by Ruth Kaufman
“How sad is that.” Andrea starts to cry again.
“That is truly the saddest ever.” I can’t take it anymore. I too burst into tears.
The two of us sob as the CD starts over.
She grabs a handful of Puffs. “How could I be so selfish, wanting to leave the people I love? People who depend on me?”
“Everyone deserves time alone. Maybe you don’t have to leave your family to get it. They love you.”
“Yes. I’m lucky to have people to love who love me. I have smart, healthy kids, now that they’re over the stomach flu that everyone at school ended up with, and a nice house.”
What about “and a loving husband?” I’m burning to ask if she’s talked to Dan about any of this. It’s sad that so many people, including me, often find it easier divulge their deepest feelings to therapists than those closest to them.
Her husband is the elephant in a room too tiny for a large dog. “What does Dan say?”
“Dan. He has pressures of his own. Work issues. I’m lucky to still be married when so many of our friends are divorced.” Her stream pauses. “Sorry. And I’m lucky to have a job where I can help others.”
“Don’t you think if Dan knew how unhappy you are he’d help you find a way to have time for yourself? Maybe he could watch the kids one night a week? Maybe you could get a babysitter for a few hours so you could do something as a couple,” I add carefully.
“Our relationship...it could use some work, too. I thought of asking him to sit, but he’s always exhausted. Maybe I’m making things worse. I’ve been so short-tempered lately. Hardly a day’s gone by that we haven’t argued. Usually about money.”
I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but.... “What if you plan a romantic evening and I’ll babysit?”
“Oh, Marla. That would be great. You’re better than my therapist,” Andrea says. “And cheaper, too.” She tries to blow her nose, but it’s so stuffed nothing comes out. “You were right. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. I have to remember that.”
“I printed it out and taped it to my computer.” I don’t say that my new motto could also be taken to mean it’s time to change. “I read that it can be helpful every night before you go to bed to write down things you’re thankful for. A gratitude journal. Maybe a book on affirmations would help...you could list them all and look at them every day. I should do that, too.”
“Thanks, Marla. I feel better. I’ll work harder at finding a few minutes a day for me. And I’ll be taking you up on your offer to sit. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, right? I can go home now.”
“You’re welcome.”
After Andrea leaves, I continue to make my way through the M&M’s. She may be feeling better, but I’m feeling worse. She listed many reasons why her life is great. And I don’t have one of hers in mine.
Why is my life great? Because I live alone and can do whatever I want whenever I want. No kids or husband making demands on me. Needing me.
No one loving me but me.
“The classical station interview went well,” I tell Linda. “The sales manager said my sales record impressed him, but he was more impressed by my knowledge of music. Not every interviewee appreciates the station’s product like I do. He offered me a job. I could start in two weeks.”
“That’s wonderful! Congratulations. It’s about time you left WZRJ. No one I know listens to it, anyway.”
“I didn’t accept the offer.”
“What? If I had a nickel for every time you told me how sick you were of WZRJ....”
The nickel line. Another thing my dad always says. Is Linda turning into my father?
“I’m sick of sales, too. And the compensation is less than I’m making now.”
“Money isn’t everything. Think about it. You need a change.”
I think of the homeless me in my dreams. I think of Linda talking about the money scale. Being the material girl I am, I can’t bring myself to take this job. Because I know I won’t enjoy another sales position enough to offset the lower income.
If I’m going to be unhappy with work, I might as well make more money, not less.
Linda is right. I do need to move on. But I’m still scared.
Chapter 18
I finally got the media director at Amberly Advertising to agree to a meeting. My goal is to get her to commit to a sizeable package on both stations with tie in promotions for a local brand of root beer and a small ice cream chain. I can already taste the root beer floats at Taste of Chicago and hear WZRJ blasting from the booth.
Amberly displays huge turn of the century posters in its lobby. I recognize two by Alphonse Mucha, but can’t name the other artists. The staircase is a curving mass of shiny stainless steel. Stainless steel rivers cut through the cement floor. Monorail track lighting winds all over the ceiling, with red and yellow art glass pendants dangling.
How awesome it must be to work in a place like this. The atmosphere inspires creativity. I think of the grismal, cramped WZRJ space and what that inspires.
The receptionist wears a slinky halter top and reveals a vast amount of cleavage. She has a headset on.
“Hello. I’m Marla Goldberg from WZRJ here to see Nicole Packard.”
“Amberly Advertising. One moment, please.” She looks at me and smiles. She’s had her teeth and her boobs done. “Amberly Advertising. One moment, please. Amberly Advertising. He’s not in the office today, would you like his voice mail? One moment. May I help you?” she asks me.
“I’m Marla Goldberg from WZRJ here to see Nicole Packard,” I repeat.
The phone beeps. Another line beeps. “Amberly Advertising. Thank you. Amberly Advertising. One moment.” To me, “I’m sorry. You’re here to see....”
“Natalie Packard.” I keep my voice even and my smile friendly.
She pushes a button on her console. “Natalie, um. Like, um.” Receptionist pauses and looks at me expectantly. She’s forgotten my name. Bimbo. I hand her my card. “Marla Goldberg is here. Ok, I’ll send her up. Up the stairs, fourth door on the left.”
“Thanks.”
I climb the stairway to heaven. Natalie is on the phone, staring at her flat screen monitor and typing furiously, but raises a hand to wave me in. I sit in a deep yellow chair. Her desk is a sleek, pale wood curve. Her view is south on Michigan Avenue.
“No. Not good enough. Don’t call me again until you have the information I need,” Nicole says. “Unique impressions. Ad views. User sessions. Click through. Cost per thousand.” She slams down the phone. “God save me from reps who don’t know their own product. Hello, Marla. I’ll be with you in a moment. I need to make a quick call.”
I hate when people keep me waiting. Like my time isn’t as important as theirs. Like I have nowhere else to be but at their beck and call. Like they are special and born to keep unspecial vendors waiting.
Natalie starts talking. She wears no makeup, which makes her look tired. A bottle of Peach Snapple is on her desk, and there are two cases stacked on the floor. I wonder why she’s not drinking beverages from their account, Nifty Root Beer.
Having done my research, I know all about Nifty’s competition, target market, history, etc. WZRJ is a perfect fit for their not-too-hip image.
Natalie is still blabbing. I pull out my calendar. She’s eaten up ten minutes, leaving thirty before I have to go so I’m not late to a remote at Randee’s Ribs. Enough time if she gets off the phone and I talk extra fast.
Finally, she hangs up. “I can only spare a few minutes. What have you got for me today?”
I want to yell, “It’s taken me three months to get a meeting, you keep me waiting for fifteen minutes and then only spare me a few?” But I smile and say, “I’ve developed a tie-in buy for Nifty Root Beer and Smiley’s Super Scoops.” I hand her the folder. “Combining—”
Natalie’s phone rings.
“Combining the two brands—”
It rings again. Don’t answer, I pray silently.
She looks at the Caller ID, then at me. My I-spent-hours-preparing-this-presentation folder rests on her desk, unopened. Unappreciated.
Give me my few minutes. I need this deal.
“Combining the two brands will result in a synergy—”
“I have to take this. It’s important.” With a semi-apologetic shrug, Natalie picks up the phone and swivels to the side. Her profile is not appealing. “Hello, Sid. Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh huh.”
And this meeting is important too. I’m important. How do I get people to treat me as if I’m special at work or when I’m an extra? The rest of the time?
The dejection I feel goes beyond the ruination of my meeting. Then hope springs...maybe she’ll feel bad about blowing me off and agree to go over my proposal another day?
“Let me check. Can you hold a sec?” Natalie puts her hand over the mouthpiece. “This’ll take a while. Then I have a major conference call I can’t miss.”
“I’d be happy to reschedule.” I flip my calendar to the month view.
“Why don’t I just look over what you’ve brought and I’ll get in touch if I have questions.”
But my brilliant persuasive speaking and sales skills will help you to want this deal as much as I do....
“They’re cutting the budget?” Natalie yells into the phone as she grabs my folder and tosses it on a precarious pile on a credenza behind her desk.
At least I’ll make it to the remote on time.
I walk out of her office, working to convince myself that the contents of the folder alone will earn the sale. I’m icing on my cake, all she really needs is my detailed proposal.
My chin lifts at these positive thoughts. I race down the stairs.
And straight into a shirt and tie. My nose smacks against a man’s chest bone.
“Ouch.” Pain infiltrates my head. Tears sting my eyes. My hand flies to my nose. Oh. My. It can’t be broken, it’s one of my best features.
“Marla, I’m so sorry. Are you ok?”
That voice. That most excellent cologne.
It’s Jeff.
“As you can see, I got the job,” he says.
“Cudgradulashids.” He looks great in a shirt and tie. So professional carrying a stack of manila folders. Sexy. Banish that thought. “Dice rudding idto you. I have to go.”
Right now. I’m such a pain wimp. Tears linger on my lashes. I force my eyes open. I will not blink. Crying at a client’s office and in front of a man I almost dated would be monumentally mortifying.
I can’t even imagine what I must look like standing there holding my nose with my Clockwork Orange wide eyes.
Something warm drips into my hand. Blood. I’ve never had a nosebleed in my life. Red drops fall from my fingers and splat on the silvery stairs.
“Geez, Marla. You’re bleeding.” Jeff drops his papers. They slide and flutter down the stairs.
The floating pages are pretty. How romantic that he’s rushing to my aid. My knight on a shining staircase. Am I delirious?
Jeff tugs a handkerchief out of his pocket and puts it over my nose. “C’mon, let’s go to my office.” Putting his arm around me, he leads me up the stairs. Over his shoulder, he calls, “A little help here, please.”
As we round the curve, I glimpse one minion scooping up the papers and another wiping away my blood. We turn to the right and start down the hall.
“Jeff, where are you going?” a woman calls. “I need you on the Greenery Gardens conference call.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
The woman, tall with perfectly flat-ironed blond hair with dark roots in a fitted blue dress has followed us up the stairs. “We could lose the pitch if you’re not on this call. They’re bound to have questions about creative.”
“Ben can handle questions,” Jeff says.
“It’s a five-million-dollar account,” she persists.
“I’m aware of that, Sandra. And I’m aware that I’m the creative director and you’re one of my copywriters.” He pauses, as if waiting to be sure Sandra gets it. “Tell Ben I’ll be there soon. Thanks.”
I’ve never heard him speak so firmly. Manly. Intriguing.
My head spins. I need to sit. Or collapse. “You go. Which way’s de ladies’ rube? I dode wad to get blood on eddything.”
Blood is so very red.
“Don’t worry about a thing. Here we are.”
Jeff helps me sit on his squishy black leather loveseat. From somewhere he retrieves a roll of paper towel and spreads a few pieces on my lap. Concern for my clothes. Nice.
“Tilt your head back.”
The cool softness of the leather feels good against my neck, but not as good as his hand on my face. Amid my pain, I’m flattered that Jeff has put me first. He’s sacrificing an important call for me.
“I’ll get some ice. If it doesn’t stop in a minute, we’re going to the hospital.”
“I’ll be fide,” I insist. “Take your call. I’ll wait until the bleedig stops add thed leave. You wode eved doe I’b here.”
He pulls the handkerchief from my nose. Several small ruby drops mar the pristine fabric. “Not bad. My brother and I used to fight as kids, so I had a lot of bloody noses.” After folding the handkerchief to expose a clean area, he gently dabs my nose. “Good. The bleeding has stopped. You had me scared there for a minute.”
“Scared I might sue you for reckless stair-climbing?” I can talk normally again.
He sighs. “Marla, is it so hard for you to believe someone might actually care about what happens to you?”
I sit up straight. Well, yes, now that you mention it. If that someone is a man.
“I do need to join that call. Stay as long as you like. Marla, I’m not satisfied with the way things ended between us. I was in a different place, a weird place when we met. But even then, I was attracted to you. I still am.”
His words sizzle into my gut like a downed shot of whiskey. I feel the resulting kick. Jeff still finds me attractive, even with what must be a swollen nose and red eyes. I am well and truly flattered. I want to hear more.
“Can I call you?”
“Sure,” my weak self says. I’m attracted to him too. Can’t help it. Can’t stop it.
“Better yet, are you free for dinner tonight?” he asks. “If you’re feeling ok, that is.”
What have I got to look forward to but a night of either sitting at my computer working on the book I can’t seem to finish or watching Netflix? Maybe he’s over Maggie. Or maybe he wants to apologize for almost breaking my nose. Or just eat. Or—
Stop overanalyzing.
“Dinner would be great. Anywhere but Dragon.”
He smiles. What an amazing smile. “Seven, at Dinnertime? Is that a good time?”
Time! What time is it?
“Oh. My.” I glance at my watch and jump to my feet. I sway but Jeff is there to help. “Gotta run. Way late for a remote broadcast. Seven. Dinnertime. Be there,” I call as I run out his door.
I take great care going down the stairs.
The remote went well despite my tardy arrival. Lots of people showed up to eat lots of food. Randee was thrilled by the turnout, but seemed disappointed that I wouldn’t sample his wares. Though the ribs smelled awesome, the shiny red sauce reminded me of blood.
I’m pleased to report my nose is only slightly swollen and red. A little makeup before dinner with Jeff should fix that. I stop by the office to catch up on a few things before going home to primp.
John, Liz, Christi, and Stan are chatting away on their phones. As I turn on my laptop, from other cubes I hear the little ding that announces a new e-mail message is coming in.
“Shit!” Stan says. “Are these assholes insane?”
“What now?” Liz asks.
“Read the fucking e-mail. Fuck them,” Stan bellows.
I peer over the cube top. Stan is throwing things into his briefcase. “What does it say?”
Whatever’s in the e-mail must be horrendous. Stan never use
s the ‘f’ word unless he’s well and truly pissed.
“Fuck all the goddamn radio stations in Chicago.”
I’m guessing neither WGN or WBBM were as eager to have him as he’d hoped.
I can’t stand the suspense. My laptop is slow booting up so I stand behind Liz. In stunned silence, we read the latest missive from Josiah Barnaby, forwarded by his assistant to the VPs who forwarded it to the directors who forwarded it to the managers who forwarded it to us.
“Unbelievable,” I whisper. “They are insane.”
Liz reads aloud, “Starting Monday, each Barnaby Broadcasting Account Executive is instructed to use the attached template to submit a detailed itinerary.” Her voice catches, and she can’t go on.
John continues, “Starting Monday, each AE is also required to report what he/she actually did during every quarter hour of the business day of the previous week and report each Client Entertainment outing, listing all attendees.” He looks at me. “What are they thinking?”
We’ve always had to send in general itineraries and status reports, but quarter hour details? “Someone must not’ve been where he said he’d be. Or maybe someone got caught slacking off at home.”
Liz whines, “It’s going to take forever to keep track of everything we do. And how much is enough?”
I’m a huge red pimple about to burst. The way upper management has been treating us is getting worse and worse. But there’s nothing we can do or say to stop them or make things better. Our opinions and concerns, our ideas, have no value at BB.
Only two courses of action lie open to us now. One is to stay, and by staying accept the new requirements. And the other....
“That does it. I quit.”
Heads swivel toward me. Those words came out of my mouth.
Stan jumps to his feet. “Where the fuck’s a manager when you need one?”
Liz says, “Brenda’s in the small conference room.”
I storm off. John, Liz, Christi and Stan traipse after me like lemmings.
Brenda is sitting at the table with her hands folded, as if she expected to see us.
“I quit,” I announce without preamble.
