guerrilla tactics
I’ve never really played chess, but now I’m beginning to wonder if I should take it up as a hobby, for I, Alexander Fairfax, am a master tactician. Even Napoleon would be proud of my thrusts, jabs, and initial forays into warfare. For this is warfare. Life is warfare. Me versus everyone else and I’m determined to come out the victor. Starting with Wilmington-Wilkes.
“Hey, Steve,” I say, to Steve Kasinski at Cornwallis Investment once the obligatory minute of small talk is out of the way, “I’ve got a new campaign you’re just going to love, but I can’t sit on it long. Can we set up a meeting for tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” I can hear the hesitation, but Steve owes me big-time. He’d hired a bunch of amateurs (cheap and cheerful compared to the considerable amounts charged by Wilmington-Wilkes) for Cornwallis Investment’s last ad campaign, and when it all fell through at the last minute, he came scurrying to me with his tail between his legs, desperate to save his job and his reputation. In three short days I pulled it all together and salvaged what could have been his very short career. “I was planning to ring Wilmington-Wilkes in a few weeks to start work on our winter campaign.”
“I’ve gone freelance, Steve,” I say, “I’m no longer with Wilmington-Wilkes. I think the ideas I’ve come up with would be perfect for you, but if you’re not interested I have someone else in mind. I just thought I’d give you a first stab at it.”
“Well . . .” He still hesitates.
I wonder briefly if I should try to blackmail him over the cover-up of his near failure if he refuses, but I decide that’s probably not a good approach to the man I want to be my first client.
Instead I try to be persuasive. “We could meet for lunch tomorrow,” I say.
He gives in. He knows he owes me. “Sure thing, Alex.”
I clench my fists at the sound of that name, at the reminder of who I used to be, but I say nothing. I’m not about to start telling off a client and, besides, none of this is Steve’s fault.
“Tell you what,” he says. “You come in at half twelve and I can give you an hour. I’ll get some sandwiches in and listen to your presentation.”
I say my farewells and hang up before he can think up any reasons to postpone our appointment. There’s no way he can reach me to cancel, I don’t leave a number, and he’d never be rude enough to let me travel all the way to his office without seeing me.
My next two contacts are harder to persuade than Steve, but I’ve chosen my first targets carefully. I’ve always had an excellent working relationship with all my clients, but these three are something special. They were my favorites and I made sure there was always plenty of money in the entertainment budget for me to take them out for expensive dinners. They know me as a person. Or they knew Alex and that’s close enough for my purposes. I’ve gone the extra mile for them all and they’ve seen me at work, they’ve seen me come up with ideas on my feet, so they know that I’m good and that I’m not just a body on a Wilmington-Wilkes team.
Half an hour later I have my first three meetings arranged. Tuesday with Cornwallis Investment, Wednesday with Quest Technologies, Thursday with Marriott Hotels.
I’ll blow them out of the water.
I think I’ll blow them out of the water.
I will blow them out of the water. My ideas are good, I know they are, even Alex would know they are. I will succeed. I can’t not succeed. I am Alexander.
Next comes the necessary but more tedious aspect of setting up business on my own. At Wilmington-Wilkes they offer a complete advertising service, they come up with the ads, they produce them, they buy the space and decide where and when to place them. I can’t photograph, film, or draw the campaigns myself, but fortunately not all of the Wilmington-Wilkes work is done in-house. I’ve always been a hard-working boy (bless me, no, bless Alex, I used to be so good and upstanding) and diligently recorded all of the names and numbers of the people I used on my campaigns in my personal address book just in case I needed to chase them up in the evenings or weekends. The old me was good for something after all.
An hour later I have it all arranged.
Not only am I a lean, mean fighting machine, I’m a suave, smooth-talking master of persuasion. I am hot. And soon all the world will know it.
but sarah is wonderful, son
(and why didn’t you tell me you’d lost your job?)
“I rang you at Wilmington-Wilkes,” says my mother, the second I answer the phone, her tone hurt and chiding all at once, “but they told me you no longer work there.”
Uh-oh. Here it comes. I can hear the storm brewing. But she won’t yell at me, she won’t raise her voice, she’ll just sound wounded, sorrowful, disappointed in me, her eldest child.
“Were you planning on telling me?” she asks. “I know I’m only your mother, but can you imagine how I felt, being told by a stranger that my son had left his job and I didn’t know?”
“I’m sorry, Mum,” I say quickly.
“When did this happen?”
“Friday.”
“But we spoke on Saturday morning,” she says. “I rang and told you all about the theft of my rhododendron. You could have told me then. Or at least sometime over the weekend.”
She’s right. I could have done. I should have done. But I was too busy feeling sorry for myself on Saturday, I was too busy sticking my head in the sand like an ostrich, hoping my troubles would just go away if I didn’t acknowledge them. And, to be honest, after the cinema fight it didn’t even occur to me to phone her and give her the news. I was too full of myself. I wasn’t in the mood to share.
“Why did you leave?” she asks. “You were doing so well. And I thought you liked it there. This doesn’t have anything to do with Sarah, does it?”
“It was the redundancy money,” I blurt out. I don’t want her to know the truth. I don’t want her to know that I was sacked. I don’t want her to be ashamed. I want her to be proud of me.
But I’m lying to my own mother.
“Redundancy? I didn’t know Wilmington-Wilkes was downsizing,” she says.
I feel a sweat break out across my forehead, over my whole body. She’ll know. She always knows. She’ll know I’m lying.
But I’m not a child now, I’m an adult, I’m a man, I’m Alexander. She won’t know. She can’t see my face. She won’t see the lie written across my face.
“Well, no,” I say, somehow stopping myself babbling, “they’re not downsizing, not exactly. They just decided to get rid of a few of us and I leapt at the chance. I was ready for a change.”
“Oh, Alex, I know splitting up with Sarah hit you hard, but you didn’t have to do this. Changing the rest of your life won’t help matters. You need stability. Sarah really is wonderful. Maybe you should apologize and tell her you’re sorry for whatever you did. She’s such a nice girl. You should try to get back together. I’m sure she’ll forgive you if you keep trying and show her that you mean it.”
And just like that it hits me. Even after what Sarah did to me I was protecting her. I was protecting her reputation. I didn’t stand up for myself and tell my own mother that Sarah was the one at fault. I let my mother blame me. I was worse than pathetic, I was the lowest of the low. Well, no more. No more. I’m not prepared to shoulder blame I don’t deserve, I’m not prepared to be pitiful now. Not in my new life. I’m different now. I’m strong and I’m the one in control.
“Sarah was having an affair,” I say. “It’s over between us. I don’t want to take her back.” My mother doesn’t need to know that Sarah never offered to come back.
“Oh.”
Have I shocked her? Poor Mum. I think that’s the shortest sentence I’ve ever heard her utter. She’s not usually at a loss for words. And then I smile. It’ll be easy to reassure her. Life is good. Life is grand. My mother will see that soon, she’ll be happy for me, she’ll see how well I’m doing, she’ll be so proud of me. I decide to set the record straight.
“Leaving Wilmington-
Wilkes had nothing to do with Sarah.” Another lie but it’s for a good cause. And then I tell her my plans for my own company. I don’t mention clients or revenge on Wilmington-Wilkes or any of that, I just tell her how I’ve always wanted to be my own boss and test the strength of my own ideas. And as I say it I know it’s true, it’s merely that I never realized it when I was only Alex. It’s easy to convince her that everything is going to be fine, that everything is going to be better than fine. For it will be. I know that it will be.
alexander fairfax associates. not
So you want to set up your own business? What do you call it? I could call mine Alexander Fairfax Associates or Fairfax Enterprises or Fairfax and Stone (in tribute to my favorite sex goddess of all time, Sharon Stone, but I can’t really explain that one to the clients, not with a straight face) or even Alexander Advertising, but I decide against such names. I have no need of the limited immortality such a name would give me. Fame is not the be-all and end-all of life. Money and success covers that ground. I do not require the mass public to recognize my greatness so long as those who are powerful and successful do. And my name in the company would give the game away. Kenneth is bound to hear he’s lost some clients sooner or later and I don’t want him (or more probably his subordinates like Jed) recognizing my name. I want Wilmington-Wilkes to discover my identity only when I’m ready to reveal myself as a player. A major player.
I’ll go for something more original.
I rather fancy something animal-orientated like Jack Rabbit. I could even have a logo with a cute little rabbit with long ears for listening and long legs for jumping high into the sky and leaping to success, but whenever I think Jack Rabbit I think Jack Rabbit Stew (not that I’ve ever eaten such a thing, nor do I even know if it’s edible) and I’d rather avoid connotations of death and stewpots. Couldn’t really show a picture of a dead bunny in a bowl on my stationery and business cards.
I could go for Phoenix. After all, I have been burned and risen from the ashes young and fresh and that name would reflect my rebirth, but it’s not quite what I’m looking for. It’s good, it would be good enough for Alex, but Alexander deserves more.
I’ll stick with animals. I know. Duck-billed platypus. Platypus. Platypus Advertising. No, not quite. Platypus something. Platypus what? Platypus-fox. Unique. Different. I like it. My logo can be a furry little fox curled round a duck-billed platypus. Platypus-fox I shall be.
Next stop is to set up Platypus-fox as a limited company and start the associated bank account (that’ll be easy as I want no loan). Afterward I’ll need to alter some old Wilmington-Wilkes contracts (copies of which I found tucked into my Filo-fax when I was searching out the telephone numbers of my contacts). I’ll get my brother to set up my Web site (he’s a computer person).
Platypus-fox, here we come.
sarah, sarah, sarah
I listen to Sarah’s voice as she answers her mobile and I could laugh as it strikes me. This is the woman I thought I was in love with only a few days ago and now she makes me feel nothing. Well, that’s not strictly true, nothing but a desire for revenge.
“Hello?” she says.
“Hi, Sarah. It’s Alexander.”
She hesitates and I wonder if she’s even noticed I said Alexander. “Oh. Hi, Alex. What can I do for you?”
“I just wanted to let you know that I lost my wallet.”
“Yes?” I can tell she’s wondering if I’m about to break down and plead for another chance.
I’m not about to tell her that I was mugged, not even the new and improved story. Jed would probably ridicule it. And Sarah would never believe I’d punched an assailant then kicked away his comrade’s knife. For the old Alex wouldn’t have done those things. The old me couldn’t have done those things. And I didn’t do those things, now, did I? I, the old me, was pricked with a knife like a roast pig and then my money and watch were stolen. I put up no more resistance than a child losing his lollipop to the school bully.
I decide it’s better not to lie directly so I don’t bother making up some convoluted tale of loss, I stick to the point. “I didn’t get round to changing my address for the credit cards and bank card so they’re sending them to your flat.”
“Oh, I see,” she says.
I know she’s still wondering if this is some kind of elaborate ruse and suddenly I’m happy that I have an excuse to see her—and Jed, I know he’ll be there—again. It’ll fit in so well with my plans.
“They’re supposed to arrive tomorrow,” I say, “so is it okay if I stop by in the evening after work?”
“After work?” she asks.
A hot flush sweeps across my face and suddenly I feel inadequate. I experience again the shame, horror, and outrage of my sacking. It’s all come back. The impotence. The inaction. The lack of protest.
Then I feel anger as I think of that bastard Jed relating the tale to Sarah. I know he made the story sordid and ignoble, and cast me in the light of villain. And Sarah, naked and still straddling his hips in their postlovemaking frenzy, would have felt a stab of pity and wondered how she could have spent two years with someone as pathetic as me.
As pathetic as Alex.
But I am Alex no longer. I am Alexander. (Alexander, Alexander, Alexander.)
And, Jed, old buddy, old boy, you ain’t seen an ignoble dismissal yet. But you will. You will. That I promise you.
I smile, and I can tell that it’s more like the flashing of my teeth and a silent snarl, but I’m feeling better and my flush recedes.
There’s been an awkward pause while I collected myself, but I don’t care, I’m in control now and it can only work in my favor if Sarah is, later on, totally shocked by my transformation. There’s no need to give her any clues. She doesn’t deserve warning. I’m not about to set off the air-raid sirens and let Sarah and Jed prepare for the storm I’m about to unleash on them. Oh, no, let them be surprised, let me take them by stealth and cunning.
I clear my throat, trying to make it sound as awkward as I can, aiming for that pathetic Alex hesitation. “Shall I come over at about seven?” I let my voice drop, let her think I’m humiliated that she knows about the sacking. (I am humiliated, I was humiliated, I will continue to be humiliated until that smug lecher pays for what he did to me.) “Don’t worry, I won’t stay long.”
“Okay.” She’s reluctant but she can hardly refuse when I’m being so civil.
We hang up and I smile, happy again. This is going to be such fun.
children should be seen and not heard
I think the Victorians had it right. Children should act like miniature adults. The world would be a pleasanter place if they did. I know that adults are still the same selfish bastards they were as children, but at least the full-grown human animal has the decency not to wail and whine and throw temper tantrums in the middle of the frozen-foods aisle at Tesco.
It’s only in the past couple of hundred years that what we pukingly refer to as carefree childhood (like it was some sort of idyllic time, I was there, thank you very much, and I wouldn’t want to go through all that again, even if it meant I could forget about any responsibility beyond feeding my pet fish) has been allowed to develop. Before that the little blighters were put to work and had to earn their keep just like the rest of us.
Children should not be allowed to talk incessantly during films, plays, or any other sort of shows. Parents should make some effort to control them. And children who do not behave should not be allowed out in public.
I don’t care how nonpolitically correct this is. If children cannot behave they should be left at home. I’m sorry, but the rest of us don’t think your snot-nosed little brat is cute. We much prefer the shy, quiet little girl who blushes when we ask her name.
And if parents won’t even attempt to stop their children from screeching and screaming then they shouldn’t glare at us when we shush them. Those are my eardrums your little Billy is trying to break.
the new me test two
I
don’t see anyone until the evening when I venture into the kitchen. Amber and Noreen are both cooking. Noreen is a strict vegan and her food seems to consist of noxious mixes of lentils, lettuce, and onions so it’s not surprising that she’s always cooking for one. Amber, on the other hand, is crafting a divine-smelling vegetarian lasagna and the scent of all that garlic sets me salivating.
“Hi, girls,” I say, by way of greeting, as I stride into the kitchen.
Both of them look up and smile. I imagine I see their eyes widening in appreciation of my new look, but as I’m on the lookout for any signs that they notice the changes in my appearance I have to admit that it’s probably my mind playing tricks on me.
“Hey, nice haircut,” says Noreen. Trust her to be ruthlessly efficient and pinpoint the difference before Amber has a chance to wonder why I suddenly seem more attractive.
And I am more attractive. They—whoever they are—always say that true beauty is on the inside and I can feel my internal beauty, my strength, my confidence, seeping outward through my pores. But the haircut and clothes help, too. It’s not only women who can benefit from a little fashion advice.
I’m wearing some of my new clothes and I wonder if Noreen will guess how much I’ve paid for them, but I’m already prepared for a counter-offensive. I’m planning on donating my old garb to Oxfam. That should halt some of her grumbling.
I’ll be the first to admit that my new flatmates aren’t people with whom I’m planning on decorating my new life with, but I want them to like me. I tell myself that it doesn’t matter if people like me or not, that that’s negative thinking, that Alex would be concerned with such matters, that Alex would want everyone to like him, but I can’t help it. I am Alexander now, not Alex, I know that, but I can still want to be popular, can’t I?
Being Alexander Page 8