“Oh that. I started it. It’s coming along, I guess.”
“That’s good. We’re delivering it in two weeks.”
“Oh.”
“Is that a problem?”
“I don’t think so.”
Barbara finally conceded that one section of Nipel’s guidelines guidebook was done but she had not looked at it for weeks.
“Can you work on it?”
“I’m busy on other stuff. But I’ll try.”
Her reassurance was enough to soothe Dane’s nerves. He hung up and looked at his watch: it was 2:30. Iris was getting out of school and he had to pick her up. It was Friday and she would wait for him at school, since she had run out of friends to go home with.
Since Becky was out of town looking after her sick mother, Dane acted as a single parent. He woke up Iris every morning, prepared her lunch, drove her to school, and rushed after work to pick her up in the evenings at a friend’s home. Dane needed to collect Iris as soon as possible because her friends’ parents, while sympathetic, did not want their children wasting study time with a friend when they should be doing homework.
Dane had explained his situation to Dick. He thought his boss was a family man and would sympathize. Dick told him to do what he had to do but seemed to resent Dane for leaving.
To compensate for any bad impression he was making, Dane carried a briefcase filled with references and documents containing annotations and footnotes for Maurice’s job. He would work through the weekend and was confident of getting it all done. He passed Dick’s office and wished him a good weekend. Dick was talking with Ralph, the senior editor.
“So, why is there always a problem with the references?” Dick called after Dane.
Dane stood transfixed. He could not ignore the question and walk out because Dick’s imperious tone demanded an answer. He was playing boss again, catching Dane off-guard for an unforeseen mistake. How could he complain about references! All Dane had done of late was to search for, cite, collect and highlight supporting documents.
But the barb did not aggravate Dane as much as their taunting smiles, which epitomized his managerial status. He was outflanked and outranked by boss and subordinate—Dick the snoop and Ralph the rat. Ralph seated with his legs crossed at a casual right angle especially rankled Dane. What right did Ralph have to be at ease while Dane was on edge? Ralph had promised to come to him with his problems but preferred going over his head; Dick, meanwhile, purported to seek harmony while playing the editor against the writer.
Dane was no copy supervisor! He was a copy slave!
“All I do day and night is to write and reference these pieces. So what’s the problem?” Dane barked at Dick.
“Ralph says the references are a mess,” Dick said.
“He never told me that,” Dane replied. “Ralph, you said you’d come to me with problems and we’d solve them together. But you’re not man enough to do that. You’re a weasel who goes behind my back.”
“Stop! Dane, get the hell out of here!” Dick said.
Dick broke the incantatory flow of Dane’s anger like a referee ordering him to a neutral corner. Dane knew he had transgressed more than his norm and felt vulnerable and weak. Four weeks of winning friends at Mentos unraveled in two minutes of unfiltered vitriol. He retired to his office and sat shaking at his desk. When he believed all was calm he returned to Dick’s office to apologize.
Dick seemed to expect Dane although his eyes barely moved from one spot on the monitor.
“I don’t know what that was about but it was unacceptable. You attacked a colleague,” Dick said.
“I’m sorry. I snapped,” Dane admitted.
“Ralph’s a mess. How will I get any work out of him now?”
“He’ll get over it.”
“You also attacked me.”
“I didn’t say a word to you.”
“Not directly. But this is my office.”
“I’m sorry. I have worked non-stop on ten projects since last week. Plus, I have family concerns,” Dane explained. “When you criticized me about the references, I thought Ralph had complained behind my back. I snapped.”
“Pressure comes with the job. You need to manage it,” Dick admonished him.
“Ralph shouldn’t go over my head,” Dane countered. “If he had a problem he should have come to me.”
“It was my fault. I asked him,” Dick said.
“So you went behind my back,” Dane parried.
“Listen, I should fire your ass now. The only reason I’m not is that I once made the same, stupid mistake. When I was at Green, an account guy stormed in my office. He said my layouts were crap and had to be redone. I’d been working for weeks day and night on them and I knew he was busting my balls, so I told him to fuck off. He said he’d have me fired so I threw a heavy object at his head. Dane, your work is great but don’t let this happen again or I’ll fire your ass.”
“Thanks, Dick. I won’t.”
On his way home, Dane tried to block out his thoughts by listening to a radio interview. A crime writer described shooting a friend in the face when they were teenagers. Dane felt better. At least he had not injured or killed anyone!
Reflection was how Dane normally processed his traumas. Thinking diffused the pain. However, he could not bear now to reflect on how he nearly lost his job for no good reason so his body reflected for him. His hands trembled. He tried to steady them by tightening his grip on the wheel but that merely displaced the shaking to the rest of his body. He shivered uncontrollably and the car careened. “Asshole!” he shouted. “You almost got yourself fired. From a place where you’re liked. And for what?”
19. REPENTANCE
On Monday, people regarded Dane as if he had stepped off a wanted poster. Nobody ate his cake. The only one who liked Dane better than before was John, the owner’s tough-guy cousin, who said good morning for once. Everyone avoided Dane until Dick Spilkus and the president, Dirk Ferguson, called him to the conference room. Dane expected the worst but they only asked Dane to write a promotional ad for the agency.
“You have to rebuild fences,” Dick told him later. “People were hurt by what you did. They said, ‘Dane seemed like a nice guy but now I’m not sure. How could he treat his boss that way?’”
Dane meant to convey remorse but Dick’s fence-mending suggestion aggravated him. He had lost his temper and transgressed corporate decorum but committed no atrocity. He had vented his rage on Ralph and “Ralph rage” was commonplace at Mentos. The senior editor was on probation for fighting with people so why should Dane apologize to people for fighting him?
More ridiculous still was Dick’s claim that Dane was resented for abusing his boss. He had not lambasted Dick but even if he had, why would colleagues hate him for it? Did they not secretly wish they could yell at the boss to restore fairness and balance to the universe? Maybe they once had such a desire but renounced it so long ago that they now regarded the impulse with horror like a perversion locked in their hearts. In corporate life, insubordination was a dangerous fantasy workers rarely acknowledged, while free speech was diluted water cooler banter. Shouting in Dick’s office was honest and real, which only made it more despicable.
Dane believed he owed himself the biggest apology. After building good will and a solid image, he revealed “Not-so-Great Dane.” People at Mentos would never again see him as ‘the cake crusader’ but as an obstreperous hothead. He must reassure them that what they had seen Friday was an aberration so they would feel safe with him.
He also had to make things right with himself. Dane examined his recent loss of control. “Why Mentos?” he asked. He explained his outburst with familiar theories—a fear of success, a will to fail, a sense of inadequacy that undermined potential happiness—which clarified nothing. No doubt, he succumbed to the workload and was tired, confused and angry with his role at Mentos. Yes, the blow up was long coming, but it erupted only because the vapid atmosphere at Mentos was conducive to emotional violen
ce. Excessive civility yielded low external resistance, causing internal pressure to explode. Yes, that was it!
This wealth of viable theories should have freed Dane; instead it only added pressure. If the moribund environment at Mentos resulted in a loss of control, Dane remained in constant danger. A colleague could be avoided but an entire office? He must imagine excitement at Mentos or its low energy would trigger further eruptions. Yet, how could he imagine excitement at Mentos without inducing a hallucination?
Fortunately, painful introspection soon yielded to a new challenge and a fresh opportunity to rehabilitate his image. Dick asked Dane to collaborate on a branding campaign for another major client—a producer of blood products for patients with genetic disorders. Most doctors and patients were unaware that an enzyme deficiency triggered lung tissue destruction resembling emphysema. While doing concept development, Dane interviewed patients who had all been misdiagnosed and mistreated by doctors their entire lives. Their genetic disorder was often discovered only after their breathing capacity was shot. One patient spoke between gasps on a ventilator to which he would be attached for the rest of his life.
The information Dane gathered inspired him. He conceived a campaign based on camouflage—how a rare thing can masquerade as a common one and go untreated until too late. Nature abounded with such examples so images and headlines came easily. Dick was enthusiastic. The clients liked the concepts, as well. Dane was elated and relieved. A week had passed since his outburst and his good work was making people forget his bad behavior.
20. NIPEL’S GIFT TO POSTERITY
There was no time to celebrate this positive reversal. On the afternoon of his triumph, Dane accompanied Dick and Maurice to Musgrove Pharmaceutical to meet Nipel and Sandra.
“I have bad news and good news,” Nipel announced. “Musgrove Pharmaceuticals just announced they will lay off 10% of their employees. The good news is you may not have to see me next week.”
“Don’t say that, Nipel. We love you like a brother,” Maurice said.
“I never speak to my brother,” Dick said.
“But do not be sad. I can bust your balls until then,” Nipel said before turning to Dane. “So how is the great guidelines brochure coming?”
“Great,” Dane said.
“Excellent,” Nipel replied. “I’ve waited too long for it…If my last day comes, I want to hand the one who fires me an enduring legacy…I will look him in the eye and he will know he can stop my income, destroy my career and mutilate my self-esteem but he cannot kill my contribution.”
“That’s beautiful, Nipel,” Maurice said. “We will make your dream come true.”
“When?”
“Easter weekend’s coming up. How about next Tuesday?” Dick said.
“Brilliant!” Nipel replied.
This reference book, which had languished as an afterthought for months only to become Nipel’s gift to posterity, was now a hot job. Barbara claimed to have produced only a few new chapters and Dane had never seen them. Now it was his job to deliver a manuscript more ponderous than any he had ever attempted in order to redeem a client’s fragile career and make his dubious dream of immortality come true—in a few days.
When the meeting was over, the agency people waited for the elevator. Dane fended off an attack of mental bends by admiring the Musgrove Pharma décor. It was aesthetically pleasing by drug company standards—pale green carpets, sable drapes, art deco wood paneled chevrons and brass railings. Even the elevator was richly appointed with dark mirrors, wood panels and polished brass controls.
“This place is nice,” Dane remarked casually to mask his nerves.
“You don’t get out much!” Dick quipped. The others laughed.
“I appreciate design,” Dane defended himself.
“So why do you look like a dog’s lunch?” Dick asked.
The others laughed enthusiastically.
Dane did not know how to respond. He wore khaki slacks, a corduroy jacket and a cream colored tie, and looked no better or worse than usual. He did not know why Dick insulted him or why the others laughed but it converted his panic into anger.
Dane was able to delay the mental bends until he returned to the office, where he suffered another “bubble brain” attack. He tried to treat himself. He stretched, threw folders and slapped his cheeks but the pressure remained unbearable. Unlike other hard projects, where he saw bulging reams of paper slide from flimsy folders and knew how screwed he was, Nipel’s guidelines guidebook tortured him because of all that he could not see. He did not know where the document was, where to start, how much was done and how much was left to do.
Dane knew his first move was to supplicate Barbara for help. She had refused him before but he was in panic mode now. She must have a faint sense of duty or, failing that, a trace of compassion. Wouldn’t the same woman who cared for a dog help a copy supervisor?
She picked up the phone on one ring.
“Hello?”
“It’s Dane.”
“I know. Your extension came up.”
“Yeah. Heh, heh!” Dane laughed like it hurt.
“So are we on for lunch?” she asked.
Dane panicked.
“Lunch? Today? It’s four o’clock!”
She laughed. “We weren’t on for lunch. I’m screwing with your head.”
“You’re not alone. Remember Nipel’s guidelines guidebook? It’s due in a few days. I need your help.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I’m doing a project for Tiny Anderson.”
“You can’t do it?” Dane demanded. “It was your project. You’ve got to do it.”
“I can’t,” she yawned. “I have no time.”
“But it all has to be done in two days and it’s your job.”
“I can’t help you. I’m working for Tiny.”
Dead air enveloped the impasse like dark matter no one dared to explore. A massive project needed to be done and he could not make her help him with it.
“Can you send me the work you did on it?” he asked.
“Sure,” she said.
That afternoon, evening, and the next day Dane did nothing but write the Floccacin guidelines guidebook. By Thursday evening he was almost done, which would have been fine if the finished product were not due the next day.
21. A GOOD FRIDAY MORE—NO LESS
That evening, Becky received a call from the hospital where her mother was being treated. She had been moved into ICU. Her vital signs were poor as a new infection raged. She was on an antibiotic that Dane wrote about months before, which exacerbated her suffering.
When her mother was admitted to the hospital, Becky stayed with her for a week. After she stabilized, Becky limited her trips to weekends. Now with this setback, Becky could not wait for the weekend. Dane drove her to Penn Station Friday morning. And since Iris was on spring break, she accompanied Dane to Mentos.
Iris was delighted to go to work with Dane. She had been to every job he ever had. Iris loved art and always did something creative when she spent the day with him. She usually made friends with Dane’s colleagues, especially art directors and production people, and left every agency with a bin’s worth of supplies.
It was a fresh spring morning. Iris enjoyed the long, boring trip to Winton by controlling the radio. Although Iris’s boisterous company made the trip more fun than it had ever been, Dane was under a cloud his daughter could not dispel. A holiday weekend approached and he was under enormous pressure to complete Nipel’s guidelines guidebook. Dane had worked hard on it and it was almost done, but no one had seen it and Dane could not predict his colleagues’ expectations. Would they make him work all day and night? He hated having his ten-year-old languish in an office all day.
Iris soon made friends with the Mentos staff, who bestowed on her their abundant office supplies, which she greedily accepted for her amusement. Dane had no permanent name plate near his door so Iris created one with pencils, markers and copy paper. Her zeal made Dane wistful
. Iris made his job seem so enjoyable when he knew it wasn’t, and he felt responsible for protecting her from that fact. He wished they could have fun together but a barrier had been erected between work and play.
Dane applied himself to the last pages of the guidelines guidebook with zealous efficiency, inspired by Iris and his desire to spend more time with her. He finished the document late that morning and handed it to Maurice’s junior account executive, who received it cheerfully and said, “Well done.”
“I hope so,” Dane said. He and Iris strolled across the bridge over the Sasquatch River and went to the pizzeria, where they ate slices sitting in a red leatherette banquette. Among the other adults with children, Dane finally felt he fit in. After lunch, they strolled up the curving main street when rain poured down amid the sunshine. Dane and Iris played tag with the rain, running and laughing from awning to awning. It reminded him of when she was five and they played hide and seek.
When they returned to the office, Dane waited for feedback on Nipel’s guidelines guidebook, Iris meanwhile crouched on his office carpet, putting the last flourishes on her special name plate for Dane. It featured his name in rounded letters festooned with flowers and other motifs. They taped the sign next to his door. Dane’s office neighbors stopped by to compliment the artist but after they returned to their jobs, the dullness of Mentos set in and Iris was bored.
“Daddy, how long do we have to stay?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied.
The assistant account executive walked in, nervous and upset, with Nipel’s guideline guidebook in her hand.
“This is full of mistakes,” she cried.
Dane was shocked by her harsh response. He thought he had done a good job and expected her to be happy that the guidebook was finished so far ahead of the end-of-day deadline. He flipped through the manuscript to review the mistakes. The pages had typographical errors mostly—registered signs not in superscript and extra spaces between some words.
“These aren’t major,” Dane said. “They’re easy fixes.”
“So fix them,” she demanded.
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