Cranberry Red: A Novel

52. Chris Martin

225 Ben noticed several changes in Brittani since the meeting with Phillips on the first working day of the new year. Once or twice a week she arrived late, sometimes more than fifteen minutes. She seemed less zealous about keeping Ben’s schedule filled with appointments, and for whatever reason, she had begun being more civil toward him, with questions such as “How you doing today, Ben?” and “How’s the computer course going?” The last comment she made with a big grin on her face. Then just the other day she said, “Tell you what, Ben, you get stuck with something in that computer course, let me know. Maybe I can help you out.” “Thank you, Brittani,” Ben responded. “I appreciate the offer.” As it was, Ben found himself almost enjoying the computer course. Now, for the first time he was learning to work his way through Internet searches, how to “Google,” as Brittani called such work. Although he didn’t say so to Beth, who continued gushing about her Internet degree program, Ben’s impression of Osborne’s courses had increased by several notches. The course he was taking was well organized, thorough, and offered ample opportunity to ask questions via e-mail and have the answer within a short time. The course he took was especially designed for Osborne employees, so a considerable amount of time was spent on such things as reporting project times, billable hours—the kinds of things his office was required to do. During the last couple of weeks, he asked Brittani if she would have Chris Martin 52 time to discuss computer reporting with him, and the two of them had spent more than an hour doing so on two different occasions. “Brittani, the billing schedule for farmers must have some flexibility,” Ben explained. “But, Ben, you know the rules. They’re all laid out for us.” “Tell you what; let’s see if we can change some of these rules.” “Change the rules? Nobody can change Osborne’s rules,” Brittani said somewhat dejectedly. “What do you say we give it a try? Start small. Ask that the minimum charge time be a half hour rather than an hour. For some folks a half hour is all the time they need with us.” After their discussions, the two of them agreed to petition Osborne’s business office in Oshkosh for a rule change—that a half hour rather than an hour be the minimum billable time. They also asked that the first visit, whether it be in the office, over the phone, via e-mail, or to the client’s home, be free. “Doesn’t hurt to ask,” Ben said. Both he and Brittani put their names on the request. Three days later, they simultaneously received brief e-mail messages from Oshkosh: Recent request for billing rule modification. Approved. Joe Schneider, Business Manager “Well, what do you think of this?” Ben said when he walked out to Brittani’s desk, where she had just finished reading the same message. “Guess it doesn’t hurt to ask,” she replied, smiling broadly. That simple rule change, along with Ben’s opportunity to make adjustments in hours billed based on circumstances, eased some of the conflict with clients, although a good many of them still considered his services too expensive and after their first visit, he didn’t see or hear from them again. On this particular mid-February day, business at the Osborne University Outreach Office had nearly ground to a stop. A snowstorm had blown in 226 Chris Martin 227 Chris Martin from the southwest, one of those moisture-laden storms that roared out of Iowa, spread up into Wisconsin, and then collided with a blast of cold air that drifted down from Canada. The storm dumped several inches of heavy, wet snow that clogged highways, hung on the bare branches of the trees, and painted a classic picture of winter all over Ames County. The snowmobilers loved it. The one ski hill in the county depended on such storms. And the children of Ames County gleefully listened to their radios and watched their TV sets for news of school closings. They were not disappointed. Snowmen appeared on front lawns in Willow River. The sledding hill on the edge of the Willow River Golf Course was clogged with sleds, tubes, toboggans, and plastic saucers of various...