He heard the voice repeat, "Motherfucker," with a strained emphasis on the "fucker," between blows. After a minute of it, there was silence.
Oh god. Joe stepped into the nearest dining room and slipped under a banquette table.
Then the voice again: "I know they's two of you. I'm comin' for you, motherfucker. Get ready to die like this white boy!"
Joe was paralyzed under the table. He didn't know what to do. He searched around for something to use as a weapon, but all he had was his measly little flashlight.
There was more diabolical laughter, but it sounded different this time. Then Joe heard two voices laughing and, before long, it didn't sound very diabolical. It was more hysterical. There was a flurry of footsteps and then Joe saw the beam of the Maglite.
"Hey Joe," Brendan yelled out between breathless guffaws, "it's cool! Everything's fine! We're just fucking with you, bro!"
Quickly, Joe tried to scramble up from the floor, but he bashed his head on the table. The beam of the flashlight found him. Joe looked up to see Brendan accompanied by a tall, thin black man with twists, wearing a peacoat. Both were laughing with delight at the sight of Joe squatted beneath the table.
"He may be the best one yet," said the tall man, in a voice that sounded different from the one he'd heard at the door.
Brendan finally stopped laughing. He wiped an eye. "Oh jeez. That is priceless right there. That is good stuff," he said, pointing at Joe. "Come on. Get up, playboy. We should go. We made a lot of noise."
"That's part of my process. The noise. The silence. And everything in between," said the tall man to Brendan. "You know I use The Method."
Brendan bowed at the waist to him. "Indeed. You are the Gielgud of psychotic crackhead scrappers. He held a hand out for Joe and yanked him up, then said: "I hope you understand, but we had to do that."
Joe just glared at him. What else was there to do? He stood up and started to brush off his clothes. He was filthy. This would be fun to explain to Ana if she were around.
"That's Malik," said Brendan.
Smiling broadly, Malik held out his hand. Joe didn't bother trying any fancy handshakes.
"Sorry about that, friend. It's a little thing we do. An initiation."
Joe brightened at the thought of not being the first person to be humiliated like this. "Really? Did I pass?"
Malik, trying not to laugh, just nodded. "Sure. You did fine."
Joe turned to Brendan hopefully.
"No you didn't," Brendan said, shaking his head. "He's just being nice. You sucked. You hid under a table. It's all right though." More laughter.
Joe sighed.
20
A Grand Rapids of the Mind
Bruce had gotten out of the office early, which meant that Ana had gotten out early as well. On the way out of the building, they had passed Jerrod in the hall. Ana gave him a big fake grin. He returned it, larger and faker.
"And where are you two off to?" he said, arching his brows like Myrna Loy. Ana had never heard that phrase sound so catty in her life.
"Client meeting for WomanLyfe, Jerrod," said Bruce, matter-of-factly.
"Wow. Late meeting for Grand Rapids!" There was no missing the faux surprise on his face.
"It's very early tomorrow, Jerrod," said Bruce. "Care to join us?"
Ana noticed that even Bruce sounded exasperated by this exchange.
Jerrod smiled again and shook his head while holding his palms up toward them. "Oh no, I wouldn't dream of it. Three's a crowd, after all."
Asshole, thought Ana, as he walked away.
"God, he's a dick," said Bruce.
"Oh yes," said Ana.
"He's lucky that he's such a good art director."
"Art director, yes. Person, no," muttered Ana on the way to Bruce's car.
Was it a surprise that Bruce had a beautiful car? A sleek black Jaguar, spanking new and gorgeous. She usually frowned upon conspicuous consumption. Her typical reaction to someone with a fancy car was the same as to someone with a perfectly sculpted body. You're spending way too much time thinking about this. Maybe you should read a book now and then. But as soon as she sat down in it and closed the door, she was cocooned in leather, burled wood, and Bruce's spicy scent. She tried not to think about what Adrienne had said last night. She was going to ignore it. Work was requiring her to spend time with her boss. She would do her job and forget the rest.
"Sweet ride, Bruce," was all she could think of saying. Then she felt like an idiot for saying it.
This made him chuckle. "Thanks. It's the first time I've ever gotten a car like this. Don't get me wrong, I love it, but it still embarrasses me a little."
"Really? Why?"
"I don't know. It's a little flashy." He rolled his eyes at his own comment. "Let's face it. It's a lot flashy, but part of me must have wanted that, I guess."
Ana waved her hand. "Oh, what the hell. We'll all be dead in fifty years anyway."
Bruce turned to her, half smirking as he pressed the ignition button. "There's a cheery thought." The car dreamily hummed to life like some internal combustion tone poem.
Ana laughed, realizing how it must have sounded. "I just mean, what's the difference? If you can afford it, why not drive a nice car?" She wasn't terribly sure where all this was coming from. She had driven the same Subaru for almost ten years. Joe's Volvo was almost twenty years old, but it had been eight years old when he bought it. (It was their not-so-secret shame that neither of them owned cars built in their hometown.) Perhaps it was just that this beautiful objet of an automobile appealed to the art director in her.
"Yeah, what the hell?" said Bruce, almost to himself. "I'm not a hollow man, trying to fill his life with shiny objects. Right?"
It was a weird thing to say. Ana spoke no more about the car.
The ride to Grand Rapids was uneventful. Bruce was on his Bluetooth for much of the two-hour drive. Ana had brought her laptop with her MiFi and personal hot spot, so she just caught up on e-mails while they drove. The seemingly hundreds of daily messages were the bane of her new job. She hated them, but today she was glad they were there. Even when the Internet coverage faded in and out, she still tapped away at drafts. It gave her an excuse not to have to talk to Bruce much. Not that it was expected of her. He seemed completely immersed in his calls, which was a relief. There was no overtly friendly behavior. Bruce was all business. They did chat a bit about some work done by her and Adrienne (who had found this arrangement to be suspect and told Ana to be careful) for WomanLyfe, but then Bruce got another call.
Ana had to admit, listening in on his side of the conversation, that she was impressed by the way Bruce was so knowledgeable about the various accounts at the agency. He was able to think strategically about them and their competitors, how that related to the work that he oversaw, while also knowing all the clients with whom he interacted, as well as the political ins and outs of the companies.
Once they pulled into Grand Rapids, they checked into the Amway Grand, then met in the lobby to go get some dinner. Bruce took her to a gastropub called the HopCat, where she discovered that he was a beer nerd. The place was all wood and granite, brick and brass. Beautiful European beer-advertising posters from the twenties and thirties were mounted on the walls and ceiling. Bruce started talking to the waiter about exotic beers with names like Delirium Tremens and Rochefort and Pliny the Elder. Beer wasn't Ana's beverage of choice, so she was going to get a glass of wine.
"Come on, it's a beer place," said Bruce. "You gotta get a beer."
Ana sighed, trying to be a good sport. She really shouldn't be drinking at all, considering how things turned out last time she had boozed it up with Bruce. And that was when Adrienne was there.
"I'm going to order you a lambic," he said, giving the second syllable a slight European accent.
"Sounds pretentious," said Ana.
"Come on. They have some really good ones here. You'll like it."
Bruce ordered something called a Final A
bsolution for himself, which made perfect sense to her, since everyone forgave creative directors for everything. He ordered some kind of Lindemans for her.
When the beer came, it was good, but she was surprised by the strong cherry flavor, not sweet, but very fruity. She wondered if this was traditionally a woman's beer, which made her instantly not care for it. She looked at the blackboard and made a note to order a bourbon porter. It sounded loathsome, but she was damned if she was going to drink girly beers.
"What's the plan for tomorrow?" she asked as she scanned the menu.
Bruce glanced up from his menu and, for the first time that day, really looked at her. "We roll into WomanLyfe at about ten to eight, have a short meeting with Karin and her people, probably a couple of hours, then hit the road. We should be back at the agency by one at the latest. Unless they want to take you on a tour. Then all bets are off."
Ana nodded.
"How do you like that beer?" said Bruce.
The lambic was actually starting to grow on her, but still she wanted to give Bruce some grief about it. "It's okay. For a chick beer." She didn't usually care for the word chick, but she figured that was what beer dorks called it.
"It's not a chick beer," he responded, surprisingly defensive. "I drink those. They're good for dessert. In fact, they're for the more discriminating palette."
Now she felt bad. "Oh, okay. Sorry. It is good, really."
Bruce smiled at her. "Nah, that's bullshit. Research shows that ladies love fruity beers." He shrugged and spread his palms out as if to say, I cannot change what is unimpeachably true. "Sorry."
Ana had to laugh. "Damn it!" she said, shaking her fist at him. "Well, I am a lady."
"Yes, you are." He touched her hand just for a moment before sitting back in his chair. "Sometimes we cannot help being exactly what we are."
"Hmm," she said, wondering if she was being pulled into some linguistic snare. "Who said that?"
Bruce looked to the left and the right, as if for imaginary tablemates. "Um. Me. Just now." He took a sip of his beer, then another.
"Really? It sounded like you were quoting someone." Ana gave him a playful frown. "How did you get to be so slick, Bruce Kellner?"
He winced, like she had just delivered a verbal blow to the abdomen. At first, Ana felt mean, but then she was glad that she possessed the power to hurt him a little.
"Oh, come on," she continued. "It's not such a bad thing. I don't mean used-car salesman slick. I just mean—" Now she decided to temper her comment. "I just mean you seem so good at your job, like you have it pretty much together. And you absolutely know it."
Bruce turned away for a moment and Ana panicked, fearful that she had both insulted and bored him at the same time. Then came a look in his eyes that she hadn't seen yet, a helplessness. "Yes, well, shall I give my ex-wife a call and ask her? I have a feeling that she'd have a different perception of me."
Ana made a face, a grimace that hopefully conveyed sympathy or concern or just said, Sorry I peeled open that wound. She drank her beer, thinking that she'd just shut up, but she did not do this. "How long were you two married?"
"Eleven years. We've got two boys."
It struck Ana as funny how people often attached the number of children they had when telling you how long they had been married. As if the offspring tally somehow justified or legitimized the collected years of matrimony. "Really? Wow, you're very good at keeping your personal life to yourself, Bruce. I had no idea you had kids."
He tilted his head, an abbreviated shrug. "Oh, sometimes people will bring theirs up, so I'll mention mine, but mostly work is work and home is home. Unfortunately, there was too much work and not enough home. Which explains why I no longer live at that home."
"Where do you live, Bruce?
"Eh, Bloomfield Hills. I bought a detached condo up that way. It's fine. Not far from my ex, so I see my kids pretty often."
"Yes, I'm starting to realize how work can get in the way of homelife."
"Really," said Bruce, leaning toward her to listen, as if she had so much more to say. She didn't, but his silence prodded her to continue, slightly against her wishes. Joe had taught her this old reporter's trick, of letting the silences hang uncomfortably until the subject went on talking, which was where the good stuff came from. Somewhere, Bruce had learned the same trick, probably with clients. Though she saw it for what it was, it didn't stop her from talking.
"My husband and I both just started new jobs and it's been really tough lately." (She had taken to calling Joe her "husband" in work situations years ago, after tiring of the constant explication regarding their living arrangements, as well as growing sick of referring to him as her "boyfriend.") Right then, when she might have expected a warm word of encouragement, a little Buck up, it'll get better, Bruce only nodded and seemed to take note of this fact. (Why should he be encouraging? she thought, given the way his own marital situation had gone.)
He rested his elbow on the table, then his chin on his hand. She again felt too much attention being paid to her. "How long have you two been together?"
"Fifteen years."
"Really?"
She didn't know how to read the astonishment in his eyes. "What?"
Bruce shook his head innocently. "Nothing . . . I mean, what, did you guys meet in high school or something?"
She tipped her head, peered at him suspiciously. "Come on, Bruce. Don't give me that. You know I'm not that young."
"Ana, I have no idea how old you are. I don't go through all the employment records of all the people who work for me. To me, you look like you're around thirty."
Ana tried very hard not to bat her eyelashes and say, Really? And mostly she succeeded, but she wasn't able to completely erase the smile from her voice, all the while remembering (and mostly rejecting) Adrienne's warning about revealing one's true age, about letting the perception be the reality. "Yeah, well. I'm not. Let's just leave it at that."
Bruce ran a hand through his hair. Ana thought it was the most perfect salt-and-pepper hair she had ever seen outside of Cary Grant. It was obviously well cared for by an expensive stylist. Then she caught herself: who the fuck cared about his hair? She took a sip of beer. The lambic was definitely growing on her.
"Yes, and the funny thing is, we're not even officially married. And we've been together longer than just about anyone I know. Almost everyone who we know who has been married that long is now divorced."
Bruce held his hands together palm-to-palm in front of his face, his elbows on the table. He was very good at studied poses that suggested attentiveness. The praying hands mostly hid his mouth too. "Hmm," he said, nodding. She watched him glance at the waitress (was he checking out her ass?), then he looked back at Ana. "No kids?"
"Nope." Ana had long ago learned to answer this question proudly, definitively, and most certainly not like an apology.
"Why not?"
"I like my life. I don't want to be a mother. When most couples have kids, it's the woman who gives up the most and does the most. I like having a career. I don't want it all. Having it all is too much."
"And he's fine with that?"
"Yes he is."
Joined palms shifted to interlocked fingers. "Why did you guys decide not to get married? You were obviously committed to each other."
Ana noted Bruce's use of the past tense and wondered what he meant by it. "We're still committed to each other," she said, more to be contrary than anything. "Getting the piece of paper didn't matter. It still doesn't. If you're committed, you're committed. A marriage certificate doesn't hold anything together." Then, before she thought better of it, she added, "As you well know."
A new beer appeared in front of Ana. I have to have some food, she thought, picking up the menu. She looked up to find Bruce staring at her. She smiled blandly, and then quickly buried her head in the menu.
* * *
Dinner was fine, though Ana wound up drinking too much. She did eventually try the bourbon porter,
and it was so strong and so redolent of bourbon that it made her woozy, especially after the two lambics. She ordered a fancy buffalo burger with grilled onions and blue cheese, which basically undid whatever good she was doing by getting a burger of superlean meat. This happened a lot these days—starting off with good intentions, then having them mutate into some twisted justification for indulgence. Not long into the meal, she realized that she had the perfect opportunity to run some ideas by Bruce about the W2W division.
"I really think we have the opportunity to pitch some business that could actually be good for women and lucrative for the company. You know, maybe aim a little higher than WomanLyfe?"
Bruce took a bite of his burger (beef, of course) and nodded. "Like what?"
"I don't know. Okay, maybe not so much 'good for women,' but maybe get ahold of a small packaged-goods account, maybe something Michigan-made. There's a stand at Eastern Market called Farmer's Daughter. They make soaps and soy candles and natural cosmetics. If we took them on, kind of pro bono, maybe we could do something cool like that Dove Real Beauty work. Where instead of showing anorexic models who make women feel like shit about the way they look, they celebrated real women. Women who are beautiful, but don't have some sort of allegedly perfect fashion-model bodies that are impossible to achieve without starving yourself."
"Oh yeah. Those spots with the fat chicks."
Ana stopped dead and glared at him. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
Bruce bowed his head in pretend shame, half smiling. "Yes, I'm kidding. I'm sorry, I had to do something. You were being so earnest. Sorry. Go on. I know what you're saying."
Ana took a breath and resumed: "My big worry about WomanLyfe, along with their crazy allegiances, is the same as yours. That they're going to want the same crappy advertising but in a shinier package." Ana put down her burger, wiped her mouth and hands with her napkin. She rested her elbows on the table, assuming the same praying hands stance that Bruce had used earlier, then interlacing her fingers. "Ultimately, it's not really going to do us any—"
The Narcissism of Small Differences Page 16