CHAPTER 12
JUNE 2003
Right after Memorial Day, Print&Pack, one of Forester’s largest customers, declared its intention of switching its business to one of Forester’s largest competitors. Tim Reynolds, Forester’s president, handed Bob the assignment Tuesday morning and expected him to be on a plane that afternoon. On the way to the airport, Bob was able to book a breakfast meeting with Print&Pack president Carl Hoten, who talked in a constrained manner on the phone, even though he had told Tim he was open to persuasion. Bob spent most of the evening in his hotel room planning his presentation, not an easy task even with a long lead time but especially frustrating since key pieces of information were missing from the Print&Pack paper file, including current orders and price lists. Bob accessed the electronic files on Forester’s intranet, but they, too, were spotty. He had met Carl face-to-face twice, but had not talked to him in recent years and was not current with Print&Pack’s latest profile and strategy sheets. Billy was their contact—a role that had been questioned several times in meetings that spring—but he was on vacation, inaccessible by e-mail and voice mail, company cell phone turned off. Looking through the paper file, Bob took notes, trying to piece together several possible solutions, ranging from poor to passable. He also made a mental note to talk to Billy. If he didn’t straighten up soon, he would lose his job. Then again, if Forester lost Print&Pack’s business, Tim would fire Billy and Bob without reservation. Tim was neither diplomatic nor apologetic about his policies or his business model. The only reason Billy hadn’t been fired already was that Tim had been focused lately on customer growth rather than stewardship.
Bob went to bed late and slept poorly. His first night in a hotel was always that way. When he was younger, he’d have a couple of beers from his mini-fridge before he went to bed. It had become a habit more than a remedy, however, so Bob had in the last year or so switched to Oreos and milk, a comfort snack from his childhood. Because it seemed juvenile, Bob procured his sleep aid at a convenience store outside the hotel rather than order from room service. And it really did help him sleep—unless he faced an especially stressful meeting the next day. He lay awake a good part of the night, thinking about what would convince Carl to reinvest his business in Forester. At the very least, Bob would have to promise him a new sales rep, which could potentially hold the same fate for Billy as the company’s losing the Print&Pack account.
The meeting the next morning went smoothly enough for Carl to call a meeting that afternoon with his executive staff. Bob went back to the hotel afterward to work on his presentation to the group. He then went for a run, showered, and was back at Print&Pack’s head office twenty minutes ahead of his three o’clock appointment. For two hours, Bob ran through numbers and percentages and answered questions with the clear, crisp PowerPoint slides he made earlier in the day. He guaranteed what he knew Forester could deliver, being careful not to make promises Forester couldn’t support. Carl nodded his head throughout Bob’s talk, an affirming gesture indicating that if Bob had done the numbers right, Carl couldn’t say no. Knowing that customer service was also an issue, Bob said he would personally handle the account for six months.
Carl asked his staff to sleep on it, something he was known for in the industry, and to come to work the next day prepared to make and support a decision. The staff met the following morning and called Bob in that afternoon. Carl asked the additional questions his team compiled; Bob thought he was able to respond to them satisfactorily. Afterward, Bob waited in Carl’s office while the staff voted in the board room. Thirty minutes later, Bob was called in: Given the new terms of the contract, Print&Pack would stay with Forester. If, however, Print&Pack was not satisfied at any time during the first three months, a probationary period, the contract would be null and void. Bob shook Carl’s hand. “I appreciate this. I will not let you down.”
“It’s not you I worry about.” Carl gave Bob a weak smile. “Keep in touch.”
“Absolutely.”
On the way back to the hotel, Bob called Tim Reynolds and gave him the details of the contract. Tim said he was impressed, a word he rarely used, and said he would put his appreciation in the form of a commission check. Feeling oddly magnanimous, Bob told him that wasn’t necessary, but Tim told him it most assuredly was. “Our business,” he said, “is about service, product, and making money. When you take care of the first two as aptly as you did with Print&Pack, the third will always follow, on both corporate and personal levels.” Bob finally allowed himself a smile. Karen would be happy with the news.
Bob slept on the flight home. Normally he was too keyed up to close his eyes. But this week he counted as one of the five most intense weeks in his life, in company with final exams his senior year in college, getting married, and closing the Parker deal in 2000. On the drive home from the airport, Bob designed the perfect evening. He wanted to have a drink with Karen. He had some Stella and Karen’s favorite Chardonnay in the fridge. Rebecca and Robert would then join them for a quiet family dinner. If Karen had nothing planned, he would simply grill hamburgers from the freezer. Robert could help him. After dinner, they could all watch TV for a while—Bob would even watch a kid movie—and turn in early. Bob was hoping he could persuade Karen to have sex before falling asleep. A quiet, predictable evening was what Bob craved, like a man hungry from physical labor wants red meat after a long shift.
Karen was not home when he walked through the back door into the kitchen. Bob found Rebecca in the den watching TV. She allowed a kiss on her cheek, but didn’t take her eyes off the screen when Bob asked her about Karen. Rebecca told him that Karen was at the store picking up a few items for tonight and that she, Rebecca, was the boss of Robert.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Company,” said Rebecca, clicking through the stations.
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish. The Jenningses, Millers, and Lees are coming at seven. I have to babysit because Mommy needs some adult time.”
“Where is Robert?”
“In the basement, playing with those idiotic cars of his.”
“They’re metal toys. They have no personalities, Rebecca.”
“I think they’re stupid.”
Bob walked down the stairs and found Robert sitting on the floor in front of the large screen TV. “How’s my little man?”
Robert smiled broadly at his father. “Hi, Dad,” he said, looking up from the town he had made with Lego blocks. Several Hot Wheels cars were lined up at the dealership, a red rectangular building with yellow windows and a blue roof that he had completed the week before. Robertville had been experiencing an economic boom, and Bob’s Cars was the latest addition and the town’s largest employer. Robert had recently studied small town economics in social studies class, a nice complement, Bob thought, to the previous unit on manufacturing. “Did you have a good trip?”
“I had an excellent trip. And aren’t you nice to ask.” Bob heard Karen coming into the house and headed back to the stairs. “I’m off to see your mom,” he said as he ascended. When he walked into the kitchen, Karen was unpacking two grocery bags.
Karen turned around and smiled. “Can you do a beef filet on the grill?”
“Do I have to?” asked Bob, walking to her and putting his arms around her shoulders. “Can we just call the whole thing off? I have had a hellish week, and I would like nothing better than to be with my family tonight.”
“Honey, we’ve got six people coming for dinner in forty-five minutes.”
“Why? It’s a Thursday night.” Bob’s arms dropped to his sides. “You said nothing about this last night on the phone, and frankly, Karen, I’m not in the mood to entertain.”
“It was an impromptu thing,” she said, folding the paper grocery bags, “at tennis this morning.”
“Didn’t we just see the Millers, Jenningses, and Lees last weekend?”
“Like I said, this was spur of the moment.”
“Well, here’s an idea. Let�
��s cancel it, spur of the moment.”
Karen stashed the bags in food pantry, where she grabbed two boxes of wild rice. “I can’t do that.”
“I’ll do it,” said Bob, walking to the phone.
“Bob, that’s rude!”
“It’s not that rude. I’ll take the blame. I’ll tell them I’m exhausted. They’ll understand.”
“They won’t understand,” said Karen, hands on hips. “I don’t understand.”
“Karen, we see these people all the time, and that’s fine. They’re nice enough people. But I, unlike you, can breathe without them. I worked hard all week, and I’d like to spend a quiet evening with my wife and kids.”
“Since when do you want to spend time with your kids?”
“Since when do you have to get drunk Thursday nights, in addition to Friday and Saturday?”
Anger flashed in Karen’s eyes. “That was mean, Bob Parsons.” “Yeah, well so was your comment.”
Karen rubbed her temples. “Can’t we just leave the night the way it is? I thought you’d like to come home to a party.”
“I don’t think that’s the way it happened. I think you planned the party without any thought about me whatsoever.”
“Please?”
Bob considered his position and knew if he played it just right, he could have at least part of the night go his way. “I want them out of here by nine thirty. It’s a Thursday, and everyone ought to understand that. If they don’t, I’ll explain it to them. And I want you to watch what you drink. I have plans for you later.”
“Done,” she said. “Now go take a shower while I start this rice.”
When Patrick Jennings walked through the front door with four Cuban cigars in one hand and a bottle of brandy in the other, Bob wanted to immediately usher him out the back door. Instead, he patted him on the shoulder as he always did, kissed Stephanie on the cheek, and made both of them vodka martinis. The Millers and the Lees arrived together, Ginny carrying a lemon meringue pie and Caroline toting two bottles of red wine. Karen put Ginny’s dessert in the fridge, while Bob opened both of Caroline’s bottles per her instructions. The first martinis were consumed while Patrick told a long story about a lawyer friend who had smuggled the cigars into the country. Apparently, his Gucci loafers attracted airport security’s attention. He was frisked twice by custom officials before being led, along with his carry-on luggage, into a small room for questioning. What was his business in Cuba? How long had he been there? Did he plan on returning? How much cash did he have on him? The lawyer counted his cash while the official searched his bag. “Three thousand U.S. dollars,” he said. And the official told him that he was in luck, that three thousand dollars was the exact amount needed to exit the country without further interrogation. The cigars, which were in his wife’s luggage, were never found. She had been led to a separate room, where she was lightly questioned and allowed to smoke cigarettes while she waited for her husband. Their luggage was sequestered for a week. When it did arrive in the States, the lawyer’s bag, taped shut, was missing his other pair of Italian shoes, and the wife’s bag was missing her French underwear. But the cigars were inside and intact.
Caroline begged for another round of martinis, and Bob obligingly made them. She followed him into the kitchen, pressed her soft flesh into his, and whispered, “I’d like a large” in his ear. When he stopped the vodka shaker midair and looked at her, she winked and then returned to the porch, where Karen had insisted they move to smoke. Bob lit the grill at seven thirty, but by the time dinner was ready it was almost an hour later, and they had already drunk one of the Millers’ bottles of red. Patrick told more lawyer stories, his bailiwick at social gatherings—the best one involving a filthy rich stockbroker who had an insatiable appetite for young women. Night after night he was out, and his wife grew suspicious enough to pay for the installation of listening devices and video cameras in their home and in his cushy Wall Street office. His assignation with a buxom blonde the very next day was recorded and sent to the wife. After she took the evidence to her divorce lawyer, who calculated her settlement, as well as his, to be in the millions of dollars, the wife confronted her husband.
“Do you know what he said?” asked Patrick, buttering a crescent roll.
“What?” asked Karen, already snickering.
“It Wasn’t Me!” And then he launched into the refrain of Shaggy’s hit from a few years before.
Caroline threw her head back, reveling in her amusement. “That,” she said, snapping her head back into its upright position, “is ridiculous!”
“I think it’s disgusting.”
“Who said that?” asked Karen, turning her head.
“I did.” Rebecca was standing in the doorway with her arms across her chest.
“Honey,” said Karen, struggling to get out of her chair.
“Careful, Mom. It looks like you might fall down.”
Blushing, Karen looked at her guests.
“That’s enough, Rebecca,” said Bob, also standing.
“I think it’s you who’s had enough,” said Rebecca, turning and walking away. “All of you!”
Karen rushed after her daughter, leaving her friends with no choice but to quickly finish their dinners and proclaim themselves too full for Ginny’s pie.
“Well,” said Bob a few minutes later. “Let’s call it a night then.”
“Good thinking,” said Patrick, happy to be released from his discomfort and from the silence that had just been broken by Bob’s dismissal. “Let’s go, Steph.”
Ginny helped Bob clear the table before joining the others outside. Bob called good night from the front door and then returned to the kitchen, where he assessed the cleanup process as likely to take forty-five minutes. He thought about joining Karen upstairs, but decided she would rather have his help in the kitchen. She hated a sink full of dishes covered in cold water and congealed fat. Plus, she had done, as usual, all the prep work, everything but cook the meat. He loaded the dishwasher and then hand washed the crystal glasses they had received as a wedding gift from Bob’s parents, carefully inverting them on a tea towel he laid out on the kitchen table. He washed and dried the food-caked pots and pans in the sink, packaged and put away the leftovers, wiped down the counters, and swept the kitchen floor. An hour later, everything was done except grabbing the used table linens on his way to bed. At the top of the stairs, the door to Rebecca’s room was closed. Bob knocked and got no answer. He opened the door to find a dark room and his child, who he had lately suspected of faking sleep when he got home late from a business trip and entered her room to say good night, motionless in the center of her bed. She liked to sleep in the very center so whatever monster was hatched underneath her bed in the middle of the night had a longer distance to travel to get her. Often, but not that night, she surrounded herself with stuffed animals in the hopes that the monster’s stomach would get full before reaching her. She was very grown-up, but only in the daytime. Bob brushed away her light brown bangs with his fingers and kissed her forehead. He gently closed the door, then walked down the hall to his bedroom, dropping the napkins and tablecloth in the washing machine on his way. Karen was undressing in the closet.
“How did it go?” he asked.
“I thought you were going to come up and help me instead of letting me single-handedly deal with that embarrassing and awful situation,” said Karen, focusing on the buttons of her blouse.
“Look,” said Bob, sliding out of his shoes. “If you wanted my help, you could have come down and asked for it. I thought you wanted to be alone with Rebecca, so I got rid of our company and did the dishes. You’re welcome.”
“Next time, I’ll do the dishes, like I always do, and you can deal with our rude ten-year-old,” said Karen, slipping her new printed cotton nightshirt over her head.
“Fine,” said Bob, dropping his khakis.
“Don’t even think about it,” said Karen, walking past him and into the bathroom to brush her teeth.
“Think about what? How we had a deal and you got drunk instead?”
“You’re not exactly sober either, mister.”
“It was your party, with your insipid friends,” said Bob, removing the folded laundry from their bedroom chair, so he could sit and take his pants off the rest of the way.
“Who forced you to drink, right?” asked Karen, spitting toothpaste foam into the sink.
“In some ways, yes. What are you supposed to say to a blowhard with Cuban cigars and a bottle of brandy and a floozy with a couple of bottles of red?”
A Changing Marriage Page 18