Dane raced to correct the manuscript. Time was accelerating and he was trying to catch up, while mindful of Iris’s growing boredom. He wished more than anything to complete the project and have everyone sign off—or have the arbitrary deadline extended. He hoped the agency would close early in observance of Good Friday.
“Daddy, how long will you be working?” Iris asked.
“I don’t know, honey. Not long,” he lied. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’ll be back.”
She wandered off while Dane worked furiously to make the changes to Nipel’s legacy.
A team meeting was called for three o’clock and it was 2:50. Dane glanced up from his screen and wondered where Iris was. He searched for her among the cubicles on his floor without success and became nervous.
“Iris!” he called.
“Daddy?”
She was in Barbara’s office, sketching his bosom bully while they chatted.
“What are you doing?” Dane demanded. It was unclear to whom he addressed the question.
“Look, Daddy. I drew this. Do you like it?”
It was a sketch of Barbara. Iris made her look many years younger and as innocent as Iris.
“Yes, it’s very good, but you shouldn’t disappear like that,” Dane reproached her.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t eat her,” Barbara said.
The team meeting was in the conference room on the second floor near Dane’s old office. Dane and Iris took the stairway.
“What were you and that…lady talking about?” he asked.
“Barbara? Nothing. School. She’s nice.”
“Yeah. She’s great,” Dane said.
Iris gravitated to the art studio while Dane entered the conference room across the way where many group inquisitions had taken place.
Maurice called the session to order with a cough and a clap of the hands.
“This team is on a losing streak and it must stop. I’m serious, folks. We are professionals!” Maurice bellowed. “We should be able to do what needs to be done. We have been working on the guidelines guide book for ages. And I hear it’s still not done!”
Dick turned to Dane with shock and betrayal configured on his face.
“Aren’t you on this? I thought we discussed it.”
“I’ve been working on it non-stop for days. I finished a draft this morning and submitted it.”
“It’s full of mistakes,” the hysterical assistant screamed.
“They were typos. I already corrected them,” Dane replied.
“Editorial still needs to see it,” she insisted.
“So give it to them!” Dane retorted.
“They won’t have it back in time. We need it for the printer on Monday!”
“That’s your process. I’ve done all I can,” Dane said.
“What am I hearing? You are copy supervisor!” Maurice boomed. “This is precisely what I’m talking about. This irresponsibility is destroying us like a cancer.”
“I’m not irresponsible and I’m not a cancer,” Dane replied. “I’ve met every deadline and this is no exception.”
“We need this by Wednesday,” the nervous assistant shrieked. “Editorial can’t see it before Monday. That means everything has to be out the door Monday afternoon if we’re having it bound!”
“This is inexcusable,” Maurice said. “You knew the deadline.”
The attack intensified. Dane felt like a bombarded target. He had three options. He could bolt from the room, duck under the table or stand up for himself. As a copy supervisor, he could not retreat so he shot to his feet.
“I won’t take the fall for this, do you hear me? I’ve worked my tail off meeting impossible deadlines, handling crisis after crisis,” Dane spoke out. “The guidelines guidebook was Barbara’s project a month before I was hired. I took it on at the last minute because it had barely been started. I wrote most of it in two days with no help—so don’t yell at me!”
“Sit down! I am the team leader,” Maurice demanded.
“I will not sit down. I’ve done nothing but work hard since I got here but instead of support and encouragement, I’m scapegoated. There might be fewer crises with better management!”
“That’s enough,” Dick blurted sternly.
Dane and Maurice continued to shout and point fingers at each other while the other team members looked on aghast, until Dick adjourned the meeting.
“What was that all about?” Dick asked Dane.
“He was abusing me.”
“He was being firm,” Dick replied.
Dane realized he had done what Dick warned him never to do. He left the conference room downcast and depleted.
“Daddy, look!” Iris showed him a clear plastic triangle someone in the studio had given to her. “It’s so cool. And check out this stylus. It can draw on the screen.”
Iris was laughing and socializing with art directors. Neither she nor anyone in the studio knew what had transpired in the conference room. Dane tried to lose himself in her happiness but it reminded him of his forbidden outburst and intensified his guilt.
The office was quiet for the rest of the day. Dane completed the corrections to the guidelines guidebook before he and Iris left at sunset.
“Daddy, let’s go back to the Bahamas this summer so we can swim in the ocean. It’s so beautiful there. You can see fish swimming around you,” Iris said.
“Okay, honey,” he replied.
The happiness in her voice tore away at the instability he had brought into her life. It was like her sixth birthday party when he vowed to get a job and keep it for twenty years. That was a promise he should not have made. As Winton faded in the rear, he asked himself why he lost his cool knowing it would cost his job. This was no momentary lapse and it was pointless to reconstruct the scene. In a way he could not articulate, the event seemed inevitable.
That weekend provided merciful distractions. On Saturday Dane drove Iris to her art class and took her shopping for spring clothes. On Sunday they drove to Philadelphia to visit Becky’s mother in the hospital. It rained hard all day. The sky was dark, the hospital was bleak and Becky’s mother had tubes running up her arms and in her nose. A strong antibiotic drip made her body tremble. Becky’s mother was glad to see her granddaughter and thanked Dane for visiting. Dane and Iris drove home when visiting hours were over, unaware that they had said their last good-byes to her.
22. DON’T TAKE IT OUT ON THE CHEESECAKE
Dane hoped the wet weekend would wash away his recent misconduct at Mentos and it would be forgiven if not forgotten.
He went to work on Monday in a mellow mood, prepared for the fallout. Eerily there was none. One executive gave him an assignment and told stories of the bad old days in advertising. Dane had meetings with other executives to discuss new projects. No one seemed to know about his recent tantrum and Dick never called him in to discuss it.
Had Dane reached that American Nirvana where talent was a license for bad behavior? Had he entered the same caste as the crotchgrabbing, hung-over copywriter who spoke at The Institute of Design orientation? An inner voice told Dane he would never be so lucky.
The next day, Dane bought “rain bread” for his colleagues at Mentos. In the bakery display case he saw a cheesecake with pineapple topping. Was there ever a more fortuitous symbol of redemption? Without hesitation, he bought this as a special gift for Dick along with the babka he purchased for everyone else. All morning he looked for Spilkus in his usual haunts—the dark office and hallways—but did not find him.
During the lunch hour, Dane walked over the bridge to send his taxes from the Winton post office. It was raining hard. When he returned, an account executive phoned about a new project. They were chatting amicably when Dick called on the other line. Dane explained to Dick that he was being briefed on a project and asked if he could get back to him.
“Come now,” Spilkus replied.
Dick’s cold tone intimated that Dane’s sins were neither forgiv
en nor forgotten but Dane entered the creative director’s dark office covered in fear-repellent. He believed he possessed a weapon against which Dick was defenseless. Dane opened the cake box and flapped its lid to let the scent of sweet ricotta permeate the room like delicious nerve gas. Dane felt invincible. He could keep his job forever!
Spilkus’s eyes bulged angrily at his monitor but his nostrils twitched and flared at the rich aroma suffusing his office. Mrs. Mallory, the human resources director, occupied the couch. She was lactose intolerant and impervious to Dane’s offering.
“Look,” Dane announced. “Here it is! The pineapple cheesecake you’ve been craving for a month. I finally found it. Bon appetit!”
Dick’s eyes ogled the cheesecake. His mouth gaped with delight, only to fall in a downward twist as bad timing churned potential pleasure into wrath.
“It’s too late, Dane. We’re letting you go,” Spilkus said. “I warned you we’d have zero tolerance for another outburst. Maurice is devastated. He says he can’t work with you. Your work is outstanding but your behavior is unacceptable.”
“Most people here like me,” Dane pointed out with unusual cool for someone being fired. He believed his pineapple cheesecake was protecting him. “The people I fought with have other conflicts. And you told me when you hired me I’d get writing help, but that never happened. I did the work of two or three people, nights and weekends. And when I got it done, I was abused. Is it strange that I lost my temper?”
“None of it excuses you,” Dick said. “You’re out of here.”
“What about my projects?” Dane pleaded, as he started to realize that the power of his pineapple cheesecake was not working. “People depend on me. What do I tell them?”
“You tell them nothing. You’re gone,” Dick replied in monotone.
“What about Nipel’s guidelines guidebook?”
Dane haggled to keep his job while Dick’s eyes said, “You’re fired” with implacable cruelty. Dane knew he sounded pathetic but could not resist. A half hour earlier he had projects, relationships, a niche at Mentos, but he was no longer a mind marketing medicine. Now that he was terminated, people would ask, “Where’s Dane?” Dick would tell them, “He’s gone” and that would be it.
Mrs. Mallory, the human resources director, liked Dane and was delighted by Iris, with whom she had chatted the previous Friday. Although lactose intolerant, Mrs. Mallory was moved by Dane’s gift of cheesecake. She dabbed her eyes at the pathos of his situation.
“Dane, I’m not involved in hiring and firing. That’s management’s role. But when Dick told me you were being let go, I made an exception. I defended you and asked Dick to give you a second chance. You’ve made many friends and good impressions at Mentos. Of course, there was the incident some weeks ago but advertising is rough and tumble—and you tumbled. But now I’ve become aware of behavior that far exceeds…I could not believe you could do such a thing.”
“What is it?” Dane demanded. He could not bear the suspense.
“It’s come to our attention that you had improper contact with a female employee.”
“What?” Dane groaned.
“…Physical in nature…We have zero tolerance…”
Dane’s momentary numbness was followed by an aftershock.
“I was the victim! She made inappropriate contact! She grabbed my head and…” Dane stopped before describing what Barbara had done, for fear that even uttering the words would incriminate him. He adapted a rule he learned in his creative writing class: “Show, don’t tell.”
“She did this!” Dane thrust his palms backward toward his face and shook his head vigorously, his hands repeatedly slapping his face.
“I couldn’t breathe!” Dane yelled. “I was gagging. I had to pull myself free, do you understand? She did it to me!”
Mrs. Mallory, a sedate woman in her 40’s, stared at Dane incredulously. Dick had warned her about the likelihood of such an eruption, yet nothing could prepare her for its appearance and effect. Meanwhile Dick, who had been glancing furtively at the pineapple cheesecake, now gazed at it with unabashed longing.
“I don’t want to play a game of he said, she said. Here is your last check. We’ve given you two weeks severance for the excellent work you’ve done,” Mrs. Mallory replied.
Dane knew his job would officially be over once he grabbed the check so he let the HR director’s hand extend the envelope in midair to postpone the inevitable. He refused to accept that he was fired until they acknowledged the accusations against him to be false. They were depriving him of his income but he would not be denied a respectable story to tell his wife. Becky would accept anger, fatigue, numbing work and a long commute to explain his leaving Mentos but how could he explain inappropriate contact—even if he was the unwilling recipient?
Mrs. Mallory finally inserted the separation envelope in Dane’s hand. He opened it.
“The position for which Dane Bacchus was hired has been eliminated.”
It was simple, sterile and unspecific, without condemnation or complaint. He was not terminated; the job was. After his initial relief at the vagueness of its wording, Dane reread the letter, stunned by its finality. Dick was impatient. Perhaps he wanted to be alone with his pineapple cheesecake.
“It’s not hard to understand, Dane. It’s over. You’re fired. Get out!”
“What about the cheesecake?” Dane asked.
“What about the damned cheesecake?” Dick demanded. “Take the damned cheesecake!”
“Can’t we eat cheesecake and talk this over like men?”
“There’s nothing to talk about. I told you not to act out again and you did. Now go!”
It was all too much for Dane. He was trying to say, “I’m not a bad guy. I brought pineapple cheesecake,” but Spilkus was not biting. He preferred to kick Dane out in the rain, to remove him from the payroll like he did with his children. Suddenly Dane picked up the cheesecake box and shuffled on tired feet toward Dick. He held the open cake box over the creative director’s desk while Spilkus stared listlessly at his monitor so the fragrance would wind around the creative director and make him forget all else.
“Here, take your cheesecake!” Dame insisted.
Spilkus saw Dane holding the dessert like a sacrificial offering and lashed out against his own weakness.
“Get that out of my face!” Dick shouted. He swung his arm like he was hitting a backhand shot in tennis, knocking the cheesecake box out of Dane’s control. It flipped and hit the floor.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Mallory said. “Dane, you should go now. We don’t want more scenes.”
Dane stared at the capsized box that hid its delectable contents like a cardboard hut.
“I’ll clean it up,” Dane said.
“That’s all right. The cleaning people will do it,” the HR woman said.
“No, let me,” Dane insisted.
Dane crouched on the floor and gently lifted the box, to make a grisly find.
The pineapple cheesecake lay upside down with its yellow topping smeared across the felt carpet. Dane had intended to rescue the dessert and slide it back into the box but it was flat, separated in pieces and melting into the carpet fibers. Dane knelt over the cheesecake like it was a beloved corpse and tried molding it in a circle with his palms, but the cheese was too soft. He stared at his sticky hands covered with ricotta and fruit bits. He wanted to clean his hands but how was it possible with no towels or napkins? Should he lick off the cheese or wipe his hands on his pants? The cake could not be saved. The mess could not be cleaned. Dane wanted to cry. It was one thing to fire him but why did Dick waste his cheesecake? He should scoop the cheese into a ball and smash it in Dick’s face, stuff it in his mouth and nose and make him gag.
“Get him out of here!” Dick railed.
Dane felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, urging him to rise.
“Come, Dane. Someone will clean it,” Mrs. Mallory said gently.
Mrs. Mallory escorted Dane to the men’s
room, so he could wash his hands, and then back to his office, where he relinquished his key and Mentos ID, slung the strap of his battered briefcase over his shoulder, and removed Iris’s paper name plate from the door. Iris had been so happy here just days before and had made many friends. What would he tell her? ‘Daddy was fired for shouting!’
He drove the final 41 miles through fog and a driving rain, contrite and crestfallen for the Mentos fiasco. He anguished over telling Becky that he was unemployed again—after only forty days. His stint at Mentos had a strange trajectory. Normally, his jobs began with high expectations and ended in disillusionment, whereas Mentos started with doubts he attempted to overcome—could he handle the commute and the job?—and ended in the certainty that he could not. In between he tried harder than ever before to succeed but never did more than hang on.
On the stretch between Greenwich and New Rochelle, Dane’s brain numbed to his predicament. He found comfort from an unlikely source. A song he had not heard for ages came on the radio and he sang along. “MacArthur Park is melting in the dark, all the sweet green icing flowing down. Someone left a cheesecake in the rain…” He never understood what a cake was doing in the rain or how it could melt—until now.
What was wrong with him? He had a disease, like rheumatoid arthritis, which flared up unpredictably and uncontrollably. Maybe he was infested with demons or under a curse. Yes, it was a curse. That was the only way to explain his failures.
At the last exit in New York before the bridge, Dane pulled up at a light near the bus station. A man crossed in front of his car and walked down the street. The pedestrian carried plastic bags in either hand, wore weather-beaten sneakers and a frayed raincoat, and waddled like a duck. Was it Ivan Blinsky, the donut-giving professor from the university? Dane had not seen Blinsky for years. He did not know if he was even alive but if he was, this would be the time he trudged back to the city after his evening classes.
At the chance sighting of his academic ally, Dane was stricken by guilt but also saw a chance for redemption. Blinsky had given Dane more than donuts. He had spoken highly of Dane throughout the university, enhancing his reputation, which resulted in more courses for Professor Bacchus to teach. Out of gratitude, Dane drove Blinsky into the city from the suburban campus after classes. One evening Ivan hinted that he would appreciate a dinner invitation but Dane did not extend it. Becky did not expect a guest and Dane doubted they had enough food for Blinsky. Besides, Dane had seen Blinsky eat donuts and wished to avoid an encore performance with meat and mashed potatoes. He left Ivan at the station and their friendship faded.
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