Big Pickle: A Secret Boss Romantic Comedy - JJ Knight Page 0,2
want to make sure the franchise is successful for generations to come.”
Grammy speaks up. “Sherman, you’re not going to die anytime soon. You’re fit as a fiddle.”
“That may be, but it’s time these boys took over the business. It’s getting beyond me anyway, with social media and all. But there’s one thing I do know. The company needs a strong leader. One leader.” He looks at each of us boys, and we all tense.
Dell nods in agreement. “It’s easy for a chain to have conflicting goals if it doesn’t remain unified as it transfers from one leader to another.”
What are they getting at?
Dad continues. “The three of you have handled the business in different ways, but I wanted to give you all one more opportunity to show me who loves it the most.”
“So only one of us can love it the most?” Anthony asks. He’s the soft-hearted brother, so of course he’s worried about how we’ll all take it.
Dad nods, and visions of not having an income flash in my head. Will all the franchises go to the winning brother? What the hell would I do instead?
But my shoulders relax as Dad says, “Each of you will continue to run the deli you currently possess. However, control of the franchise, including the Manhattan Pickle here in New York, will go to one son.”
Max elbows me.
Yeah, I’m the oldest Pickle. I get it. I’m supposed to step up.
I glance at Dell. His eyes are also on me.
Great. This is definitely going to cut into my time at the beach.
But then Dad drops the final bombshell. “The son with the highest profits between this day, March 1st, and the end of the year, will be named the winner.”
Anthony, Max, and I glance at each other uneasily. Dad has never pitted us against each other, not when we were small, not when we all picked different sports in adolescence, and certainly not when we began running our own businesses.
Why is he doing it now?
Dad clears his throat. “When you check your email, you’ll find our accountant has prepared a financial statement for each deli. Now that you know where you stand compared to the others, you can work on where you want to be by December.”
My phone buzzes. I hear a tone from Max’s pocket. Then Anthony’s.
Dad sure planned this out.
“Anyone who wants to confer with Dell, take this opportunity,” Dad says, “He’s bought and sold more businesses than I have shirts.”
“Think more in the bottles of shampoo range,” Dell says, and Dad shakes his head.
Anthony immediately heads toward him, clearly ready to get any advice he can.
My head is still spinning.
Dad gestures to us. “Boys, one of you go pick up some deli trays. I’ll call them ahead. Then we’ll enjoy this glorious day as a new Pickle has been born healthy and happy.”
“I’ll do it,” I say. I want to look at my email alone. I haven’t seen the books on my franchise in months. Maybe over a year.
Okay, maybe never.
It hasn’t been an issue. The franchise does fine. It doesn’t need me.
But is it enough for me to take over the entire chain? Will it prove I’m the leader of my brothers? Dad almost surely expects me to win. When lectures are handed out, I am usually the target.
I hurry down the hall to the elevator. While I wait, I pull up the email from the accountant.
And read with a terrible, sinking feeling in my stomach.
Even though I own the oldest spin-off franchise and have the most experience, I’m not even close to the other delis in gross, net, or growth.
In every single metric, I’m in the same place.
Dead last.
As I review the figures more closely, I realize it’s worse than that.
I’m barely keeping the doors open.
I head down the lobby, realizing my father has thrown down the gauntlet. And I know one thing is true.
Something is terribly wrong with Austin Pickle.
2
Nova
I’ve had it with tiny pickles.
They are straight-up no use to me.
I huff out my annoyance, kicking my heavy boot against the leg of the mixing table. My coworker Lamonte has opened no less than six buckets of the supposedly biggest dill pickles in the United States of America.
I’ve seen bigger pickles on a dollar store party tray.
And, sometimes, unsolicited in my DMs.
I shove that disgusting thought away as Lamonte plunges his plastic-gloved hands into another drum of pickle juice.
“Nova, I don’t think this is the same company we usually get them from.”