by Ruth Kaufman
Tuesday night, my phone rings. As always, I whisper a short prayer that it’ll be an agent, casting person or potential client before checking Caller ID. As always, I glance at the phone with hope.
It’s not any of those, it’s Jeff. Calling two days, six hours and thirty-two minutes after I heard a throaty-voiced woman chortle in his apartment. What if she’s been there all that time, seducing him with her vixen-like ways? I imagine him collapsed on his couch after days of rambunctious sex, rumpled and exhausted, hair standing on end, surrounded by Chinese takeout cartons with chopsticks poking out of the congealed remnants.
My red-eyed Godzilla has a vivid imagination.
“Hi, Marla. I’ve been meaning to call.” I hear loud TV, some news channel. “The other day. When you wanted to go to dinner. Um, you know.” Jeff pauses for what seems like a very long time. “I had a...friend over so it wasn’t a good time. But I’m free tonight if you want to grab a bite. I’d like to see you.”
But who was the laughing woman? None of my business. He told me he didn’t want to be exclusive.
I’d said I was done with him, but I’m so lonely. To share or not to share? That is the question. Really, it’s two questions. Why didn’t Hamlet or Shakespeare grasp that?
1. To share:
a) There’s nary a DM prospect in sight.
b) I’m attracted to Jeff and he’s a great kisser.
c) I like kissing and miss it.
d) I like going out to dinner, but not so much by myself.
e) I need another good story for Linda/Brad. This, I know, is a pretty lame reason.
2. Not to share:
a) Obvious issues of
i) fidelity and monogamy
ii) sexual health/cleanliness
b) Self-worth
c) The last minute invitation as if he’d hoped for something better.
As you can see, there are more reasons to share, yet the reasons not to share are more all-encompassing.
“Marla? Do you want to get some dinner?”
“It’s just dinner,” Voice in Head says. “No biggy.”
Ok.
No. Not ok. I am not desperate. I will not go out with a guy again if I have doubts. And unless there is hope of him liking me and only me.
Even if it means I spend every Saturday night alone for the rest of my life.
“No thanks, Jeff.”
“Maybe another time?”
“I don’t think so, thanks. Bye.”
I feel better for saying no. Really, I do.
Chapter 15
Wednesday, the day of my big lunch with Josiah Barnaby, arrives. I admit to some trepidation as I don my nicest pantsuit, a charcoal Tahari. Pointy Martinez Valero sling backs and my grandmother’s pink pearls complete the look of a confident professional.
I’m squished in a baby cube, finishing a proposal for one of my smaller ad agencies when Sue shows up. “Marla, do you have a minute?”
The second time she’s spoken directly to me this month. Something tap dances in my stomach. Wishing I had Rolaids, I follow her into the conference room and sit as she closes the door.
“I’d like to go over what you’ll say to Mr. Barnaby. What your thoughts are.” Sue’s cream silk coatdress doesn’t suit her florid complexion and clings to her thighs in a rather unflattering way. She opens a WZRJ notepad, picks up her silver WZRJ logo pen and looks at me expectantly. “To make sure we’re on the same page and the like.”
What I’ll say? Clearly Sue doesn’t think I can simply say what comes to mind. I was supposed to plan for this lunch?
She wants to put words in my mouth, when she’s never once looked over one of my proposals or visited a client with me. Ever. In eight years.
This may be one of my worst WZRJ moments. My superior feels more strongly about what I might tell a company executive than she cares about how I interact with our clients or perform my job. Do I cave and tell her what I might say? Do I listen to any suggestions she offers, pretend to consider requests she makes, then ignore any I don’t like?
I hear Catherine whispering to me from a floating bubble like Glinda the Good Witch from The Wizard of Oz. “You’re so brave, Marla. Brave enough to tell the truth. Tell the truth. Tell the truth.” She waves her sparkly wand to shower me with good wishes.
“I appreciate your interest, Sue.” That’s not the truth, but in the business world one must be circumspect on occasion. In my smoothest, most pleasant tone, I continue, “But I don’t think my conversation with Mr. Barnaby is any of your business.”
And that is the truth.
“Have a great day.” I leave before she can answer. Before I can tell her what I really think: that it’s totally wrong of her to think she can use me to make her department or life at WZRJ seem better than it is.
I take a deep breath as I return to my baby cube, half-expecting the wrath of Khan from Star Trek to descend upon me. Or that Sue will try to join Mr. Barnaby and me at lunch.
Liz Burnside leans on the cube wall. “What did Sue want?”
“Just a question about my lunch with Mr. B. today.”
Liz turns the same shade as her olive-greenish suit. “You’ll have to tell me everything he says. Everything.”
Sad, really. Though Liz considers Mr. B. her role model and sucks up to him at meetings, she’s never achieved her life dream of being a top performer and winning a High Achiever award so she could go on the fancy winners’ trip with all the bigwig execs.
I don’t regret what I said to Sue, though maybe I should. I hope I have enough courage to be as honest with Mr. Barnaby.
I meet him at ChiMi, a chichi restaurant on the Magnificent Mile with amazing Dale Chihuly light fixtures made up of textured glass balls ranging from the size of apples to pumpkins with long, red and white curlicues, but with an otherwise neutral, unadorned decor.
I’d never go there because of the high prices. An appetizer can be fifteen dollars or more. Why relinquish that much for lunch when Chicago offers dozens of other restaurants with delicious meals for so much less? Maybe the food is worth the price. I might enjoy ChiMi today, assuming Mr. Barnaby is paying.
Mr. Barnaby is waiting for me at a window table overlooking the lake. I recognize him from his brief speeches at our national meetings. He’s in his early fifties, tall as Tony Robbins, imposing as Rambo and gruff as the Grinch. He dresses more nattily than Robert Redford in The Great Gatsby. Mr. B. has made millions from his media empire and carries himself as though everyone else should be aware of and appreciate his success.
Who am I to do lunch with a man of his caliber? I am worthy. I am Marla, Account Executive Extraordinaire.
He stands and extends his hand. “Marla. A pleasure. Ho ho ho.”
He’s the Jolly Green Giant and I’m Sprout.
His hand is way too big and warm. Mine is ice cold, but I shake firmly.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Barnaby.” Thankfully my voice doesn’t expose my nerves. I sit across from him with what I hope is the grace of a queen.
“Call me Josiah.” He starts to put his white napkin on his lap but a waiter zips in and exchanges it for a brown one. He gives me one, too. I get it, the white ones leave lint on dark pants. “You’re having a great year, Marla.”
“Thank you.”
Josiah looks out the window, hand on his chin as if thinking deep, CEO thoughts. I wait. As the supreme boss of all, I expect him to lead the conversation. Awkward silences make me more uncomfortable than the actress with pink-tipped hair and ripped jeans who showed up at an audition for a turn-of-the-century-woman and saw all the hopefuls in cream blouses with their hair up.
I look at the table. It’s simply set with a single greenish orchid in a silver bowl. The silence makes me want to scream. “So what brings you to Chicago?”
“An old college friend invited me to his lake house in Michiana,” Josiah booms, embarrassingly loud.
The waiter hands us menus with a pretentious twist of his wrist and offers us
a drink.
Miss Manners, help. I’m sure I’m supposed to order first as the female and guest, but I’d really like to hear what he’s having.
The waiter gives me that look saying, “You so don’t belong in our fine dining establishment. I dare you to order wine. I dare you to order a craft cocktail.”
I look down my nose at him, which is hard to do since he’s standing and I’m sitting. I stare back until he looks away. Because I do belong as much as anyone else. Snooty waiter. “I’ll have an iced tea, please.”
“Blended Black, Mango and Passionfruit or Red Berry Infusion?” he asks politely. As if he’s not sick of listing tea options for the zillionth time.
Though it sounds tasty, I can’t say the word passionfruit in front of my boss’s boss’s boss’s boss’s or however many boss’s boss. “Blended Black, please.”
Josiah leans back in his chair. “Mango and passionfruit for me.” This time heads turn, he’s so loud.
The waiter nods and departs. Am I the only one who thinks Josiah emphasized the word passion? I hope rumors about his pursuit of female employees aren’t true.
He looks out the window again. Is he watching the boats go by? What?
My loquacious tongue is stultified. I would’ve rather taken him on a sales call or to a promotional event so he could see me in action and meet key clients than face him one on one. I don’t know what to say to such an exalted, supremely confident personage.
Is this a chicken or the egg thing? Is Josiah confident because he owns Barnaby Broadcasting or did he come to own Barnaby Broadcasting because he’s confident?
VIH contributes, “Say something brilliant about the company, the station or the radio industry.”
Nothing comes to mind. I’m trying too hard. My brain can’t function. I imagine puffs of smoke floofing out my ears.
I open the menu in lieu of talking. It’s fixed price. An appetizer/entrée combo costs fifty-four dollars. And the iced tea is six dollars. Do you get free refills? Even though I consider myself literate in sophisticated foods, there are things I’ve never heard of.
Wild Striped Bass with Nage of Pumpkin. What the hell is a Nage? How do you say it...nahj, nayg, nah-gé? I think it means swim in French, and if so would be the former. I can’t order something I’m not sure how to pronounce.
And there’s massaged kale. The image of a masseuse working on a bag of kale almost makes me laugh out loud.
Josiah glances at his menu, then sets it aside, clearly having decided. I’m still working my way through the complicated choices.
I’d better go with the Shrimp Risotto in Langoustine Bisque. At least I know what I’ll be eating. In case you don’t know, langoustine is a kind of prawn that resembles lobster.
Why do some chefs go out of their way to put bizarre items on their menus that make diners feel ignorant and insecure? Maybe so it seems like the restaurant offers a vast selection, when in actuality the chef is steering you toward things the average person can understand.
“So. Tell me. Are you happy at WZRJ?” Mr. Barnaby asks.
Uh oh.
The waiter arrives with our iced teas, yielding a brief respite.
In my mind, Sue and Catherine are sharing a table across the room. Sue is glaring at me. Catherine is doing that little dance where you swing your fists in a sideways circle as you bounce. “Go Marla,” she mouths. “Go Marla.”
Josiah certainly cut right to the chase. The moment has come. Do I go with honesty or be PC?
After adding stevia, I take a sip of tea. Most flavorful. Not six dollars flavorful.
“The recent downsizing of our workspace has made efficiency and achievement a challenge,” I say. “And—”
“I’m sure you’re up to the challenge. Any challenge.”
He cut me off before I could even get started. What does that mean?
He drinks his tea. “Tell me, what are some of your best practices for becoming a top performer?”
“I make sure to know my clients and their businesses, as well as their competition and ours. Plus, I’m a good time manager, so I can keep on top of details and get the myriad of tasks we need to perform in a given day done efficiently.”
He’s staring out the window again. Maybe he’s useless without the scripts he reads from at meetings, probably written by someone else, and his TelePrompTer.
I’ve been guzzling my tea. Instead of refilling from a pitcher, a waiter brings me a new glass. Fresh piece of lemon, too. So that’s what costs six dollars.
I’m bored. I am bored because Josiah doesn’t care. He’s asking rote questions, but doesn’t seem to be paying attention to my answers. He doesn’t follow up on my replies. This should be special and exciting, yet I’m drowning in blah blah blah as thick and smelly as steaming tar. And we haven’t even gotten our appetizers yet.
I remember Melanie Griffith as Tess McGill in Working Girl. Secretary Tess pretends she has her boss’s job and manages to succeed in the high-stakes business world against all odds. Believe you can do it and you can.
If only I had writers and directors telling me what to do and say so I could get through this lunch.
Wait a minute. I became a successful AE through my own hard work and can handle myself in any professional situation. And I’m an actress. I’ll combine the two and pretend I’m doing a scene in a movie. I sit up straighter.
“So, Josiah, what is your view of the ongoing impact satellite radio companies, new car entertainment systems and the growth of free streaming sites are having on local radio stations?”
“Well, Myrna, the move to digital is being felt throughout the marketplace....”
Myrna? I’m having lunch with an executive who doesn’t even know my name.
Josiah launches into a dissertation about changes and trends in radio advertising and listeners, droning on after our food is served. I’m thankful to be off the conversation hook, but he’s annoying me.
My risotto is the green of guacamole, topped by three huge shrimp. Forming a circle around the risotto is peach froth. Quite the colorful and tasty meal.
Highfalutin Josiah Barnaby has terrible manners. He shovels food rapidly and spews little bits of sea bass and nage, which turns out to be a foamy sort of broth, across the table. A bit of something lands on his tie.
Josiah exhausts the topic of the future of radio, then continues blabbing about his rise to success. His tales are somewhat interesting, but I thought the lunch was supposed to be about me and WZRJ. At least he pays.
After we say our good-byes and I thank Josiah for lunch, I hurry home. I must talk to Catherine. Immediately.
“Well, I survived.”
“Marla! I’ve been waiting. It’s three o’clock. What took so long?”
I fill her in, down to the total cost, which came to $108.00. I read the bill upside down as Josiah scribbled in a nice tip, bringing the final total to $130.00. For lunch, with no alcohol or dessert.
“What do you think it means? Josiah—I can now call Mr. Barnaby Josiah—didn’t really want to know anything about anything. He just wanted an audience.”
“Maybe he’s lonely, being so high in the corporate stratosphere,” Catherine muses. “I don’t get it.”
“Maybe it was just for show. Something to put in the company e-newsletter. I can see the headline, “Josiah Barnaby Lunches with Myrna, Top Performer.” I’m turning on my computer as we talk so can I catch up on e-mail. “At least it never came down to a choice between being honest or PC. At least I didn’t wind up saying anything that could come back and bite me.”
I hope.
Being a Wednesday, I’ll be having dinner with Linda and Brad later, but I want to call her to relate my JB lunch. She laughs when I tell her about Josiah’s spittle.
I sigh. “Do you think there are any companies out there that truly care about their employees and their career happiness?”
“No. That’s why Dad always said we should be our own bosses.”
Like she is.
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Dad also said, “You need to be the one who calls the shots.” Constant repetition and making his advice sound like an order only served to make me not want to have my own business.
He insisted, “You can be anything you want if you put your mind to it.” But I know that’s not true, or I’d be a working actress by now. I’d be in a real relationship. How do I know the rest of his advice is any better?
“I really want to quit.”
“You can’t. You have a mortgage to pay and an acting habit to support,” my younger-but-often-acts-like-she’s-smarter sister reminds me for the zillionth time. “And what about that book you keep saying you’re going to write?”
“Why is so much of life is what you should do, not what you want to do?” I ask. “What if I did quit? Would the world come to an end? I have some money saved. For health insurance, I can get COBRA. By then I’m bound to know what I want to do.”
Leap and the net will appear.
“Life is a balancing act,” Linda says. “Money on one side, happiness on the other. For people like us, money carries a lot of weight.”
Easy for someone who has a gazillion dollars and a custom built, designer decorated mansion and a job she loves and a great significant other to say.
“Will you be happier with the job or without it?” Linda continues. Strangely similar to what Dear Abby says to a woman deciding whether or not to leave her man. Is she reading advice columns now? Hmm.
“Without it. The end of my rope has frayed and I’m clinging to the last strand. Things will never get better at WZRJ. I am going to quit.”
I feel good saying this. Relieved and free. It’s time to take my life into my own hands, and do what I want, no matter the cost, financial, personal or parental. Not wait around for the Universe to provide. Otherwise I’ll be stuck on the WZRJ treadmill forever. Like George Jetson.
But there’s my MasterCard bill. Property taxes will soon be due. Cell phone and condo assessment bills await my attention. Not to mention the adorable sandals I saw the other day while cruising through Nordstrom Rack.
