About Face

by Carole Howard

  Ruth set her rocking chair going on a gentle trajectory.

  “Yeah, Ruthie, what would it be?” seconded David.

  “Let me think.” Since she’d been asking herself this question every day for the last few months, she didn’t really need to think of her answer, just how much of her musings she wanted to share.

  “I’m not sure about the job itself, just some ideas about what kind of thing it might be. First of all, I’d like it to be something that’s socially valuable. Like you guys.”

  Carlos made a noise that had equal parts snort and snicker.

  “A snort? You’re snorting?” Vivian asked.

  “It’s just that if it were important to her, she’d be doing it already. So maybe she just thinks she—”

  “You’re asking me to fantasize and then you’re jumping on my fantasy? Excuse me?”

  “You’re right. I should wait before I jump on you.” Carlos grinned. “Kidding!”

  Ruth said she had an energy she could only describe as entrepreneurial, even though she knew it was a dirty word to them. She didn’t mean making a ton of money, though, she meant it in terms of creative energy, personal power, having an idea, acting on it, using all your wits and energy, and then seeing in concrete terms if it’s successful. A marketplace.

  “There are other measures of success. How many clients you rehabilitate. How many kids you help graduate. How many contributions you solicit to your foundation. Stuff like that,” suggested David.

  “Good point. I was just going to say the same thing,” Carlos said.

  “I know, but those just don’t seem to do it for me like the thrill of the marketplace. And, damn it, I’m good at it, too. So that’s the outline of my fantasy. Doing good and also being entrepreneurial. You want to jump on that Carlos?”

  “No. It’s not too-too bad. Even with the bad-e word. What about you, man?”

  David confessed that, while he considered himself a world-class fantasizer, most of his fantasies about professions had to do with the past, as in people he’d love to have been, people like Jim Henson, Mickey Mantle, the guy who invented Velcro or Post-it Notes. But as for his present life and what he’d like to do next, retiring and playing golf seemed like a fantasy to him, and yet that was just what he was going to do.

  “But right now, lasagna that isn’t dried out and lettuce that isn’t soggy would be a nice bite-sized fantasy.” David faced the group and started walking backwards toward the table, saying “Come on, follow me” with his hands.

  Ruth followed Vivian to the table. Her eyes were grabbed by the generous waistband of Vivian’s pants. They had to be elasticized, she figured, or they wouldn’t fit so well and they’d move up and down as Vivian walked. But they didn’t have that obviously-elasticized look that advertised middle-aged waist-growth. It would be better to make the waistband a little wider, though.

  The four new old-friends ate a delicious meal spiced not only with garlic and oregano, but also lightly seasoned with their rekindled affection for each other. Even Ruth’s affection for Carlos somehow managed to find a way around his arrogance.

  At some point during the meal, Ruth started to hear the discussion—looping between the present, the past, and the future, from the facts of their daily lives and their hopes for the future to their children, their jobs, and their parents and siblings—only in the way people “hear” Muzak in an elevator. She used only enough of her brain to give the illusion she was involved, not enough to take away from an idea that had just come to her out of the blue. She was turning it around and around, right there in front of them, startled to realize it combined Carlos’s fantasy, Vivian’s talent, her own entrepreneurial-but-good-works drive, and David’s upcoming availability.

  Something about Carlos’s tone of voice pulled her back. “No, no, that’s not the way it is. It’s never been that way. The government has always been about conserving its own power, not about working for the people.”

  “But what about … let’s say … social security? Or unemployment insurance? Isn’t that about helping the people?”

  “David, you are so naïve. Listen up, let me explain how it really is.”

  David brushed away Carlos’s implied superiority with a good-natured jibe of his own. Ruth thought he seemed immune to the kind of barb that she herself felt allergic to. With her, it went straight to her heart, whereas with him it only stayed on the surface for a nanosecond.

  So much for her idea.

  CHAPTER 18

  Focus

  THE OPS MEETING CONSISTED OF FURIOUS attention to detail, intermittent chaos and occasional conflict. Caps and cartons and pumps, chemicals and frills, colors and scents, dollars and cents. Late vendors, schedules, Packaging versus Marketing, budgets, bottles, blahblahblah. Same-old, same-old. She didn’t necessarily have to attend these meetings, but, politically, it was good to have a presence, not to be an invisible dragonfly. Oh well.

  It was harder than usual to appear interested because she kept thinking about the new round of concept-testing focus groups and, in particular, the one she’d be observing this afternoon. She was using McKay & Cohen, the expensive but top-of-the-line market research firm she only brought in when there was a reason worth busting the budget for. She’d included Pat in the meetings to develop a strategy for these groups, thinking inclusion would prevent defensiveness and that she’d also learn something useful.

  McKay & Cohen had free rein to tinker with everything in coming up with their approach. And so they did: participants would be cosmetics-users and non-users together. The venue would vary; some groups would be at their offices, some in homes, some over the telephone one at a time. They’d have follow-up sessions to make sure women didn’t have second thoughts that remained uncommunicated. They’d also use projective techniques that encouraged contrarian thought and interaction.

  After the meeting, she stopped in at Terry’s office to pick up some data for her weekly report. When Terry asked about Lipsticks & Scarves, Ruth filled her in, complete with Jeremy’s peeking over her shoulder for hand-dirtying purposes. But she assured Terry that Violins & Wine—she was still attached to that name and hoped Jeremy would come around to it—would make Lipsticks & Scarves yesterday’s news.

  “Have a seat. Let’s talk,” Terry said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I was talking to Pat this morning about demographic breakdowns by age and zip code, and she did a funny thing. She referred to something Jeremy had said to her … ” Terry picked up a stack of papers and made sure their edges were lined up, then stapled them together.

  “So?”

  Terry put down the papers and readied another. “… at lunch.”

  “At lunch? Pat’s eating lunch with Jeremy?”

  “That’s what I thought, too.” She set down her papers and put her elbows on the desk, leaning forward. “I called her on it. She backtracked fast and furious. Something about how she was eating by herself and Jeremy happened to walk in and there were no other tables so she thought she had to invite him to join her and on and on and on.”

  “You buy it?”

  “Why do you think I’m telling you all this?”

  “Me neither,” Ruth said.

  ON THE THRESHOLD of the beautifully-restored Art Deco building that housed McKay & Cohen, she had a little talk with herself.

  They’d been very careful about screening for the composition of this group. No one who would be likely to sway the others’ opinion—in either direction. No one who was too-too beautiful. A good range, both in terms of age, income, profession, geography—the usual criteria—but also psychological factors like family size and birth order.

  Then again, maybe the whole idea really was wacky, maybe women really did want to pretend to be younger than they were. Maybe she should change the name of the line, if it ever ran, to “Denial.”

  It’s a business idea and a business decision. I’ll have given it my all. I’ll go with the results. It’s not a religion, it’s
a product. Roger that. Right.

  Pat was already waiting in the reception area and greeted Ruth on the cordial side of formal. Ruth noted the photographs taken by Sandy McKay on her travels around the world. Since the last time Ruth had been here, she’d obviously been to a desert country—the camels’ shadows on the dunes were as long and delicate as Japanese brush strokes—and a tropical rainforest with a riot of greenery and blossoms. Sandy’s travel photography was always very dramatic. Kind of like Sandy.

  “Hey, Ruth, long time no see,” the receptionist said as she hung up. “How’ve you been?”

  “I’m good, crazy busy but good. How about you? How’s night school?”

  “See these bags under my eyes? If I ever meet the person who invented statistics, I’ll have to … Let’s just say it’s not my favorite.”

  “Good luck,” Ruth said, thinking of youthful energy and trying to remember when she had it.

  “What’s with your visit? Not that I’m not happy to see you, of course. But usually, the client doesn’t come for the groups themselves, just for the planning.”

  “I just couldn’t keep away. This is my own personal baby we’re testing. So, what room is everyone in today?”

  “They’re in Room C, and I think everyone’s there already.”

  Ruth and Pat entered Room C’s “Observation Annex,” the area from which clients can watch the focus groups they’re paying for. The main attraction—the window/mirror—had a trompe l’oeil golden picture frame painted on the wall around it. Unlike the minimalist one-way-mirror rooms she’d seen on police TV shows, this one was set up for clients’ comfort. The plush chairs swiveled, their ochre color matching the oriental rug perfectly no matter which way they were facing.

  “Hey there,” Sandy McKay said. As she jumped up to greet Ruth, she removed her reading glasses and let the chain holding them blend with her golden necklaces and pendants. She pressed her lips together to make sure her lipstick was even, and gave Ruth an air-kiss on each cheek, an affectation from her travels.

  She shook Pat’s hand and said “Good to see you, too.”

  The moderator adjusted his tie and extended his cuffs below his suit sleeves, brushed off his shoulders, and did some relaxation exercises with his face, neck and shoulder muscles. He started for the door that led to the other side of the one-way mirror, “through the looking glass,” as Sandy called it. Just before he opened it, he looked over at Ruth. “Showtime.”

  “Okay, while you get everyone settled and distribute the goody-bags, I’m going to run to the women’s room,” Ruth said.

  When she got there, she was immediately joined by Sandy, who asked her why Miss Muffet hadn’t taken Smiling 101 yet.

  Ruth said, “Pat? Long story. How about something more interesting, like the latest installment in the saga of the middle-aged woman and her young lover? And for comic relief I’ll tell you about the middle-aged woman whose husband wants to retire.”

  “Retire? Are you kidding? David? He wants to retire? Really? Let’s have lunch next week. Meanwhile I’ll try to come up with something that’s sexy enough to talk about.”

  Ruth and Sandy re-entered the Observation Annex silently. Chuck Cohen walked in behind them. Everyone got settled. Ruth made a mental note to talk to Sandy about Chuck’s comb-over.

  Ruth admired the moderator’s relaxed air when he opened the session. He talked to the group in a way that managed to be intimate, yet respectful, getting them to talk about themselves as if they were talking to life-long friends. Ruth knew that comfortable participants can be as misleading as uncomfortable ones, but it was a good beginning.

  He told them a little bit about focus groups in general and emphasized how the most valuable contribution they could make would be complete honesty. Many people, he explained, unconsciously tried to say what they thought the client wanted to hear or what they thought would be least likely to hurt the client’s feelings. After all, these people reasoned, the client was paying them, so they should be “nice.” He told a few stories of previous groups who were inappropriately “nice” and the trouble it created for the clients who went on to launch a doomed marketing campaign.

  His appearance was particularly well-suited to his profession, being all things to all people. Not so tall as to be intimidating, nor so short as to appear weak. A bland face conveyed friendliness and dignity at the same time. His mouth looked like it was smiling even when it was neutral, so when he actually did smile, everyone felt doubly rewarded. He could pass for twenty-five or forty-five, but Ruth knew he was forty, had been married and divorced, and that he doted on his field-hockey-playing twelve-year-old daughter, whom he didn’t get to see as much as he wanted.

  He could shade his routine, being flirtatious or macho or even nervous, according to the group. Today he seemed to be shooting for “the favorite nephew.”

  One of the reasons Ruth loved observing focus groups, instead of just reading the reports, was that it was like being a tourist in the real world, to hear from people who weren’t in the business. These were regular people with fresh opinions and no particular axe to grind.

  What looked like an ordinary group of women always turned out to be a collection of the most diverse life experiences. The variations of how-to-live-a-life reminded her of those tiny cars in the circus. Once you open them up, there’s no telling what will pop out. Ruth particularly loved it when the truth belied her initial impression.

  Like the blonde woman with the tiny straw hat and the ditzy daisy-patterned dress. She looked as if the last thought in her head packed up and left five years before when she met her sugar-daddy and bought a life-time subscription to Soap Opera Nuggets.

  It turned out she was a live-in nurse for an elderly man, working sixteen-hour shifts seven days a week for three weeks straight, then having a week off. The single mother of an infant son, she traveled to exotic locations on her week off. “I didn’t really have a life in my twenties, but I’m saving most of what I make now and when I inherit Mr. Burns’s house, I’ll be set and can make up for the deprivation.”

  Soap Opera Nuggets, indeed.

  The soft-spoken woman with gray hair and a puffy face, whose dowdy clothes made Ruth think her greatest interest in life might be baking chocolate chip cookies for her grandchildren, turned out to be a photojournalist who’d spent much of her adult life in some of the most dangerous spots in the world.

  So far, no one seemed to be deferential to anyone else, no one seemed to be dominating. She knew the moderator was watching for that dynamic, too, and would pre-empt it if necessary.

  Pat’s face was a cipher, though her hair was somehow different. More serious? Shorter? Darker? Less puffy? And her earrings were singing a different tune, too. Less constipated—if earrings can be constipated—and more expansive.

  The mock-debate activity started. Respondents chose their points of view from a hat—“Middle-aged women are beautiful,” “I want to look young no matter how much trouble it is,” etc.—and met with their assigned teams to strategize, then presented their arguments. What was interesting to Ruth was trying to figure out which ones were saying things they really believed and which ones were performing.

  After they debated, they discussed the degree to which their arguments had reinforced or changed their actual points of view. That’s when the good stuff came out.

  The prim-looking woman who looked like a suburban housewife and was, in fact, a suburban housewife, said, “I used to think that it was crazy to want to look your age and given the choice, anyone would rather look younger. I would probably have said that the choice between looking good for a woman my age or looking good like a young woman was, as my grandchildren say, ‘Duh!!!’ Now I’m not so sure.”

  Then there was the one with four-inch gray roots in dark hair, who’d just moved to New York from Kansas, was recently divorced with grown children, and was not only terrified about trying to enter the work force after a twenty-five-year absence, but was also terrified by the other wo
men. She said, “I can’t help it, I still think it’s not just about the media or about being brainwashed. Young is healthy. Healthy is good. Looking young means looking healthy. And if you look young and healthy people treat you different than if you look old. They treat you better. I want that. Does’t everyone? Don’t you think?” She looked around at the others as if she were begging for money for food.

  “That’s ridiculous,” said the mousy woman with stringy red hair who, it turned out, had published three collections of poetry and was running for the council of her town. “It’s just because you’ve been trained to think that we’re all supposed to look like Miss America. We get the idea that it’s normal to be gorgeous and young and skinny. But it’s not normal, not at all. Normal people look like us.”

  “I never thought about it that way, but maybe you’re right. I guess I’m one of those people who just got swept up into thinking we were supposed to look a certain way. I’ve always been too busy.” This woman, with frizzy blondish hair and large glasses, wearing a bright red turtleneck, had caused a few rolled eyeballs during the introductions during her long list of her accomplishments—PhD in Brahms, French horn player, orchestra conductor—until she got to the part about losing her husband to cancer. “But I think I’m starting to see things differently. When you get right down to it, it’s not fair that we feel ashamed of what we look like.”

  “But it would be a lot easier to be honest about ourselves if everyone else was, too,” the poet-politican said. “Like the dream about being the only naked person in a group.”

  Yeah, yeah, yeah, go for it, said Ruth’s insides, while “Interesting, very interesting” is what came out of her mouth.

  After about thirty minutes of a spirited conversation, it seemed to Ruth that the ground under the “young is good” partisans was shifting over to the “middle-aged is okay” ground. Everyone agreed, though, that it would be easier to look authentically middle-aged if everyone did it.