by Kara Hart
He swallows, and his eyes dart to the top of my dress before he blinks and pretends he wasn’t just looking at my breasts.
His thin lips move into a quick smile. “All year. You?”
I nod. “My entire life.”
“Well, then. I’ve met my match.”
“How about we up the stakes a little?”
“What did you have in mind?”
Defeated, Dr. Berman throws his hands in the air and shuts the door to his office. “You know where to find me if you want a job.”
I almost forgot he was there.
“If I break, I’ll walk Ragamuffin three times a week as punishment,” I say.
He grins, nodding along. “Oh, punishment and a date. Nice.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“All right. If I break, I’ll take care of Rowdy,” he says.
I shake my head. “No way. If you break, you have to give me Ragamuffin.”
His expression drops. “My daughter’s dog? You’re cruel.”
I shrug. “Don’t ask me for my number,” I say. “Be a good father.”
There’s a part of me that enjoys this. Flirting and acting loose. That’s not what I’m used to doing. Growing up, I was reserved. I stuck my head in books, and I kept away from boys. In a way, I preferred the fantasy over the reality. But all of that is starting to change. Ever since I swore off men, I’ve really enjoyed my time in the real world.
Well, except for the part where he stole my dog. But what is our fighting really about?
His pupils dart left and right as his brain figures out the easiest way to lose.
I’m trying to figure out the same thing, but it’s not working.
The school bell interrupts his thoughts. “C’mon, Sammy-Pie.”
“Dad,” Sammy says, pulling back her hand. “I don’t want to go home. I want to stay here with Ms. Greenwald.”
He cocks a brow. “You’d rather stay here than play Animal Crossing?”
Assuming that game is a rare treat, it’s not surprising to see her look of hesitance. Most kids don’t want to go to every class, but if I have any say, they’ll end up really enjoying this year. That’s my goal, anyway.
“I like Miss Greenwald more. Rowdy will protect me from mean boys,” she says.
That must be why Mr. Bling came to pick his daughter up from school early. Although this is my first full-time position, I’ve been working around kids for a few years now. They’re pretty easy to figure out if you just listen.
My attention is on Sammy. “Are boys picking on you?”
She looks down. “A little.”
Now, her father is looking at me like I might be able to help. “Not anymore, okay? I’m going to keep an eye out,” I say.
She nods, but I can tell she feels anxiety about the whole thing.
“Well, she’s very nice, but daddy has a lot of meetings he had to reschedule to make this work, and this is the only time he could pick you up,” he says.
“I’ll walk home,” she says.
His eyes dart open. “Fat chance, kiddo.”
I walk over and take her hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take her home.”
His face comes undone. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I say. “We’re friends, right?”
“Y-Yeah,” he stammers. “Sure.”
Kneeling down to her level, I whisper, “Why don’t you go to lunch, while I finish up with your dad? I’ll meet you on the playground.”
Her face lights up with energy. “Yes! We can swing, Ali.”
“That sounds so fun,” I tell her.
When she’s gone, I turn on my adult voice. “If someone’s messing with her, it’s no joke.”
Marc scratches the back of his head, eyes angled toward Sammy’s last known position. “She’s had a pretty hard year. Her teacher quit today, too. For both our sakes, I’m trying not to worry.”
I don’t want to pry. In this day and age, parenting is next to impossible. There’s so much information coming at us, it can be really hard to know how to act in every situation. I know we’ve got our little feud, but some things demand more attention.
Some people need an extra hand. Why not me?
“I’m taking over for Ms. Hamel. I’m going to put the word out to the other teachers,” I say. “Even if it’s nothing, it’s good to keep an eye on her.”
“You’d do that for her?” he asks.
“Of course,” I say. “She’s just a young girl. And she’s so cute with Ragamuffin.”
He chuckles, and magically, it feels like we’re drifting toward one another. His eyes are nearly shimmering. “You should’ve seen her playing with that dog yesterday,” he says. “Cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
It only stings a teeny-tiny bit. “So precious,” I say.
It’s in this moment that I realize he’s hurting. Not all the time. The scars are probably thin compared to the rest of us. But he’s still human. The more I see, the more I feel like we could understand each other. There’s still a hell of a disconnect.
He glances at the door, balancing on the side of his boot. “I should probably go. These meetings take forever sometimes” he says.
“Go do your meetings,” I tell him.
Hesitant to move toward the exits, his body tenses, wound up like a rubber band. “And you’re sure you’re good to take her to my house?” he asks, knowing full well what the answer is.
“She’s in good hands,” I say.
“Thanks Ali,” he says. “I owe you one.”
What game can we play next?
Marc
When I leave Sammy’s school, I’m less than a gallon from an empty gas tank and thirty-three text messages deep into my day. My top management leader, Sandra, is frantic. I’m stuck in traffic. None of us are having a good time, but I’m particularly annoyed. I keep replaying the last hour and a half of my life over like an instant replay vid.
What did she say again?
Oh, yeah. “We’re friends.”
That one hurt. Then again, all is fair in love and war.
She thinks she’s winning.
Okay, she’s winning.
But it’s not just her I’m thinking about. I’m thinking a lot about Sammy’s well-being. Growing up for me was pretty hard. I’m from Brooklyn, and I wasn’t one of those rich transplants either. Kids didn’t think twice to pick on a guy from a scrappy neighborhood. It defined what this world could be for some, ruthless.
There was an alternative route. I saw that some people were rewarded with different opportunities. After what happened to Sammy took hold of both our lives, I wanted her to be one of those people who didn’t have to worry. So far, I’ve done okay. But this school bully worries me. I can’t supervise her every hour of the day. For the first time in a very long while, I feel out of control.
I hate feeling like this...
Another text comes in from my photographer and good friend from University, Brian. He’s got the most boring name in the world, but he manages to bring the party every step of the way. Without him, I don’t know where I’d be today.
“Where you at, brother? I’ve got fifty thirsty execs, but there’s only enough Coors Light to last us another hour. Now, I know you told me to call you only if there was an emergency. But I’d say it’s nearing fuckin’ panic time.”
Clenching the phone, I almost toss it out the window. I’ve always hated the board of directors, the executive class. I got rich by besting them. When I was young, I had a plan. I was going to put my head down and work as much as I could for the worst people, and earn their money.
I kept with it for a long time, actually. Then some other things happened, other projects and the like. More and more, I fell into that chaotic rhythm of work. Eventually, I won the opportunity to own my first company. And then I had an even better idea. I was going to buy all of the failing magazine companies in the country, the small ones that were dying, and I was going to resuscitate them. Shine them up and make them feel ne
w.
I gathered them all up in my basket, and I started to believe I could do anything. It was really easy, just like shopping.
Look at me now.
Rather than text, I order another case of beer, and I return Brian’s message with a call. “Got another thirty pack coming your way,” I say.
“That’s all you got?” he asks.
Leaning my head out the window, I act like a physicist and try to calculate the exact moves to get this traffic moving again. I’m only a few miles from my exit. If everyone just slowed down and went the suggested speed limit, we wouldn’t be in this problem.
I’m turning into my father.
A few cars start honking behind me. It triggers everyone’s nerves. Pretty soon, the entire freeway is blowing their horns like a school band. “Damn this traffic. You think they’ll need more than thirty beers?” I shout.
“You know how these guys act. They’re animals. Most importantly, they’re your animals. They’re out for blood, and I think you’re first on their list,” he says.
“How can you tell?” I ask.
“I can see it in their eyes. Pupils are fucking pins, dead sharp,” he says. “Not to mention, they keep mentioning your new Seattle venture.”
“Right. The Seattle merger,” I say. “The reason I moved here to begin with.”
About a year ago, I bought a magazine that targeted a niche demographic. Turns out, it doesn’t make money, so the investors started getting antsy. They want a strong return, which they’ll get. They’re just too stupid to realize one magazine can’t sink one hundred.
There’s a part of me that gets it. Poor sales figures make them and the company look bad. But I can’t ditch the project. I want to stay here, not return to New York. There might be a way to turn it around. I just need a few weeks to think it over.
When the shareholders asked to have a meeting, it was obvious they were going in for the attack. I decided to have a party instead. A big get-together with as much booze as possible. Maybe it’s a good thing I’m showing up so late.
“On second thought, I think I should order some more cases of that beer,” I say.
Brian laughs with me. “IPA’s would get them drunker.”
These shareholder types don’t know culture. They don’t care about what’s good. They’re not critics. All they care about is profit. To them, a Coors party is fun. It’s the stuff college kids drink to feel buzzed on the cheap.
To be honest, it is fun. Up to a point.
Anxious, my stomach flutters. I don’t usually get nervous about meetings. These executive types are just pawns with dollar signs, as far as I’m concerned. But my plan to win them over is less than thought out.
I inch forward, pushing closer and closer to the freeway exit. “Do you think it’s a problem I don’t have a model lined up for the cover?”
Or a stylist, makeup artist, lighting tech. I don’t have anyone lined up for anything.
“Uh yeah, I think it’s more of a problem you don’t have an idea what the project is,” he says.
“Momma Bear,” I say.
“Momma Bear,” he repeats with a big sigh.
Momma Bear is a magazine for new mothers with a side of adventure. Billed as the anti-housewife magazine, it did well for a few years in the late nineties. That was the time Generation-X started packing up their bags and moving into homes. The 2000s took over, and Y2K shook the nation. Momma Bear didn’t stand a chance.
No one read Momma Bear to begin with, but I needed an excuse to leave New York City. I couldn’t handle where my life was taking me, and I could tell Sammy wanted a change of pace from the fast-paced lifestyle of the Big Apple. We tried Brooklyn over Manhattan, but we bailed after a year. Momma Bear was our ticket out, but I’ve shoved it so far back on the shelf, it might’ve lost its audience.
It’s costing us an arm and a leg. The expenditures are alarming, to say the least. I’m paying rent on a warehouse that should be staffed. Only, there’s no fucking staff to fill that room because Momma Bear is trash.
The problem is that we need Momma Bear as a hedge. It offsets the tax burden on my already high salary. My accountant says I don’t spend enough. I tell him there’s nothing to buy. I’ve bought it all. I already own three houses, two of which are just fucking sitting there, collecting dust. I have the most expensive Mercedes on the market. I spend out the ass for Sammy’s school.
The shareholders share concern about some negative press effecting the stock prices. I can ease that fear, but I need to keep the shitty magazine. I better find a good reason.
“I’ll figure it out,” I say. “Just give me ten minutes. I’ll return with a master plan.”
“You always do,” he says.
When I hang up the phone, the car in front of me finally inches up far enough to allow me to pass through. I speed around the corner and glance up at the Space Needle in the distance. Today’s going to be fine, I think.
I park in the first space I get and take the elevator up six flights. When I hear the booming voices of aging men bleed through the mirrored doors, I put on a sly smile and cool eyes. It’s a look I perfected about fifteen years ago, when I was just starting out.
The door opens to cheers. Brian tosses me a drink all the way from the other side of the room. I catch it perfectly, and he joins me.
“Come up with anything?” he whispers.
“Nothing,” I mutter. “We are one hundred percent fucked.”
“Lucky us,” Brian mutters. “In this scenario, am I the top or the—”
Someone shouts. Jim, a shareholder I couldn’t care less about appears in front of me with a wild smile that demands conversation. “There he is! Sharpshooter.”
Sharpshooter? Not sure what that means, but I go with it, tossing down some beer before mentally preparing myself to get slammed around the office by a bunch of too-old-to-party men.
“He always looks like a winner, doesn’t he?” Brian asks the room.
Jim takes hold of the space between my neck and shoulder, pinching right down on the nerve. “Damn straight, he’s a winner. Otherwise, why would we be here?” he growls, teeth gnashing.
His spit flies everywhere.
The truth is, I lose all the time. In some ways, it’s better to look like a winner than actually be one.
For a while, the meeting goes as planned. They drink for a while as Sandra gives a bolstered earnings report showing the longevity of all the company’s combined. The message is: believe in me. I won’t let you down. If you don’t believe in me, believe in my team. They’re working around the clock to save the day.
Unfortunately, the shareholders are not as stupid as they let on. They may not know a damn thing about culture, but they know money. They came to talk about the Seattle project.
Jim is staring right through me. “Are you done?” he asks.
Shit.
“Sure. I can be done,” I mutter.
Jim is older, but he’s a tough son of a bitch that does most of the talking. Within the hour, he steers the conversation from the drinks to a cold inquiry on our individual expense reports. This is only the halfway point, too.
He collects the loose sheets of paper and calmly reorganizes them. “Says here you’re spending thousands every month on this office, as well as the one in Manhattan,” he says.
I want to say it’s for my daughter because the only way I can be a good father is to honor her wishes. Kids respond well to that. Old men like Jim aren’t so easy to please. They want to own the world, and even that isn’t enough for them.
I’m staring at Jim’s bewildered face, wondering how a man’s nose could grow to get so big. “Is that all?”
He closes his folder and gives a smile pleasant enough to distract from the real inquiry taking shape. “We need to know what your plan is here,” he says. “Otherwise, you’re going bye-bye, and we’ll sell all the other loser catalogues. Do you understand me?”
Bye-bye? Is the threat really that big? Doesn’t real
ly matter if it is or isn’t. If they feel it necessary, they could kick me from the company. They used to be easier to please.
My brain scrambles to steer this meeting back to where it should be. “I’ve got a plan for Momma Bear,” I say.
Jim raises a brow. “Oh?”
I start nodding, making eye contact with my photographer and friend, Brian. “Isn’t that right?”
His eyes widen, and he nearly drops his beer bottle, but he manages to give my life a decent save. “Oh, yeah. He was just telling me on the phone, actually. Something to do with school.”
Jim leans back, apparently pleased. His smile teases for more. “Hm. Explain it then, Marc,” he says.
Feeling my forehead start to sweat, I chuckle. “Oh, yes. Well, it’s pretty simple.”
I’m so screwed.
My day was hijacked by Sammy’s school. If I had the morning to decompress, I might have brought a better opening, but I didn’t. All I have in my quiver is my quick thinking, and I’m starting to wonder if it’s better to scrap it altogether.
I can’t do that. The board would throw me under a few dozen school busses before letting out the drivers to get a few swift kicks in. What I can do is lie and hope the project falls apart due to natural causes. If I extend the job long enough, they’ll probably beg me to can it.
Time to work my magic.
The shareholders’ are drunk enough to follow me on one of my idea-spitting sessions, so I just say the first thing that comes to mind.
Filter through the topics: What is Momma Bear Magazine? Nurturing. Individuality. Oh, god.
In reality, it’s just a way to get women to buy more hiking equipment, makeup with earth tones, and natural tampons. Is there any way to make it more… cutting edge? The answer is a resounding no.
“Teachers,” I say.
I watch every man’s expression fall, one by one. “Teachers,” Jim mutters.
I’m losing them. Quick, think of something fast. “Dogs, too,” I say.
Jim’s mouth closes, but I can tell it’s because he’s too confused to respond.