This Is How It Happened (not a love story)

by Jo Barrett

“I’m the web?” Dick says.

  “That’s right. You’re the web.”

  “So let’s practice,” I say. “You’re going to market yourself to me. Really sell me on your ser vices. Pretend that I’m a female client.”

  “But you are a female client.”

  I take a deep, patient breath. “Let’s pretend I’m another female client. Someone brand new. I’ve seen your brochure.”

  “I’m doin’ a brochure?” Dick asks, incredulously.

  I raise an eyebrow. “How’re you planning to get clients if you don’t advertise?”

  “Word of mouth?”

  “Guess again,” I say.

  Dick looks stumped.

  “We want to tell people about your skills,” I say. “I’m imagining something along the lines of”—at this point, I put my palms up in the air to emphasize my banner headline—“Safe, discreet, street-savvy. Man-for-hire. To do your dirty work.”

  I pause for a moment. And then I nail it. “They say Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. But Heaven is in the Sweet Revenge.”

  Dick sits back in his chair, awestruck.

  “Awesome,” he whispers. His eyes are distant. As if he’s envisioning himself as the CEO of Revenge, Incorporated.

  “So pretend I’m a new female customer, Dick. I’ve seen your brochure and my interests are piqued. I’ve taken a small bite of the hors d’oeuvre that you’ve dangled in front of me.”

  Dick’s face gets serious. He bites his lip and rocks back and forth in his chair. I can tell he’s really concentrating.

  “Okay. For example,” I say. “I come here and tell you some guy has left me at the altar. He says the reason he can’t marry me is because I’m fat. I tell you I want revenge.” I snap my fingers. “Quick. What do you recommend?”

  “I’ll take a crowbar and jam it up his ass!” Dick offers.

  “Wrong! Your goal here, Dick, is to tailor the punishment to fit the crime. And remember the heeby-jeeby factor.”

  “I offer to break in the guy’s house, and steal his TV.” Dick smiles broadly. Obviously pleased with his answer.

  I shake my head. “This asshole will just buy another TV. Doesn’t solve anything. And besides, he left me at the altar and called me fat. I think he deserves much worse.”

  Dick peers at me. “What if the lady is a real porker? Then the guy was just tellin’ the troof, right?”

  I wag my finger back and forth. “A man who leaves a woman at an altar needs a better excuse than her weight. That’s sleazy and abusive.”

  “Good point,” Dick says.

  “First, ask the woman if there’s something this guy loves. Something he truly cherishes. Like, let’s say he loves his job. And his boss thinks he’s terrific. So, you can offer to embarrass the guy in front of his boss. Or you send a fax to the guy’s boss saying that the guy is laundering money—clever, you see.”

  Dick grins.

  “Or you could always call the IRS,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s nothing more excruciating than an audit, Dick.”

  “I’ve heard this.”

  “So, you can call the IRS and tell them the guy’s been hiding bundles of cash in his attic.”

  “Can’t the broad do that herself?”

  “When you call the IRS, they make you wait on hold,” I explain.

  Dick nods. “It’s a good ser vice and it won’t get me busted,” he says. “I need to get away from the violent stuff.”

  “Exactly!” I smack the table with my palm and Dick reacts to the noise. I see him reach quickly inside his leather jacket. As if he’s about to pull a gun. And my heart almost stops.

  Dick relaxes a bit and then grins at me. “Sorry. Creature of habit.”

  “Are you…carrying?” I ask.

  He pats his jacket on the bulge where the gun is located. “I never leave home without my Marlon Brando.”

  “You’ve nicknamed your gun “Marlon Brando?” I ask.

  “What? Too obvious?” Dick is looking at me in a way that makes me think he really wants my opinion.

  “Are you a Godfather fanatic?” I ask.

  “I loved the Don,” Dick says. And then, to my huge surprise, he puffs out his cheeks and does a Marlon Brando impression. Right there in Starbucks.

  “If I do you a favor, you do me a favor,” he says, in that hoarse, throaty, half unintelligible Godfather voice. He’s not bad, really. He’s even got the accent down.

  “Pretty darn good,” I say, and I nod my head approvingly. Like a schoolteacher trying to boost the confidence of the slow kid.

  Dick beams at me. He taps his finger at Carlton’s photograph. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve got up your sleeve for this bozo,” he says.

  “I need a week to come up with a plan,” I say.

  Chapter 36

  I work like a dog until midnight. When I walk past Carlton’s office, I see his light is still on. Part of our pact involves business independence. Carlton and I drive to the office in separate cars. We never have lunch together and we never ask the other person what time they’re going home. We don’t want to become one of those couples who’s always trying to schedule their day together. It’s exhausting and it spoils the spontaneity. Sometimes I love it when Carlton gets home late from work. And he loves it when I get home late. We surprise each other that way. It keeps things interesting. In a four-year relationship where we work together, play together, and live together, we’ve got to take active steps to keep the romance alive.

  I stop outside his door but I don’t knock. He must think I’ve gone home. I’m usually home by this hour, and so is he.

  He’s on the phone with his father. I can hear his dad’s voice loud and clear over the speakerphone.

  Carlton says, “Maddy wanted me to hire this woman, Priscilla. She’s got great experience but she’s a single mom so she can only work part-time. Oh, and she’s black,” Carlton adds, to my surprise.

  “Well that’s just terrific, Carlton. Next thing you know, Maddy’ll wanna hire a goddamn AIDS patient.”

  “Dad, please.”

  “Tell Florence Nightingale we’re in business to make some goddamned money. Not to give away the farm, you hear? You need a full-time accounting person. Period. Hire the college graduate. I don’t care what she looks like. She could be a supermodel or Miss America for all I care.”

  “It’s distracting, Dad. She’s a D-cup,” I hear Carlton say. I feel my face get hot. It’s not that I didn’t expect Carlton to notice Nathalie’s huge melon tits—we even joked about it—Carlton and I. After Nathalie left, he’d said, “Do you think those were real?” And we both burst out laughing. But now he was telling his dad about it.

  Not good.

  Carlton’s dad chuckles. “Makes going to the office a damn pleasure. Not a chore.”

  “I know, Dad. It’s just, Maddy’s been great. If this girl Nathalie makes her uncomfortable—”

  Carlton’s dad whistles over the phone. A low whistle. Like a death march.

  “Sounds like your girlfriend is stirrin’ up a hornet’s nest over there,” he says. “Just remember what I told you, son.”

  “I know, Dad. And you’re right. I’m gonna do something about it,” Carlton says.

  “Better sooner than later,” his dad says. “No room for broken hearts in this business.”

  I hear Carlton replace the phone in the receiver. My heart is beating quickly so I tiptoe out of the office. My car is parked in back, thank God. I gun the engine and race from the parking lot.

  I’m gonna do something about it, Carlton had said. Something about what? Our office arrangement? That must be it. Carlton wants me to work from home. The office thing is hurting our relationship.

  I get home and I don’t want to be mad. But I’m steaming. When Carlton comes in the door, I lay it on him.

  “You didn’t hire Priscilla because she’s black,” I say. “And you’re afraid your dad wouldn’t approve.”

&nbs
p; “Please,” Carlton says. “Spare me your PC bullshit. My dad hires more black people than anyone in East Texas.”

  “I think you’re uncomfortable having a black woman in the office,” I say.

  “I think you’re uncomfortable having an attractive, young woman in the office,” he snaps.

  “You’re right, Carlton. You’ve figured it out. I’m jealous of a squealing, twenty-two-year-old with fake tits the size of Rhode Island. Not to mention, she’s got zero, ZERO experience.” I’m fuming. I can even feel sweat pooling under my arms.

  “Look, sweetie. Priscilla was better qualified. Hands Down. But Nathalie had huge bazoombas,” Carlton says.

  “Don’t be sarcastic.”

  Carlton puts his hands in front of his chest, like he’s cupping a huge pair of breasts. “Get a load of these cannonballs!” he says. He struts across the room, swinging his hips side-to-side, walking like a girl.

  He’s rarely goofy like this. And I can’t help myself. So I laugh.

  Carlton grabs me and hoists me over his shoulder.

  He hustles me into the bedroom and throws me down. “That’s it. You’re mine,” he says, crawling on top of me.

  That night, I let him do whatever he wants.

  At breakfast the next morning, Carlton tells me he thinks it best if I work from home. “Look, babe, this office thing is putting a damper on our sex life,” he says.

  “It didn’t seem to put a damper on it last night,” I say, smiling at him. Pouring more coffee in his mug. Tussling his hair.

  “I’ll get you everything you need. High-speed Internet, phone, fax, printer, scanner. You name it. Plus, you can still have your office.”

  “Gee thanks, boss.”

  “Maybe you could spend a few days at the office, a few days at home. Mix it up.”

  “Oh. I see. I run the company for the past two years during the hardest part while you’re traveling around. And you come back, things are steady. On the upswing. I get everything off the ground. And now you want me working a few days at home?”

  “Don’t take it personally, Maddy. You’ve been phenomenal. It’s just that—what couple in their right mind spends all day and all night together? It’s stifling.” He smiles up at me and flutters his eyelashes in a funny way. “And besides, absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

  I know Carlton’s problem. He feels like I’m running the show. The employees, the interns, school officials, and even the customers have gotten accustomed to calling me. It’s not that they don’t like Carlton, it’s just that I’ve been the go-to guy for so long, they’re familiar with me. Plus, I’ve got a knack for thinking on my feet. Problem solving. Carlton, on the other hand, tends to dilly-dally. He’s a huge procrastinator, and I’ve had complaints from customers about him not returning their calls or e-mails. It’s bad for business. Carlton knows it’s not his strong point.

  “My job is to find new money. Grow our investor pool,” he says. “The nuts and bolts of the day-to-day operations don’t interest me.”

  The other day, Carlton took a call from one of our largest distributors, but the distributor asked to speak with me. This threw Carlton for a loop. He was in a surly mood all day.

  “I’m the goddamned CEO!” he kept saying. It was bad.

  So I’m not surprised he wants me to work from home. He feels threatened. “I won’t be effective working from home,” I say. “I have to be in the mix.”

  Carlton carries his cereal bowl to the kitchen sink. “You’re probably right,” he mutters.

  I walk over to him and put my arms around his waist. He turns around and pecks me on the forehead. A quick peck.

  “We’ll make it work,” he says.

  That night, Carlton takes me out to dinner. He orders an expensive Italian wine, a Brunello. It’s so delicious, we end up keeping the label from the bottle.

  Carlton raises his glass, and we toast our relationship, our company, and our future.

  Chapter 37

  “If you don’t want me to slam his balls in a vice, why’d you call me?” Dick asks. He chomps half of his chocolate chip cookie and I notice his eyes roll back. Kind of like a Great White shark.

  We’re back at Starbucks. Sitting at the same table. Drinking the same coffee.

  “You’re a professional, Dick. You know how to find people and be discreet,” I say.

  I pull out my notebook from my messenger bag. The revenge plan I’ve outlined is detailed inside. I’ve spent a week devising the best ways to get back at Carlton in nonviolent retribution.

  “I need you to do three jobs for me, Dick. Three different jobs. Each one is going to hurt Carlton in a different way. But not, I repeat, NOT in a physical way.”

  Dick scowls so I know he’s disappointed.

  “Promise me you won’t cross the line on this,” I say, shooting him a stern look.

  “You’re the boss, Jane,” he says, shrugging. He wipes crumbs off his mouth with the back of his hand again. Swigs some coffee. Burps.

  “Okay, there’s an awards ceremony tomorrow night at the Marriott. In the Grand Ballroom. Carlton will be receiving an award for best young CEO. There’ll be a lot of customers, employees, public officials, and, most importantly, press at this event.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I set it up that way. It took me six months to get this event off the ground. The worst thing Carlton could imagine would be bad press. Losing face in public. So, when he gets up to accept the award—”

  “You want me to rush the stage with a baseball bat and beat the crap out of him?”

  I hold my hand in the air, like a stop sign.

  “As fun as that sounds, Dick, this’ll be much worse. Trust me. That guy could use a little public humiliation. A pimple on his perfect image.”

  “I don’t want no one to take my picture,” Dick says. “Not in my line of work.”

  “No one will take your picture. You’re going to blend in.”

  “Like a lizard?”

  “Yes, Dick.”

  “Hey, Jane. What are those lizards called? With the skin that changes color?”

  “Chameleons.”

  Dick sits back in his chair and nods his head, appreciatively. “So, I’m the chameleon,” he says.

  I sit for a moment and imagine Dick inside the Grand Ballroom of the Marriott. Wearing his leather jacket and black motorcycle boots.

  “Do you own a suit?” I ask.

  “Does a cat have an ass?” Dick replies.

  “There will be hundreds of people at this awards banquet. So if you wear a suit, you’ll blend in just fine.”

  “I got it, Jane. What’s next?”

  “Okay. When Carlton accepts the award, he’ll give a speech about the future of the company—I wrote this speech and he’s given it a zillion times. That’s when it’s time to pounce.”

  I pull a sheath of papers from my bag and plop them on the table. “I want you to leave copies of these on all the tables.”

  “What is it?”

  “Copies of last quarter’s balance sheet. I’ve circled a few discrepancies which Carlton’s investors and the business journalists may find interesting. A miniature version of Enron.”

  “Jeez, you don’t pull no punches, do you, lady?”

  I smile. “During his speech, I want you to start circulating these to different tables. In fact, make sure they fall into a lot of people’s laps. Then I want you to leave. And leave quickly. Like within a minute or two.”

  “Won’t he know it’s you? Who came up with this?”

  “He’ll never in a million years think it was me,” I say. “This guy tends to fire his employees on a regular basis—especially accountants and financial geeks who don’t agree with his numbers. Carlton’s got more than a few enemies out there. He was even getting death threats from an employee once. Plus, he never thought I understood the numbers. Because we never talked about it. I learned about this from an employee who used to work for us. A guy I trusted.”


  “Here’s your entrance ticket,” I say, handing Dick an envelope. “This event is pretty fancy, but I know you already own a terrific suit.”

  Dick looks at me and the light dances in his otherwise jet black eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was pleased.

  “Okay, so that sounds easy. What’s the next project?” he asks.

  “One at a time,” I say. “One at a time.”

  “I still wish I could set his hair on fire,” Dick says.

  “Dick, Dick, Dick,” I say, shaking my head. “Physical pain is only temporary. But emotional pain lasts a lifetime.”

  Chapter 38

  I’d been having unprotected sex with Carlton for four years, and yet, the week I was late, I never expected to be pregnant.

  In the morning, I woke up and felt nauseous, so I knew something was up. I felt my body changing, slightly. My stomach felt hard as a brick. My breasts were tender and sore. But I didn’t have time to pay attention to this.

  Carlton was heading for an important breakfast called “Breakfast with the Mayor,” where he was about to receive an award from the mayor himself. The Sensitive Young CEO award. I’d arranged the whole shebang. It took me four months to lobby the mayor’s office, another month of sending out press releases, and getting the editor of the Business Journal to write a front-page piece on Carlton—including photographs of him and the Organic School Kids logo. I ordered dozens of golf shirts. Carlton was even wearing one to the ceremony. He wanted to wear an Italian suit but I encouraged him to wear a golf shirt tucked into a pair of freshly pressed khaki pants.

  “You want to be instantly recognizable—and approachable,” I say, pulling his pants from a dry-cleaning bag.

  I prep him for the awards ceremony. “Be sure to thank the mayor and his staff—especially Doug Matthews, his economic development guru. Doug is the guy behind the guy. And he never gets recognized in public. You’ll score miles of points,” I wink.

  Carlton says, “I thought his name was Paul Matthews.”

  “Everyone calls him ‘Doug,’” I reply. “He hates the name ‘Paul.’”

  “How do you know?”