Fook

by Brian Drinkwater

  “Good. It’s a date then,” Sarah turned, heading back toward her apartment building. “Oh,” she turned, continuing to walk backwards. “Try to lay off the drugs this time,” she shouted before turning and disappearing from sight.

  Sensing another pair of eyes on him, Derek turned to spot an old lady walking her pug through the park. Both her and the googly eyed fur ball seemed to issue disapproving stares.

  The only response Derek had, was a baffled shrug.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “You don’t look so good,” Melody commented on her partner’s pale complexion as she walked into the conference room.

  “Thanks,” Tabitha replied, knowing what she meant but still not appreciating it being pointed out.

  “No, I mean—”

  “—It’s alright,” Tabitha cut her off. “I know what I look like. I spent half the night on the bathroom floor,” she explained as she took her seat beside the perky, healthy girl.

  “Why didn’t you stay home?”

  “We can’t afford to lose this client,” Tabitha whispered, wishing to maintain the illusion of success that her and Melody had recently been forced to invent. In actuality, their company was hemorrhaging money.

  As college friends, they’d spent countless nights in the dorms, imagining and strategizing how they would one day open their own firm in Boston and take the marketing world by storm. They imagined having all of the biggest clients like Nike and Coke; clients with money to burn on needless marketing campaigns for products that sold themselves.

  After college they’d gone their separate ways, each taking jobs at large marketing firms around the country. Melody had spent a few years in Chicago and then San Francisco before coming back to Boston to work for Hirsh & Walice. Tabitha had followed a similar path, first in LA and then New York before also ending up at H&W, that is until it was discovered that Wilbur Hirsh and Herbert Walice were apparently heavily involved in insider trading. Within a matter of months the company’s client pool had dried up and a couple months later, H&W closed its doors, leaving three-thousand employees high and dry.

  Tabitha had had an offer to return to her old firm in New York and she was sure that she’d be able to find a spot for Melody there as well, but they both loved Boston. It was home and with husbands, and Melody with a two year old son, the idea of bouncing around the country just didn’t seem fun anymore. So, each with a bit of savings and a hefty bank loan, they decided to make their once college fantasy a reality and opened Harmony Marketing, Inc..

  The first six months had been amazing. With the sea of stranded clients created by the implosion of H&W and their familiarity with those company’s needs, they were bringing in contracts left and right. The sudden success had led them on a hiring boom, bringing in many of the unemployed office staff they’d worked with previously. The office was filled with familiar faces and they’d made it a point to make the work environment a fun and relaxed place, with frequent after hours parties and a relaxed dress code when client meetings weren’t scheduled. Unfortunately, the sight of jeans started becoming more and more common as meetings became fewer and fewer and once thought to be loyal customers, started migrating toward larger firms with more resources and proven track records. The excitement of the new guys in town had quickly worn off and reality began to set in.

  As far as the staff was concerned, business was booming. Both women did everything they could to create phony work in order to maintain the illusion of success, hoping that the next big break was just around the corner. Neither of them wanted to deal with the reality that they just couldn’t afford to maintain the company at its current size without a steady client base to support it. Though they’d learned how to run a business in college and seen it in practice in the real world, it was quickly becoming apparent that neither of them had the stomach to deal with the harsh reality that was corporate America. So, out of sheer desperation, Tabitha had dragged herself into the office for a meeting with their last hope...Mr. Samuel Branson.

  Son of Charles Branson, owner of one of the country’s largest cleaning supply companies, Samuel Branson was looking to make a name for himself, separate from his father’s multi-billion dollar empire and his first attempt was with a fabric cleaner he called Fabrix. They’d met with Mr. Branson and his associates a couple of weeks earlier to discuss his needs and things had initially looked very promising; that is until three days ago when Mr. Branson’s office had called to inform them that they’d chosen to utilize another firm’s services. Hearing this, Melody had instantly gone into crisis mode, dumping the contents of her desk into whatever empty boxes she could find around the office.

  After a good cry in the ladies room, Tabitha had taken another approach. Crying and giving up wasn’t going to do any good, and in a surprising moment of sheer will, she’d picked up the phone, insisted on speaking to Mr. Branson himself and somehow had convinced him to at least come in and listen to the ideas they’d been working on for him. Now they just hoped that the slides in the projector and proposals in the packets placed in front of each chair around the table were good enough to change his mind.

  “Mrs. Tillmore,” Tabitha’s assistant appeared in the conference room doorway.

  Lifting her head out of her hands, Tabitha responded with a sickly gaze.

  “Mr. Branson is here. He’s on his way up now.”

  “Thanks, Joan,” Melody answered for her partner. “You stay here,” she addressed Tabitha, rubbing her back as she stood. “I’ll go meet them.”

  “No, I convinced him to come. He’s expecting to see me,” Tabitha insisted as she got to her feet, suddenly aware of the floor’s unsteady nature beneath her.

  “No. You need to sit,” Melody urged, seeing her partner’s shakiness.

  Tabitha just swatted at Melody’s hand as she focused and steadied the moving building. “See. Everything’s fine,” she insisted before making her way out into the hall where she spotted Mr. Branson and his three associates stepping out of the elevator. “Mr. Branson, Sir.,” she mustered all the strength she had to quickly make her way to the arriving entourage, and put on the most upbeat, healthy face she could manage.

  “Mrs. Tillmore,” Mr. Branson nodded, extending his hand to offer a firm shake.

  She took a firm handshake as a good sign. It meant that he viewed her as a peer in the business world and not just a silly little girl trying to play CEO, like many of the men she often dealt with thought of her.

  “I was surprised to receive your call. I know I told you that we were going with another firm, but I want you to know that it took real balls to get me on the phone and say what you had to say.”

  “Okay, maybe he views me too much like one of the guys,” she thought to herself, also trying to recall what exactly she’d said on the phone. In reality she’d been so terrified that the entire phone call had been one big blur. The only information she remembered was the hello in the beginning and the date and time they’d agreed on for the meeting.

  “Well, my partner and I are very confident that you and your associates will be more than impressed by what we have to show you.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Nerves doing battle with her stomach’s already acrobatic flips, Tabitha fought back the returning urge to vomit and directed the men toward the conference room. Entering the room, Melody looked as sick as Tabitha felt, as she circled the table to greet each of the men as they entered the room.

  “Good afternoon gentlemen,” Melody greeted the men, realizing instantly that it was only nine o’clock in the morning. “Mr. Branson, It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  Mr. Branson just offered a half grin.

  “Please, take a seat gentlemen,” Tabitha took over, aware of Melody’s increasing nerves.

  As instructed, the men each took a seat around the table with Mr. Branson at the center.

  “So, as each of you know,” Melody nervously began her pitch before the room had even settled from the noises of shifting chairs a
nd rustling papers. “Harmony Marketing is a different type of marketing firm. We believe that in order to—”

  “—Listen sweetheart,” Mr. Branson interjected, the sexist remark seeming more suited for a crotchety old business man in his sixties rather than the thirty something who’d actually used it. “Miss Tillmore got us here, so no offense, but I’d like to hear the pitch from her.”

  Stunned by the rude and forward request, Melody just stood starring at the primped and polished business man.

  “Of course,” Tabitha jumped in, assuring Melody that she had it and waving for her to take her seat, which she did. “Well, as my associate was saying, Harmony Market—”

  “—Let’s just cut through the bullshit and get to the point. I know who you are and you know who I am. What do you have for me?”

  Tabitha could feel the sweat pooling on her forehead, thankfully concealed by her overgrown bangs. “Thank God I didn’t get my haircut like I’d planned,” her mind took a momentary detour as her nerves grew.

  “Okay. The plan,” she reset herself, abandoning the rehearsed speech for a more direct and informal approach. How many of you remember the fifties?” the question came out before she realized how stupid it was given that only one member of Mr. Branson’s team was old enough to have been alive during the decade and even then he was likely only a few years old.

  All remaining color drained from both women’s faces.

  “That’s a dumb question,” Tabitha attempted to recover. “Why would you? But we all have an image of that decade in our heads, don’t we?”

  Okay, that’s better, Melody felt a little better about where this was going.

  “It was a simpler time. A less stressful time. Let’s be honest, it was a time when men could be men because the women in their lives could be women.”

  Mr. Branson seemed puzzled, yet interested.

  “Households weren’t in turmoil because of the need for two working parents just to make ends meet. Let’s face it, life today is insane, between getting the kids off to school in the morning and then spending a minimum eight hour day at the office before rushing home to get each child to a different athletic practice all the while trying to figure out how you’re going to get some form of nutritious dinner down everyone’s throats before going to bed, just so you can get up and do it all over again in the morning. It’s nuts and who’s the one that really suffers in this insanity we now call life?”

  The room was filled with blank stares.

  “Our homes,” Tabitha answered her own question. “We live in complete and utter chaos and the state of our homes reflects it. That’s why it’s our belief that you need to make your customers feel like that time of simple domestic harmony is possible again with your product.” Holding up one of the packets, Tabitha flipped open to an image of a Donna Reed type house wife happily cleaning her house. “We’ve put together a plan to attack all three fronts, television, print and digital. While every other company out there is fighting for a piece of the chaos, we believe that we can market to the simpler, more traditional side of your customers and in turn, create a brand for your company that could easily incorporate any and all future product,” Tabitha finished with a smile, for the moment glad to find that the persistent nausea had passed.

  Mr. Branson just stared at the two women, silently taking in what he’d just heard before offering a response. “Do you know what I think when I see that picture?” he started. “Women’s suffrage.”

  Tabitha’s sickness returned.

  “I see a poor, beaten down woman with no self worth beyond that which is obtained by maintaining a clean house for her oppressive and likely abusive husband.”

  “Who’d have guessed that Mr. Branson was so into women’s lib,” Tabitha thought as she eyed Melody, who was staring out through the conference room’s glass walls in search of more empty boxes.

  “I don’t want to speak for my colleagues here, but this image doesn’t remind me of a simpler, happier time. It reminds me of an insensitive, careless moment in our history when only a middle class, white, American male had a chance at success, and frankly, that’s not our core demographic, so if this is all you have, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to pass,” Mr. Branson rejected the pitch as he got to his feet.

  Panicked and unsure about what they were going to do, not just in that moment with Mr. Branson, but in the coming months when the reality of the company’s situation would finally have to be addressed and the people out there in the office would finally have to be told that, once again, they would be without work, Tabitha’s face turned an even paler shade of white.

  “Tab?” Melody noticed the sudden shift in her partner’s complexion and demeanor as Mr. Branson and his associates began to head for the door.

  Again the building seemed to dance beneath her feet as Tabitha tried to think of something that could salvage the disastrous moment, but instead her words were replace by another wave of nausea. Remembering what her husband had said the night before about throwing up on the client, she fought back the urge, but not before a wave of unconsciousness washed over her, causing her to fall forward and strike her head on the edge of the conference table.

  TWENTY-NINE

  “Katie,” Mark whispered from the desk behind and diagonally to Katie’s left.

  Busy taking notes, Katie didn’t notice his call.

  “Katie,” Mark whispered again, continuing to eye Mr. Burns who was currently distracted with the sample problem he was scribbling across the chalkboard.

  “Hey,” the girl directly to Katie’s left whispered as she poked at Katie’s shoulder then pointed over her own shoulder in Mark’s direction.

  “Thanks,” Mark whispered in appreciation as Katie finally turned.

  The helpful girl just nodded as she returned her attention to the lesson.

  “What's going on?” Katie whispered, at the same time also keeping an eye on Mr. Burns.

  With the senior class already out, the junior prom just a couple of days away and the end of the remaining students’ school year just a week off, most of the teachers had already given up on teaching anything new, but not Mr. Burns. At the age of sixty three, he was still of the old school philosophy that, every day should be a day filled with learning. The new social norm of teaching to the test was unlikely to sink in at this point.

  “I’m sorry,” Mark continued the hushed exchange.

  “For what?”

  “For the dress.”

  “I love the dress.”

  “For being creepy I mean,” Mark tried to explain in as few words as possible.

  Apparently the word ‘creepy’ drew the helpful girl’s attention as Katie saw her lift her head and turn her eyes upward as if she were listening to a conversation being had on the ceiling.

  “Are you digging a well?” Katie asked with a smile.

  “What?”

  “Eh, hem,” Mr. Burns drew their attention to the front of the class.

  Katie and Mark instantly fell silent, offering their teacher an ‘I’m sorry’ bow of the eyes. After a moment, Mr. Burns returned his attention to the board and to the lesson he’d been teaching.

  “Katie,” Mark continued in an even quieter whisper.

  Afraid of getting in trouble, Katie reluctantly turned again, this time holding up a clean page from her notebook on which she’d written, write it.

  “Oh,” Mark smiled as he flipped to a new page in his notebook and began writing, then cleared his throat to let her know that he was done.

  Turning Katie read his message.

  Like I was saying. I didn’t mean to come across as creepy yesterday. And what well?

  She turned back to her notebook to write a response before holding it up over her shoulder for him to read.

  It was a bit forward but it was also sweet. You’re not creepy. The one in your basement that you’re going to lock me in.

  She turned to see his expression. He looked confused. She added to the message.


  Never mind. I love the dress and I can’t wait to go with you on Friday.

  Looking over her shoulder again this message drew a smile as he returned to his notebook.

  Well I’m glad. I can’t wait either. And it’s in the shed.

  What?

  The pit is under the shed. I’m soundproofing it tonight.

  Looking over her shoulder again, her smile was matched by his.

  “Mr. Fossy. Miss Bishop,” Mr. Burns broke away from his lesson again to scold the silently chatty couple.

  Mark and Katie instantly dropped their notebooks.

  “Even though school is over in a week, the same rules still apply. There’s no passing of notes in class.”

  “Technically they weren’t passing them,” Nick corrected from the back row.

  “Thank you, Mr. Peterson,” Mr. Burns growled at the helpful student.

  “You're welcome,” Nick replied, thinking he’d actually been of assistance.

  The class chuckled.

  “Sorry Mr. Burns,” Katie was the first to apologize.

  “Me too,” Mark quickly followed suit as Mr. Burns reluctantly returned to his lesson.

  Looking over her shoulder, Katie shot Mark a playfully angry glare.

  Mark just grinned sheepishly before mouthing, “Sorry.”

  THIRTY

  “How are we feeling, Mrs. Tillmore?”

  Managing to partially open her eyes, a tall, thin figure slowly came into focus, then quickly faded out again as Tabitha elected to re-close them. “Where am I?” she mumbled, trying to lift her arm.

  “Whoa, I wouldn’t do that,” the man instructed as he placed his hand on her arm, encouraging it back down. “We’ve got you wired up pretty good and I wouldn’t want you pulling out your I.V..”