by J. J. Murray
“How’d you get so good at Skee Ball?”
I don’t have time for this! “I practice every night, Ted. Bye.”
Geez, it’s 10:45. I only have fifteen minutes to prepare. Clients don’t usually just drop out of the sky like this. There are rules to this sort of thing. Clients call in and ask for an appointment with Corrine, I crank up MS Outlook, and I “pencil” them in for whenever it’s convenient for her. This ... this is tantamount to treason!
I heard that line in a movie once, I forget which. It’s a very cool line.
But I have so little written down. I mean, it’s a nice bike, but would I ever buy one of these? I sigh. No.
Okay, think like an ordinary ad executive who isn’t named Corrine Ross and has more than a dozen brain cells. Forget the product and how useless it is to you—just sell the stupid thing. Focus!
There are bike paths all over New York, mostly in the parks, one on the Brooklyn Bridge. A bike can be a commuter vehicle like those courier guys flying around. It’s an eco-friendly commute. I could tie the bike into breast cancer—you can tie anything into breast cancer if you paint it pink. Pink bikes? That might work. It’s a fashion statement. A bike saves gas, energy, the planet, the universe, the whales, and the Democratic Party. A bike helps prevent traffic jams. Riding is healthy for you, great for your booty, thighs, calves, and cardio. Oh sure, you’ll arrive sweaty to work, but you’ll probably beat the bus. Peterson Bicycles have all the accessories New Yorkers could ever want: outfits, gloves, briefcase carriers, lights, bells, horns, rearview mirrors, speedometers, turn signals, even a cool cell phone/MP3 holder. The helmets Peterson recommends are pretty bland. Maybe we can get them to market specific helmet models for the Knicks, Nets, Mets, Jets, Yankees, Giants, Islanders, and Rangers—
The phone lights up again! And it’s not even Monday. Oh man, it’s Bryan.
“I bought my plane ticket today, Share,” he says. “I’ll be arriving at five thirty next Friday night.”
This is such a bad time for me. “Five thirty next Friday.”
“You don’t sound too excited about it.”
Because I’m not. “Um, yeah, I’m excited, Bryan.” But I’m more excited about this campaign. I think a moment. Hmm. This campaign isn’t likely to kick off till the spring when the weather changes. That’s when you ride bikes, right? I’ll have time.
“I’m excited, too,” Bryan says. “Anything I can bring?”
Oh no! What if the client wants a Christmas sales boost now? But Christmas ads started assaulting the airwaves after Labor Day two months ago. This client is way behind. “Uh, no, Bryan, just, um, just bring yourself. But I’ll be really busy. I, we have a new project, and I’ll, we’ll be working on it. I might have to pull a few late nights here at the office.”
“And I’ll be waiting for you back at your place. I’ll even cook for you.”
That is never a good idea. The man burns water and thinks black toast tastes good if you scrape it off just right. “Um, how long are you planning to stay, Bryan?”
“Through Thanksgiving Day if that’s all right.”
I like the guy, and we usually have some fun, but that’s ... five days! I don’t know if I can tolerate him for five days. And I have this golden opportunity now. “You won’t be at your mama’s for Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Oh right,” he says. “I’ll be leaving Thanksgiving morning so I can get back home in time.”
Something about his mama’s cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, and dressing has always been more important than I am.
“And I was hoping you could come back with me, Share,” he says. “You have that Thursday and Friday off, don’t you?”
That’s not going to happen. For one, I can’t afford the plane ticket. Two, Daddy might open the door for me, but Mama wouldn’t, all because I chose to live my dream in this “nasty city.” And three, I get so few days off! I need that “me” time. How do I calm him down? “We’ll see, Bryan.” It’s how Mr. Dunn calmed me down, right? “We’ll see.”
“So I’ll see you next Friday, Share. I can’t wait. Later.”
Oh, can’t it wait?
I organize what few notes I have into some sort of plan that lacks a slogan. I jot one down: “For the urban commuter who’s not a polluter.” That would tick off everyone who drives, though. Um ... songs! “You Spin Me Round”? No. Too monotonous. “Proud Mary” has something about wheels, but you don’t go rollin’ on the river on a bicycle. Didn’t John Lennon have a song about spinning? “Ezekiel Saw the Wheel”? Geez, I’m spinning. I hum “The Wheels on the Bus” and envision a scene of a biker passing the bus, the bus not seeing him—ouch. I need something vibrant, um, something alive. “Live dangerously”? No. There aren’t any air bags on those things. “Live by the seat of your pants.” Yeah. Like I’m doing now. “Live ... something something.”
I check the clock. Eleven on the dot.
My phone lights up.
“Corrine Ross’s office. This is Shari Nance. How may I help you?” That’s not what I wanted to say! I am such a creature of habit.
“This is Woody Peterson. Miss Ross is expecting my call.”
“One moment.”
I take the deepest breath I’ve ever taken. Corrine said not to bug her, so it’s her fault I have to do this. I exhale. Okay, Shari, you’re ready for this. This moment has been five years in the making. This moment has been your whole life in the making. You can do this. And stop tripping. You’ve done this before, and you didn’t get caught.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Peterson,” I say in a southern version of Corrine’s voice. I can’t help it! “This is Corrine Ross. How are you?”
“Did Mr. Dunn give you the skinny?” he asks.
I smile. Mr. Peterson is country. I can deal with a country man. This may just work out. “Yes sir.”
“Did he tell you how soon we wanted this thing turned around?” he asks.
“No sir, but I am confident that we’ll meet your deadline. Sometime in the spring perhaps?”
“Nope. The deadline’s the day before Thanksgiving.”
No ... freaking ... way! That’s ... twelve days from now! He has to be kidding! And if Corrine is going to be gone for two weeks—
“Miss Ross, I’d like to meet with you today at ... what’s the name of this place? Thank you, honey. That was my waitress. I’m at the Church & Dey restaurant, third floor of the Millennium Hilton.”
He’s not kidding. He wants to meet with Corrine Ross at the famous misspelled hotel across the street from the World Trade Center rebuild. That’s just three blocks away from me! And he wants to meet with me today! No Friday should be this stressful.
“You know where it is, Miss Ross?” he asks.
My heart is threatening to leave my chest and bounce over to Ted and his bobblehead. “I’m only three blocks from you, Mr. Peterson.” And my legs won’t stop shaking. “When would you like to meet?”
“I’m already here,” he says. “How soon can you get here?”
This is happening way too fast! He wants to meet with me now! “Um, I can meet with you in about fifteen minutes, Mr. Peterson. I have just one more task that requires my attention.” And that task is screaming and then pulling myself together! “I’ll be there directly.”
“I’ll be waiting. See you soon.”
Click.
The receiver falls out of my hand, bounces on my desk, and rattles a little.
The whispers at MultiCorp stop.
I replace the receiver.
The whispers continue.
All is well in their self-satisfied, silent worlds, while my world has just gotten very interesting.
I can’t do this. I just can’t. It’s payday. I want to get paid. I want to eat. I’ve never even thought of impersonating Corrine further than a few phone calls. What if I get caught? I could lose my job. I don’t want to go back to Virginia a failure. I just ... I have to let Corrine know what’s going on. That’s what I have to do.
I have to keep being the good little MultiCorp soldier. I’ll tell her that a client wishes to meet with her, and Corrine will leave Delmonico’s and go to the meeting, and all will be blissfully crappy ever after.
I call Corrine’s cell, and it doesn’t even ring, sending me straight to her voice mail. I hang up before leaving a message. She told me not to call her unless there was a crisis. This ... this is a crisis. This is important.
I call Delmonico’s and have her paged. “She must have just left,” they tell me. Heifer! She ate a lobster in less than half an hour? So that means ... she’s on her way home—or on her way to the airport. Is she leaving for Australia already? I’m sure she has to go home to change and pack fifty suitcases. I don’t have time to check flights to the Great Barrier Reef. I wonder if her plane could land on the reef. Nah. Sharks would spit her up, and there would be a nasty international incident.
So if her phone’s off and she’s en route somewhere, and I’m the only one who can do this ...
I have no choice, right? Corrine is obviously gone, not that she’s ever truly here when she is here.
I have to be her now.
Eww. Rephrase.
I have to be her position now. I have to represent her as her.
I stand, willing my legs to stop shaking.
We can do this. Right foot, you lead, and the left one will follow.
I grab my jacket and put it on, looking out the window. Yo, Brooklyn, I’m about to do something as crazy as you are. What would Walt Whitman think? He said that freedom was to “walk free and own no superior.” He also said that the “future is no more uncertain than the present.” If Walt were still in Brooklyn today, he’d be asking, “So, whatchagonnado, Shari?”
I am oh so tired of sleepwalking through this job. I’ve already logged ten thousand miles walking to and from this place. I’ve taken enough steps. I’ve walked enough miles.
“Keep your face always toward the sunshine,” Walt said, “and shadows will fall behind you.”
Let’s do this, and let the shadows fall where they may.
Chapter 8
I walk somewhat steadily to Tia, waiting till Candi, a new administrative assistant with big teeth, clogs, and a green denim dress, rushes away, clogs clomping on the carpet. And that already has her MBA.
“Corrine-cula is going on vacation,” I whisper to Tia.
“Why are we whispering?” Tia whispers back. She nods her head at the scurrying MultiCorp robots. “We are not like them. We talk to each other.”
“This time we’re whispering, okay?”
She nods. “But this is cause for celebration. Lady Di is gone for a while.”
“Tia, um, a client wants to meet with Corrine at the Millennium Hotel right now,” I whisper, “and I can’t get her on the phone. She expressly told me not to call her for any reason.” Well, except for a crisis, but I’m handling it. “I, um, already answered the phone as her.”
Tia’s eyes bulge. “As her.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I told you that I’ve done it before, but never like this.”
“It sounds dangerous,” she whispers.
“Yeah. I’m, um, I want this, Tia. I want to get this client all by myself to prove to the upty-ups that you don’t need an MBA to do this job right.”
Tia smiles. “And this is your chance.”
“Yeah. They won’t let me into the JAE program, and I’m ten times more qualified than the Ivy League garbage they’re bringing in. Can you help a sister out?”
She nods. “Miss Ross, we must do something about your outfit for this important meeting.” She pulls out a drawer and holds up a handful of colorful scarves, putting several up to my sweater. “What kind of man is the client?”
“He’s country. He’s from Georgia.”
She looks at my boots. “The boots are okay then. Do you plan on wearing that raincoat?”
“It’s not a raincoat, Tia. It’s a North Face jacket.”
“It is a raincoat to me.” She takes her coat from her chair. “Use my jacket.”
“Why?” That jacket is as old as I am.
“It has fur on it, and it will make you look older. And you must switch shoes with me.”
“I am not wearing your shoes.” I’ll wear the coat. I will not wear another person’s shoes. I pose. “How do I look?”
She sighs. “You look ...”
“What?”
“Confused.”
I try to smile. “It’s my style, Tia.” And yes, I am confused. And hyperventilating.
She touches my arm. “You will be fine. You are my rock. You have something worked out in your head to say to this client?”
“Sort of. It’s probably just a meet and greet.” I hope. “I’m sure he just wants to measure me up, see if I can jump when he says jump.”
“And how do you feel, Miss Ross?” Tia asks.
I blow out a shaky breath. “Ready. Powerful.” And scared to death!
“I will pray for you,” she says.
I give her a little hug. “Thank you, Tia.”
As the sun sneaks through a few gray clouds, I sprint three blocks down Fulton till I get to St. Paul’s. I’m not Catholic, but I cross myself just the same. I zip in through the Millennium’s front entrance, taking the elevator to the third floor and the Church & Dey restaurant. Considering how I’m dressed, I’m relieved that the restaurant is not that fancy. It’s actually kind of ordinary, not intimidating at all. No good china, not too much silverware or too many glasses, lots of wood, paper not linen napkins. I look through the window at the World Trade Center site. We seem always to be rebuilding in this city, and now I’m rebuilding my life. I say a quick prayer—“Help me, Jesus!”—to the cross made of steel beams that survived 9-11. That cross is a survivor, too.
“I have a meeting with Mr. Peterson,” I say to the hostess, and I get goose bumps. I have a meeting. Whoo.
The hostess takes me to Mr. Peterson’s table, and I see kind of what I envisioned as I talked to him on the phone. He’s a good ol’ southern boy, about sixty, tall and wide and jowly. He has to be hating that light-blue pinstriped suit that billows out around him and that very seventies wide blue tie. I sneak a peek at his shoes and see cowboy boots.
I like this guy.
He stands and offers his hand. I’ve never done the shaking hands part before. Corrine just leaves her hand out there, expecting the client to take it, and they usually do because they probably want to see her breasts bounce.
I decide to shake his hand. I may be using her name, but I’m not her. “Mr. Peterson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He sits, I sit across from him, and I continue shaking in my boots. “You’re not what I expected, Miss Ross.”
“Oh?”
He waves a knife with his right hand while holding a biscuit in his other. A rib-eye steak oozing blood and a baked potato oozing butter fill his plate. He’s a meat-and-potatoes man. I can deal with that.
“Your getup,” he says. “Not what I expected.”
He has noticed my “new” outfit. I should have stuck to my North Face jacket. “It’s, um, it’s dress-down day. Friday, you know. We have a relaxed atmosphere at MultiCorp.” I just wish that I could relax.
“Well, I hope I don’t un-relax you,” he says. “You know my bikes?”
I’ve only seen pictures. “Yes sir. The Rolls-Royce of bicycles.”
He laughs. “That is a horrible slogan.”
I don’t disagree.
“I have a lot of iron and rubber to move quick, Miss Ross,” he says while buttering his biscuit. “You up to it?”
“Yes sir. What’s our time line?”
“I’ll need the works out the day before Thanksgiving.”
This just isn’t done! The works! He’s out of his mind! But I’m not going to tell him that. Why am I not breathing? Oh yeah. That will only give me twelve days, including weekends and Bryan, who is not going to be a happy camper, to produce all this. Dear Jesus, I know I’m
wrong for impersonating Corrine, but could You maybe ease off a little? What Mr. Peterson’s asking is, well, tantamount to treason!
“Will y’all have enough time?” he asks.
“More than enough time, Mr. Peterson,” I say confidently while thinking no freaking way!
“I’ve also given Harrison Hersey and Boulder the go-ahead to see what they can come up with. Just met with Tom Sexton not ten minutes ago. You just missed him.”
I blink. He just met with ... Tom. How could I have just missed Tom when he’s supposedly on a plane to Detroit? Or did I just pass him while I was coming here? Was he ever even going to get on a plane? He’s obviously still in the city. What is he up to? I stealthily look around the restaurant just in case, which is stupid because I don’t even know what Tom looks like!
“So it’s kind of like a competition,” Mr. Peterson says. “You like competition, Miss Ross?”
“Yes sir.” Just not competitions with no chance of winning. Harrison Hersey and Boulder is Goliath and I’m David. And now that Tom is involved, geez, I’m compromised! He’s my friend! Who lied to me today. What’s up with that?
“I don’t normally do business this way, you understand,” he says, “but the missus thinks that with our retirements coming up, we need to protect ourselves, capitalize a little more on our investments before we hand over the company to our sons.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Peterson. It’s always wise to keep your options open.”
He takes a bite of his steak and chews for a moment. “I’m kind of taking bids for service,” he says while he’s chewing.
Corrine would have a cow and call Mr. Peterson “a dreadful, nasty man.”
“I’m not afraid to spend money to make money, you know,” Mr. Peterson continues, “but if MultiCorp can sell my bikes better than Harrison Hersey and Boulder and cheaper—and on time—why, I’ll be very happy, you understand?”
“I understand completely.” He wants bang for his buck.
A waitress comes over. “May I get you anything, ma’am?” “No, thank you,” I say. I couldn’t eat a thing right now!
“It’s on me, Miss Ross.”
I shake my head. “I’ve already eaten.” On a whim, I say, “So I’ll be fussing with Tom Sexton.” I can’t believe I just said “fussing”! It has to be Mr. Peterson’s accent. I always let my hair down in the presence of good, southern English.
