Mama's Got a Brand New Job

by Janis Powers

  Still, it was weird.

  “Let’s keep it simple here, Tawny, and just call it sex.” I slammed the book shut. “You can’t possibly think that your clients really need you to tell them when to have sex, can you?” And as I said it, I realized that I hadn’t had sex in a month.

  “Please don’t be alarmed. We have a physician on staff to advise us on the medical aspects of your pregnancy as it relates to your lifestyle. And studies show that regular intercourse during pregnancy exercises the vaginal . . .”

  “Please!” I stood up, determined to walk out of the office. “Thank you very much, but I understand the physical and mental benefits of pregnancy sex. Let’s just stop there.”

  “But I haven’t told you what Position D is.”

  “Let me guess. I can download sexual positions for the entire alphabet once you get my deposit.” Now maybe that was something Dale might enjoy. The Kama Sutra meets Lamaze.

  Tawny tapped the top of the contract with her fingernail. “Mrs. Pedersen, one of the aspects of preparing for childbirth is achieving a sense of comfort with your body. As you will discover in your binder, there will be numerous opportunities for you to download video providing realistic and,” she paused for dramatic effect, “graphic depictions of childbirth scenarios. There’s just no way to know where you’ll be when your water breaks, how fast the baby’s going to come, how much pain you’ll be in . . .” She kept talking, even though my heart had basically stopped beating. “Mrs. Pedersen, a woman like you should appreciate that your best chance at a successful delivery is through education and preparation.”

  That last tactic—the scare tactic—seemed to be the most effective in convincing me to make the commitment. Once I realized that almost anything could happen with the birth of my child, it became paramount that I control everything else. My brain told my hand to pick up the pen and sign the papers. With a deposit of $6,000 out the door, I wondered why no one had told me how expensive it was to have a baby.

  13

  I looked past the raw silk curtains of our bedroom window. The morning haze was dissipating, giving way to a beautiful sunny Saturday. I watched a couple of birds flit through the air as I slid off our bed. My bare feet hit the wood floor. I groped around for some tissues as I skittered into the bathroom, bumping into the bureau on the way. Naked and seven months pregnant, I just didn’t have the grace I was used to.

  “Be careful,” cautioned Dale as he turned on the television. “You don’t want to hurt anything in there.”

  “You should have thought about that a few minutes ago while we were doing Position J.”

  Dale chuckled. “We’re going to have to get a move on if we’re going to get to Position Z before you have the baby. And if I didn’t say so before, that pre-natal yoga is definitely helping with your flexibility.” After all his whining about the rigorous mandates of the NYC Baby Prep schedule, Dale had become a major convert for the sole reason that he knew he was going to get laid.

  After cleaning up, I fished around my closet for a robe. As I put it on, a limb, perhaps an elbow, raised the skin across my tummy. The bulge moved from one side to the other and then disappeared. “He’s moving again. I think he likes sex.”

  “Of course he likes sex, he’s a guy.” Our recent trip to the O.B.’s office had confirmed what NYC Baby Prep had predicted: I was going to have a boy. I thought I knew a lot about the male gender, i.e. the aforementioned pre-occupation with sex.

  But as an infant, a boy was a baby with a penis. And I had no personal familiarity with the parts from a practical, behavioral standpoint—circumcision, standing urination, and inevitably, pubescent “activities.” I guess Dale was going to earn his place in parenting heaven because these topics fell squarely in his area of expertise, not mine.

  I sat down on the empty side of the bed. I started sorting through the magazines piled on the bedside table, reminding myself that anything that could be done to move the apartment towards a more orderly environment was a plus. As one of the magazines fell onto the floor, I leaned over to pick it up. I couldn’t reach it. It was geometrically impossible, no matter how much yoga I did. I heaved myself back up and then got off the bed to retrieve it.

  It was a copy of Wine Enthusiast, with a cover story about running marathons through wine regions around the world. A trip like that had been on my life-long to-do list, but there was no chance in the immediate future that I might ever check it off. As I admired the photos of the picturesque towns and the well-tended vineyards, I had a strange pregnancy-induced reaction. I started to cry.

  Dale put ESPN on hold. I looked up and saw his head hanging over me. “Please don’t tell me that I messed up Position J, or I am going to be very upset.”

  I got up from my knees, laughing at his joke, but still upset with my condition. Dale patted the side of the bed and I crawled back to where I had been just a few minutes before. He untied my robe, just enough to get a look at the baby moving while still maintaining some of my modesty.

  As the baby shifted under Dale’s hand he said, “So I guess Position J was effective.”

  I closed up my robe and looked up at the ceiling. “I didn’t realize that the objective of sex was to make the baby move around.”

  Dale rolled onto his back and grabbed the remote. “Well, if he’s moving around, then it had to work for you too, right?” I wasn’t sure whether he wanted an answer because he turned the TV back on.

  In truth, while it was underway, Position J had been effective. Pre-natal sex had been living up to all of its internet hype. A surplus of random hormones swirling around the body had definitely contributed to a gratifying conclusion.

  But then there was the involvement of the third party, the fetus. While I knew that he didn’t know what Mommy and Daddy were doing, I knew what we were doing. And as the baby continued to grow, his presence became exponentially more bizarre and emotionally uncomfortable for me.

  I didn’t wait for a commercial to speak. “So you don’t think it’s weird to be having sex when the baby can feel it?”

  “Are you asking me a question? Or are you telling me an answer. I just want to know so I can answer the right way.”

  “There’s no correct answer when I’m asking you about your feelings,” I clarified.

  Dale got out of bed and pulled on a pair of boxer shorts from the floor. I got up and tightened the sash on my robe.

  He walked by me on the way to the kitchen and said, ignoring my last comment, “I’m going to make some coffee.”

  When I walked into the kitchen, Dale was drinking his coffee and reading the paper. Water was boiling for some decaffeinated tea for me, a considerate gesture that I acknowledged with a terse smile. I cruised to my computer so I could pull up the calendar and see what had been planned for the day. Without looking up, Dale said, “We have the baseball game today.” My heart sank. I remembered that I hadn’t put it on my schedule so I could forget about it.

  I had just a few months of freedom, and the last thing I wanted to do with my precious time was spend it at Citi Field with Dale and his Worthington comrades. I referred to the calendar, like it was a crucial piece of evidence in a major case. “But it says here I’m supposed to swim today. Exercise is good for the baby.”

  Dale got up and pulled some eggs out of the fridge. “You’re not getting out of it, Maxine. And besides, sex burns a lot of calories, so you can check off exercise from your to-do list today.” He started cracking some eggs into a bowl. “Isn’t it a great feeling to be ahead of schedule already?”

  I took a frying pan out of the cabinet and tossed it onto the cooktop. I leaned up against the counter, arms crossed over the baby bulge. Today wasn’t just a baseball game. Today was “Beat the Boss,” a major rite of passage for anyone who worked under Bobbie Macaluso.

  I didn’t understand all of the rules, but the Boss (Bobbie) and his crew were in competition to determine who could most accurately predict the outcome of the baseball game. The exercise was supp
osed to simulate trading at the market. If the guys studied up on their companies, then they should be able to quickly react to the day’s trading events and turn a profit. And in Beat the Boss, if they knew all the players and the right statistics, then they should be able to accurately predict what was going to happen in the game.

  The entire notion seemed ridiculous and that opinion was validated every year when Dale would return from Beat the Boss. Drunk, tired and angry at losing, he would crash in the bedroom until about noon the following day. With so much to look forward to, why shouldn’t I want to take my pregnant self out to the ballgame this year?

  In any case, if anyone actually beat Macaluso, the winner would get to shadow Bobbie on all of his deals for a year. The opportunity all but promised a huge bonus for the winner. Of greater long-term value was the long list of contacts to be made through Macaluso’s web-like affiliations with almost every major player in the high-tech industry. Dale told me that the last guy to beat Bobbie now runs his own investment fund, with over $10 billion in assets.

  Considering this, I began to realize how beneficial it could be for Dale to win this year. We had the expenses for the baby covered with our two jobs, but it would be nice to have a bigger cushion for unforeseen events. I put some bagels in the toaster and switched gears.

  “Fine. Who else is going?”

  “Well, Mike, of course. And he’s bringing a date.”

  Mike Simonson was Dale’s best friend. He was bright, reasonably good-looking and totally commitment-phobic. Married guys lived vicariously through him since he was always dating a hot bimbo. “Oh, good. What does this one do? Is she another model? Budding actress? Or does she have an actual profession like, say, massage therapist?”

  Dale laughed as he whisked up the eggs in a bowl. “I think this one is a towel girl at his gym.”

  “Don’t you guys go to the same gym?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know her, too.”

  Dale flipped on a burner on the cooktop. “Let’s just say you two are probably not going to have a lot to chat about.”

  I closed my eyelids, trying hard not to squeeze the ocular fluid out of my eyeballs. “Please don’t tell me that O’Shaughnessy’s wife is coming. All she talks about are her kids. I know we’re having one, too, but I don’t need any of her unsolicited advice.”

  “You’re off the hook there. Patrick said that between the three kids, there were two birthday parties, a swim meet, and try-outs for the soccer team. And his wife’s not handling her pregnancy all that well.” Dale smiled at me and said, “She doesn’t look anywhere as good as you do.”

  It was a sweet comment, and I had to applaud Dale’s positivity around my swelling body. But I still would have preferred to stay home. If O’Shaughnessy’s wife could get out of going, then so could I. “You know, I think I’m going to sit this one out. You go have a good time, O.K.?” I pulled the bagels out of the toaster.

  Dale looked up in a panic. “Oh, no! You have to come! I told Bobbie that you were coming! His wife’s been asking about you and I told him you would be there. If she comes and you’re not there, I’m screwed!”

  “O.K.! O.K.!” I said. “I didn’t know it was such a big deal.” I opened the fridge. I impatiently shoved jars of olives, cocktail onions and assorted half-eaten condiments around until I found the cream cheese. I couldn’t believe he had committed me to this all-day event without my clearance. I really wanted Dale to do well in his career, but there had to be a better way for me to help. I dumped the cream cheese onto the counter. “What’s his wife’s name again?”

  “Helen. Helen Macaluso.” Dale took the frying pan off the cooktop and served the eggs.

  “Oh, right. Helen.” I had spoken to Mrs. Macaluso on several occasions at the Worthington holiday parties. She was pleasant enough, but with three kids in college, we didn’t have much in common. Instead, we’d talk about our husbands and how dedicated and busy they were. After about a half a Screwdriver, I’d usually excuse myself and go to the ladies room. This time, there’d be no Screwdriver to dull the pain. But at least I’d have my pregnancy to justify impromptu trips to the bathroom.

  14

  “Check this out! Mike just sent this to me.” Dale gave me his phone. It was tough to see the screen with the glare of the sun in the ballpark, but I could make out a disproportionately endowed girl standing near a concession stand in a bra.

  I shrugged, more annoyed than threatened by the photo on my husband’s phone. “So what?”

  Dale gestured towards the end of the row. “That’s what.” Mike Simonson entered the section, followed by the girl from the picture. At least now she was wearing a shirt.

  “That’s Mike’s girlfriend? Melanie the towel girl?”

  “Yup. Mike texted me and said that she had showed up in a Yankees t-shirt. Total ditz! And so he bought her a Mets shirt, which she put on right in front of everyone! Fucking classic!”

  I handed the phone back to Dale. “God help me,” I thought, as I said it out loud.

  I smiled as politely as I could when Mike introduced me to his date. I must have appeared rude, since Dale whacked me in the ankle with his shoe. I extended a hand for Melanie to shake. Confused, she looked to Mike, who assured her that it was not a sign of aggression. Her hand felt like a soggy clump of over-cooked spaghetti. I made a mental note to find some Purell before I touched anything else.

  Melanie was the first to speak. “So why aren’t we up there?” she was pointing to the skyboxes. “I thought you said you worked on Wall Street. Can’t you guys afford a couple of those just for one game?”

  Remarkably, she had an excellent point. With full bars, an array of hors d’oeuvres and a private bathroom, the skyboxes had been developed for companies just like Worthington. But for some inexplicable reason, we were seated with all the regular fans, right along the first base line. “Yeah, what’s with the ring-side seats down here?”

  “Bobbie used to be a minor-league baseball player,” explained Mike. “He likes to sit in the stands since it’s a more authentic experience.” I had to wonder if it was because he was really just a cheap bastard, but I figured I’d keep that comment to myself.

  Dale took out his tablet from the bag of gadgets he had brought along. “Well, I’m going to get some last minute cramming in.” Dale had been studying baseball statistics for months in preparation for today’s game. He flicked the screen a couple of times and then landed on an app that flashed pictures of baseball players along with their relevant data.

  I decided to sit down, too. I was half-way into the chair when Mike pulled me out by the arm. “Hey, be careful! You don’t want to sit on the DEDs!”

  Dale jerked upright. “Yeah! Be careful!” He pulled his bag from my chair onto his lap and started inspecting the items inside.

  “Sorry,” I said. “What’s in there? What’s the big deal?”

  Dale took out an oblong, gun-metal plastic object and held it with reverence. “This is a DED.” I must have looked as baffled as Melanie. “DED,” repeated Dale. “Data Entry Device.”

  “What’s that for?” I asked, wondering what else was in Dale’s magical bag of tricks.

  “It’s for entering data, right?” asked Melanie proudly.

  Mike smiled patiently and started speaking slowly. “The DED was created by some genius MIT intern a few years ago. He developed the software that will enable each of us to enter our bet for each pitch of the game.”

  “That sounds fun,” said Melanie sincerely. “The guessing part, that is.”

  Mike raised an eyebrow and continued. “Simply put, each of us will bet on whether each pitch of the game will be a ball, a strike, a hit, or an out. The player who has the best guessing percentage wins Beat the Boss.”

  Dale piped up from his chair. “You didn’t mention the upgrade to this year’s DED. There’s a timer in there now that’s going to get synched up to all the plays in the game. Any entry made after a play has been made will be det
ected, and the answer will be counted as incorrect. Anyone who gets over five violations will be disqualified.”

  Melanie turned the DED around and around, inspecting it from a variety of different angles. I wondered if it was the first time she had seen a rectangle. “So where do you guys buy these things? I’ve never seen one before.”

  The clunky DED really did look like a calculator from 1975. I couldn’t understand why Mr. High Tech himself, Bobbie Macaluso, would develop a piece of software in-house and then slap it in some obsolete bar of plastic. “You know, couldn’t you guys have just put an app on your phones with the program that’s on the DED here?”

  Mike snatched the device back from Melanie. “Listen. Bobbie went old-school with the DED. The software’s hard-wired to the hardware and that prevents theft and manipulation of the program.”

  “Yeah. So does a patent,” I said. And then I realized something else. “But what if someone loses their DED?”

  “No one loses the DED,” responded Dale and Mike in unison. It sounded like a hazing term that was ingrained onto the cerebral cortex of every Worthington employee.

  “Sounds like a cult, doesn’t it?” Helen Macaluso warmly touched my shoulder. I turned and smiled, relieved another woman had arrived to serve as a buffer between me and Towel Girl.

  “I’ve never come to Beat the Boss,” I confessed. “I had no idea how deranged these guys would behave.”

  “Well, you’re in for a treat, I’ll tell you that!” laughed Helen. “Dale, Bobbie wants you to distribute the DEDs. Everyone’s here now.” Dale mobilized immediately, distributing the DEDs to what I assumed were his peers at Worthington—Mike, O’Shaughnessy, a few other nondescript looking fellows and notably, no women. Dale continued through the section, making his way towards a scene I couldn’t believe I had missed when I had come in. Melanie must have been rubbing off on me.

  Just a few rows up was a makeshift table loaded with enough computer equipment to drain the power from the massive Citi Field video screen. A tall, thin, Indian man-child, wearing noise cancelling earphones and a tee shirt that read, “Tech Finance is the new Hedge Fund,” was overseeing a pile of metal before him. He looked like a DJ at an MBA Finance Club party.