Who You Know

by Theresa Alan

  As the head of the marketing department, he had to be making about three times my salary, yet he couldn’t even write a grammatically correct, let alone well-written, sentence. It took me an hour to correct the first release. I took the time to write down tips such as basic rules to Associated Press style, how hyphens were used, how paragraphs should be no more than thirty words long and headlines should be just a few words. I wanted to tell him an interesting news release would probably produce better results, but I didn’t know how to say that nicely. I went on to the other releases. Most of them were about how McKenna’s market research had saved companies scads of money, but we couldn’t use the names of the companies we helped because of client confidentiality. It was true that overworked journalists used press releases to create about 50 percent of their stories, but they were not going to write about what a good company McKenna Marketing was without an angle to make it at least appear like news. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so I tried not to change what he’d written too much, but even so, by the time I was done, I’d saturated the releases with sticky notes and corrections.

  Working on his releases put me way behind schedule, and I’d already been slammed with work. I was thoroughly annoyed by the time he stopped back down to check in.

  “Did you get a chance to look at them?” he asked, smiling the fake, fake smile of a marketing VP who made three times my salary by faking his way to the top.

  “Yeah, I made some notes.”

  Glenn looked over the release. “There’s an awful lot written here. I can’t really even see your changes. Would you mind inputting the changes? The releases are on the shared network drive in the folder marked Releases.”

  “Um, well.” I did not want to be considered a non-team player. I would already have to work overtime. That was the way to succeed. To work endless hours and forgo a life. “Sure.”

  “Great, great. I need them done by tomorrow.” He left without thanking me.

  I rewrote his releases entirely. I had to stay three hours late to finish up my own job. The only solace I had was that writing news releases would be one more thing I could add to my résumé.

  Soon, I was hiding not only from Eleanore, but from Glenn as well. He brought a marketing brochure down to my office for me to “edit,” which, practically speaking, meant rewriting.

  “Doesn’t Pam do the copy writing for the company?” I asked.

  “She used to, but now that we’ve grown, she’ll write exclusively for our clients. I’ve been hired to focus on moving McKenna’s marketing efforts forward.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, though I didn’t understand at all. Pam was a talented writer, and Glenn was a feckless dweeb.

  I skimmed over the text. The opening sentences were “McKenna Marketing is at the forefront of innovations. We enable you to stay ahead of today’s ever-changing business world.”

  It was astonishing to me how many clichés could be packed into two small sentences, and if anyone could tell me what the hell it meant that we were at the forefront of every possible innovation, I’d be the first to thank them.

  It was going to be a long, long day.

  At the company meeting two weeks later, Glenn announced that the release he’d sent about his joining the company had made it in a newsbrief in the Denver Post. Of course the Post always published newsbriefs when an executive joined a company. I didn’t point this out, naturally. Everyone congratulated him. He said it would take awhile, but eventually word about McKenna would spread, and this was really just such a great start. I waited for him to thank me for my “help,” but he said nothing. He stood there and smiled as Morgan McKenna gave him a slap on the back and said McKenna Marketing was really going places, and it was an exciting time for McKenna Marketing, wasn’t it?

  Shoveling Shit

  I longed for escape from my thoughts. I longed to escape into sleep, but I was lucky to struggle through a few unrestful hours a night. I continued waking up every morning well before my alarm clock. I stayed in bed, trying to fall back to sleep, but the tempest of my poisoned thoughts made rest impossible.

  In my little free time, I tried to read The Jungle, hoping to escape into a well-written book. It had been eight years since I’d read it the first time. I found it difficult to concentrate, and I read the same paragraphs over and over, but, slowly, I did make progress.

  It was more depressing than I remembered. When Jorgen couldn’t get work anywhere else, when his health and spirit were damaged beyond recognition and he had nowhere else to go, he takes a job shoveling manure. It was the lowest possible job, but he couldn’t get a job doing anything else. Slowly, arduously, he adjusted to the stench, the toxins that made his head swim, the blinding muck. It was an apt metaphor for my hours with Eleanore. I did feel like I shoveled shit all day. At least it was metaphoric, not literal, shit.

  AVERY

  The Vortex

  First thing Friday morning I logged into my e-mail account. I smiled when I saw I had new mail.

  To: Dancinfool@yahoo.com

  From: ArtLover@yahoo.com

  Did you have a nice evening? I’ve spent all my free time these last few weeks fixing up the house for some relatives that are coming for a visit. I haven’t had any time to paint. (Oh well, I guess that’s what being an adult is all about.)

  Would you ever like to meet in real life? Just for coffee or dinner or something. Or maybe dancing. I know I won’t be anywhere near as good of a dancer as you, but I’m willing to make a fool of myself to see you on the dance floor. Or course you have to promise not to laugh. What do you say?

  After a two-month courtship, he finally wanted to meet me in real life. I loved that he would go dancing with me, even though he wasn’t good, just because he knew I liked it.

  To: ArtLover@yahoo.com

  From: Dancinfool@yahoo.com

  My evening was relaxing, which is to say dull. Yes,

  I’d like to meet you. Coffee or dinner or dancing . . . anything sounds good. Let me know where and when. How will I recognize you?

  I sent the e-mail just as Jen burst into the office. “It’s eight-forty-five, and I somehow have to survive the entire day at work. Why isn’t it five o’clock yet? Why? Why? I couldn’t be more depressed.”

  “I have some news that might cheer you up.”

  “I doubt it. What is it?”

  “Art and I are going to meet in real life. He’s going to tell me where and when.”

  Jen suddenly appeared to break out of her cocoon of self-absorption and seemed legitimately interested in what I had to say.

  “That’s great! You know, I have a good feeling about this,” she said.

  “I thought you said he was going to be an organ-eating murdering rapist.”

  “Well, he might be, I mean you need to be careful, right? But you know what I really think, I think that he’s probably really sweet, but maybe not that great looking, but he’ll make a great husband and a caring lover.”

  “Why don’t you think he’ll be good-looking?”

  “Why would he be surfing the Net if he were halfway decent looking?”

  I gave her a look.

  “Oh shut up, you’re gorgeous and you know you are,” Jen said. “You just can’t meet decent guys at the bars.”

  “Did you consider the possibility that he can’t meet decent women either?”

  “Anyway, when is he going to write you back?”

  “He usually checks his mail at least once a day, so, I don’t know, later today, I’d guess.”

  Every hour on the hour Jen pestered me to check my e-mail. I pretended like it was no big deal, I’d get to it when I got to it, but I had my eye on the clock. I couldn’t believe that only fifteen minutes had passed; it was killing me not to check every ten minutes. When I did check it and there was no message, both Jen and I were disappointed. When he hadn’t written back by noon I started to worry. Maybe he’d changed his mind.

  I checked again at 2:00 and was so ridiculously relieved to
be told I had new mail I accidentally let out a little squeal. I’d wanted to read his note in private, but, upon hearing my excitement, Jen rolled her chair over to my desk.

  “What did he say?” she asked, peering over my shoulder.

  To: Dancinfool@yahoo.com

  From: ArtLover@yahoo.com

  How does next Wednesday work for you? I know a great little restaurant. It’s kind of out of the way, but the food is great. Let’s say eight o’clock at the Full Moon Grill on Arapahoe and Fulsum. Over the weekend I’ll try to dig up a picture of myself that I can scan in and e-mail to you Monday so you can recognize me.

  This was what romance was about. This rush, this excitement, this inability to keep a smile off my face.

  Jen and I spent a good part of the rest of our day discussing what I should wear and what he might be like. I kept telling myself not to get too excited, that he was probably unattractive and dull, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so alive, and I couldn’t help being giddy with anticipation.

  After work, Les and I went to the mall, purportedly to do some Christmas shopping.

  The mall was crowded, but Les and I strolled along at our own pace, not yet panicked about buying presents. We stopped in front of a hip men’s clothing store.

  “Let’s just say you were going to buy some clothes for a guy who looked like me, and was my height, weight, and coloring. What would you get him?” Les asked, eyeing the trendy clothes.

  “Why, Les, are you asking me to help you pick out some new clothes? Why I’d love to,” I said in an affected Southern accent. “We girls are trained from a very early age to dress things. Of course as children it was Barbie dolls we were clothing, but the lessons still apply.” I helped him pick out several new pairs of pants and shoes, sweaters and shirts. Then we went into an eyeglasses store, where he asked me to help him pick out some frames.

  He tried on a pair of frames and looked at me. I shook my head. We did this several more times, him turning, waiting for me to shake or nod my head. “Les, you’re not even looking in the mirror,” I said, laughing.

  “I trust you. I’ll look in the mirror before I buy them. I’m just developing a pile of maybes first.”

  “Um, no,” I said, vetoing a squarish frame. “So guess what? Art and I are going to go on a date next week. He’s going to send me his picture tomorrow. Can you believe it? An actual date.”

  “That’s great,” he said without enthusiasm.

  “Those are okay. Put those with the maybes. Ugh, definitely a no.” Les put the glasses I disliked back on the shelf. He stared at them for a long moment.

  “I’m kind of scared,” I continued. “What if he doesn’t think I’m attractive or interesting? I don’t particularly want to deal with any more rejection. Les, is something wrong?”

  “No. I’m happy for you. That’s great. I really hope it works out.”

  “Put back on the thin gray frames. I think I like those best.”

  “These?”

  “Yeah. I think those are the ones.”

  He looked into the mirror. “I think you’re right. These feel great.”

  “Do they? They look really good.” He tried on several more pairs, but we both liked the thin, stylish metal frames the best.

  After he paid for the glasses, I continued talking as if I hadn’t been interrupted. “I’m trying not to get my hopes up, but part of me really hopes this works out. I would really love it if I didn’t have to go to yet another office holiday party stag. I can’t tell you how I’ve been dreading the party.”

  “We can always go stag together.”

  “That’d be great,” I said, feeling guilty that I hadn’t remembered that he’d be going to the party alone, too. We walked out of the store and lingered at the railing, looking at the shoppers on the floor below.

  “I spent several hundred dollars on myself today and didn’t buy a single gift for anyone else. Next time I come to the mall I’m really going to have to increase my gifts-bought-per-hour ratio or I’ll never be ready for Christmas,” he said.

  “We were just kind of scoping out the scene tonight. Mapping out our strategy, seeing what we want to get people. Next time we’ll actually buy gifts. You want to get some ice cream?”

  “No thanks. I should be getting home. I’ve been trying to get to bed early so I can work out before I go to work. I know you’re saying, Les, get a life, why do you have to work on a Saturday, but I do have to go into the office for awhile.”

  “What a drag. Well, have fun with your workout.”

  “I will. I’ve actually been having fun. I feel a lot better. And it’s so cool how in just a couple weeks I can already see such an improvement. Last week I could only jog for a few minutes at a time without stopping to walk. This week, I mean my pace is pretty slow, but I can jog without stopping for twenty minutes. I know that probably doesn’t sound like much . . .”

  “No, Les, that’s great. I’m proud of you.”

  “It’s a step in the right direction.” Les got quiet after that. He didn’t say anything as we walked through the mall out to the parking lot. Les seemed strangely distant.

  The next morning as I opened the newspaper and turned right to my horoscope, hoping it would give me some insight into whether things were going to work out between me and Art, the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, may I speak to Avery?” There was considerable static, but through the crackling line, the voice sounded familiar.

  “Speaking.”

  “Avery! It’s Kestrel.”

  “Kestrel! Oh my god! How are you? How’d you find me?”

  “I called your mom. She gave me your number. I’m great, how are you?”

  “I’m good. What’s that static?”

  “Sorry, I’m calling from a cell phone. If I didn’t have a cell phone, I would never have time to talk to anyone. I’m on the road all the time now. I’m in sales.”

  “Still selling your jewelry?”

  She laughed. “No, I’m an account manager for a major advertising agency now. You’re never going to believe it, but Avery, guess what? I’m getting married!”

  I tried to imagine Kestrel, a bisexual vegan who, for a while, had actually made a living as a modern dancer and jewelry maker, working for an advertising agency and getting married. Then I wondered if maybe she was “marrying” a woman in a commitment ceremony or something. That would be more her style. I kept my question vague to allow for the possibility. “Congratulations, that’s great. Where did the two of you meet?”

  “He works at the same agency I do. He’s a regional sales manager.”

  So she was really marrying a man. Kestrel, with her five tattoos and her nose ring, had fallen in love with a regional sales manager? “Wow, sounds like a lot of changes are going on in your life. Are you still dancing?”

  “No, I don’t have time. I got sick of being broke and living like a bohemian. Listen, the wedding is going to be in June. You’re going to get an invitation, but I wanted to give you enough time to make plane reservations if you can come. Do you think you’ll be able to make it?”

  “Definitely. I’d love to. Kestrel, I’m so happy for you.”

  “Ouch!”

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” It was hard to hear her with the sound of the ambulance blaring behind her, but it sounded like she said something about her high heels.

  “You wear heels?”

  “I know, isn’t it crazy? I wear business suits and heels every day, just like a grownup or something! Hey, how’s Gideon?”

  “Oh my god, it really has been a long time. Gideon and I are divorced. We’ve been divorced for about two years. It was hard for a while, but there’s somebody special in my life now. I’m doing okay.”

  “Divorced! You two were perfect for each other.”

  “It was an amicable parting. Our lives were just being pulled in different directions.”

  We talked for twenty minutes about her new house in the
suburbs with a Jacuzzi and a two-car garage. She talked about how she wanted to have kids right away because, at thirty, she just didn’t have any time to waste.

  By the time we hung up, my emotions were reeling. It was so hard to believe that Kestrel of all people had gotten swept into the vortex of middle-class life. Maybe it was inevitable that we’d all get sucked in, until one by one our ideals and our dreams fell away.

  JEN

  Girls’ Night In

  I was experiencing testosterone overload. I never thought it could happen, but I was officially getting sick of men. Both Tom and Mike asked me out for Saturday night, and I told both of them I was having a slumber party, girls only. It was a lie, but the idea grew on me. I liked the idea of spending a night without having to hold my stomach in, a night without having to laugh at unfunny jokes, a night of eating too much and laughing till my stomach hurt.

  Avery brought wine and foccacia, marinated skewers of tofu and vegetables, and grilled potatoes; Rette brought salsa and baked chips; I brought brownies, chips, dip, and guacamole.

  We promptly changed into our own version of PJs: I put on a tank top and my faded University of Minnesota shorts, Rette was in her sweats and wool socks, and Avery wore flannel pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. I brought a pitcher of margaritas to the living room, where we’d spread our sleeping bags over air mattresses.

  “Avery, you’re looking really good,” Rette said.

  “I’m feeling really good. Les and I have been dancing twice a week, and then two or three times a week we’ve been going to the gym together to take this Bikram yoga class.”

  “Which is?”

  “They turn the heat up in the room to more than a hundred degrees, so you sweat out all the impurities. You leave feeling really cleansed and recharged.”