Tough Sell

by Trixie More

  She rattled her doorknob, slammed her fist on the top of her dresser and yelled a loud “Ouch.” Then she pulled open her door. Allie was still against the front door, her face buried in Derrick’s shoulder but at least she had both feet on the floor. The jeans and panties were still strewn in the hallway and Derrick was blocking Allie with his body, murmuring something in her ear.

  “Oh! Excuse me,” Dorothy said. “I’m so sorry.” She backed into her room, for the third time, and shut the door. She should have done that twenty minutes ago. Outside, came the sound of movement, bare feet padding down the hall, followed by boots, and the shutting of Allie’s door.

  “All clear, Dottie!” Allie’s voice was husky but happy sounding. “Sorry!”

  Dorothy let go of the breath she didn’t even know she was holding and bolted out of her room. Allie’s jeans were flung over the shoe rack and Dorothy couldn’t even. She rushed out the door and into the hallway, pushed her feet into her pumps and began hurrying carefully down the worn marble stairs of their building, instantly regretting her decision not to try to find her sneakers.

  She was running late, but the bodega finally had more of the flowers she loved. They were awesome, Gerber daisies with fat, green stems and bold colors, like sunshine for her desk. Dorothy couldn’t resist them, so despite the fact that she was rushing and sure to be late for work, again, she dodged into the 120th Street market with two bouquets in her fist. Heck, make that three, she deserved it after the morning she had. So, she doubled back, snagged another bunch and pushed her way inside to stand, fidgeting in line while the Korean woman at the register slowly doled out cigarettes and lottery cards to her fellow New Yorkers. The wait was almost painful. Dorothy had a two p.m. meeting at which she absolutely had to give her presentation. A presentation that was currently not exactly finished. The deadline pushed on her like a physical weight and made staying in line excruciating. Why was she buying flowers now? She should put them back. She fiddled with the cellophane wrappers. She should go.

  The presentation was mostly done though. She had the main ideas outlined in her head and she had sketched out most of the slides she would show at the meeting. She still needed to go through the draft of her talk to see how long it would take and she had to get her print ads blown up onto placards. Drat. She hadn’t thought, until just now, about whether the guys in the print shop would have time to print them up today. Juggling her flowers and her purse, she dug out a twenty-dollar bill and her phone.

  “Hi, Mrs. Kym.” Dorothy dropped the bill on the counter. “Three bunches please.”

  Mrs. Kym eyed the flowers dripping on the floor, counting the bundles for herself, then she rang them up. “Two dollar more.”

  Dorothy dug in her purse finally dragging a crumpled ten out of the bottom. With her eight dollars in hand and a plastic bag to catch the dripping water from the daisies, she rushed out of the market, walking as fast as her heels would let her. She cursed Allie as she hurried down into the subway. Once she got on the train she would be able to email the print room. She would beg them to fit her in if she had to. She grimaced to herself, then wondered if that was going to give her age lines. She smoothed out her expression to something more placid.

  It took forever for the train to come, she must have just missed one fooling around with the flowers. The daisies were simply stunning however, glowing like summer in her hand. With no seat available on the train, she swayed, holding the grab bar. She ran through her presentation in her mind, all the while trying to ignore the sweat sliding down her side, beneath her suit jacket and silk blouse.

  When she finally broke free of the subway, she still hadn’t sent the email. She was only two blocks from work but then again, it was after nine a.m., so the print department was probably already laying out their work for today. Coincidentally, she hadn’t had coffee yet.

  That settled it. Dorothy detoured into the upscale coffee bar, there by the subway exit, and ordered herself a latte. After waiting, again, she paid and then plopped down at a table to send the email. That complete, she gathered her things and rushed the final two blocks to work, through the quiet lobby, up the elevator and finally collapsed into her chair, a completely unacceptable fifty-four minutes late. She wouldn’t be able to leave work today until six p.m., and that was if she skipped lunch.

  Dorothy hooked her long hair behind her ear and dug her laptop out of her bag. She connected it to her monitors. While it booted up, she put the flowers into a vase and went to get water for them. By then, her computer was ready for her to check her emails.

  First email, the print shop needed her to call them. While she waited for someone to pick up the phone, her gaze rested on the framed pair of photos on her desk. One was really a newspaper clipping that showed the face of a pretty blond woman, superimposed over the corner of a larger photo. The larger photo was the famous “Baby Dot” image: a sheriff’s officer, crossing a dilapidated porch, clutching a toddler to his chest. The toddler’s face was scrunched up, cheeks splotched and tear streaked as she flung both her arms back to the darkened doorway of the house. The beautiful nineteen-year-old mother, pictured in the corner, was Charlotte Sykes, murdered in her bed only five hours before this photo was taken. The toddler was her daughter, Dottie Sykes, known to the world forever after as “Baby Dot.”

  Next to that, was a professional portrait of that same toddler, this time sitting contentedly in the arms of a thirty-something woman in a pale blush twin set. Her bobbed hair, just barely brushing her shoulders was smooth and glowing in tawny browns and blonds. Next to her, standing slightly behind, stood a man, just a tad older, in a charcoal suit with a turquoise tie. The man was looking at the woman, the woman at the toddler. Both of them were beaming. They were Helen and Carl Johansen, Dorothy’s parents.

  “Print shop.”

  “Hi, print shop … this is Dottie. I’m so sorry about the last-minute request,” Dorothy gushed. She ascertained the name of the technician who was on the phone, discussed the request, apologized profusely and expressed her huge appreciation for their help. She was desperate after all, and then solidified a plan whereby Mike, the print shop technician, would work through lunch to get her placards created for her, a feat that she sincerely appreciated.

  That settled, she began to create her slides for her two p.m. meeting. It was now ten thirty a.m.

  By noon, the day outside had turned overcast. From her seat behind the gray fabric walls of her cubicle, Dorothy could just get a glimpse of daylight. She had to look past a support post, over the walls of four rows of other employee cubicles and past a communal print/copy machine but she could do it. Of course, the window way over there didn’t show any sky, and it didn’t show any trees. It looked across East 20th Street at the building just across from Cogent Digital Partners, or CDP as her coworkers called it. Her ideas seemed to lose their sparkle as the day grew cloudy. The thought caused her mouth to twist down in a wry smirk before she caught herself and smoothed out her expression. Laugh lines, she would have them soon enough. She didn’t have to help them along.

  None of this helped with the project before her. In just two hours, Dorothy would be standing in the glass-walled conference room once again, her placards on the little aluminum easel, power-point presentation displayed on the flat screen and (this was the part she could see clear as day), her boss would yawn broadly. Again. These monthly “slams” were her chance to show the company that she could earn her place here. At CDP, new hires were on probation until they came up with a money-making campaign for the company. So each month, besides the work they did for the more experienced staff, the new recruits got to compete against each other. If your work was picked, and the campaign you created for a low-level account did well, you were virtually assured to be moved off of probation and given a bit of a raise, five percent at least. No more monthly new account slams. That alone sounded like heaven to Dorothy, so why was it she never succeeded at these things?

  Dorothy put her head in her hands.
How had she gotten to this point on yet another project? Was it really so hard for her to get her ideas together ahead of time? It didn’t seem like this should be so hard, but quite frankly, she didn’t actually get any ideas until the deadline loomed in front of her. A month ago, she couldn’t have imagined what she might say about Tiffany Stone Shoes. Of course, a month ago, Dorothy hadn’t seen a single Tiffany Stone reality show or perused a single line of the B-rated actress’s social media page. Now, Dorothy had lived and breathed Tiffany’s media mess for a month and she was, well, not exactly inspired but at least she understood the target market.

  She corralled her thoughts and looked at the slides on her screen. They were OK but they weren’t great, something was off but she wasn’t sure what. Dorothy shoved aside her inner disappointment at what she was about to do. She picked up her phone and dialed Kathy’s extension. Kathy Terhune was her assigned mentor at CDP. Most of the time Dorothy worked for her boss, Adam Blanchard, but in her free time, she completed tasks that Kathy gave her. Kathy reported directly to Peter Brookings who was Adam’s co-partner at CDP. He was charming, dark-haired and renowned for his environmental activism. Dorothy, was stuck with Adam, which was just her luck. Adam was nice enough but almost everything Kathy did was related to saving the earth. Dorothy sighed. Kathy was saving the world and Dorothy was saving bitter reality stars from footwear overstock.

  “Hi, Dottie,” Kathy said. She sounded stressed.

  “Hey,” said Dorothy. She hesitated. She hated to ask this but she needed the help. “Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Not really.” Kathy’s voice trailed off but Dorothy stayed quiet, holding her breath. Kathy continued. “What do you need?”

  “Oh, Kathy, do you think you can spare a few minutes to listen to my script for the slam meeting today?” Dorothy hesitated. “Something’s not right with it. I just can’t tell what it is. There’s no way I can stand watching Adam yawn through another one of my presentations.”

  On the other end of the phone Kathy groaned. “OK, but hurry up. I’m already eating lunch at my desk and reworking something for Peter. I have two minutes to spare. That’s it.”

  Dorothy promised every kind of speed, scooped up her laptop and hustled out to the elevator.

  Kathy sat on the sixth floor, just outside the offices of Peter and Adam. She had a wide-open work area, which included a large table for laying out designs and three huge monitors for her laptop. Kathy had confessed to her once that she had the same set up at home. Peter had the equipment sent over after her first major campaign hit it big. When she got to Kathy’s work area, Dorothy found her clearing a spot for her to sit at. Wearing brown high-waisted slacks and a hot pink blouse, Kathy looked slim and curvy, tidy and all business.

  Dorothy discretely looked around the floor hoping to catch a glimpse of Peter. He was, after all, the finest eye candy in the building. She heard the elevator doors slide open and craned her neck to see who had arrived. She wasn’t disappointed. Peter Brookings, managing to somehow look both professional and a little mischievous, came down the aisle that led past Kathy, to his own office. Kathy had the best seat in the building as far as Dorothy was concerned.

  Behind Peter was a shorter man. As they came closer, Dorothy realized it was Doug Lloyd, the newest member of her father’s board of directors and a favorite of her mom’s. He was famous for socially conscious investing, and according to her mother, would bring a more contemporary point of view to the board. Dorothy had only met him once, at a picnic at her father’s club. It had been really hot that day and her father had badgered Doug until he reluctantly changed and joined Carl for a set. His tennis shorts had revealed a pair of black dress socks and a funky pattern inked on his calf, as he and Carl battled it out on the court. Her dad had a field day teasing him about his stellar tennis get up and secret wild side. Afterward, she had chided Doug for having bad taste in socks and for letting her dad win. He’d given her a quizzical look, saying something fresh. She couldn’t remember what he’d said but she remembered laughing. It had been a nice day. Behind her, she thought she heard Kathy sigh. She had to agree, between Peter and Doug that was a lot of man heading past their work station.

  As they passed, Doug glanced at her and then circled back. He eyed her closely, face framed by his reddish-brown hair parted neatly on the side. He was shaved smooth and he wore a blue and white striped shirt, open at the neck. His tie was loosened and his sleeves were rolled up his muscular forearms.

  “Dottie?” he asked.

  She grinned and greeted him, extending her hand. “It’s so good to see you again. Are you a client here?”

  He shook her hand briefly, cleared his throat and stuffed his hands deep into his pants pockets. “I am.” He looked past her to where her laptop sat, a pair of shoes gracing the screen. “Are you?”

  Dorothy gave a half smirk “Nope! I work here now.”

  “Cool,” he said, then his gazed flicked over to Peter, who was frowning a bit. Doug smiled and winked at her, tipping his head in Peter’s direction. “I think I’m holding him up. Good seeing you, Dottie.” He nodded to Kathy and then followed Peter into his office.

  “You know him?” Kathy asked behind her. “He’s extremely well-off for a man his age.” Dorothy turned and gave her mentor a big smile.

  “He is. He works with my dad,” she said. “Can I show you this now? I want to read my script to you and let you see the slides.”

  Kathy looked around, frowning. “Where are your placards?”

  “Still in the print shop. I was running late.”

  Kathy raised her eyebrows but said nothing. She didn’t have to, Kathy was always ready early. Dorothy motioned for her to sit down, took a deep breath and hit play on her slide show.

  Peter Brookings heard the door close behind him, so he knew Doug had followed him in. Doug Lloyd was, without a doubt, the wealthiest client Cogent Digital Partners had. To make working with him even more attractive, he often ponied up cash to promote companies that he invested in. All of that, didn’t change the fact that the guy made Peter uncomfortable. Peter sat down and turned his chair so he could see his client.

  “You didn’t tell me Carl Johansen’s daughter worked here.”

  “No?” responded Peter. “There’s not much to say. Not everyone can be Carl.” He paused. He pulled out his file on Doug’s current campaigns, knowing that Doug would expect some useful information, business gossip basically, before they got to work. Not having anything to share, meant more time in the man’s company, so Peter searched his mind for something that would satisfy the guy quickly.

  “Any new clients that have companies I’d find interesting?” Doug leaned back in his chair. His body language always indicated a kind of slow and slouchy distraction, but his eyes were invariably alert and watchful. Peter cleared his throat.

  “Um, yes, yep. We have a new client coming in today. They have offices in Norway and the US. They sell carbon clearing products.” He fidgeted with his pen. “Walker and Birkeland. Have you heard of them?”

  Doug ignored the question. “Huh. I thought you didn’t approve of smaller carbon reduction offerings. I’m surprised you would consider their business.” Doug’s voice was nonchalant but he was sitting stock still. He appeared to be looking at his cell phone but his motionless posture told another story.

  “I don’t. Not personally. But Adam and I try to keep our personal opinions somewhat out of business. We want to turn a profit of course.”

  “I’m disappointed to hear that, Peter,” Doug said without looking up and Peter’s blood chilled. He did not want to lose this man’s business.

  Doug continued, “As you know, I’m very careful to make sure I invest in, and spend my money with, businesses whose interests align with mine.” He put his cell phone away. “Personally, I think you should decline the meeting.”

  Then he looked up smiling, giving a Peter an aw-shucks shrug. “Anyway, did you know I’m on the board of directors for Carl’s busin
ess?”

  Off balance, this prick always had him off balance. Peter risked a small scowl as if to say “go on.”

  Doug raised his eyebrows and smiled. “I am. You know there is no better real estate brokerage than Carl’s and I think we are close to joining forces with Tom Russel.”

  This was big news. Tom Russel was a developer whose company had spent the last ten years turning all of Connecticut into a suburb. His billboards promised a mini-castle for every man, smiling teenagers and filet mignon on the barbecue. His company was totally out of alignment with Doug’s environmentally friendly point of view. “I’m surprised you would vote for that,” he ventured carefully.

  “Oh, you betcha,” Doug crowed. “If Tom Russel went green, can you guess how that would dovetail with my portfolio? You should get in now.”

  Peter was aware they had just crossed a line, a big, fat, insider trading line the size of a train track. He put down his pencil. “Doug, we should probably stop this right here.”

  Doug smirked and rocked back a little and Peter wondered if the look of vindication might be the first time he’d seen Doug’s real feelings on his face. “Meh, it’ll all be public in a minute anyway.”

  When Peter didn’t respond, Doug continued. “Up to you. Look, let’s review where our campaigns are, OK?”

  They worked for about a half hour and when the man finally left his office, Peter called Adam and told him he was canceling the appointment with Ed Walker, and of course, Adam couldn’t just leave it at that.