“That’s a good way to put it,” she says.
“Then why don’t you train them so they’re less dependent on your being there to solve every problem? You’re not superwoman.”
“It’s not that easy,” she says, but doesn’t have anything to back up the statement.
“It’s precisely that easy,” I tell her. “When I saw how fast José learned what I taught him, I kept teaching him more. Now, if I were to die today—knock on wood—he could take over the business without even the slightest bit of difficulty. Not everyone has that ambition, but you’ve got a whole staff full of people who want to know the things you won’t let them learn.”
“Yeah, but what happens when I give away that information and they go open a competing shop across the street?” she asks.
“I’m sorry,” our waiter, coming seemingly from nowhere, asks, “is there something wrong with the onion rings?”
“Not at all,” I tell him. “We just got caught up talking.”
“Okay,” he says, “here’s your drink, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” Jessica says and downs it, immediately handing the shot glass back to the waiter.
The expression on his face is hilarious.
“Would you like another?” he asks nervously.
“No,” she says. “That one should do it, thank you.”
“All right,” he says. “Your entrees should be out momentarily.”
He walks away.
“Do you really think that your employees are going to open a store just to drive you out of business if you give them the super-secret handshake?” I ask.
“You never know,” she says.
“Do you have—well, of course you must know how much money it takes to open up a shop, even a small one, in New York. Do you pay any of your employees that well?” I continue.
“I pay my employees very well,” she says. “And I don’t think it’s really any of your business anyway.”
“Maybe not,” I tell her. “I just hate seeing someone run themselves into the ground when they don’t have to, but if you’re dead set on losing your store—”
“I’m not going to lose my store. What are you talking about?” she asks.
“Well, most employees are loyal to bosses who treat them with enough respect to let them move up in the world,” I tell her. “It’s the ones who think their bosses are trying to stifle their growth that end up putting a knife in your back.”
She laughs. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Okay, let’s say it doesn’t,” I start. “Let’s say that all of your employees are just thrilled to pieces that you don’t give them any more responsibility than you think they can handle, which from the look of things, isn’t that much. Now, you’ve killed whatever ambition they do have and you’ll end up with a situation where they actually can’t take care of things when you’re not there, so sick or healthy, injured or able, no matter what, you’re going to have to be there all day, every day for the rest of your life,” I tell her. “Or, at very least, until you decide that it’s just not worth the stress and you end up having to sell the company, but I really see you as being the type that would hang onto this sort of thing until your dying breath. Maybe afterward, if you catch a break with rigor mortis.”
“Here are your entrees!” our waiter, who must be the sneakiest tray jockey in the business, announces.
We both say thanks and he goes on his way.
“All right,” she says, finally picking up a utensil, “let’s say that I would like to have more free time, and that I do realize that means I’m either going to have to give my people the keys to the store—”
“Seriously, what is that?” I ask. “I’ve been around a lot of controlling people—worked for a lot of them, too—but I have never known someone who was so insecure about their business that they wouldn’t let at least one manager have the keys to the store.”
“Yeah, whatever,” she says. “What am I supposed to do, though? This is the only way I know how to do it.”
“It’ll take a bit of time to work that out of your system, and you’re such a—let’s call it a ‘special case,’ that your need to control will likely just take form in some other area of your life, but what I would suggest is that you start out by taking your most talented employee aside and make them assistant store manager,” I tell her.
“That’s quite a promotion,” she scoffs. “I don’t even have…” she starts, but stops talking and nervously forks her food.
“You don’t even have what?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says. “Don’t worry about it. So, where are you from?”
“Here,” I tell her. “I think you were about to tell me that you don’t have any managers. That can’t be true, can it?”
“Well, I’m always there when the place is open, so—”
“Good lord!” I exclaim. “Jessica, you’ve got to let your employees move up and take some more responsibility, or are you really so conceited that you don’t think anyone might know one thing a little better than you do?”
“What about you?” she asks. “I don’t see you with any—well, I guess you wouldn’t call them managers, but you know what I mean.”
“José’s my number two,” I tell her. “It’s reflected in his responsibility and his pay. Under him, I’ve got Alec, though I think I might have pulled the trigger on that one a little early. Yeah, I like the guy, but he’s pretty damn lazy a lot of the time. I can’t be everywhere, and the guys on my team each have different strengths, different areas of expertise. When I come across a situation that I’m not quite sure how to tackle, I’m comfortable asking the advice of one of my employees who has more experience with that given thing, or may have some insight that I’m lacking.”
“Well, it sounds like you lucked out,” she says. “I wish I had people in my store that would be willing to—”
“Ivanna knows shoes a lot better than you do. She’d be perfect as manager of that section,” I tell her. “Linda is probably half the reason you’ve got as many customers as you do have, because she has a way about her that people really respond to. Cheryl seems like she knows everything there is to know about dresses, skirts, pants, and blouses. She might be a great choice for assistant manager, or at least a floor manager. The rest of your staff, I haven’t really gotten to know so well, but they’ve all got their strengths, and the wine is dying on the vine. You’ve got to trust your people or they’ll never trust you.”
“You don’t think they trust me?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I think most of them like you because you’re a pretty likeable person, you know, when you’re not being all neurotic and controlling.”
She’s still forking her food, but I have yet to see her eat anything.
“How do you know so much about my staff?” she asks.
“I’ve spent almost two months around them,” I answer. “I don’t have as much face time with them as I’m sure you do, but when you’re even casually around people, you can come to know their strengths pretty quickly.”
A smirk crosses her face. “I think you just don’t like the idea of an ambitious woman,” she says. “I think you’re so used to your world of testosterone and power tools that the thought of a woman who not only owns her own business, but runs it, is a threat to you.”
“That’s because you don’t know me,” I tell her, shoveling a forkful of food in my mouth. “I actually find your ambition to be one of your most attractive qualities.”
It’s super fucking attractive. I somehow always end up with chicks that don’t have much ambition at all, though.
“You find me attractive?” she asks. “Just like a man: the only compliment you people can give is when it has something to do with the idea of screwing the woman you’re giving it to.”
Duh. She must know she’s a goddamned bombshell.
“Now, there’s an unfortunate assortment of words,” I laugh. “No, what I’m saying is that I love
people who are driven. It doesn’t matter, man or woman, I think the quality itself is attractive. Trust me, if I was hitting on you, you’d know it.”
“Oh would I?” she asks. “You’re that smooth, are you?”
“Quite the opposite,” I tell her. “I have a particular clumsy charm, but it’s hardly something that I’d call smooth. It’s more like how that kid with the thick glasses and the lisp endears himself to you when he gets his tongue stuck on the flagpole in winter.”
She smiles, and as she realizes that I not only explained, but demonstrated my point, her face goes a little red.
“Well, you do seem like the clumsy type to me,” she says.
“Not with everything,” I tell her, and look her in the eyes until her face reddens even more and she looks away.
“Now you’re hitting on me,” she says.
“Yep,” I answer quickly, and sit back in my chair. “I told you that you’d know it when it happened.” I take another bite of my omelette and add, “I think it’s great that you’re so driven, so focused. I just think it’s a shame that you don’t trust yourself or your staff enough to have a life outside of work. You should take up a hobby,” I tell her.
“Yeah?” she chortles. “Like what?”
“I don’t know,” I start, then, just to see how far I can push this without letting her know that I’m the guy in her inbox, I add, “maybe you should take up painting.”
Her eyes narrow a bit and I know what she’s thinking, but I know that I’m safe. The reason I know that is because, based on our interactions, she can’t begin to conceive of me as the guy writing those texts to her. She sees me as the aggravating contractor who screwed one of her biggest contracts.
She’s not wrong, but that’s not the whole story, either.
“Why painting?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I shrug. “If painting’s not your thing, why not try music or antiquing? I hear philately’s pretty fun, though I can’t imagine why. Hell, start smoking pot. From what I hear, homemade bong crafting is quite the art.”
She laughs her first sincere laugh, I think, since I met her, and it’s disarming to see even this small a glimpse of a softer side to her.
“Maybe you’re right,” she says, and finally relaxes enough take a bite of something.
“I usually am,” I smile.
“You’re kind of arrogant, you know that?” she asks, but at least she’s smiling at me.
Chapter Nine
Learning to Breathe
Jessica
“Mom, it’s not that simple,” I groan.
“I’d say it’s simple enough,” she says over her blueberry pie. “You’ve managed to make some money, and I bet if you sold that store and the merchandise that came with it, you’d have a nice little nest egg.”
“I’m not selling the store,” I tell her.
“Why not, dear?” she asks. “Are you having money trouble? Harold, grab my pocketbook, will you?”
“I’m fine on money,” I tell her. “But I’m not just doing what I’m doing to get enough money to get me by until I die. I actually believe in what I’m doing.”
“Oh,” she says, “I didn’t know you viewed selling clothes as some sort of personal crusade.”
I rub my temples. “Women’s clothing stores usually fit into two categories,” I start, “either they’re geared toward bigger women or they’re geared toward smaller women. My store is a place where any woman can come in, find something that not only looks good, but makes her feel good, and—”
“Target has clothes for big and small women,” my mom says.
“That’s different,” I tell her. “They’re not just a clothing store. They can afford to expand their clientele a little bit. There are more crossovers like mine than there used to be, but we’re still in the distant minority. A lot of the places that do offer more sizes tend to stop with single or double XL or the plus sizes they do have are just terrible. I’m not just selling clothes. What I’m trying to do is to tell women, big or small, tall or short, rich or poor, that they’re already beautiful, that they’re already good enough to feel good about themselves.”
“Oh, surely you can’t think that every woman is already good enough,” my mom says, and I’m starting to wish that I didn’t bother coming over to visit tonight.
“What did the doctor say?” I ask, in order to avoid yelling at my mother all the things I’ve wanted to yell at her since I was a teenager.
“Oh, doctors don’t know anything,” she says.
“He said that they’re going to go in and remove the tumor,” my dad says. “There shouldn’t be any need for amputation.”
“That’s good,” I say. “When are they going to do that?”
My mom shrugs, but my dad answers, “They’ve scheduled surgery for next Tuesday.”
“They said it’s not progressed to the point where they need to get right in there and take care of it right this minute, can you believe that?” my mom asks.
“That’s good, though,” I tell her. “It sounds like they’re confident.”
“Oh, all doctors are confident,” my mom says. “So, when are you moving back home?”
“About that,” I start. “I really don’t think it’s going to be in anyone’s best interest for me to just move home. I’d have a huge commute every day, and I wouldn’t want you and Dad to think that this isn’t your house anymore. Why don’t you just let me pay the—”
“It’s not about the money,” my mom interrupts.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “I thought you were getting behind on mortgage payments.”
“We just think that the city’s not the right place for you,” she says. “You’ve always been such an innocent child,” read that as ignorant, “and I don’t think you’re ready for that kind of world.”
“Mom, I’ve lived in the city for years now. I think I’m good to go,” I answer.
“It’s not just about that,” my mom adds. “How are you ever going to find a good husband in that unrepentant Sodom?”
“New York really isn’t all that bad,” I tell her. “Besides, I hardly think my situation would be improved by moving back to a place where someone new moving to town is a community event. I’d worry about inbreeding.”
“Now, Jessica…” my dad starts. It’s a sentence that he’s never finished.
“I know you’re having fun with your little rebellion or whatever this is, but it’s time to come home where we can take care of you.”
My phone beeps.
“What was that?” my mom asks.
“I just got a message,” I tell her. “Can you give me a minute? I just want to make sure it’s not something to do with the store.”
As I get up from the table, my mom leans toward my dad, and loudly enough that she’s sure I hear it, she says, “I bet it’s one of those gigolos from the city.”
The bright side about having such a backward, judgmental mother is that she’s often the source of some really great comedy, though she apparently has no idea why I’m laughing.
I walk out the back and sit on the porch swing as I check the message.
It reads, “Haven’t talked to you today. How’s it going?”
I write back, “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear from you. I’m here with my mom, and it is just horrendous.”
Through the kitchen window, I can hear my mom and dad talking. Dad’s on my side, for now at least, but my mom just keeps on repeating, “It can’t be too long before they chew her up and spit her out. She does the best with what God gave her, but do you really think she’s ready to handle that kind of life?”
My phone beeps and the discussion inside stops.
I read the message. It says, “I’m sorry to hear that. What’s going on?”
I write back, “Just the usual.” After sending the message, it occurs to me that he has no way of knowing what “the usual” is, so I enter another message, saying, “She has it in her head that I’m still 4 year
s old and couldn’t possibly make it in the real world. Any advice?”
“She’s just not built to stand on her own two feet,” I can hear my mom telling my dad. “She needs someone to look after her and point her in the right direction. Otherwise, who knows what’s going to happen?”
It’s that last sentence that really catches me.
My phone beeps.
The new message reads, “Not much you can do. Moms are moms, and in my experience, there’s not much you can do to change their minds about anything.”
I write back, “Your mom does this kind of thing, too, huh?”
My dad’s inside saying, “At some point, you’ve just got to trust that she knows the right thing to do. That’s our job as parents: to teach our children the best we can and then let them live their own lives.”
Mom has apparently either forgotten or has stopped caring that I can hear her as she bellows with laughter, and in a loud voice says, “Do you really want to know what kind of a life she would choose to lead if we didn’t give her the right direction? Do you remember that boy—oh, what was his name?—Billy or something. He was the one with the Camaro.”
“Dear, you’ve got to let that go. People make mistakes,” my dad says.
He’s a great ally to have for about the first 10 minutes of every disagreement. The problem is that he gets tired of arguing so quickly that anything longer than that 10 minutes and he’s just going to say whatever he needs to say to halt the disagreement.
“It’s a wonder she knew to use a condom,” my mom adds, and my phone beeps again.
“Yeah,” I call, “that means I can hear you, Mom!”
I look at the screen and read, “She used to, but we lost her a few years back to cancer.”
That was a little more real than I was expecting.
“I’m sorry,” I write, and try futilely to think of something to add. There’s nothing, so I just send the message.
The back door opens and my dad comes out.
“Mind if I sit with you?” he asks.
“Go ahead,” I tell him.
“You know, I used to hold you out here when you were just a baby, and we’d watch the stars come out at night.”
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