woods alone. There in a clearing, I focused on a log and raised it slowly from the grass. Up it went until it reached the treetops, some forty feet in the air. There I held it for a few seconds and let it go. It quickly fell to the ground only a few feet from where I stood. The narrow miss told me to be careful in the future.

It was a beginning—that was seventy-five years ago.

Now back to my present life and how I will create a new one and a new me.

I'll need new people, an ad agency, Michael O'Brien, a budget, a master plan, and a physical makeover. Lots to do—but a new life and it could be fun, he thought.

George smiled as he looked around his beautiful apartment and especially his prized statues. There was The Thinker, Rodin's masterpiece, and Diogenes the Cynic. They somehow reminded him that his age could betray him. Although at eighty-eight, he was extremely well-fit. But how would he rejuvenate himself without creating all kinds of rumors?

People say I look ten years younger, so I'll need a state-of-the-art gym that's thoroughly equipped to account for my physical well-being. No one needs to know that I will seldom use it.

*****

Every journey begins with a single step. Two weeks later, he met with Michael O'Brien, one of America's top political strategists, a tall, handsome, ever-smiling Irishman, with green eyes, thick brown hair, and a reddish complexion, a man who could conjure up an Irish brogue and charm anyone listening.

George had met Michael at a fundraising dinner and never forgot his pleasant and engaging personality. He was also impressed with his humor and roguish way of referring to his wife as me bride or how if he didn't like someone, he would say that person has no couth.

Overall, George thought Michael was a thoroughly likable person and a winner.

Later that week, in a meeting that lasted three hours, George was further impressed with Michael's laser-like questions that were always delivered with a smile.

At one point in that meeting, Michael asked Gorge if he could trust him.

Yes was the immediate answer followed by an equally direct if I can trust you.

Using a deep Irish brogue, Michael said, 'Tis surely a marriage approved in heaven.

Later, they discussed engaging an ad agency, which Michael insisted was part of his job.

In the days that followed, Michael selected the agency that created the battle cry GO Mez, a perfect fit for George Oscar Mez.

George, attempting a brogue, endorsed it with: 'Tis a slogan made by angels. It was a poor imitation, especially compared to Michael's fine Irish tongue.

In the weeks that followed, Michael spent time reviewing George's life and his rise to prominence.

Born in Brooklyn in 1933 and actually delivered in a railroad-style, cold-water flat in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge, he eventually attended the nearby public school. After which, he went on to the esteemed Brooklyn Technical High School, followed by affordable City College of New York.

In college, his grades were all average (by his design) except for history, where he would often question authenticity (because he knew the truth); thus, his teacher resented his seemingly opinionated attitude, which prompted a final grade less than what it should have been. In starting his career, his first position was with Honeywell's Electronic Data Processing Division, located in Rockefeller Plaza. He was regional office manager.

Unfortunately, Honeywell's efforts against computer giant IBM were not lasting, so he moved on to advertising with Ogilvy & Mather. He never forgot how some Honeywell salespeople jokingly predicted that one day, software would be more valuable than hardware. Though they all laughed at the idea, they unknowingly were predicting the future.

Finally, in the mideighties, George and his soon-to-be wife started their own company and named it after the Roman god Janus. It was a perfect blend of administrative genius (Maria) and George's dynamic sales accomplishments. The Jannus Group specialized in print, paper, and promotional items. Maria's formula for customer service was extremely successful because it attacked in simplicity. Assume nothing and follow up everything.

Also they included in their marketing plan the creation of a national delivery system by selecting a group of independent warehouses throughout America that allowed them to deliver on a just in time basis. This put them ahead of all competitors. Simple always wins!

Because Maria and George loved their work, their success fed upon itself, and in less than three years, they solicited and won most of New York's Fortune 500 companies.

Additionally, both decided, since people are essentially alike, they would concentrate on making their clients their friends. Often reinforcing that concept, they would invite them to Atlantic City on weekends for a round of dining, dancing, and just fun-testing their luck. Almost all were happy to be invited.

Most sales manuals will tell you, first, you needed potential clients to like you, then you need them to trust you—George and Maria were quickly becoming past masters at that game. Plus, both related well to people.

Thus, with a tireless work ethic and a well-running marketing plan, The Jannus Group soon became a multimillion-dollar company—but that was not their greatest source of income, not at all.

With his powers expanded, George ventured into the stock market. It was so easy; in being able to access any corporate records, he played as an insider without breaking any laws. He was able to see any corporate records, including proposed mergers and stock splits before they happened. New marketing plans, new production changes, new sources of materials, and any improvements were open to him, which he did with his mind power.

Eventually, the SEC came calling with many questions about his outstanding success in the market. Even the FBI visited him. He treated them all with hospitality and an openness to all his records and associates, which left them impressed but without any evidence of wrongdoing.

Thus, in less than two years, he amassed a fortune totaling more than a billion dollars, at a time when a million still represented a significant fortune. It was the fast-moving eighties and nineties.

Nevertheless, it piqued his conscience to reflect on all the greats in every field who had passed on in a normal life span. He thought that many were better humans than he, but he rationalized that they gave up in a world where one should never give up.

Still, he struggled with his humanity and maintaining a sense of humility. Could any person with godlike power maintain their sanity? This was a major problem.

The solution ultimately came from deep within his soul—work, there was so much he could do, so much. In a sense, he could be the answer to that forever question posed by people overcome with sadness and those desperately in need: Why is this happening if there is a God above?

George understood the enormity of who and what he had become.

Am I a freak of nature or something worse and where will all this take me?

In the vastness of space, is there a God, a force, or a natural power that allows balance by death? Is the birth of those once called freaks and the mental deficient an error? Does the source of life make mistakes? Does a God make such mistakes?

I cannot raise the dead, but I can triple life expectancy. How would that impact the planet's ability to sustain such large numbers?

Should I stop now or treat these potential problems with solvable solutions?

Isn't there a solution to every problem? I believe so, and I will work them out. I will!

His final thought was—There are planets in our universe one hundred times larger than Earth. If I can make them habitable and space travel easier, then I can solve many immediate problems.

*****

Three months of work saw a new independent party arise from the ashes of long talks and negotiations with both the Republican and Democratic parties. Essentially, the GOP wanted to control George, and the Dems thought he was too autocratic. George disagree with both. Nor could either party understand George's seemly positive attitude that he would absolutely win the election that was barely two years away. Of course, they were all taken by Michale O'Brien's ever-pleasant blarney and warm personality.

So left with only one course of action, they started their own party. Michael worked tirelessly with his chosen ad agency, and they created the HOPE party.

HOPE, an acronym for Humanities Only Party—Ever, flew off the drawing boards with slogans such as: Without HOPE, what do you have? Your only HOPE is George! George is HOPE for the hopeless, the downtrodden, the needy, and we HOPE you will vote with your heart. All were winners. Best of all was his initials and name George Oscar Mez condensed, the cry became GO Mez—your future president.

Even so, Michael told George that the campaign would need to climb a very steep hill. George, with his usual confidence, smiled and said, We will win.

Green, O'Brien, and Thomas, often referred to as the GOT U law firm because of its initials, were located on the fourteenth floor of Fifth's Avenue's Green Building. GOT U was a highly successful law firm specializing in the strengths of each partner.

Jim Thomas was highly experienced in corporate law. Michael O'Brien, of course, was deep into public relations, advertising, and politics, with many friends in Washington. Joseph Green, the senior partner, specialized in commercial real estate, which in New York City was very profitable.

Thomas and Green were in their early sixties, making Michael O'Brien the youngest partner within the firm at forty-four.

GOT U had dramatically grown in the last five years as the three partners signed on a number of new accounts in the ever-expanding media and Internet fields.

Michael was very happy with their Fifth Avenue address and the northeast corner office he occupied, which saw the sun rise and move quickly south, allowing him to keep his window blinds open to the stunning view of Manhattan.

New York was a city both he and his client, George Mez, loved, and both thought it was the best in the world and centralized to serve that world.

On this day, sitting behind his oversized mahogany desk, Michael's thoughts turned to George's presidential campaign, a challenging assignment for anyone and somewhat strange and fascinating.

In fact, the other night, he mentioned George to his wife, Eve, telling her how he enjoyed working with his new client, how he was often amazed by George's wide range of knowledge on so many topics, how George's features seemed timeless, and how, occasionally, he almost thought he appeared younger than the last time they met.

Of course, he attributed it to spending so much time with him. Jokingly. Michael told Eve maybe he found the fountain of youth.

Eve's response was, In today's world, cosmetics manufacturers are constantly producing new antiaging skin creams, but if he has a secret formula, get it for me. I want to stay young for you, honey.

Really! I'll probably need it myself in the next ten years when you consider my busy schedule, was Michael's quick quip.

No, darling, you'll always be my knight in shining armor, was Eve's reply.

I hope so, but, you know, armor does rust. Age aside, how can he know so much about so many subjects including law? He's amazing. He's a City College grad who majored in business and economics. He must be an avid reader.

Shaking her head, Eve said, Don't sweat it, honey. You guys seem to have hit it off very well, so eventually, you'll know all his secrets.

The buzz of his cell phone ended their conversation and brought him back to his most pressing problem—George's age, eighty-eight.

The fundraiser held in a Park Avenue hotel was a total success, and Michael was busy congratulating his staff on how well it all went.

Meanwhile, sitting in an office off the big dining room, which was now empty, George too was pleased with the results and was anxious to hear Michael's evaluation.

In fact, under Micheal's guidance, George's ratings had moved up to 15 percent in the polls. This was no small thing for a third party candidate. So there was a lot to discuss.

Moments later, Michael's voice could be heard as he moved closer to the open door office.

Well, what do you think, Mr. President? Michael exclaimed as he entered the room.

George greeted him with a handshake and a pat on the back. Great work and I'm impressed with your staff. They have done an excellent job. But calling me ‘Mr. President' is a little premature for you, isn't it?

Well, George, considering your age, you probably remember the 1969 New York Mets and their miracle World Series win. Their slogan and my attack plan will be our message, namely ‘You gotta believe!' And if this fundraiser is any indication of things to come—we're looking good.

You're great, Michael, but now we need to talk about next week and San Francisco and what about our recent rise in the polls?

Flashing his winning smile, Michael said, "It all comes down to hard work and getting the public to believe in you. That's the key to our