Mama's Got a Brand New Job

by Janis Powers

  She had to be joking. “What? Do you mean I’d be fired?

  “Yup. Fired.” Then she threw the folder on the table. “But not yet.”

  I started rolling my pen across the pad in my lap. “I’m confused, here. Am I supposed to talk to H.R. or not?”

  “No. There’s something more important that you need to handle, and this is client related.” Deirdre got up to retrieve something else from her desk.

  I was fully prepared for her to give me a year’s worth of casework so I could avoid going to H.R. This whole scene brought me back to the extra book report about Molly Pitcher that I had to write in lieu of going to the principal when I was in middle school. That was my punishment for standing up on the school bus to tell the driver that he was going the wrong way home. Some things never change.

  Deirdre handed me a full-page newspaper ad from the New York Post. “This is about Parfum Aix. Or rather, Perfume X.”

  The problem was immediately obvious. A well-dressed man’s hand was gripping the hip of a woman in a mini dress. That alone would have been plenty suggestive but Perfume X was going raw. The woman’s dress was cinched up and the man’s forefinger was under the string of her “underwear.” “Wow!” I exclaimed. “What’s the next ad going to be? I mean, where’s the line between art and porn here?”

  “That’s the point, obviously,” said Deirdre.

  I threw the paper down in revulsion. “I know that’s the point.” I glanced at the ad again. It was tasteless, but I could see the allure. Angela would have loved it. “Well, it is a fantastic ad campaign for Perfume X. But Jacques must be freaking out.”

  “Exactly. And that’s where you come in.”

  “You want to put me back on the account?” I could barely contain my excitement at the notion. But before I could get my hopes up, Deirdre brought them down with the weight of an anvil.

  “Well, no. We just need you to talk to Jacques and smooth everything over.”

  “What do you mean?” I leaned over in my seat.

  Deirdre sat back in hers. “Well, Caine kind of dropped the ball on this one. He does not have a good relationship with Vivienne, and I think their lack of communication allowed this thing to snowball into this piece of trash.”

  I thought about what she had said. I was embarrassed with the care—or lack thereof—that my firm had provided Jacques Deschemel and the entire Parfum Aix team in France. The brand of one of our flagship clients was under siege, its product fraudulently represented, and apparently, we had done nothing to stop it. “What do you expect me to say to Jacques? Where do we stand on all of this?”

  “Say whatever you need to say. Something along the lines of how feverishly we’re working to file the appropriate lawsuits, restraining orders, and complaints to shut this thing down.”

  “We are?” I said, in disbelief.

  Deirdre stood up, the meeting apparently over. “We just need you to fix this. And then that,” she said, as she eyeballed the thick file on the table, “will go away.”

  39

  It was a sunny Saturday morning, the kind of day that inspired New Yorkers to lay on beach towels in Central Park in order to work on their summer tans. I was too agitated to undertake such a lackadaisical pursuit. Over a week had passed since my discussion with Deirdre, and I was still generating enough nervous energy to set my hair on fire.

  Dale was on the golf course with Bobbie, so I resolved to resume a regular regime of my favored form of exercise, running. It had been over a year since my last jog. I had no idea what my fitness level would be, but I was hoping to make it around the park at least once without embarrassing myself. My only source of encouragement was that my running shoes still fit.

  I wheeled through the entrance at 79th Street with Henry in my collapsible jogging stroller/backpack. Pilots of this celebrated item were finally available, and I was one of the lucky few to own one. Its collapsibility was enabled by a clever ball-and-socket mechanism attached to each wheel. Unfortunately, the stiffness of the plastic component impeded the shock absorbance of the stroller itself, resulting in a bumpy ride for Henry over Manhattan’s uneven sidewalks. A small nylon pouch and two padded straps were all that accounted for its designation as a backpack.

  While interesting in concept, the jogging stroller/backpack was an attempt to combine two great ideas into one superior product that ultimately downgraded the utility of both original components. It reminded me of the Elgin Cutlass Pistol Dale and I had seen at Bobbie Macaluso’s house. The positioning of the knife under the barrel of the gun had ruined the accuracy of the pistol. Like the stroller I was pushing, there had been no synergistic union of ideas.

  The last time I had been on a jog, I had had two great jobs that went well together. I had lived what I believed was a perfectly enriched existence as a wife and a lawyer. With Henry added to the mix, the delicate balance had collapsed. Rather than redistribute the finite amount of energy I could commit to my responsibilities, I had tried to just add on the function of motherhood. As a result, I had multi-purposed myself to the point where I didn’t feel like I was particularly good at anything anymore. Yes, I, Maxine Pedersen, had become a human version of this ridiculous stroller that I was pushing.

  With each stride, I could feel the flesh on my thighs rumble. I wasn’t sure if I was really out of shape, or if pushing the jogging stroller was siphoning the energy I could be using to get up the hills on the east side of the park. In need of a break, I veered off the main path to show Henry something special. We weaved through some pedestrian traffic, stopping in front of a granite statue of one of New York City’s most esteemed former residents, Alexander Hamilton.

  I kneeled down next to Henry, who was sucking on the teething toy attached to the side of his seat. “You’re named after this guy, Henry. That’s where the ‘Hamilton’ comes from.” Henry’s eyes twinkled when I said his name. “This guy lived in our neighborhood almost 250 years ago. Isn’t that cool?” A couple paused next to me to read the plaque at the foot of the statue. They had to be tourists, since anyone else would have known about the monument or would have been too busy to care. With my bonding moment interrupted, I swung back onto the main path and continued my run.

  Every now and then I thought about what day-to-day life on Manhattan Island must have been like for the early colonial settlers. Today’s conveniences were luxuries for folks of that era, or more likely, they hadn’t even been invented. And yet these men (and some women) are revered for their bravery, intellect and fearlessness in creating a nation founded on democratic principles that are admired the world over.

  How I longed to be inspired by these revolutionary figures. Yet my only connection to that bygone era seemed to be the natural childbirth I had endured bringing Henry into this world.

  I rounded the top of the park, the foot traffic decidedly reduced. Unencumbered by the worry of colliding with another jogger, I finally hit my stride. More importantly, the endorphins kicked in. It was a huge relief to know that I had some residual aerobic capability. I picked up speed and saw another jogger, a few yards ahead, pushing a state-of-the-art jogging stroller that Henry should have been sitting in. As we came down a long slope of pavement, I surged past her. And I just kept going.

  The landmarks of West Side flew by. The Dakota. Strawberry Fields. And of course, Dalehead Arch. These sites had been my daily companions during my pre-baby jogs. The sight of them had become prosaic from years of over-exposure, but with Henry in tow, they were now fresh and new. I couldn’t wait for him to get older so he could ride the carousel or search for turtles at Turtle Pond.

  As I reached the southern end of the park, I whizzed by the ornate gables of The Plaza. Over the past 40 years, the landmark had changed ownership at least five times. At one point, it had closed down completely for renovations. Some of its rooms were sold off as condos. Nonetheless, the soul of The Plaza had survived. It would always be a New York icon. In fact, if Henry had been a girl, tea at The Plaza would have become a sac
red mother-daughter ritual.

  I sprinted north, weaving through the thickening masses. The jogging stroller/backpack was not as responsive as I needed it to be, given the speed at which I was running. I had to continually pick up the handle, elevating the back two wheels so I could re-orient the stroller on the axis of the single wheel out front. Each time I did, I felt that poor Henry was going to slide right onto the pavement. No doubt improvements to the stroller’s maneuverability would have to be incorporated in future models, or the manufacturer would go bankrupt.

  My lap around the park complete, I walked out onto Fifth Avenue. I headed past the grand staircase of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was packed with people from all walks of life, from Upper East Side dowagers ascending the stairs, to tour groups huddled en masse, to members of the ubiquitous homeless population corralling their belongings. Then I heard someone yell, “Is that the new stroller I saw on Pinterest?”

  From the corner of my eye, a woman stood up, waving her arms to flag me down. I stopped and waited for her as she carefully wound her way through the crowd. I could appreciate her deliberate pace as she looked to be about seven months pregnant. “Hi,” I said, as I waited for her to catch her breath.

  “Sorry to bother you,” she started. She looked down at Henry who was pumping his legs like he was doing imaginary reps on a Nautilus machine. “Oh, he is so cute!”

  I smiled with pride. “Thanks. His name is Henry. He’s almost nine months old.” None of this information was any of her business. But I was a full-fledged member of the Mom Club, the ground rules of which were to over-share interesting factoids about our children to complete strangers.

  “Oh, I’m having a boy! He’s due in about seven weeks!” Perfect. This future mom was already exhibiting the attributes of a seasoned member of the club.

  “Well, you look great,” I said.

  “Thanks.” She kept eye-balling the stroller. “How did you get that? They’re totally sold out at Babies “

  ” Us and I can’t find any online.”

  “I pre-ordered a year and a half ago.” I considered her timetable and wondered why she was in such a hurry. Then I remembered that all future moms were infected with this uncontrollable disease called “nesting.” “Don’t worry. You probably won’t need a jogging stroller for another year. And by that time, I’m sure they’ll be back in stock.”

  “Well, you should see our apartment in Brooklyn. It’s tiny. A jogging stroller that can collapse and then be used as a backpack would be awesome. I think it’s genius.”

  That’s what I had thought. But at this point, I had no further use for the contraption. “Well, if you like it so much, then this is your lucky day.”

  “Huh?”

  I fished around the stroller pouch for my keys and slipped them into my running shorts. Then I started to unhook Henry. “You can have it. Seriously.”

  “What do you mean? You don’t want it?” The surprise in her tone was accompanied by an undercurrent of concern. She started to give the stroller the once-over, as if she were considering whether or not to buy it.

  “There’s nothing wrong with it. The collapsing mechanism is great.” I detached Henry’s toy and then pulled him out of the device. “If you want it, it’s yours.” I rolled it towards her, concluding the transaction.

  “You don’t want any money for it?”

  “Nope.”

  The woman put her hand on the handle and started pushing the stroller back and forth. “You’re just giving it away? Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Oh, I’m sure.” With my body exercised, my mind was finally clear. “And I’ve got plenty of other ideas where that came from.”

  40

  I arranged the tables in Conference Room B into a triangle. I stood behind one, a single manila folder resting in front of me. To my right sat Jacques Deschemel and Vivienne Suivant. To my left were Caine Seaver and Deirdre Morgan. Identical manila folders were positioned in front of everybody in attendance.

  I sat down, ostensibly to start the meeting, even though I was the least senior person in the room. It seemed like only yesterday that I had walked out of Deirdre’s office, tasked with salvaging the Parfum Aix relationship in order to keep my job. Not sure what to do, I had consulted some experts.

  Dale suggested some cut-throat corporate tactics—the sort of undercutting, competitive shenanigans that unfortunately helped make the world go ‘round. Paola advised me on business strategy. She was the queen of “quantifying value” or putting a dollar figure on every major business initiative she undertook. And of course, Angela made sure that, from a human resources perspective, my ass was covered (her words). I went back and forth on a game plan, which was finally culminating at this very meeting. I adjusted the cuffs of my lavender blouse and took command of the room.

  “Merci to everyone for coming together on such short notice.” All parties murmured in consensus as they shifted uneasily in their seats. “I have been in touch with each of you over the past few days and I appreciate your cooperation and patience. I think a reasonable solution has coalesced, one that will be satisfactory to everyone here.”

  I stared at the folder in front of me. It seemed so plain, so mundane, so familiar. Knowing what it contained, I smiled. I opened it deliberately, noting that in doing so, I would close a major chapter of my life.

  Everyone followed suit, girded to absorb the customary set of technical business points a manila folder might ordinarily contain. Although my head was tilted towards the folder, my eyes focused on the McCale table.

  Deirdre, more of a quick study, looked up within seconds. Caine had to read the full three paragraphs before reacting. Rather than look at me, he glared accusingly at Vivienne. She sat up haughtily in her chair. Jacques gave me a wink and a nod.

  “The first sheet is my resignation from McCale, Morgan & Black.” I spoke as respectfully as I could in addressing Deirdre and Caine. “It has been a fantastic experience working with you both at McCale.” Then I forced myself to add some flowery words of appreciation that later I would be glad that I had mentioned. Later, like when I realized that having my professional and personal life turned inside out was probably the best thing that could have happened to me.

  I thanked the McCale team so enthusiastically because if I were talking, then Caine was not. He had started to sweat and had begun to clean his glasses. I knew that his unchecked maladroitness had undoubtedly, and probably unintentionally, enraged Vivienne. The last thing he needed to do right now was open his mouth and try to defend himself. He put his glasses back on, my cue to move on.

  I flipped to the next memo in the folder and summarized it before anyone could read it. “I will be joining Parfum Aix as the interim liaison between the company and McCale, Morgan & Black.”

  “But what about Vivienne?” blurted Caine.

  “I will be returning to France,” she said, inconclusively. During my discussions with Jacques about my Benedict Arnold-inspired move, we never covered the ultimate disposition of Ms. Vivienne Suivant. And I really didn’t care.

  I had negotiated virtual carte blanche in dealing with McCale, Morgan & Black on Jacques’s behalf. Working at Parfum Aix, directly for the President, would help mitigate the wasted time I would need to spend defending my position from work-related political attacks from people like Nancy Lallyberry and Jeffry Hsu. I was thrilled about the notion of having the freedom to perform under the umbrella of a trusted, distinguished innovator like Jacques.

  Although I had resigned from corporate America, so to speak, I wasn’t naïve. I had no plans to retreat under cover of a foreign company’s protection in dealing with firms like McCale, Morgan & Black. I had a reputation to maintain, and a new boss to impress. Which brought me to my next memo. This one had numbers on it.

  “We are all disappointed about how the situation with Perfume X was handled. And despite the fact that efforts have been made to fix this thing,” I said, staring demonstratively towards Deirdre, “s
ome aspects of the relationship should have been handled differently.” I picked up the sheet that referenced the information, which had been branded in my brain. “Parfum Aix has sustained considerable financial loss as a result of McCale, Morgan & Black’s mismanagement of the Parfum Aix account. The figures you have before you represent two categories of damages.” Caine was fidgeting wildly in his seat. Deirdre grabbed his forearm as she read the memo intently. As she did, the grip on Caine’s suit jacket became tighter and tighter.

  “The first figure is the estimated loss in sales, both past and future, from the mismanagement. The second figure represents punitive charges as a result of the damage sustained by the Parfum Aix brand. We propose a cash payment to Parfum Aix for half of the sum, with the remainder to be deducted from future billings by McCale, Morgan and Black to Parfum Aix.”

  The sum on the memo totaled over eight figures. Nonetheless, the amount was still less than the total value of the Parfum Aix account for McCale. Deirdre was well aware of this fact, but of course, had no intention of just rolling over to the terms I had proposed.

  She removed her glasses. “Maxine. Jacques. We regret the developments from this situation, but we at McCale, Morgan & Black can accept no wrongdoing with regard to these accusations.” She glanced down at the paper. “These figures are very threatening. I don’t believe that this is the way a professional relationship should be conducted.”

  “We do not believe that this is the best way to handle a professional relationship either.” I called her bluff and flipped to the final memo in the folder. “This is a Letter of Intent from Hershel & Dixon, offering to assume the role as lead counsel for Parfum Aix.”

  “What?” exclaimed Deirdre. Her eyes were bulging. This was the first time I had ever seen Deirdre Morgan lose her cool. I refused to lose mine, especially because I hadn’t finished delivering the news.

  “In fact,” I continued, “due to the notoriety of Perfume X, Hershel & Dixon is more than anxious to serve Parfum Aix. They have agreed to cut their rates by a third for the first three years of the relationship.” That wasn’t the entire truth. I had actually negotiated the rate cut with Hershel & Dixon on the condition that they would provide legal representation for Jacques’s new endeavor Créneau, the gin.