by Sara Arnell
“Did you open the door?“ I asked.
“Yes.”
“What did they want?”
“He said he left you several messages but you never called back.” This was true.
“What did you say?”
“I said you weren’t here, and he said to please get you the message if you wanted to be included in the story.”
“Did he say what story?”
“No. He wanted to walk around, but I wouldn’t let him, obviously, so he left.”
I wished I could have called back right away and told him things were great—amazing, actually. I wanted to say that we were doubling our growth over the upcoming year, clients were thrilled, and we were fielding new business calls on a daily basis. I wanted to say, “How nice of you to check in on us” and “I can’t wait to see the story on our success.” But I knew none of these scenarios were even close to reality, so I avoided calling back.
When I got home the next day, I returned the reporter’s call before I went into the office. I silently lamented that, with all our experience and talent, we couldn’t win enough new business, fast enough, to lift the advertising agency out of its slump. The reorganization that resulted in thrusting me to the position of CEO wasn’t helping, and even creating our own marketing campaign to give away a free strategy session over a free breakfast as a way to entice new business did not produce one single taker. The reporter picked up my call.
“Yes,” I said, “the business is closing soon.”
“Yes,” I said, “everyone here knows and people are already looking for new jobs and, in fact, many have already taken new positions elsewhere.”
“Yes,” I said, “clients are being transitioned to other agencies within our network.”
“No,” I said, “it was a personal decision to close the agency.”
“No,” I said, “ownership is behind me all the way.”
“No,” I said, “I was not pressured by management.”
“Yes,” I said, “it is one of the saddest days of my life.”
There is a parable in the form of a joke about a man stranded on the roof of his home during a flood, praying to God to be rescued. As he was praying, a person in a rowboat passed by and told him to jump in. The man said, “No,” that he was waiting for God. A few minutes later, a motorboat came by and the passengers told the man to come aboard. “No,” he said. God was coming for him. Next, a helicopter flying above dropped a rope down for him. The man waved it off, hollering that God was on the way. The water kept rising, and the man on the roof drowned and went to heaven. When he got to the Pearly Gates and met God, he said, “God, I prayed to you for rescue, and you let me down.” God replied, “I sent you a rowboat, a motorboat, and a helicopter. What more did you expect?” I wanted to complain to God too. I wanted to let God know that I really tried, that I was sincere and hardworking in my efforts. I wanted it known that I recognized help and never once refused it. I wanted to say that I never intended to drown and that I wasn’t like the man on the roof, even though I felt like it. I wondered if there was a rope that I’d failed to grab.
I walked into the office that afternoon, back from the college visit with my daughter, thinking I just went from one End of the World to another. My heart was pounding. I closed the door behind me then decided that didn’t look right and left it a crack opened—just enough for the few people who were still coming to work to know I was inside but not enough to seem like anyone could just walk in. I felt like hiding.
I started to move unpacked items around my desk, putting them into neat piles, for no particular reason. There were notebooks, filled with meeting notes, to-do lists, thoughts, and ideas. I contemplated their value. What if there was something in them that I might need someday? They contained shadows of a past that was not coming back. The notes were ghosts, left over from another life—a life I was about to pack up and pack in. Yet I was afraid to throw things out. What if I needed a file, a presentation? What if there was a phone number scribbled in the margin of a pad that I would never be able to get again if I threw everything out? It was too final a moment for me. I decided to box everything up and take it all with me. I couldn’t throw away my work life.
I checked my email. Nothing new had come in since I left on my ninety-minute commute to the office. The bare white walls glared at me. “Light’s out,” they seemed to say. I was squinting at the sun shining through the window, pushing back the tears. I pulled a small mirror from my bag to check my face for signs of life. I looked one hundred years old. Crow’s feet were etched deep into my face like dry river beds. My complexion was sallow and my skin so thin that I could see veins protruding—pulsing—as unwelcomed reminders of stress. My cheeks had no color. My hair was falling out. My long hair, that I unfortunately received more positive comments about than my new role as CEO when my photo appeared in a business story, was shedding onto my slumped shoulders. I wiped my eyes and slammed the mirror shut.
As I walked into the large open studio area in the office, people were working as usual. It looks so normal, I thought and wondered if this was what it felt like right before a disaster: people just going about their life and business until they’re wrenched out of it by unseen forces beyond their control—just listening to music, talking on the phone, or thinking about what to have for lunch—until the bomb explodes.
Until body parts are torn from their sockets.
Until blood stains the carpet.
Until destruction rips a gaping hole to the outside world.
I shuddered at my own doomsday thoughts and images.
“Hey,” I said to everyone, trying to reimagine a happier scene as I looked into all their faces.
One person asked me how the college visit went. Another asked me if I wanted to meet in a bit to look at some final client deliverables. The office manager asked if we should order more boxes for packing, and one of the executive creative directors asked if he could have the coffee maker.
“Yes, take the coffee maker. Take the coffee too.”
“Well, that’s it for me,” someone joked. “I can’t work without coffee.”
“Neither can I,” I added.
When the business shut down, I entered a surreal and unsustainable limbo. Life at home, without the pressures and the structure of the ad agency, was nothing but a sequence of good days (which were bad days) and bad days (which were horrible).
On a good day, I’d cut my hair over the bathroom sink and regret it. It will grow back, I’d remind myself.
On a bad day, I wouldn’t get out of bed. I’d watch Bravo all day.
On a good day, I’d journal and get my feelings out. It felt like progress, except for all the sobbing.
On a bad day, I’d rip through my closet, bagging up all my clothes that didn’t fit anymore. I’d take them to Goodwill.
On a good day, I’d look in my closet for a shirt that I wanted to wear and realize I threw it out. I’d buy a new one.
On a bad day, I’d go to the local hardware store and buy work clothes. I felt that if I looked like I had just finished doing some yard work, my slovenly demeanor would be excused.
On a good day, I’d check my email and send responses as needed, the phrase “The End of the World” running through my head.
On a bad day, I’d delete emails without reading them.
On a good day, I’d shop for things with my daughter that she needed for her dorm room and have a great time…until I remembered she was leaving me soon.
On a bad day, I’d tell her I’d rather not discuss college stuff and ask her to close my door on her way out.
On a good day, I’d drink a bottle of wine and pass out.
On a bad day, the specter of my daughter waving goodbye in the rearview mirror as I drove away from taking her to college would play over and over in my mind, like a premonition from a horror movie.
&
nbsp; I don’t know why I thought that I might be able have it all, do it all. I never really believed anyone could. I had never once seen it happen to anyone. Something always had to give, and that something was different for each of us. In my case, I didn’t think the thing that gave way would be my self-esteem. I didn’t think it would be my career. I didn’t think it would be me. I thought it would be something pettier, like downsizing my home after all the kids were gone or taking a long vacation and leaving the business in my partner’s hands for a month while I soul-searched. I didn’t know that the thing that would give would be my entire sense of self, my whole reason for living.
End of the World, I kept thinking.
Chapter 8
Listen to the Music Play
“What’s Furthur?” I asked my teenage daughter when she told me she wanted to see them. She said they’re basically the Grateful Dead minus Jerry Garcia. “Right,” I said, “because he’s dead.” I was secretly relieved that we would never have to make plans to attend his funeral or memorial service like we did for Levon. She said they were playing a nine-show residency, only about thirty minutes from our house. She said we could go to all the shows if I wanted to because they would play a different set every night. She said that I didn’t have to get up for work anymore, so maybe it would be good for me to go out—to stay awake past 9:00, which was becoming my default bedtime. She said it would be fun.
I couldn’t decide if she was being opportunistic, trying to cheer me up, or attempting to keep me awake and alive in the world around me. Nonetheless, it felt good to be asked by her do to something together. It felt good to be able to say yes to her. I had no idea what to expect but was looking forward to it.
“I think I’ll be good for two or three nights, max,” I negotiated.
I wanted to make her happy and, in doing so, thought I could feel some of this happiness as well. I forgot what having fun felt like. It wasn’t just that I wasn’t always in the best mood; it was that I hadn’t been able to show my better self to the people who needed me for far too long. My mind had drifted away from my daughter and her needs to settle on my needs, my problems. I knew this multi-concert caravan would be good for us.
I noticed a few things right away while at our first show. The audience cared about the order of the songs. It meant something to them. They cared about hearing set lists that were unique in terms of the songs played and the order they were played in. They reminisced about other great set lists. On the way out, they said things to each other like:
“Can you believe that ‘Truckin’’ was followed by ‘Bertha’?”
“What was the encore?” someone asked as we walked out one night.
Where was he, and how did he miss this, I thought.
“‘Attics of My Life,’” my daughter called out.
I joined in on the set list mania after the first concert.
“That was an unexpected encore,” I would say to whoever was in earshot.
“I haven’t heard a set begin with that song in a long time,” I would ruminate aloud. I had no idea what I was talking about. I felt unchained.
I noticed that there was a regular group of followers that knew each other and discussed how they got to the show, where they were staying, and what other shows they were going to. Everyone knew the guy who sold tie-dyed socks, because he also sold tabs of acid. The Wharf Rats were the sober Deadheads. They made a prayer circle during set breaks and ate candy throughout the show. They talked about the bass player, Phil Lesh, and how at the end of every show he made a “liver speech.” It was apparently known to fans as Phil’s donor rap. He talked about the liver transplant that saved his life. He advocated for organ donation. I looked around, not sure this was the right crowd for a plea like this.
This was an easy world to live in. It required nothing of me. It was like traveling to a foreign land where no one knew your past and no one cared to ask about it. No one asked what I thought of the ad campaign that had just launched. No one cared about brand strategy. No one wanted my opinion on a logo, a tagline, or an advertising idea.
No one shook their head from side to side and said, “Sorry to hear what happened; it sounds like you tried your best.”
No one gave me an elbow nudge and asked whether I was going to open my own advertising agency.
And thankfully, no one asked me how I was doing, which was a question I could only answer by bursting into tears.
Chapter 9
The Gimp Is Back
“I just feel so bad about myself,” I cried. “I’ve always worked. I’ve had a job since I was fifteen years old. I’ve worked through ups and downs, and nothing has stopped me. Until now. You know when you’re wearing high heels and one of them gets caught in a crack and you try to keep walking, but one heel is stuck and you can’t move? That’s how I feel. I can’t move forward. But instead of freeing the heel, I imagine leaving it behind, sticking out of the crack in mid-step. I watch myself limp along, with just one shoe.”
“I’m sorry, Mama,” my daughter consoled.
“I mean, I just sit around in your brother’s sweatpants from high school that I took from his closet and do nothing to help myself. I worry about being seen as diminished, less than I want to be. I’m ashamed and limping and missing a shoe. That’s how I see myself. That’s how I’m sure everyone sees me too. Old, ugly, worthless.”
“I think you’re beautiful.”
“You have to say that.”
“No, it’s true, and until you see that, you’re never going to get back in the world. You’re focusing on the wrong things. You didn’t learn anything from those concerts. You’re obsessed with this idea of youth.”
“I am not.” I scowled, knowing she was referring to my regular Botox treatments, hair-coloring appointments, and strict anti-wrinkle skincare regimen. “I’m obsessed with feeling better, with feeling like I can get out of bed and not collapse on the floor of my closet because my pants won’t close. I’m obsessed with finding the energy I need to do something productive. I’m obsessed with trying to figure out my life—to have a life. I don’t even have a friend I can call for a coffee. I bump into people I know at the coffee shop who say, ‘Sit down, join us.’ All my encounters are by chance. I’m an accidental socializer. I can’t make anything happen on my own anymore. Everything happens to me, and that’s a problem because I never know if it’s going to be a good or bad encounter, so I just get up, put on my sweats, and hope for the best. I go out for facials and massages and beauty appointments that I call ‘self-care’ but am well aware they are self-indulgent time killers. I’m not completely deluded about what I’m doing. I just can’t help it right now.”
I need to stop unraveling in front of her, I thought.
“Remember when you were a little girl and I hurt my hip somehow?” I continued. “It was hard to walk and everyone called me the Gimp? I’m the Gimp again.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess it could be worse,” I said. And thus ended my sad monologue.
“I’m going to make you a PowerPoint,” my daughter said.
She knows me, I thought.
“Really? What’s it about?”
“You.”
“Email it to me. That’s how I work,” I said, trying to make it sound like a joke when we both knew I wasn’t joking. I wasn’t sure what to expect and wanted to see it alone. My emotions were unreliable.
“I’ll just show you on my computer.”
“Just email me. I want to read it alone. You’re making me nervous.”
My daughter walked to her bedroom across the hall from mine. It didn’t take her very long to send me the email. The subject was a smiley face. I smiled back.
Page one was Gertrude Stein. Page two, Gloria Steinem. Page three, George Eliot. Page four, Lydia Davis. Page five, Yoko Ono. Pages six through ten, silver-haired models over the age of fifty from ads and magazine editorials. Capti
ons read, “smart,” “natural,” “beautiful,” and other words and thoughts adhering to this group of talented, successful women that derived value from what they did and who they were and not necessarily from what they looked like.
I called her in her bedroom, on her cell phone.
“Are you kidding me? How do you know that Lydia Davis isn’t dying to get Botox? You’re comparing me to George Eliot?”
“I want you to see how natural and beautiful all these women we love are. Like you.”
“I do not look anything like Gertrude Stein. By the way, I haven’t given up yet, although it seems like you think I have.”
I told her I didn’t appreciate the PowerPoint. I called her a jerk and hung up.
I walked to her bedroom to apologize. It was actually nice of her to help. Maybe she’s right, I thought. I needed to focus on what’s inside and worry less about my outward appearance. But no, the PowerPoint was not helpful. It was easy for a teenager to have this point of view. She didn’t get it. Or maybe both things were true? She was right: I was misguided and self-pitying; she was wrong: I had to live in the real world where appearances mattered and you were judged constantly. I stopped myself from knocking on her door.
“I’m going to sleep,” I yelled from the hallway, “so don’t come in.”
I gimped back to bed. I was less than I wanted to be for her. I wanted to help her make her dreams come true. I wanted us to spend time together, go on adventures, solve problems, make our world a safe and happy place. But I was the Gimp again, and all the Gimp could do was limp lazily from one room to another and think about the day her daughter would be leaving for college, which was circled on the calendar hanging on the back of her door, a portal to her and a bottomless pit to me.
End of the World.
