What Doesn't Kill You

by Virginia DeBerry

  First off, he didn’t look like any PhD chemist I ever imagined. Mr. Wu was definitely not the lab-coat and pocket-protector variety. It was before dawn, but he was already seriously styling with a black suit and silk T-shirt that fit him flawlessly and set off his silver-streaked hair. He looked like a rock star, an actor or a spy—merely a professional observation. And I couldn’t help thinking of Olivia, who looked like a flying mess the first time I saw her. It takes all kinds. We spoke briefly. He told me how much he had admired Olivia and the Markson brand and that he looked forward to my input. I truly wasn’t expecting the English accent, but something about him inspired confidence. I wanted to be a part of the team and I was so fired up that before I went to bed that night I started making notes in my laptop—on my laptop—however you say it.

  Olivia had established herself as a small, exclusive brand and moved out from there. Was this a strategy that could apply to Derma-Teq? Was there confusion about who would benefit from the product? Who was their target customer? I was so excited I had to force myself to go to bed, but I had come up with a lengthy to-do list.

  And the next morning, before I went to the office, I stopped and found myself a new philodendron. Rapunzel II was more developed than her predecessor had been when I brought her to the office in that little white plastic pot. I already had a spot picked out for her on my credenza. It would make me feel at home in my new surroundings, and hopeful. My departure from Markson had been so sudden and I had been so angry that I didn’t have time to be sad too—but this wasn’t the day for looking backward. I didn’t have any sunlight, but the fluorescents in my office would be enough to keep a plant happy, and I could look forward to watching it grow to twenty feet again.

  The job was all that and a paycheck. I was in love. On our next video conference, this one from Moscow, Steven—he said he preferred the informality of first names—was impressed with the highlights I presented from the notes I had made about resistance to the brand, and with my initial suggestions for how to reposition the products. He was particularly interested in my Markson experience and asked me to prepare a report, expanding on my findings. I hadn’t done one of those since the Markson corporate history that I turned into confetti, but I was up to the challenge. Steven wasn’t looking for a slick marketing package with graphs, charts and whirligigs—whatever they were. He wanted to know what I thought they could do better or differently, based on my experience. My experience. Clearly he understood you don’t work for twenty-plus years as the right hand to the founder of a hugely successful company without knowing a thing or two. Even a sockless idiot could see that. Oops, guess not. Anyway, based on my findings we would commission an in-depth analysis of the areas I identified, then formulate a budget and a detailed plan of action to increase our U.S. market share. I was impressed with my own expertise.

  Well, every day, five o’clock rolled around and I wasn’t ready to go home, not because I was playing the eager-beaver suck-up. I was just into my project, which entailed buying scads of magazines to check out competitors ads, then shopping the cosmetics aisles of high-end department stores. I got sales pitches, samples and scored shopping bags full of wrinkle creams, masks, peels, eye gels, exfoliating washes, serums, epi-vitamins, day protection, night repair, anti-age, youth restore—I bought enough stuff to beautify my entire town. In between my snooping trips, Leandra picked my brain, and I compiled pages and pages of notes. Let me tell you, time flies when you’re having fun—and making money spending someone else’s.

  I also had consultations at three of the most luxurious spas in New Jersey, and several in Manhattan—all in the name of sniffing out the competition, and fully expensed on my company credit card. I sure enjoyed signing on the dotted line to pay for my purchases—I mean the company’s purchases. I hadn’t had a viable credit card of my own in a while, but I felt those days were about to be over. Yep, I was counting my blessings. I didn’t think I would ever say it, but whatever I had been through was worth it.

  11

  …nothing left but mint wrappers and lint.

  I saw the great big chain around the door handles at Derma-Teq and could read the “warning” notice pasted on the door before I got out of my car—figured there must be a gas leak or something. Great. That morning I was looking forward to my new favorite healthy breakfast—fruit salad topped with plain yogurt and a drizzle of honey. Seriously. I still wasn’t ready to sign on for veggie burgers, but I was taking care of myself on the inside, like my Derma-Teq regimen pampered my complexion on the outside. And I had some observations to add to my report, which was coming along nicely. I was still debating whether to show it to Leandra before our usual Monday video conference or save it to wow Wu.

  My next thought was about whether I’d get paid for the day if we weren’t allowed in the building. Not to be petty but it wasn’t my fault. They were certainly generous with the groceries, but I was thinking about my check and you never know when you’re the newbie. I was truly gleeful to be able to resume paying my bills. And eliminating COBRA put more than a little change back in my pocket, but I had a deep hole to climb out of. I sure didn’t want to be short a day for the week. That money was already spoken for.

  It had taken three weeks to get my first check—I had to catch up with the payroll cycle—but cashing it felt as good as going to the bank with the first check I ever earned. Maybe better. I was eager to hear Steven’s feedback on what I had written. And I admit I was already thinking ahead to trying my hand at sales once we’d repositioned Derma-Teq. I’d seen Phill’s thousand-dollar suits and his snazzy Jag. I mean, look at Gerald—one g, one l. He was no genius—and he wasn’t exactly overstocked in the dazzle-and-charisma department, but he did very nicely. Julie had carved out a prime spot for herself too. I used to watch Olivia and think I could never convince strangers to buy even things they needed, but over the years she made me see that selling was less about the product—no matter how good it was—and more about making the customer feel smart, like they made the best decision. For the right-sized payday I could do that, and take advantage of my naturally chatty nature—like you hadn’t noticed. I wanted to have the kind of relaxed, assured attitude that comes from knowing you’ve got options—and money in the bank. And I had become a real Derma-Teq believer. Of course who knew what I could grow my position into. VP Tee had a nice ring.

  I got out to see if there was a phone number on the notice, or if we were supposed to report someplace else temporarily. I did wonder, though I admit only in passing, why there were no barricades, orange cones or official-looking people telling us what to do. And when I finally got close enough to read the rest of the sign, I wished for a gas leak, or a flood or nuclear fallout. It was a notice from the marshal that said, “This property seized for nonpayment of federal taxes,” signed the IRS. I stared at the words, trying to make them say something else, but I’ve been reading since Green Eggs and Ham; I knew what they meant. This had to be a misunderstanding. Some kind of computer glitch that would be fixed with a phone call, and then Marshal Dillon would come back with the key and open up in time for me to get my check on Friday. But I was cool, working really hard not to dwell on how all my phone calls to Unemployment didn’t straighten out squat. They merely clarified my screwed-up situation.

  This wasn’t like way back in the day, when the packaging vendor would call Markson & Daughter and say he didn’t get the check, and I would go to Olivia’s desk, unearth the bill, hand her the checkbook and say, “Here, sign this.” I didn’t have anybody’s home phone. I didn’t even know what country Steven was in this week. So I tried to breathe and waited for somebody else to show up.

  Phill was first. He stormed up and down the sidewalk, cussing like a rapper—I didn’t know he had it in him. Leandra just stood there like she had fallen under a spell. Next thing I knew her knees buckled and Phill caught her just before she hit the pavement. I would never have taken her for a fainter, although truthfully I was feeling a little lightheaded myself. />
  We sat in my car until Leandra pulled herself together and phoned Mr. Wu—at that point I wasn’t feeling informal. His voicemail was full. I wondered what else had a padlock on it that day. She said she’d get in touch with me if she heard something. I said, “What do you mean, if?” But really, she was in the same canoe I was, and it looked like nobody had a paddle. By then other coworkers had started to show up, but I wasn’t interested in commiserating or conjecture, so I went home to wait for the call. Somebody had to have answers because you don’t do business like that.

  Despite my attempts at CPR, hope was fading—fast. But I did write checks for the bills I was going to pay. They were in their envelopes, signed, sealed and ready to drop in the mail as soon as I left the bank from depositing the check I was going to have by the end of the week. Except days passed with no news, and I got the uneasy feeling that Steven was in Zurich, making withdrawals from his Swiss bank accounts before deciding whether to head for the Caymans or Mumbai.

  After a week and a half with no word and no check, I knew I was back in the pit, covered with grit, wondering what is this shit? And when was it going to end?

  Well, I had kept my joblessness secret the first time, but I guess I learned some kind of lesson, so I came clean—mostly—and told my family that I was out of work, again. But not how broke I really was or that I didn’t have health insurance. Mom and Daddy wanted to send me money. Right, like I was going to take a cut of their Social Security checks—uh-uh, I was not that desperate—yet. But worse than that, Amber and J.J. came by on a Saturday morning and perched on my couch again, all serious, like the day he proposed. This time they each took one of my hands, told me they were there if I needed help—money help—just let them know. And I was done. Yes, it was touching, and I was supposed to be proud that they had become such mature, responsible people, but truthfully I was crushed. Here were my children, because I’d known J.J. long enough to think of him that way, offering to bail out dear old Mom. It made me feel small and I hated that. So I assured them I’d be fine and sent them on their way as soon as I could so I could sit in the middle of my sofa and bawl.

  That’s when the light went out—my own personal little light, you know, the one I’m supposed to let shine—it drowned in the flood I let loose, because I’d already robbed Peter and Paul and borrowed from Jack before I knew there was a Jill, and I was thinking about all those envelopes I couldn’t mail, because my available balance was forty-seven cents. That’s not even two quarters, not two hours at a parking meter, not a newspaper or bus fare around the corner. I was a grown woman, worked all my life, raised my child, and that’s what I had in my bank account? That was beyond pitiful. By that time I had already been through my coat pockets and purses, found all the loose change and “oh happy day” dollars. There was nothing left but mint wrappers and lint.

  And seeing the kids sitting on my couch had reminded me they were closing in on their first anniversary. How had I gone from one of the most beautiful days in my life—not to mention the single most expensive—straight down the chute into my own little ring of Hades in just a year?

  It also reminded me I too was approaching an anniversary. It was about to be one year since my previously manageable life unraveled, thread by thread, and nothing I had or hadn’t done made that better. Paper is the one-year gift, right? And I was trying my best to get a little piece that said “Pay to the Order of…” but it was becoming harder to figure out my next move, and I needed to do something quick.

  So, since I’d already done the cash-advance dance on my last useable credit card, I broke the emergency glass. There wasn’t a whole lot in my retirement accounts, but I figured it was enough to take the heat off and get me through the next round of Wheel of Employment. And to quiet the phone calls, because the reminders that I’d “forgotten” about my phone, electric or MasterVisAmexicard payment were coming hot and heavy. I wasn’t sure which I despised more—the real people with the snarky attitudes, like it was their money, or the automated calls: “This message is important. Your account is seriously overdue…” If they couldn’t afford a real person to talk to me, I didn’t have to put up with tape-recorded harassment.

  Now, you know I was desperate. I swore I’d never walk through Markson’s doors again, but there I was in the waiting room of human resources, trying to casually flip through the latest issue of Global Cosmetics Industry and ignore Didier’s assistant as hard as she ignored me, pretending her eyes were glued to that folder she was reading until she escaped out the door, I’m sure to tell that no-sock-wearing crook I was in the building.

  Do you know the benefits manager had the nerve to tell me I couldn’t withdraw 401(k) money because my situation did not qualify as a “hardship emergency”? I needed to have medical bills, tuition bills, be buying a house or on the verge of eviction. And it still involved paying a penalty—I had to be even more pitiful to avoid that. No salary for almost a year? You talk to a hundred people and ninety-nine of them will call it a hardship. The hundredth has Oprah money.

  My only other option was to raid my little bit of IRA—first stock I ever bought. I opened the account in a fit of flushness, probably after I’d watched some TV financial guru pontificate about what it costs to retire and how if you manage your funds, and expect an average return of 10 percent, you too can live in a beachfront house and drive a sports car in your golden years, like my parents. Sounded good at the time. And I got 10 percent alright—a 10 percent charge to get my money now, plus I had to pay federal and state tax off the top. That amounted to almost half the balance, so I got barely enough for a seashell and a spinning rim, which just didn’t seem fair. But it allowed me to deal with the immediate payments due and have a little room to maneuver.

  On my way back from the post office, bills mostly paid and a little bit of money left in my account, I felt a sense of accomplishment—until I stopped for a fill-up. My credit card was denied. Normally I would have argued with the man, told him he needed to get his machine fixed, ’cause it must be broken, but I knew I had just mailed that check. I didn’t want to make a fuss. I know how I looked at people when their card was denied, so I snatched it back, dug in my purse and came up with a five. The nozzle was out before I put my pocketbook down. I was shocked to realize that five dollars’ worth of premium wasn’t enough to move the needle. I never actually looked at the total before—I’d just make sure the tank was full, stuff the receipt in the glove box and keep on driving. So I did not pass go or stop at the mini-mart for the bag of chips I had a hankering for. I went directly home, fully aware it was crunch time, time to address my car-lease situation post-Gerald.

  Now, you must understand, my car was sexy, sleek, stylish, sumptuous—a lot like me. When Gerald leased me my first luxury wheels, I couldn’t believe I could afford something so beautiful, something that turned heads, made people who were stopped next to me in traffic smile and tell me, “You are drivin’ that car.” I felt what they meant, and I’d smile back, then take off fast and smooth, imagining them admiring my bumper. I was proud of that car, and proud of me for having it. So what would it mean if I didn’t anymore?

  I had leased a new car every other year for the past twelve, but I was afraid the streak was about to be broken. And I couldn’t see how I was supposed to walk in, turn over the keys to my car and walk away with nothing. After all I’d paid? It wasn’t right, which, come to think of it, sounded a lot like my situation with Gerald.

  Well, talking to myself wouldn’t solve anything, and talking to him was out of the question, so I called the dealership to find out when he wasn’t there. The answer? Not that day, or the next—or ever. “He’s no longer with the company” is what the cheery woman on the phone said. Huh? That got my tongue.

  So the break was complete, which was some kind of milestone. I hadn’t realized how often I imagined him with his feet propped up on the open bottom drawer of his desk, so I could be specifically angry at him. Now I didn’t have a spot to aim the mad at. Gon
e. It was like he had never been there, which is how it should have always been. But I wasn’t done being upset, which meant absolutely nothing to customer representative Tricia, who was eager to make an appointment to discuss my vehicular needs. I said I’d just drop in. I left out the part about as soon as I got the nerve. Sounds stupid, but without Gerald I didn’t feel like I belonged in that posh, shiny showroom that smelled like leather and success, and that they’d all know.

  But I still had to manage my auto issues. So I got dressed up one morning and went in. Maybe it was hearing my options from somebody I’d never seen before, but no matter how Tricia, in her quietly quality silk shirt, black skirt and pearls, broke it down, there was no deal. I asked about re-leasing the car I already had, but that didn’t change the monthly payment by enough to pay my already reduced cable bill. Then I asked about buying the car I’d been leasing—that was more per month than I already paid unless I spread the payments out over six years. I wasn’t asking for a mortgage. What had they been doing with all that money I sent every month? It was supposed to count for something, wasn’t it? Then I took a stroll through the Certified Pre-Owned lot. Somebody came up with that term because they figured out nobody in their right mind would pay that much for a used car.

  I spent two hours acting like I was giving the sales spiel serious consideration. When I left I said I needed to weigh my decision, check out some other options. Really, I needed to catch my breath, because in a hot hurry I was going to have an empty garage, and in order to work anywhere, I had to have transportation.