by Nancy Star
Today, Roxanne had asked Annie to meet her downtown, at a restaurant in the meatpacking district, where she was treated like any other intruder. She made a minimal amount of small talk and then got to the point: “Did Linda tell you what happened with Blaine?”
“Yes,” Annie said. “It sounds awful. Will he be in rehab long?”
“Who knows?” Roxanne said. “Who cares? He’s never coming back. I’m trying to forget he ever happened.”
She took a big bite of her porterhouse steak and concentrated on chewing, as if that would take away the nasty aftertaste of the memory Blaine had left behind. She pushed the large mound of garlic mashed potatoes into the pool of her steak’s bloody drippings and put down her fork.
“The problem isn’t that Blaine’s gone. Blaine was a bust from the beginning. Proxo couldn’t stand him. Luckily I found them someone they love. Of course, they’ll never love anyone as much as they loved you. They didn’t even love you as much as they now think they loved you. You’ve become a legend over there.”
“That won’t last forever,” Annie said.
“I know,” Roxanne agreed.
“So if Proxo’s happy, what’s the problem?”
“The problem is I’m not happy,” Roxanne said. “Since you left I’ve had the displeasure of personally discovering the staggering number of young people now working at PC&B who have absolutely no idea what they’re doing.”
“They just need some mentoring,” Annie said. “That’s all.”
“Is that what you call it?” Roxanne asked. “They hound me with questions all day long. Ridiculous, inane questions. At first I didn’t understand what was going on. It seemed like the staff got stupid overnight. Finally, someone explained it to me. It was the young guy with the blond hair and the twitch in his eye. Do you know the one I mean?”
“I had a twitch in my eye,” Annie said, because suddenly she realized she didn’t have it anymore. Her twitch was gone.
“I know,” Roxanne said. “So anyway, the guy with the twitch—”
“His name is Jeffrey,” Annie said.
“Right. So Jeffrey told me he used to go to you whenever he needed advice. He told me everyone did. Now that you’re gone, he asked if he could come to me. Of course I said no. Meanwhile I’m thinking, how was everyone asking you for advice when you were in Connecticut all week?”
“A lot of them called me at night,” Annie said. “Once they got home.”
“That must have driven you crazy,” Roxanne said.
“I didn’t really mind it. There wasn’t much to do in that hotel room. Actually, it was my favorite part of the day.”
“Well, it’s not my favorite part. All that carrying on. I feel like I’m in a bad horror movie. I told HR to call a meeting and explain that I am unavailable by phone or email for their stupid questions. So now they’re sending me text messages. Do I look even mildly sympathetic to you? Don’t they understand they’re acting like annoying children and I am not their mommy who loves them no matter what? Did they treat you like you were their mommy, Annie? Is that what was going on?”
“I listened to them. That’s all.”
“See, that’s the difference between us right there. If I’m going to listen to someone, it’s going to be someone who pays me. I’ll listen to clients. That’s my limit. I want you to come back.”
“I can’t,” Annie said.
“Look, we’re sorry for how we treated you. How much more plainly can I say it? We made a bad decision. We have a huge signing bonus for you, to show our remorse. We also have a seat at the partners’ table. No waiting, Annie. Come back and you’re in. Done deal.”
“The timing isn’t good,” Annie said. “I just got an opportunity to go into business with my husband.”
“Are you nuts? Do you want to ruin your career and your marriage at the same time? That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard. Don’t do it, Annie. Come back and work with us. Do you want part-time? We can do part-time. You want to come in at nine and leave at four thirty? We can do that.”
“That’s not part-time,” Annie said. “That’s just civilized.”
“I was kidding. Tell me how many hours a day you want to work and we’ll make it happen.”
Annie felt a twinge. She knew she was being expertly roped in. Still—while she didn’t agree that her marriage was in danger of collapsing if she and Tim worked together, she didn’t think it would be the best thing for them either.
“A lot has changed since you left PC&B,” Roxanne went on. “You’re probably not aware of this, but we have a new mission. Crawford and Biblow have decided they want to be leaders in the flexibility-in-the-workplace movement. They’re a hundred percent committed to this. We see you as a role model, Annie. We want you back. What will it take to get you to say yes?”
Annie hadn’t come to lunch with a plan, but if she had, it certainly wouldn’t have been this. Was it possible she could make the job into something she actually wanted to do?
“Four days a week,” Annie said, after a moment. “Nine thirty to two. No travel. No client contact. I do staff development and mentoring. Nothing else.”
Roxanne pushed away her plate and sucked the little liquid left in her glass through her straw. “I think we can live with that. Except for the four-day-a-week thing.”
“I understand,” Annie said. “And if I think of anyone who’d be right for the job I’ll let you know.”
“Okay,” Roxanne said. “We’ll try it. Four days a week for six months. Then we revaluate.”
“You have to give it a year,” Annie said. “Six months is too soon to know.”
“Okay,” Roxanne said. “I’ll commit to a year. Is it a deal?”
Annie wasn’t done dreaming. “I’m just not sure you can make it worth my time financially. I do have that other opportunity.”
“Name your number, Annie. I’ll take it back to Biblow and Crawford this afternoon and see what they say.”
Annie thought of the highest number she could reasonably ask for. She tripled it and said it out loud.
Roxanne winced and asked for the check. While she waited for it to come, she said nothing. When it finally came, she signed it and looked Annie in the eye. “Is that really your number?”
Annie forced herself to sound confident. “Yes.”
“Okay. I think I can get Biblow and Crawford to go for it.”
And for once Annie knew she hadn’t undervalued herself.
As they walked out of the restaurant, Roxanne promised to get back to her by the end of the day.
“But I have to ask you, Annie,” she said. “What did you do? You didn’t used to be this tough. What’s your secret? Did you enroll in some kind of program?”
“No,” Annie said. “I just picked up a few things on the sidelines.”
Fifty-three
THE DEMONS BULLETIN #1 March 15th
Welcome to all players and parents!! It is indeed an honor for me to be coaching my new team, the Winslow West Demons, the Future Finest Team of Soccer Players in the History of Soccer!!!!!!!!!!!
Let me begin by directly addressing several rumors I understand have arisen on the sidelines:
Rumor Number One: Did I deflate my own Soccer-Plex?
NO! This spurious falsehood is completely erroneous and untrue. While the police have not yet located the culprit of this terrorist act, it is my opinion that the damage to the Winslow West Soccer-Plex was perpetrated by a competitor who wished to hurt both me, and my new and future players.
Rumor Number Two: Have I been ejected from the League?
NO! This groundless falsehood is completely unfounded. The decision to leave the League was solely my own. I did so because of my deep disappointment in the League’s complete lack of support and concern for myself and my players in the day and days directly following the collapse of the Winslow West Soccer-Plex.
Rumor Number Three: Have I been banned from participation in all organized leagues this spring?
NO! This rumor could not be further from the truth. I have chosen our orphan status for the simple reason that it affords us the ability to train for several months with no distractions or interference from players, trainers, or team managers who do not share my philosophy of success!
Onward and Upward Update: Beginning next week I will be arranging weekend scrimmages with high-level teams of Under Eight girls, most likely from Pennsylvania, Delaware, or Maryland. While this will mean some travel, it will also mean that when we do join a league in September, the girls will be more prepared than any other team in their age group in the history of time.
Safety Update: As most of you know, Player Safety has always been my Paramount Concern. Anyone who doubts this has only to count my remaining toes. In case anyone has been away, or dead, and has not heard, I lost one of my toes while protecting the players on my former team, the ill-fated Power. While I would most certainly be willing to lose another toe to protect one of my new players, I am well aware that I have thirteen new players and only nine remaining toes.
Therefore, I am happy to report that Fireman Fred, our intrepid team manager, has agreed to be Safety Director for the Fort West Soccer-Plex, my new indoor soccer facility, which will open next spring in nearby Chestnut Heights!!!!
Please see Firemen Fred if you have any suggestions for lyrics or tunes for the “Fort West Battle Cry,” which I am currently developing.
Soccer Trainer Fraud Update: While the Winslow West Soccer-Plex Organization has been disbanded, it has come to my attention that several trainers are still representing themselves as authorized Winslow West Trainers. To avoid confusion with people pretending to be associated with me, I am asking all members of the Winslow West Demons and their families to refrain from interacting in any way at any time with any former trainer previously under my employ.
Also, due to the fact that several members of the team formerly known as the Power have become disgruntled and bitter, I am also asking all Winslow West Demons and their families to refrain from interacting with any former members or family members of the team formerly known as the Power, for as long as we all shall live.
Change of Address Update: Please note my new Mountain Ridge address: 421 Lark Street, Apartment 1B. Also, please be aware that any messages left at my former home phone will not be forwarded to me. Ever.
I look forward to seeing all of you at the Olympic Stadium in roughly thirteen years time!!
Good Luck and See You at the Fort—from Winslow West!!!!!!!
Fifty-four
The night was clear, but to be on the safe side, Trissy had rented a tent. With small white lights strung around its perimeter, the large tent gave the backyard the look of a state fair.
The evening was unusually warm. Heaters were arranged on the patio to keep away the spring chill, but they proved unnecessary. A small jazz ensemble played under a tree before a cluster of people sitting in forest green Adirondack chairs. A clown circulated, making balloon animals for young children. There was a line waiting for a session with a fortune-teller, whose table was set up beside the bar.
Tim, Annie, and Trissy watched, smiling. The night was perfect.
It had been Trissy’s idea to host the party, a celebration to mark the end of a week of meetings Tim had held with managers from all the surviving satellites. It was Annie’s idea to make it an even bigger event, opening it up to friends, neighbors, and the press. After all, she advised, this was a fresh start for Trissy and Tim’s reinvented company, the newly dubbed Happy Holidays, and that was something worth celebrating.
Tim had begun the week with an announcement to the managers that he was committed to a no-job-cuts policy. The branch managers met his words with cheers and applause. Staff loyalty had been an issue for Hank, but it was not going to be a problem for Tim.
Trissy had relented, joining the company as codirector and head of marketing, promotion, and publicity. She was a woman on a mission now, determined to do anything to make Happy Holidays succeed, even going so far as to allow Hank to stay on. The Tortola hotel had turned out to be a good business opportunity. For now, Hank was in charge of that project. His contract, renewable month to month, specified that he would report daily to Tim. But all contract negotiations and any termination proceeding would be handled by Trissy.
Annie looked past the rented hot-dog cart and saw Charlotte pushing a soccer ball with the toe of her shoe as she wandered through the crowd. She looked bored.
Annie joined her. “Want to go kick around the ball?” she asked.
“Sure,” Charlotte said.
They left the tented area and walked across the side yard to the park that abutted Trissy’s property. Annie kicked the ball. It veered off into some bushes. Charlotte didn’t mind. She scrambled under the bushes to get it, and then booted it back.
It wasn’t long before the sound of the ball and their laughter drew more kids to the field. Tim took a break from mingling and snuck over too, stealing the ball away from Charlotte before she even knew he was there.
More adults wandered over, drawn in by the sound of the pickup game. Before long there were enough people to make up two teams. Annie started organizing them—and when it was clear it was the will of the majority, she arranged them so that it was children against adults.
When Trissy came upon thirty of her guests enjoying a raucous game of soccer, she asked her sons to put up the goals, which had been lying on their sides at the back of her yard unused for months. Once the goals were set up, her boys ran inside to see if they could find cleats that still fit.
“I don’t believe it,” Trissy said to Annie, who had stepped out of the game to let another parent in. “My kids haven’t wanted to play soccer in years.”
“We need a ref,” someone called out to the crowd.
“I’ll do it,” Trissy said. “Anybody have a whistle?”
No one did, but it didn’t matter. There were few disputes, none of them serious.
At half past seven, the caterer came over to let Trissy know he was putting out dinner.
“We should do this every week,” she said as she broke up the game. “We could organize it for Sundays, before the travel teams take over the fields. Wouldn’t that be great? We could have a mother/daughter league, a father/son league, or we could mix it up—have fathers and daughters and mothers and sons. Want to have a meeting to discuss it—the first ever Mountain Ridge Caregiver/Caregetter League? It’s a great idea, right?” Trissy herded the players back to the tent.
“Would we need to have previous experience to play?” a mother asked.
“Definitely not,” Trissy said. “How about it? Annie? Tim? You guys want to be the first to join?”
Annie, Tim, and Charlotte looked at each other and smiled.
“No thanks,” Annie said.
“We’re going to pass on that,” Tim said.
“We’re not all that interested in organized soccer,” Charlotte said.
Charlotte walked to the far end of the field where they’d been playing, and placed her foot on top of the ball to steady it. “Is this a regulation-sized field?” she called to her aunt.
“It is,” Trissy said.
Charlotte tucked her toe under the ball, ready to kick.
“Oh honey, you’re way too far back,” Trissy called over. “I don’t even think Winslow could have scored from there. And I’m talking about when he had all his toes.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Annie said.
“She’s just having fun,” Tim explained.
Charlotte stared at the ball, backed up, and kicked. Her foot connected perfectly.
The crowd watched as the soccer ball took off in a high arc. It soared through the twilight sky, and descended.
Goal.
About the Author
I was standing on the sidelines, minding my own business, when it hit me. Not a ball, but a thought that eventually grew into this novel.
The catalyst was a mom. Let me be clear: she was a smart, kind, and t
otally reasonable mom. She just happened to be the “anti-rage rep” for our daughter’s team. Yes, our league required every team to have one: an “anti-rage rep,” responsible for policing parents so none of us got out of line.
We were a particularly obedient group, not the type to yell out “Get her!” or “Attack!” We cheered politely and clapped briefly at all the appropriate moments. But not every team was as well trained.
The anti-rage rep mom pulled a handful of red lollipops out of her pocket and told me her great idea. Any parent who yelled too loud would be given a lollipop to suck on. What a plan! You might get mad at someone who asked you to zip it, but who could get mad at someone who smiles as she hands you a lollipop? And just try yelling “Kill her” with an all-day sucker in your mouth!
On the field, twenty-two girls who had trained hard, eaten right, and slept well played on like miniprofessionals. Off the field, two dozen parents stood with cherry red lips and sticky fingers, a lollipop stuck in every mouth.
And it struck me—something was wrong with this picture. While coaches barked complex commands at our hardworking eight-year-olds who complied at once, we—the grown-ups—stood with our mouths plugged with lollipops to make sure we behaved. What would be next? Would we get Play-Doh to keep our hands busy? While our daughters ate carefully measured portions of fruit at halftime, would we get a Baggie of animal crackers and be admonished not to eat the heads off first?
What would happen if someone unfamiliar with this world were suddenly plunked down in our midst, given a lollipop, and told not to cheer? Would she think we were all nuts? Were we all nuts?
So the character of Annie was born, a woman surprised to find herself booted out of her demanding job and sidelined to a soccer field rife with customs she did not understand.
Unlike Annie, I have never been a change management specialist. But during my years working as a movie executive, searching for books, plays, treatments, haikus, graffiti—anything that might be nurtured into a good movie—I met more than a few people whose job, like Annie’s, threatened to swallow them alive.