Malcolm wiped his hand across his face, ridding it of the sweat that coated it. His long hair, that normally hung loosely down to his chin, was starting to plaster against both sides of his face. His hands clenched and unclenched at his side as he rocked back and forth, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back again. He had never felt this panic-stricken in his life.
Two years ago, he had gotten drunk as a skunk after being fired from his job as a computer technician. Sully, Henry and Danny had come over in an attempt to make him feel better (Booth having to work) and also to help polish of the case he had bought on the way home. They had sat around until the wee hours of the morning, complaining about their respective jobs and how white-collar America was out to get them. As the hours crept past, the most mundane things became funnier and funnier.
He remembered how it all started. A simple comment. He had just finished one beer among many and as he had been staring into the depths of the glass bottle, the words had slipped from his mouth. "You know this beer wasn't even that great. I'm sure I could do it so much better."
The other guys, reliable as they were for such things, immediately started egging him on, enumerating all the ways that Malcolm could better mankind with excellent beer. By the time the guys had passed out on his floor, Malcolm had puffed up quite proudly, the complete opposite of where he had been just hours before. Maybe getting fired was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
In the throes of reflection, Malcolm had started pacing the small lobby area. He felt his face redden in embarrassment as he noticed the receptionist had stopped typing and was watching him with an eyebrow raised.
"Nerves," he replied breathlessly. She nodded once and then went back to typing, occasionally peering at him out of the corner of her eye, probably trying to gauge his potential for being a mass murderer or something. He turned away from her, afraid that he was honestly going to have a panic attack if he didn't calm himself down soon.
Malcolm had seized on the opportunity to start his own brewery that next morning. For almost two years, he had made, tested, tweaked, and retested his product until he got it to a perfect balance and flavor. Sully had been genuinely impressed when Malcolm had given him a sample of the finished product. Coming from Sully, Malcolm had taken his reaction as high praise.
Now all Malcolm needed was financial backing. Which brought him to his present predicament. It had taken him two months of promoting his product, christened Sacred Turtle, before he had finally landed a meeting with the head of a local brewery. Henry had spent all the previous night coaching him on the right things to say and how to pitch his product. Malcolm had felt quite confident when he had left his apartment that morning. That is, until he walked through the door to the brewery office. He was pretty sure his confidence had held onto the door frame and refused to enter the building.
This was the first meeting he had and he prayed it would be the last. He didn't want to have to repeat this whole excruciating ordeal again. Grabbing a tissue out of the box on a side table, he dabbed furiously at his forehead. He thanked the heavens that Henry had known him well enough to chuck a stick of antiperspirant at his head before leaving the night before. It was bad enough that he was sweating enough to fill a bathtub, but he was grateful that he wasn't going to stink the place up as well.
"Mr. Ross?" He whipped around in mid-dab. The receptionist was speaking to him. "Mr. Turner will see you now." She gestured to a door off to her right.
He quickly dried his face and tossed the tissue into the trash. Scooping his portfolio off of the side table, he clutched it in his hand, as if holding on for dear life. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and marched through the door, a soldier off to do battle.