A once-cheerful, vibrant Joyce told the caller to leave a message. So he did.
“This is Jason Larue with the X-Gen Agency. We understand you are available for a new employment position. I’d like to meet with you as soon as possible about a job I think you may be interested in. We’re excited about the prospect of working with you, and hope you’ll feel the same about our company.”
Joyce’s eyes flew open, and she jumped out of bed, ran into the bathroom, stuck her finger down her throat and happily threw up.
Chapter Three
“SIGNED, SEALED, DELIVERED”
(Stevie Wonder, #3 Billboard, 1970)
The man who appeared at Joyce’s apartment door the following afternoon was about five foot ten—just a few inches taller than Joyce—and young (twenty-five?) and slender and rather blandly, boyishly handsome in that Brad Pitt manner that had always eluded her.
His dark curly hair had a frosting of blond, as if the tip of his head had been dipped in bronze; his tanned cherubic face wore two-day stubble—an affectation she didn’t understand (would she go out without shaving her legs?)—and he wore a single, small golden earring. He would have been an excellent male model in GQ Magazine, if it weren’t for his pale blue, rather bloodshot eyes.
Did a workaholic or alcoholic lurk behind this slick facade? she wondered. Or maybe both?
Still, the overall impression was of a well-brewed blend of professionalism and sex appeal. Conservatively though expensively dressed in a sleek black suit, dark gray tie and pale gray shirt with white collar, and carrying a black briefcase, he would have seemed more likely a religious zealot, going door to door handing out tracts, than a corporate headhunter—if it hadn’t been for his smooth manner and casual charm, and the Continental cut of that suit.
With her many years in the ad game, Joyce was skilled in the art of quickly sizing people up, ascertaining the phonies, discerning the sharks, pinpointing the occasional decent human being. But she felt uncertain about this visitor—sending herself mixed signals.
Immediately, instinctively, she had felt a wave of dislike; then he flashed a charming, disarming smile—those had to be caps!—and all her inner shit-detectors shut down, and she found herself drawn to him.
She tried not to betray any of these conflicting feelings as she invited him inside. “The living room is this way. You’ll have to excuse the...transitional phase.”
“Thank you, Ms. Lackey—or may I call you Joyce?”
“Please.”
Earlier, when she had returned his phone call, he had insisted on coming to her apartment rather than receiving her at his place of business. She had found this strange, even inappropriate; but perhaps he just wanted her to feel comfortable, and, not wanting to seem difficult, eagerness and desperation clouding her better judgment, she had consented.
She ushered the boyishly hunky headhunter through the empty entryway into the sparse living room, the only furniture left being a mauve chintz couch, mahogany coffee table and brass floor lamp, huddled in front of the ornate fireplace like three very unhappy campers.
“Won’t you have a seat, Mr. Larue,” she said, gesturing to the couch.
“Make it ‘Jason,’ please.”
“Jason. And, again, please excuse the state this condo’s in....I’m redecorating, and my new furniture hasn’t arrived yet.” She hoped the lie wasn’t too transparent. She then asked, “Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea?”
Me?
“No, thank you,” he said, sitting down.
Joyce, dressed modestly in a beige silk blouse, brown skirt and flats, and no jewelry, joined him on the couch. Nervously, she clasped her hands in her lap to keep from fidgeting; she never wanted anything in her life as much as she wanted this job. She wondered what it was.
Several things did bother her, however, despite her eagerness. Like anyone in advertising worth his/her salt, Joyce had spent the morning doing her homework on the X-Gen Agency. But because her pitiful financial condition had caused her to drop her Internet provider, she had to trek down to the Chicago Public Library to do so.
There, she could find very little regarding the company other than ascertaining its existence, and that its HQ was located in the western suburb of Schaumburg. A call to the Better Business Bureau, using the library’s pay phone, confirmed X-Gen was indeed a job placement service.
Checking the reference book Who’s Who in American Colleges, she found a listing for a Jason Larue, graduating from Drake University (MBA) with honors in 1997. All of this was helpful, but she wanted more. Joyce Lackey was never one to go into a meeting unprepared. Still, maybe the X-Gen company was just too young to have much of a track record.
What disturbed her more, though, was that she had never contacted them...so why were they contacting her? Was Frank behind this? Feeling guilty for not giving her the copy writer’s job? Or had X-Gen simply read about her retirement in the papers, and Larue was ambulance-chasing?
Larue cleared his throat. “We at X-Gen are very impressed with your long history of achievement, Joyce. We know you’ve dedicated your life to your work, and we find that sort of work ethic, so often lost these days, highly admirable. Therefore, out of respect to you, if you don’t mind, we’ll get right down to business.”
“Please do, Mr. Larue.”
“Jason,” he corrected her, then went on. “Before we discuss your future, however, I’m afraid you’ll have to sign this confidentiality agreement.”
He removed a single folded sheet from his briefcase, handed the paper to her, and a pen—MontBlanc.
Joyce took the sheet and looked at it; it was a simple form—merely a pledge to keep the terms of X-Gen’s offer to herself, whether she took it or not.
But not wanting to seem overeager, trying to project a cool, cautious air, she said, “Mr. Larue...Jason. If you know as much about me as you say you do, I’m sure you don’t expect me to sign something without running it past my attorney, first.”
With a frosty smile, Jason rose, snapping shut his briefcase. “Then I’m afraid we’ve misjudged you,” he said, looking down at her, making her feel small on the couch. “If you’ll just return the form, and pen, I won’t be any further nuisance to you.”
“I merely meant...Jason, Mr. Larue, it’s just not professional....”
“It’s a simple form, a few sentences. It requires no legal interpretation.”
“Well, just a moment, let me review this....Ah, well, yes I see that you’re right, of course—no, uh, legal counsel is necessary for something this rudimentary.”
And she signed the paper.
“Good,” Larue said, sitting back down, the charm back in his smile. He smelled good—was that a Calvin Klein scent? “I’m here to offer you a job on the West Coast. Los Angeles to be exact.”
Joyce nodded. “I see.” She was trying to keep the excitement out of her voice and her expression. She adored L.A.! She had frequently done business there and loved the sun, the glitz, the sophistication. And there was certainly nothing to keep her in Chicago.
“You’ll be working for C.W. Kafer Advertising, in the capacity of vice president in charge of new corporate accounts.”
Now Joyce simply couldn’t contain herself: her jaw dropped open and her eyes popped wide. C.W. Kafer was one of the largest, most prestigious agencies in the country, primarily handling the motion picture industry. Finally, finally, finally, her luck had changed for the better!
Recovering, she said, “Well, obviously that’s a highly prominent firm—similar to the level of my previous company. But I have to say, the notion of corporate accounts is somewhat, uh...less than thrilling.”
“Corporate accounts can be difficult.”
“Difficult, and dull, and boring...not to mention a royal pain in the ass. The only thing worse is industrial accounts.”
“I realize your specialty has been consumer-related accounts.”
He put a hand on her shoulder—it was a fatherly gesture, odd coming from so
meone so much younger; she didn’t sense any sex in it, exactly—and she was trying.
“But, Joyce, it takes a special kind of person to handle the bigwigs of corporations...someone with the kind of maturity, talent, and insight required to understand a corporation’s dry mission statement and transform it into a great ad campaign. Someone like you, Joyce.”
He was manipulating her, of course; but she didn’t mind. This was better than sex.
“And,” he went on, removing his hand from her shoulder, his voice as casual as if they were discussing the weather, “I understand part of your job will be finding celebrity spokespersons for these corporations.”
“Really?” Suddenly she had a change of mind about the stuffiness of corporate advertising.
In the 1970s new ground was broken when high-profile celebs like Bob Hope, E. G. Marshall, and Bill Cosby were featured in advertisements and commercials. It was a concept that proved highly successful with Baby Boomers who identified with these beloved public figures.
Joyce sighed. “Matching a compatible star personality with the image a corporation wishes to portray...that can be a very time-consuming undertaking.”
“Yes. You may have to take meetings and lunches with some very difficult, egotistical people. Celebrities can be such children.”
Yes, she thought, she would just have to suffer through those lunches with the likes of Tom Hanks, Mel Gibson, and Leonardo DeCaprio. Well, maybe Leo was too young for the corporate image, but she’d be willing to find out....
“But there are compensating factors,” Jason continued. “Your starting salary, for example, which will be thirty thousand above what you were being paid at your former job.”
Joyce damn near fell off the couch. Would the good news never cease? She stared at him speechless, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, or both.
“Jason,” she said, “you’re going to have to be careful, or you’ll give corporate headhunters a good name.”
A half-smile dimpled a boyish cheek. “Well, every silver lining does belong to a little cloud or two—I have no intention of misleading you. If you decide to accept this position, you and X-Gen will enter into a long-term arrangement. In perpetuity. It’s vital that we be honest with each other, and that we share a mutual trust.”
“Oh-kay,” she said, ready for the other shoe to drop.
“X-Gen will be taking its fee from your earnings, which amounts to half of your annual salary.”
So much for the good news. “Half my salary?” she said. “You must be joking.”
“A sense of humor is not my long suit, Joyce. I am quite serious.”
“For how long? The first year, I assume.”
“No. For as long as you hold the position.”
She blinked, looked at him as if his face was smeared with jam. “I mean no offense, Mr. Larue, Jason...but that seems excessive by any reasonable standard. Excuse me, but how do you get away with charging such a high finder’s fee? And an unending one, at that?”
The charming smile was back; but the bloodshot eyes were unblinking and serious. “Because, Joyce...Ms. Lackey...we can.”
Her laugh was harsh. “No one would agree to those terms.”
“Any number of people already have—and more and more are continuing to do so, every day. And I believe you will, too, Joyce.”
She felt her joy slipping away. She rose from the couch and stood before the cold fireplace, one hand on the mantle, staring into the hearth, at a fire that wasn’t there.
“It’s thirty thousand more than you were getting,” Larue said. “And our commission is tax deductible....Do the math, Joyce.”
She already was. Even with a fifty percent cut, she would be making a nice salary. Still, L.A. was expensive; her lifestyle couldn’t be what it had been.
But, then, what was it now?
And then there was that other math-related factor to consider: her age.
“All right,” she sighed. Then, in a last-ditch grasp at self-respect, she added, “But only if you can guarantee the salary you indicated as a minimum.”
“I can. Fall below it, we’ll take no commission whatsoever.”
What the hell, she thought. What the fucking hell...it beats going the Kervorkian route....
“Done,” she said.
“Done,” he said lightly, his small, satisfied smile making her feel a little queasy.
She returned to the couch. “When do I start?”
“You begin in six months.”
“Six months!” The words struck her like a blow. “But...I was hoping....” She looked helplessly around.
“Don’t worry,” he interjected. “My company will advance you some cash, to get you by.” He patted her hand with his; his touch felt warm, reassuring. “The time will fly....You’re going to be a very busy young woman.”
She recoiled from his touch, however soothing it might be, her eyes narrowing, thinking his word choice peculiar; she was hardly “young.”
“Doing what?” she asked.
“Going back to school, for starters.”
“School?” she said in astonishment. “I’m sure you’re aware I have an MBA.”
“Yes, circa 1972. But a lot has occurred in almost thirty years.” He paused, then said, “Our company requires an extensive, intensive four-week curriculum to bring you up to speed—and up to date.”
“Just where do you think I’ve been since 1972?” she asked, adding to herself, Mars?
“It’s not where you’ve been, Joyce—it’s the context.”
What the hell did that mean?
“This is a retraining of sorts—not in your field, no one doubts your mastery, there. California is not Chicago, for example. Orientation implementation is simply necessary.”
“Well, that’s absurd.”
“It’s also required.”
“A deal-breaker, you mean?”
“Oh, yes.”
Joyce frowned. “And just who pays for this ‘retraining’?”
“X-Gen, of course. It’s part of our belief, our investment, in you.”
Well, as long as it didn’t come out of her pocket, she’d play along.
“Where will these classes be held?” she asked.
“We want you to be comfortable, Joyce. You’ll be attending Relocation Orientation at your old alma mater.”
“Northwestern?”
“No—I was referring to your undergraduate years.”
“Simmons College?” She found herself smiling again—she hadn’t been back there since she graduated!
It might be kind of fun at that, to return and see how things had changed for the cozy little college in that quaint small-town setting. She still received the campus newsletter, though she never seemed to have time to read it.
And, once, several years ago, she had received a solicitous phone call asking for a hefty contribution because the private college was in trouble; she had politely declined—wasn’t it up to the generation attending there (and their parents) to take care of that? Evidently, the college must have gotten back up on its feet.
“I’ll be happy to attend some classes,” Joyce said, “but four weeks is hardly six months....What else will I be doing?”
Larue twitched a smile. “What I am about to tell you, Joyce, will change your life.”
“Really?”
“Literally. What I’m about to share with you is the reason for our secrecy, the explanation for the confidentiality release I had to insist you sign.”
She had felt many emotions this afternoon—despair, elation, happiness, suspicion. Now she was afraid.
“What else is in store me, Jason, if I sign with X-Gen?”
Jason responded, matter-of-factly, “You’ll be receiving a new identity, Joyce.”
“A new identity.”
“Yes...face lift, nose job, breast implants, various nips and tucks and suctions....Whatever it takes to turn you into the thirty-five-year-old woman that Kafer thinks they’re getting.”
&n
bsp; “What?” Joyce recoiled again, mind reeling. “Are you insane?”
He smiled broadly for the first time, showing those perfect white teeth; the bronze-tipped hair was somehow godlike. “Some people might think so. But most of our clients have come to see X-Gen as their savior. A savior who rescued them from a society that deemed them worthless and threw them on the trash heap long before their usefulness was fulfilled.”
Joyce swallowed, trying to assimilate all of this; maybe this guy was a religious zealot going door to door....
In a richly modulated voice, Jason continued, shifting into higher gear. “I’m talking, Joyce, about a society that punishes women for growing older and, by its shallow standards, less attractive. A youth-obsessed society that denies itself the benefit of so much talent, experience and, yes, wisdom!”
He again opened his black briefcase and drew out a black binder and plopped it in her lap.
“Open it,” he ordered.
She eyed him cautiously, then lifted the notebook’s cover.
It contained photos of women, both before their new makeover, looking worn and haggard, and after, looking fresh and sexy—and happy.
And so very much younger...
“These women, age fifty to fifty-eight, have all been successfully transplanted into new jobs across the country. Once destitute, they are now living successful, productive, younger lives. It’s a win-win-win situation. You win, we win, society wins.”
Joyce turned another page in the binder; a familiar face stared back at her. “Oh, my God...it’s...it’s Heather. Heather Blake! The woman who took my job.”
“She was a fifty-seven-year-old ad exec from Detroit,” he explained, “who got squeezed out and couldn’t land another job. We gave her a new name, new body, new credentials...a new life.”
“You mean my life, you bastard!” Joyce said, jumping up from the couch.
Jason put both hands up in a “hold on” manner. “Hey,” he said, “we had nothing to do with you losing your job—Heather didn’t ‘take’ your position, she filled it after your company made you vacate it. All we did was restock the empty shelf you left behind.”
Trembling, Joyce put both hands on her hips and glared down at him. “And I suppose I’ll be replacing some other poor woman down on her luck and out of a job....”
Regeneration Page 4
