by Richard Hine
Dave Douglas knocks, walks into my office, and closes the door behind him. No doubt he wants to vent about the D-SAW project and tell me again what a pain in the ass Judd is.
“Hold on, Dave,” I say. I re-input the original numbers and save the file before I screw anything up.
Dave’s here to tell me that Judd has asked him to cost out the whole project again based on a new set of assumptions. He’s red-faced, spitting vitriol. He wants me to know he’s got better things to do than take orders from some arrogant fuck-pig who doesn’t know a thing about production.
“Why not just work with him?” I say. “He’ll be out of here soon enough.”
“Don’t be so sure,” says Dave. “I heard he was having breakfast with Jack last week.”
Two minutes after Dave leaves, Judd walks in to offer his own complaints. He’s getting frustrated that Dave isn’t taking his project seriously enough, that he’s already missed one of his deliverables.
“Why not just work with him?” I say. “He has his own way of doing things. But he knows his stuff.”
“Don’t be so sure,” says Judd. “I’m starting to think he’s coming at this with a different agenda.”
“Hey,” I say. “Don’t forget that Dave’s under a lot of pressure already. But he’s trying to help. We all are.” As if to prove it, I hand him a copy of the freshly minted spreadsheet and promise to email him the file too.
I get to the lobby at 12:25. I don’t want Angela to be there first. She’ll only attract attention.
She steps out of the elevator bank wearing dark glasses and a tan raincoat cinched around her waist.
She smiles and waves at me. I nod at her discreetly and wave back with a hand that stays glued to my side.
I start walking toward the revolving doors slowly, hoping she’ll fall into stride with me in a way that will look super casual—the way that it looks when two colleagues of the opposite sex, with a significant difference in age and responsibility, just happen to be leaving the building at the same time.
It’s all perfectly innocent, I tell myself. We’re just having lunch. It’s not as if I called an escort service and asked them to send a dusky, barely legal teen dressed in a Cold War–era spy outfit.
“Hey, Angela,” says a youngish, balding guy on his way back into the building.
“Hi, Bryan,” she says.
“Who’s he?” I ask.
“Bryan? He works in corporate finance. He helped me one day when I was lost on the seventh floor.”
“Let’s go,” I say.
We head to the International Center of Photography on Sixth Avenue. My company ID gets us in free, without any pressure to make the suggested contribution. The main exhibit is a retrospective of a well-known and highly perverted German fashion photographer.
We stand in the middle of the main floor, surrounded by twelve-foot-tall images of seminude blonde women striking aggressive poses. There are a lot of nipples and high-heeled leather boots on display. It makes me wonder how different life would be if the Germans of my grandfather’s generation had succeeded in their plans to dominate the world.
Angela stands quietly in the midst of it all. She’s about five-three in her own buckled-but-flat-heeled leather boots. She has taken off her sunglasses. A strand of her long black hair is caught in her left eyelash. I reach out my hand to gently disentangle it. She flinches.
“It’s OK,” I say softly. I lift the single hair with the tip of my finger and let my hand fall back to my side.
We eat lunch at a deli near Times Square, sitting at a table in the upstairs seating area. Even though we’re at the “crossroads of the world,” this is a low-traffic spot. The room is large and spare, with the feel of a bus station. I come here occasionally when I want to read the paper and not be disturbed. It’s not the kind of place where I’m likely to run into anyone else from the office. Now, at the tail-end of the lunch hour, there are only five other people scattered around the room.
We set our trays down and take off our coats. There’s a lone guy by the window who has put down his plastic fork and is watching Angela’s every move. She folds her coat over the back of a chair and sits down opposite me.
“So what did you think of the exhibit?” I say.
“I loved it,” she says. “I love everything to do with fashion.” She smiles at me. It’s the sweet, innocent, trusting smile of a young woman who knows she’s safe in the presence of a highly professional—and happily married—authority figure. Either that, or she’s waiting for me to suggest we take the afternoon off and check into a room at the Novotel.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t realize there was going to be quite so much skin on display. I thought the models would be wearing a few more clothes.”
She laughs.
“That’s OK. I thought they were beautiful.”
It has been several days since I said good-bye to “Erika Fallon.” Now, looking into Angela’s round brown eyes, a whole different fantasy plays out. I can’t help imagining a simple yet visually vibrant life that involves beaches, sunshine, energetic sex, adequate sleep and abundant quantities of fresh fruit to consume. In this world, there are no arguments, no responsibilities, no deadlines, no household chores to perform. It’s just me and Angela, cut off from the world, ensconced in a happiness cocoon. Fantasy Angela always dresses seductively. She laughs at all my jokes. She craves the physical contact that only I can provide. But she also knows instinctively when to leave me alone.
“What kind of music are you into?” I ask.
She mentions the names of a couple of different rappers and hip-hop artists.
I’ve heard of one of them, I tell her. “I hear he’s pretty good.”
She picks at her salad with her plastic fork.
“What kind of music do you like?” she asks.
I mention a couple of the Britpop bands Sam and I fell in love with when we were in London. Angela pushes out her lower lip and shrugs. I tell her the names of the singers from those bands who went on to solo careers. Some of them are still big in England. When they pass through New York, Sam and I faithfully join the small crowds who gather to see them play. I mention a couple of the young, New York–based retro-new-wave-pseudo-punk-rock bands I’ve been listening to recently. She hasn’t heard those names either.
We talk about movies and TV and books.
“So your favorite movie is The Fast and The Furious?”
“Yeah. You really should rent it.” She stabs at her food, teasing it around the plate without picking anything up.
“And you’ve never even seen The Godfather?”
“I think my boyfriend had the DVD once,” she says. “I fell asleep.”
“And what do you do on the weekends?” I say.
“I don’t know. The usual. Dancing. Shopping. Church.”
“And how did you get that bruise on your face?”
She turns and looks out the window. Her eyes fill up and her lower lip trembles.
“It’s OK,” I say. “You don’t need to say anything.”
But it’s too late. In an instant, we’ve switched from the gauzy, soft-focused world of the Playboy Channel to the brightly lit set of an afternoon talk show. Angela spills out the story of her troubled home life, her jealous boyfriend, the depths of her religious convictions, the grandmother she loves, the anguish she feels over breaking her personal vow of chastity. She started having sex with her boyfriend. Then, soon after, one of his friends saw her talking to some other guy in the park. It was completely innocent. Now someone keeps calling her cell phone and shouting that she’s a shameful sinner, a disgraceful slut. The story gets jumbled, grows more complicated. I’m baffled by all the twists and turns, breakups and reconciliations. I’ve lost track of who’s who. But I nod sympathetically at what I think are the appropriate moments.
“You can hardly blame yourself,” I say softly.
“I thought he was the one,” she says.
“The one who was callin
g you? Or the one who hit you?”
“The one I’d be with forever.”
We walk back to the office in silent reflection. Angela’s puffy eyes are hidden behind her dark glasses.
Most people think they bury their true selves—that they compromise their essence, give away part of their soul—when they enter their generically designed, monotonously systematic workspace. But maybe some people’s true selves are more compromised, more rigidly controlled in their lives outside of work.
Maybe Angela’s one of those people. Maybe she needs the safety and structure of an office to allow her true self to surface. Maybe we’re the only ones who get to see her as someone confident, playful and relaxed. If she’s lucky, she’ll find a career path that makes her feel empowered and not simply exploited.
Angela and I ride the elevator back to our offices on the twenty-fifth floor. We pass through the doors and pause by the wall where the Chronicle logo still hangs. From here, we will be heading in different directions, me to my office and Angela to her cubicle.
She takes off her sunglasses.
“Thanks for lunch,” she says. “And for listening.”
My sense is that, more than anything, Angela needs a hug right now. But I’m not the person and this not the place to do it.
“No problem,” I say. “I hope it all works out.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Greg Witchel arrives. He brings wine and beer. He hugs Sam and kisses her on both cheeks, European style.
“You look fantastic,” he says to her, and she smiles sweetly in her new outfit, her face framed by the honey-like glow of her recently highlighted hair.
He turns to look at me. “It’s great to meet you, Russell,” he says. His handshake is cool and firm. He has the confident air you’d expect from an envelope salesman.
He and Sam sit on the couch. I sit on the armchair. We each drink a beer.
Sam asks Greg about the conference, and he starts talking about an interactive multimedia demonstration he saw.
“The technology’s really amazing,” he says.
“Those are neat looking sneakers, Greg,” I say. “Did you get them here in the city?”
Sam asks Greg how things are in Springfield, and he starts talking about the three-bedroom house he’s renting and his new Mazda and Nate Murray’s near-fatal motorcycle accident last year.
“He broke everything,” says Greg. “But I saw him last week. He’s looking great.”
“You’re looking great too, by the way,” says Sam, returning the compliment she received earlier. “It looks like you’ve been working out.”
Greg talks enthusiastically about his workout regimen and the dietary supplements he favors. Sam seems interested even though I’m sure she knows that some of the products he mentions make unproven and controversial health claims.
“I don’t like the way those things are sold,” I say. “With those dubious multilevel marketing operations.”
“It’s funny you should say that,” says Greg. “Because in addition to my day job, I’m a part-time distributor for Nature’s Strength. I have the rights for three separate zip codes.”
“Well, whatever you’re doing,” says Sam, “it looks like it’s working.”
We go out to dinner and order different kinds of salad and different fish entrees. We all drink a couple more beers. Even Sam, which is unusual for her.
We go to a bar and Greg tells me more about the envelope company he works for. He tells me how lucky I am to be with Sam. He tells me that his company has a patented paper technology. He pulls an envelope out of his pocket and demonstrates both its non-tear tensibility and its easy-opening design features. He drinks two more beers and goes to the bathroom.
“You two seem to be hitting it off,” says Sam.
“He certainly knows his envelopes,” I reply, trying unsuccessfully to rip his product sample in half.
“You know what, Russell?” says Greg, returning from the bathroom. “I’d love to get a meeting at Burke-Hart Publishing. We’ve been shut out for years. You guys should know our latest envelopes are proven to lift response rates at least ten and up to fifteen percent. I told my boss I was going to meet you socially tonight. He said to let you know we’ll be happy to extend you guys a thirty percent discount on your first order. You can’t lose.”
“Thanks, Greg,” I say. “I’m not really the person who does that, but I’ll pass it on if I can.”
We go home and Sam puts sheets and blankets on the couch for Greg. We decide to drink the wine Greg brought earlier. Sam and Greg sit on the couch, on top of the sheets and blankets. I sit on the armchair again.
Sam tells the story of how Greg dumped her in high school senior year to go out with Karen Barbash, who had bigger tits and loved giving blowjobs. Greg tells us about his bitter divorce from Karen. How he moved to Seattle for a couple of years. Dropped out of sight for a while. He had to move back to Springfield, though. He missed Greg Junior and Paul so much.
We finish the wine, and Sam and I go to the bathroom to pee and brush our teeth and wash our faces. We say good night to Greg and go into the bedroom, and even though it’s after midnight on a weeknight, Sam immediately puts her arms around my neck and kisses me. We fall onto the bed, kick off our shoes, and unbuckle, unbutton, unzip, unclasp, and shed each other’s clothes. Sam tells me she loves me and wants me right now. She’s not usually vocal during sex, but tonight when I enter her she groans loudly and shouts, “Fuck me!” She wraps her legs around me and screams “yes” and “harder.” And I thrust harder. And the bed bangs against the wall. And Sam’s groans and shouts grow louder and louder.
I’m in what’s called the Empire Room on the thirty-fourth floor watching Judd present his recommendations for the D-SAW launch to Jack and a few other onlookers—finance types mainly, along with Tyler Milken, who’s here to take notes and report back to Connie Darwin.
Henry is seated next to Jack, watching Judd like a proud father. Only Jeanie is seated with the grown-ups at the main table. Susan, Dave, Martin and I are relegated to chairs against the wall.
Judd is in his element. He’s abandoned all dubious fashion choices and is wearing a straight-down-the-middle blue suit, white shirt and solid red tie. It’s the uniform favored by the execs who ride the New Haven line—Jack and Henry are similarly attired.
“This presentation is about the future of a brand,” he begins. “It’s a great brand. A powerful brand. It’s a brand that has helped Burke-Hart Publishing grow into what it is today.”
It’s familiar stuff, but he delivers it well. I count three beats during his meaningful pause.
“At the same time,” Judd goes on, “the Daily Business Chronicle is a mature brand. With an audience that has declined more than fifty percent over the past ten years. With a readership that’s aging twice as fast as the general population. And with an advertising base that’s down forty percent since the year 2000. Everyone in the newspaper industry is struggling to capture the next generation of readers—and the Chronicle is no different. But the truth is, these younger readers have grown up on the internet. It’s how they get their news and their entertainment. It’s where they explore their interests and meet new people. The internet is home to these consumers. It’s where they live. And increasingly, it’s where advertisers go to reach them.”
I realize why this intro is so familiar. I wrote it for Henry two years ago. At the time, it was the foundation of our argument that the Chronicle’s print and online divisions be merged as soon as possible. Of course, the argument was rejected on the grounds of being too logical. As long as the idiotic Mark Sand runs our online unit, doing things logically is not an option.
“At the outset of this project,” says Judd, “I was purposed to find ways to restore growth to this great brand. To open up new revenue streams. To enhance our bottom-line profitability. This great brand is not going away. But we need to restore it to growth. Because in business, as they say, growth is the only sign of life.
”
I get stuck on the “I” part of Judd’s phrase “I was purposed.” Having set up the rationale for our new brand extension, he’s positioning himself to take credit for this whole new direction. There’s not one word of acknowledgment for the input the rest of us have given him.
I watch in silence as Judd zips through slides talking about the new metrics this project will give to our business. How he’s streamlined the cost base and leveraged economies of scale in production and distribution. How his marketing plan relies more on efficient upselling through our customer database than expensive awareness advertising.
Judd’s pumping up this opportunity as if his entire future depended on it. It doesn’t even matter that the content he’s delivering is like a warmed-up plate of yesterday’s refried beans. He’s selling it hard. Jack and Henry are lapping it up.
Clearly, it’s not only Judd’s future that depends on the D-SAW project. Jack and Henry need it too. They’ve been stuck in “slow-growth/no-growth” land for way too long. They’ve sat idle as Yolanda Pew and Barney Barnes—in just three years—have rolled out one new magazine launch after another. Meanwhile, even as he trails his online competitors, Mark Sand can still point to double-digit advertising growth.
Now Jack and Henry are not just feeling the heat. They’re desperate. Before they get restructured out of their jobs, they need to sell a new idea to Connie Darwin and gain her support in selling it on to Larry Ghosh.
Unfortunately, this tired, lamebrained project—with Judd at the helm—is the best they’ve come up with. This time around, the Daily Edge has been reimagined as a free tabloid targeting young urban commuters, with a design that’s based more on the Huffington Post than the Daily Business Chronicle. Multiple stories will appear on every page, with quick-read summaries of all the major news and business stories. Judd’s plan also calls for the Daily Edge to be included as a supplement to the Chronicle, delivered each day to all our home subscribers. The hope is they’ll pass this dumbed-down version of the news along to their kids. There’s no plan to increase our subscription price because research has shown that Chronicle subscribers don’t want anything more to read. That means the project’s success or failure will hinge entirely on advertising revenue. Right now, Judd is furiously painting a rainbow that imagines advertisers actually accepting the value of—and paying a premium price for—this unwanted product and its unproven distribution model.