"It's like starting any other business, and people start businesses all the time. Essentially, it comes down to filing the appropriate paperwork with the government, hiring a good lawyer and accountant and setting up the office."
"How long would that take?"
"A month, maybe? And once I'm in an office, I'll start signing clients."
"If they decide to hire you."
"I can get the clients," I said. "I'm not worried about that. Peters is expensive, and I've worked with some of these clients for years. I'm sure they'll jump ship if given the chance."
"But you still won't be earning anything for a while."
"We'll just have to cut back a bit on a few things. Like the cleaning lady, for instance."
"You want me to clean the house?"
"I can help," I assured her.
"Obviously," she said. "Where are you getting the money for all this?"
"I was planning to use some of the money from our investments."
"Our investments?" she repeated.
"We've got more than enough to live on for a year."
"A year?" she asked, echoing me a second time.
"And that's with no income at all," I said. "Which isn't going to happen."
She nodded. "No income."
"I know it seems scary right now, but in the end, it's all going to be worth it. And your life isn't going to change."
"You mean aside from expecting me to be your maid, you mean."
"That's not what I said..."
She cut me off before I could finish. "Peters isn't just going to sit back and applaud your courage," she pointed out. "If he thinks you're trying to poach his clients, he'll do whatever it takes to run you out of business."
"He can try," I said. "But in the end, money talks."
"He's got more of it."
"I'm talking about the clients' money."
"And I'm talking about money for our family," she said, a hard edge coming into her voice. "What about us? What about me? Do you expect me to simply go along with this? We have a child, for God's sake."
"And I'm supposed to just give up my dreams?"
"Don't play the martyr. I hate when you do that."
"I'm not playing the martyr. I'm trying to have a discussion..."
"No you're not!" she said, her voice rising. "You've telling me what you want to do, even if it might not be good for our family!"
I exhaled slowly, concentrating on keeping my voice steady. "I've already told you that I'm sure Peters is going to fire me and there's no other jobs around here."
"Have you tried to talk to him?"
"Of course I've tried to talk to him."
"So you say."
"You don't believe me?"
"Only partly."
"What part?"
She slammed her napkin onto her plate and rose from the table. "The part where you're going to do what you want to do, even if it's detrimental to us and our child."
"Are you saying that I don't care about our family?"
But by then, she'd left the room.
That night, I slept in the guest room. And while remaining somewhat cordial while answering questions with one-or two-word answers, Vivian didn't otherwise speak to me for the next three days.
As good as Marge was at keeping me alive during my youth and offering pearls of wisdom when it came to my flaws, there was a part of her that resented having to babysit me once her teenage years kicked in. She began spending an inordinate amount of time on the phone, and as a result, I watched a lot of television. I can't speak for other kids, but I learned much of what I know about commercials and advertising simply by osmosis. I didn't learn it in college, nor did I learn it from my older, more experienced cohorts at the agency, since half of them were spending their creative energy trying to sabotage the careers of the other half, courtesy of Peters. Not knowing what else to do when I was thrown headfirst into the job, I'd listen as clients described what they wanted to achieve, tap into my well of memories, and come up with new spins on old commercials.
It wasn't quite that simple, of course. Advertising encompasses a lot more than simply television commercials. Over the years, I'd generated catchy slogans for print ads, or billboards; I'd scripted radio commercials and infomercials; I'd helped to redesign websites and created viable social media campaigns; I'd been part of a team that prioritized Internet searches and banner ads targeted to specific zip codes, income, and educational levels, and for one particular client, I conceived and executed the use of advertising on paneled trucks. While virtually all of that work was completed in-house at Peters by various teams, as a solo operator, I'd be responsible for whatever the client needed, and while I was strong in some areas, I was weaker in others, particularly when it came to tech. Fortunately, I'd been in the business long enough to know local vendors who provided the services I'd need, and one by one, I made contact with them.
I hadn't been lying to Vivian when I told her I wasn't worried about landing clients, but unfortunately, I made a mistake, one that was filled with irony. I forgot to plan an advertising campaign for my own business. I should have spent more money putting together a high-quality website and creating promotional materials that reflected the firm I intended to have, not the one I was building from the ground up. I should have put together some quality direct mailings that would inspire clients to reach out to me.
Instead, however, I spent the month of May making sure that the infrastructure was in place to accommodate my success. Using vacation days, I hired a lawyer and accountant, and had the appropriate paperwork filed. I leased an office with a shared receptionist. I purchased office equipment, signed leases for other equipment, and stocked my office with the supplies I knew I'd need. I read books on starting a business, and all of them stressed the importance of being adequately capitalized, and in mid-May, I submitted my two-week notice. If there was any dimming of my excitement, it had to do with the fact that I'd underestimated my start-up costs, while the regular bills still kept coming. The year of no income I'd mentioned to Vivian had shrunk to nine months.
But no matter. June first rolled around, and it was time to officially launch the Phoenix Agency. I sent letters to clients I'd worked with in the past, explaining the services I could offer while promising significant savings, and I let them know that I hoped to hear from them. I started making calls, lining up appointments, and after that, I leaned back in my chair, waiting for the phone to ring.
CHAPTER 4
The Summer of My Discontent
Lately, I've come to believe that having a child jumbles our sense of time, stirring together past and present as if in an electric mixer. Whenever I looked at London, the past was often propelled to the front of my thoughts as memories took hold.
"Why are you smiling, Daddy?" London would ask me.
"Because I'm thinking about you," I'd answer, and in my mind's eye, I would see her as an infant asleep in my arms, or her revelatory first smile, or even the first time she rolled over. She was a little more than five months old and I'd put her down for a nap on her tummy while Vivian went to a yoga class. When London woke, I did a double take while I realized she was lying on her back and smiling up at me.
Other times, I would remember her as a toddler and the cautious way she crawled or held the table as ballast while she was learning how to stand; I remember holding her hands as we paraded up and down the hallway before she could walk on her own.
There is much, however, that I missed, especially when it came to firsts. I missed her first word, for instance, and was out of town when London lost her first baby tooth. I missed the first time she ate baby food from a jar, and yet, it didn't much change my excitement when I eventually witnessed those things. For me, after all, it was still a first.
Sadly, though, there is much that I don't remember. Not everything can be reduced to a single event. When exactly did she move from toddling to walking? Or how did she move from that first word to speaking in short sentences? Those period
s of incremental and inevitable improvement now seem to blur together and it sometimes feels as though I turned my back for an instant, only to discover a new version of London had taken the place of the old one.
Nor am I sure when her room and toys and games changed. I can visualize the nursery in amazing detail, right down to the wallpaper border that featured images of baby ducks. But when were the blocks and stuffed animals in the shape of caterpillars put back into a box that now sits in the corner? When did the first Barbie make her appearance, and how did London begin to imagine Barbie's fantasy life, one that included the color of clothing Barbie must wear when she's in the kitchen? When did London begin to change from being a daughter named London, to London, my daughter?
I occasionally find myself aching for the infant and toddler I'd once known and loved. She's been replaced now with a little girl who had opinions about her hair, asked her mom to paint her nails, and would soon be spending most of her day at school, under the care of a teacher I had yet to meet. These days, I find myself wishing I could turn back the clock so I could more fully experience London's first five years: I'd work fewer hours, spend more time playing on the floor with her, and share her wonder as she focused on the flight path of butterflies. I wanted London to know how much joy she added to my life and to tell her that I did the best I could. I wanted her to understand that even though her mother was always with her, I loved her as much as any father could possibly love a daughter.
Why then, I sometimes wonder, do I feel as if that's not enough?
The phone didn't ring.
Not in the first week, nor the second, nor even the third. While I'd met with more than a dozen different potential clients and all had expressed initial interest, my office phone remained mute. Even worse, as the month neared its end, none of them would make additional time to speak with me when I reached out to them, and their secretaries eventually reached the point where they asked me to stop calling.
Peters.
His fingerprints were all over this, and I thought again about Vivian's warning to me. "If he thinks you're trying to poach his clients, he'll do whatever it takes to run you out of business."
By the beginning of July, I was both depressed and worried, a situation made worse by the most recent credit card bill. Vivian had obviously taken my words to heart about her life not changing; she'd been running errands like crazy, and since I'd let the cleaning lady go, the house had become a regular disaster. After work, I'd have to spend an hour picking up around the house, doing laundry, vacuuming, and cleaning the kitchen. I had the sense that Vivian seemed to view my taking over of the domestic duties--and the credit card bill--as some kind of worthwhile penance.
Our conversations since I'd started my business had been superficial. I said little about work; she casually mentioned once that she'd begun putting out feelers about finding some part-time work. We talked about our families and made small talk about friends and neighbors. Mostly, though, we talked about London, always a safe topic. We both sensed that the slightest offense or misspoken word might lead to an argument.
The Fourth of July fell on a Saturday, and I wanted nothing more than to spend the day decompressing. I wanted to tune out concerns about money or bills or clients who ignored my calls; I wanted to stop the little voice in my head that had begun to wonder whether I should get a second job or start looking for jobs in other cities again. What I wanted was to escape adulthood for a day and then cap the holiday weekend off with a romantic evening with Vivian, because it would make me feel like she still believed in me, even if her faith was getting wobbly.
But holiday or not, Saturday morning was Vivian's Me Time, and soon after waking, she was out the door to yoga class, after which she would go to the gym. I gave London some cereal and the two of us went to the park; in the afternoon, the three of us attended a neighborhood block party. There were games for the kids, and Vivian hung with other mothers while I sipped on a couple of beers with the fathers. I didn't know them well; like me, until recently, they'd tended to work long hours, and my thoughts continually wandered to my looming financial fiasco, even as they spoke.
Later, while the fireworks blossomed in the sky above the BB&T Ballpark, I continued to feel the tension in my neck and shoulders.
On Sunday, I felt no better.
Again, I hoped for a day to unwind, but after breakfast, Vivian told me she had some errands to run and would be gone most of the day. The tone she used--both casual and defiant--made clear that she would be out of the house for most of the day, and was more than ready for an argument if I wanted one.
I didn't. Instead, with my stomach in knots, I watched her hop in the SUV, wondering not only how I was going to hold myself together, but how I was going to keep London entertained for an entire day. In that moment, however, I remembered a slogan I'd conceived in the first year of my advertising career.
When you're in trouble and need someone in your corner...
I'd written it into a commercial for a personal injury attorney and even though the guy was disciplined by the bar and eventually lost his license to practice, the ad had caused a flood of other local attorneys to advertise with our firm. I was responsible for most of them; the go-to guy when it came to any form of legal advertising and it made Peters a ton of money. A couple of years later, an article appeared in The Charlotte Observer and noted that the Peters Group was considered to be the ambulance chasers of the advertising world, and a few banking and real-estate executives began to balk at the association. Peters reluctantly pulled the plug on those same clients, even though it pained him, and years later, he would sometimes complain that he'd been extorted by those same banks he had no trouble exploiting, at least when it came to the fees he charged them.
Still, I was in trouble and I needed someone in my corner... and I made the spur-of-the-moment decision to visit my parents.
If they're not in your corner, you're in real trouble.
It's hard for me to imagine my mom without an apron. She seemed convinced that aprons were as essential as a bra and panties when it came to women's wear, at least when she was at home. Growing up, she'd be wearing one when Marge and I came down to breakfast; she put one on immediately after walking in the door after work, and she'd continue wearing one long after dinner had been concluded and the kitchen had been cleaned. When I'd ask her why, she'd say that she liked the pockets, or that it kept her warm, or that she might have a cup of decaffeinated coffee later and didn't want to spill it on her clothes.
Personally, I think it was just a quirk, but it made buying her Christmas and birthday gifts easy, and over the years, her collection had grown. She had aprons in every color, every length and style; she had seasonal aprons, aprons with slogans, aprons that Marge and I had made her when we were kids, aprons with the name "Gladys" stenciled onto the fabric, and a couple of them even had lace, though she considered those too racy to wear. I knew for a fact that there were seven boxes of neatly folded aprons in the attic, and two entire cabinets in the kitchen were dedicated to her collection. It had always been something of a mystery to Marge and me how our mom went about selecting her Apron of the Day, or even how she could find the one she wanted amidst all the others.
Little about her apron-wearing habit had changed after she'd stopped working. My mom had worked not because she loved her job but because our family needed the money, and once she stepped away, she joined a gardening club, volunteered at the senior center, and was an active member of the Red Hat Society. Like Vivian and London, it seemed as though she had something planned every day of the week, things that made her happy, and it was my distinct impression that the aprons she'd been selecting over the last few years reflected a more cheerful disposition. Plain aprons had been banished to the bottom of the drawer; at the top were aprons patterned with flowers and birds, and the occasional slogan such as Retired: Young at Heart but Older in Other Places.
When I arrived with London in tow, my mom was wearing a red and blue checkered apron--
without pockets, I couldn't help but notice--and her face lit up at the sight of my daughter. Over the years, she'd begun to resemble less the mother I'd known and more the kind of grandmother that Norman Rockwell might have created for the cover of The Saturday Evening Post. She was gray-haired, pink-cheeked, and soft in all the right places, and it went without saying that London was equally thrilled to see her.
Even better, both Liz and Marge were at the house. After a quick hug and kiss from all of them, their attention shifted completely to my daughter, and I pretty much became invisible. Liz scooped her up almost as soon as London burst through the front door and all at once London was talking a mile a minute. Marge and Liz hung on her every word, and as soon as I heard the word cupcakes, I knew that London would be occupied for at least the next couple of hours. London loved to bake, which was odd since it was something that Vivian didn't particularly enjoy, what with all the white flour and sugar.
"How was your Fourth?" I asked my mom. "Did you and Dad see the fireworks?"
"We stayed in," she said. "Crowds and traffic are just too much these days. How about you?"
"The usual. Neighborhood block party, and then we went to the ballpark."
"So did we," Liz said. "You should have called us. We could have made plans to meet."
"I didn't think about it. Sorry."
"Did you like the show, London?" Marge asked.
"They were super pretty. But some of them were really loud."
"Yes, they were."
"Can we go start the cupcakes now?"
"Sure, sweetie."
Strangely, my mom didn't follow the three of them. Instead, she hovered near me, waiting until they were in the kitchen before finally smoothing the front of her apron. It was what she always did when she was nervous.
"You okay, Mom?"
"You need to talk to him. He needs to go to the doctor."
"Why? What's up?"
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