Russell Wiley Is Out to Lunch

by Richard Hine

  “Really? That’s interesting.”

  “Apparently, she reminds him of Drew Barrymore.”

  “Uncanny. Must be the black hair and the fact that she’s Chinese.”

  Meg shakes her head. She’s one of the few women at the company who does nothing to conceal the gray in her hair. “Did you know this was coming?”

  “I was as surprised as anyone. If Henry had asked me, I would have told him Ben was irreplaceable.”

  “That’s for sure. As long as you know what you’re getting yourself into. Events are a ton of work.”

  “That’s the other thing,” I say. I look away from Meg, gazing thoughtfully toward the window. Lucky smiles his assent toward my jacket on the door. “I’m so overwhelmed with other stuff, I was thinking of having Erika Fallon report in to you.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Come on. It makes perfect sense. You and Kelly have more experience with events than anyone.”

  “Kelly and I already have more work than we can handle. I used to have two people reporting to me, remember?”

  Meg is resisting. But I’m not ready to give up. What would Henry do? I ask myself. And then the words start flowing.

  “I was talking to Henry about this yesterday. I told him you were the best person I’ve got. That we needed to keep you challenged. To make sure you stay motivated. How perfect would this be? It’s a chance to expand your empire. You’ll have two extra people to manage. A lot more visibility with sales.”

  “Why would I want any more visibility with sales?”

  “Events are fun,” I say. “Aren’t they?”

  “Let me think about it,” says Meg. “I’m assuming there’s a title to go with it. And of course more money.”

  “You know how tough things are with the budget right now,” I say. “And Henry can be funny about titles. Let’s meet with Erika and Sally first. See how things shape up. We can keep it informal. I’ll have Barbara schedule a meeting before lunch.”

  “Don’t worry,” says Meg. “I’ll set it up.”

  When Randy Baker shows up at my office, the pages of my Livingston Kidd proposal are once again spread around my desk, in no particular order. I’ve been putting Randy off for days. He’s expecting me to place in his hands a finished proposal, clearly articulated and beautifully designed, filled with never-before-seen-but-already-proven-successful ideas that will convince his client to keep spending with the Chronicle. But I’m not quite there yet. And today I’m having trouble concentrating.

  I look up, all set to apologize and play for more time. But something in his expression makes me hold my tongue.

  “Hey, Russell,” he says. “Just got a call from the assistant over at Livingston. Meeting’s canceled. They’re only interested in big, integrated programs right now. They want to hear what Time Warner and Viacom can put on the table before they start talking to individual titles.”

  “Typical,” I say. “We’ll be fighting for scraps again.”

  “Tell me about it. They wouldn’t even commit to a new date. We probably won’t hear back for two or three more weeks.”

  “Shit, I wish I’d known sooner. I pushed everything else to one side for this.”

  “Sorry, Russell. I know you’ve been working flat out.”

  “Don’t worry. Not your fault. I’ve got plenty of other stuff I can get to.”

  For once, I’m grateful for the way our clients choose to jerk us around.

  Once Randy leaves, I close my door and do the robotic version of my funny little dance.

  I walk down to the conference room at a minute past eleven. Erika and Sally are already inside. I sit opposite Erika. She’s wearing a tight-fitting green turtleneck with ruffles at the collar. It’s the kind of thing she might have worn in high school to conceal a hickey. I realize how much I would have hated a guy like Judd 2.0 in high school. Meg arrives, sits next to me.

  I look over at Sally, who seems to be holding back a mischievous Drew Barrymore–like smile. Somewhere along the way, I have a vague recollection that Drew dyed her hair black for a while.

  Meg coughs, and I turn to her. She is looking at me with wide, expectant eyes.

  “Let’s get started,” I say. “I’ve asked Meg to join us so we could all, um…catch up, plan our next steps.” I realize I’m staring at the conference table. I raise my head, glance at Sally, then fix Erika with the self-assured yet humble look of leadership that befits my new role as her boss.

  “First, I want to acknowledge that…” I sigh heavily. “Ben’s gone. It’s upsetting for all of us. It’s not going to be the same without him.” Erika and Sally nod but don’t speak. I realize there’s another side effect of Ben’s departure: I will no longer be invited to participate in inappropriate discussions of Erika’s love life.

  “But we can’t let Ben’s departure throw us off course. We’ve got a lot we still need to accomplish.” I adjust the knot of my Italian silk tie and smile knowingly. All morning long I’ve been reminding myself that I’m a vigorous married man who still gets laid on school nights by his eager wife.

  Before I lose my vigor, I explain that I’ve asked Meg to work directly with the two of them over the next few months to ensure we keep everything—from budgets to planning to execution—on track. “Meg will be your contact,” I say. “To make sure you get all the approvals you need from senior management and any help you need from the marketing and creative departments.”

  “Great,” says Erika. “I brought the project list you asked for.” She hands us each a copy. I study the list.

  “Excellent,” I say. “Very organized.”

  I sit back and let Meg take charge. She asks Erika to run through the status of each project, discuss all the issues of timing and expenses and travel and invitations and signage and product samples and goody bags. Details are noted. Procedures are clarified.

  I lose track of some of the finer points, but I’m impressed with the professionalism that radiates from Erika, the inexplicable fun that Sally seems to find in every aspect of her job, and the competence with which Meg steers the meeting.

  “You’ll let me know,” I say as the meeting winds down, “if you need me to attend any of the major out-of-town events.”

  “Sure thing,” says Sally.

  I look at the project list again. “What’s next? DC? Wasn’t Ben planning on being there? Do you need me?”

  Erika Fallon looks at the list and thinks a second. “I think we’ve got that one covered. It might be good if you came down to Miami for the conference we’re sponsoring next month.”

  “OK,” I say. “If anything changes, let me know.”

  “That was great,” I say as Meg and I walk back down the hall together. “I knew you could handle it.”

  “Just remember, you owe me,” says Meg. “Big time.”

  Judd is loitering outside my office when I get back, clutching a large, blue, three-ring binder.

  “Have a minute?” he asks. “I know you’re busy, but it’s been tough to get on your calendar.”

  I pause in my doorway, look at my watch, and count two elephants in my head.

  “It’ll have to be quick. I’ve got to get a Livingston Kidd proposal over to the art department. Liz Cooke is waiting for me. We have to get something to Randy Baker by end of day.” This isn’t exactly true anymore. But I’m guessing Judd doesn’t know that.

  “I’ll be quick.” He follows me into my office. Beneath the transparent plastic pocket on his binder’s spine he has inserted a small typed card that reads:

  D-SAW

  Confidential

  I realize immediately that Judd has mastered the two basic requirements of being a consultant: 1) Packaging existing data into a new physical format designed to impress management; and 2) Demonstrating the lost art of printing something out on a small piece of card.

  Judd opens the binder. He’s arranged it into four sections, each with a typed label on the tab. I read the tabs quickly:

  Focus 1
/>
  Focus 2

  WICTY Presentation

  YANA

  “These are the key documents from the last go-round,” he says. He turns the binder toward me and flips it open at the WICTY Presentation tab. “I think we can use them to take away some key learnings to inform our process this time.”

  “OK. What exactly did we learn back then?” I ask. I flick through the pages quickly, moving toward the tab marked YANA. I shouldn’t let it bug me that Judd’s already seen Henry’s mystery file. I’m just curious to see what it contains. When I get to the end of my old WICTY presentation, I turn the blue divider page as any casual reader would, revealing the document beneath.

  “Tell me what you think of this,” says Judd, resting his hand flat on the page before I have a chance to start reading. “I’m going to propose we take the updated prototype out to a whole new series of focus groups. A lot has changed in the last four years. I think we could get some great new perspectives.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Henry thought so. He said you could help with the presentation once the transcripts come in.”

  “Just tell me what you need. I’ll make sure it gets done.”

  “Thanks, Russell.” He snaps the binder shut and hands it to me. “I’ve only made three copies of this binder. One for you. One for me. One for Henry.”

  “OK. I’ll guard it with my life.”

  Judd gets up, walks to the door, and turns. “Hey, fancy grabbing a drink after work tonight?”

  “Sounds great,” I say with enthusiasm as I struggle to invent a plausible excuse.

  “Five thirty good?”

  “Oh shoot. I’ll have to take a rain check. Sam and I have yoga tonight.” I stretch out my arms and swivel slightly in my seat. “Have you tried it? It’s a great workout and really helps your flexibility.”

  Judd hesitates a moment. Maybe it’s just the idea of me doing yoga. But I realize he knows nothing personal about me—and that the name “Sam” could be taken either way. I’m not about to help him out on that one.

  “That’s cool,” he says. “Some other time.”

  “What about next week?” I ask. “I’m here all week. How does Thursday sound?”

  “That’s good,” he says. “Oh shit. I’m heading to DC next Thursday. Meeting with a research company.”

  “No problem,” I say. “We’ll figure something out.”

  I turn my attention to the mysteries of the YANA file.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It’s a warm October evening. Sam and I are taking a walk around the neighborhood. Other couples are out too, strolling arm in arm. Families are gathering out on their stoops. The restaurants on Seventh Avenue are filling up.

  My hands are in my pockets. Sam is holding a brown box with metal-edged corners—an empty musical instrument case she found discarded on Union Street. Our conversation stalled a block or two after she picked it up. We left off somewhere on the road from Garbage Picking to the Value of Objects to the Difference Between Hobbies and Real Jobs without quite getting our heads around the question Why Is It When I Say the Word Passion You Immediately Want to Talk About Sex?

  Waiting for the light on the corner of Ninth Street, I study the profile of her face, trying to detect evidence of those gradual changes that are impossible to spot while they’re actually happening.

  “All couples fight about sex and money,” she says at last.

  “How do you know?”

  “My friends tell me. I read magazines.”

  “So you tell your friends we fight about sex and money?”

  “Only the sex. The money stuff bores them.”

  “It must be a brief conversation then.”

  “Ha ha. Tell me about it.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  We’re quiet again. I sense the box she’s carrying is getting heavy in her arms, but she doesn’t ask me to help and I don’t offer.

  Sam and I met in a pub in London called the Goose and Gherkin. It was two years after my dad died. I’d convinced my mom to fund a semester abroad. I told her all kinds of academic and cultural reasons why it made sense. But really I was on a mission to meet English girls. I was immediately drawn to Sam—her style, her bravado, and of course, her accent.

  Her dark brown hair was short and spiky.

  She wore a faded “The Queen Is Dead” T-shirt, camouflage pants and black Doc Martens.

  The pub was loud, and a lot of people were jabbering. But I could feel we had an instant connection.

  “That’s mega,” she said when I told her it was my first night in town, that it had taken me most of the previous day and night to fly from Columbus, Ohio, via Chicago to get here.

  “Cheers,” she said when I bought her a drink.

  “A small pickled cucumber,” she said when I asked her what a gherkin was anyway.

  “Brilliant,” she said when I told her the group I’d come with were heading to a nightclub in Camden Town. When we left the club at three in the morning, we kissed and parted in separate cabs. Back at my dorm, alcohol and jet lag kicked in. I slept for ten hours. When I woke, I called the number Sam had given me. She answered on the second ring, inviting me to join her for a “fry up” at her favorite café and for a tour of Portobello Road Market.

  “Trust me,” she said, ordering us each a plateful of fried eggs, fried sausages, fried bacon, fried tomatoes and fried bread. “This is how we do it here.”

  “I think I’m going to barf.”

  “You’ll be fine. Just bite, chew, swallow, and wash it down with a mouthful of tea.”

  We walked from stall to stall as the grease congealed in my stomach. Sam was trying on a secondhand coat, a nubby, red woolen item that hung shapelessly on her, when I asked her what part of England she was from.

  She spun around like a red cone. “I ain’t from England, mate,” she said in her best Cockney accent. “I grew up in Massachusetts. So, what do you think? Is this worth seventy-five quid?”

  I converted the amount to dollars and said, “You could get a new one for that.”

  She bought it anyway, haggling with the girl who was working at the stall until she got her down to sixty pounds.

  “It would have been a bargain at half the price,” she said as we walked away.

  She hadn’t meant to fool me with the accent, she said. She couldn’t help it. It was medically proven that some people pick up accents quickly. In reality she was an American student like me, in London for the full year. She’d arrived a semester earlier and was sharing a third-floor flat in a house in Bayswater with two fellow students, Shelley and Jennifer. When we stopped by to drop off her new purchase, I was expecting to meet them. But even though the devastating chaos of their existence was immediately visible, the place was quiet.

  “Well, my good chap,” she said, leaning against the just-closed front door. “It just so happens they’re in Paris till Monday. So we have the run of the entire estate.”

  Sam dropped the blue-and-white striped plastic bag containing her new red coat on the floor. Then she hung my jacket on a crowded coatrack and wrapped her tan raincoat around it.

  She walked through the living room, picked up a discarded bra from the back of an armchair, and tossed it onto a hill of clothes inside one of the bedrooms. She closed that door and headed into the kitchen.

  “In England, you will quickly discover one thing,” she said, turning on the cold tap and letting it run for a few seconds. “It’s that no important decisions should ever be made without first putting the kettle on.”

  She filled the kettle, took a match from a large box with a picture of a ship on it, and lit one of the gas rings on her stove. As the water was heating, she opened a cupboard and placed two mugs on the counter. One of them had a picture of a red London bus on the side. She pulled two spoons from a drawer and let them clatter inside the mugs. She was wearing a man’s white shirt, a pleated gray skirt, white ankle socks and chunky black shoes—a slightly ridic
ulous, quasi-schoolgirl look that somehow seemed the height of fashion among the crowds around Portobello Road.

  She opened the fridge, studied the contents, then closed it again without taking anything out.

  “Well, there’s no milk, but you still have one choice you need to make.” She shuffled among the tins and cartons on the counter. She turned to me, gesturing first with a jar of Nescafé in one hand and then with a box of Typhoo tea bags in the other. “Coffee, tea…or me?”

  I pretended to act cool, as if seriously considering the different options. Sam’s sleeves were rolled halfway up her forearms. The spiky hair from the previous night had been reconfigured into two ponytails, held together with rubber bands that stuck out from the side of her head. She was wearing black eyeliner and a dark red lipstick. It was the sexiest look I had ever seen.

  I turned off the gas and lifted her onto the kitchen counter, kissing her hard as she wrapped her legs around me.

  “Do you want me to take that?” I ask her now as we turn onto Eighth Avenue, still six blocks from home.

  “I thought you said it was garbage.”

  “I said it was junk,” I tell her. “But I meant it in the nicest possible way.”

  She hands me the wooden box.

  “Did I tell you Greg’s coming to town next week?” she says a minute later.

  “Greg?”

  “Greg Witchel. You’ve seen his picture.”

  I’ve seen several. Greg was Sam’s boyfriend for two years in high school. Her first big love. His image appears in many of the family photos displayed on the walls of Sam’s parents’ house. A shaggy mop of blond hair, a goofy grin and a body built for the MTV beach house.

  “He’s coming for some big direct marketing conference,” she says. “His company’s paying for two nights in a hotel.”