“Hello,” I greet Mr. Mahler’s secretary. The older woman has her white hair pulled back into a graceful chignon that highlights her classic features that have not been dimmed by age. “I’m Elliot Reed. Mr. Mahler asked to see me.”

“Of course, dear.” Her expertly painted red lips split into a genuine smile as she motions toward a seating area filled with navy chairs and orange pillows. “Take a seat and I’ll let him know you’re here.”

“Thank you.” I turn to take a seat, but before I make any progress, a door swings open.

“Miss Reed!” Mr. Mahler’s gravelly voice takes me by surprise. Considering he didn’t speak to me at all during my previous—and only—encounter with him, the smile on his face and apparent eagerness to see me is a pleasant surprise. “Please come in.”

When I imagined what Mr. Mahler’s office would look like—which happens much more often than I’d care to share—I pictured tons of dark wood with lots of gold accessories. And I’m pleased to say, I hit the nail on the head.

Whereas the rest of the Mustangs facility is filled with modern touches and shades of orange and blue everywhere you look, his office is like stepping back in time. Dark wood panels line the wall. His oversized desk is very obviously missing a computer of any type. Newspapers and magazines are strewn all across the workspace. Even though Denver is a smoke-free city, a gold ashtray with a lit cigar sending swirls of smoke into the air and a glass filled with some type of amber liquid are sitting on the desk. The only clue his doorway was not a portal back to the 1950s is the wall filled with television screens showing every sports channel available. All of which happen to have Quinton Howard Junior’s name and face plastered on them.

I settle into the plush leather chair across from Mr. Mahler. Keeping my shoulders squared, I run through all of the talking points I’d been writing down this morning.

Mr. Mahler takes a seat in his wingback leather chair that is most likely older than I am and lifts his cigar to his mouth. He takes a deep pull and exhales the smoke slowly. It takes all of my self-control to ignore the billowing smoke cloud heading straight into my face.

“I’m sure you’re well aware that we are facing a little bit of a media problem.” Mr. Mahler keeps the cigar in between his fingers as he grabs one of the newspapers off the table and hands it to me. Finding newspapers nowadays is surprisingly difficult, but I managed to track down a few this morning, so the headline proclaiming that Quinton Howard Junior is an overpaid toddler doesn’t catch me off guard.