Domestic Violets (17 page)

Chapter 22

A
side from Ian
himself—and whichever of his underling lackeys shows up—I’m the last person from the department in the conference room. It’s not big enough to hold the whole group comfortably, and so many of my colleagues are left to lean on the walls or stand while the early birds enjoy their spots around the big wooden conference table.

“Nice of you to join us, Tom,” says Greg.

Despite the fact that there are a number of women without seats, Greg has planted himself in a chair at the head of the table. A quick burst of hatred seizes my face, but I manage to wrangle it into a smile. “Wow, Greg, the Brooks Brothers tie today, huh? It must be a special occasion.”

He clenches his jaw, but chooses to despise me silently.

Like any department, ours is full of cliques, and each of them is represented here. The IT and database people are huddled together. They think the rest of us are idiots and we think they’re socially retarded dweebs, but we tend to live in harmony. There are the Gregory People, of course. They dress more formally than necessary and sit in a constant state of alert, waiting for an opportunity to use a word like “leverage” or “facilitate.” And then there are the people like me. I’ll call them Tom People. They don’t really care about any of this, and some of the younger ones, the graphic artists in particular, look hungover. It’s the first time we’ve all been together since Doug got the ax, and, for the moment, everyone seems united against one common enemy: anxiety of the unknown. There is one person in the world with the power to fire us all at once, and that person called this meeting.

I sidle in next to Katie, who’s standing in the corner. I haven’t seen her since Johnny Rockets, and she’s the loveliest thing in the room times ten. I smile and she smiles, but it’s strained.

“Are you feeling better?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says. “The flu, I think.”

I begin to apologize, but I can see from her look that she doesn’t want me to. Especially not here. “What do you think this is about?” she asks.

“I heard we were here to pick the company softball team,” I say.

A few people in the room laugh. This seems to be my gift, making a handful of bored, nervous people laugh in a quiet room.

“I hear they’re shipping all our jobs to London,” says Denise, a tiny woman in a plaid skirt who is a liaison between Sales and Marketing. “All of them.”

“Where did you hear that?” I ask.

Denise shrugs, apparently unwilling to reveal her sources.

Alan, one of the dreadful Gregory People, is swiveling in his chair, nervous. He’s wearing a Dartmouth pin on his lapel even though he’s in his forties. “With the exchange rate the way it is, that’s probably what’s happening. There’s a big movement over to the UK right now. I read about it.”

Nerves, in the form of murmuring, flare up around the room. Not since the 1700s have this many Americans been so terrified of the British.

“Nah,” I say. “He’s probably just checking in to see how we’re all doing.”

Everyone looks at me, unconvinced. I don’t blame them.

“I’m sure it’s something a little more substantive than that, Tom,” says Greg. “I doubt if a man as busy as Ian would just . . .
check in
.”

“Good point, Greg,” I say. “Are you comfortable in that chair? Can I get you a soda or a foot massage or anything?”

“I’m quite all right, thank you.”

Usually in meetings, our coworkers watch us with morbid curiosity, wondering how long it’ll take me to make Greg blow up and turn all red. But today we’re a mere distraction, and everyone goes back to muttering doomsday scenarios among themselves. A woman named Gail asks if companies are legally required to pay severance. None of us knows, but the consensus is that they’re not.

“How are you?” I whisper touching Katie’s elbow.

She bites her lip. “Nervous is how I am. Half the country’s getting laid off right now. I need this job or I’m screwed.”

It takes physical effort not to place my hand on her lower back and tell her that I’m sorry. I may not have the words to articulate exactly what I’m sorry for, but I
am
sorry. I’m like my stepdad, no cards to play other than contrition. “You’ll be fine,” I say. “Trust me. This isn’t going to be anything big.”

She takes a sip of her Diet Dr Pepper. “Have you heard from that agent yet about your book?”

Before I can tell her no, the door swings open and our collective breath is held as Janice Stringer and Ian Barksdale glide into the room. Janice is in a gray, shapeless thing, but Ian looks like he’s just stepped off the James Bond sound studio, sliding his BlackBerry into the pocket of his pin-striped suit. “ ’Ello, thank you all for coming.”

We make the briefest bit of eye contact, but there’s no expression there, not even an acknowledgment that we know each other. Greg springs to his feet, freeing his chair for Ian, and this whole thing really should be on a television show about how awful offices are.

“I wanted to have a chat with you all today about the future of this marketing organization. I know your team’s future has likely been top of mind as of late. So, to start, I want to ask you all a simple question. And I want each of you to take it very seriously. What is the definition of insanity?”

Oh brother.

Silent panic flares up among the Gregory People. They don’t know if they’re supposed to answer this or just sit there blinking. To spite them, I consider blurting out the answer, but I’ve probably done enough damage to my career this month already.

“Insanity is, quite simply, continuing to do the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. For some time now, MSW’s marketing organization has been behaving insanely. You have done the same things, put out the same materials, reached out to the same market verticals, and set the same goals for yourselves. All whilst expecting continued success. In light of current economic events, I have decided that the old way of doing things is no longer viable, and I’m here today to infuse some
sanity
into this team.

“Doug Miller is a good man, and he served this company well. But I’m quite certain he was ill-equipped to take you all to the next level. You can go further,
all
of you.”

This last sentence, with its “you” and “all,” seems to reverberate, and all at once that collective breath is released. To varying degrees, everyone is relieved—some bordering on downright giddiness—that our shitty jobs in this shitty company are safe.

“Today is the beginning of new things for your team. New messages. New audiences. New media. New promotions. New products and ideas and responsibilities and opportunities for success. As I see it, the possibilities are endless for this department. Together, you’re going to take some risks, you’re going to think outside the box, and you’re going to unlock your personal and collective potential.”

He sounds like he’s running for something, and around the room, people are watching this British millionaire with wide, thankful eyes. But one person isn’t: Greg. Instead, he’s watching me and he’s smiling. This is creepy, but I play it off, winking at him like I’m Cool Hand Luke. But, the truth is, I know enough about the world to know that Greg’s happiness can mean only my
un
happiness. Set against the Imperial Death March, realization arrives in a slow, sinking weight at the back of my neck.

“I thought long and hard about who I would task with taking charge of this newly empowered group. I looked through the ranks overseas and at our sister companies, and even among our competitors. However, at the end of the day, I settled on one person, realizing him to be the ideal, most qualified candidate. And that person is sitting in this very room.”

The fact that I haven’t predicted this is shameful, and it shines the light on my own crippling stupidity. I’ve feared the Brits and the unknown. And I’ve agonized over my own identity and my crumbling marriage and my stupid novel and this girl standing at my side and my father’s meddling in my mother’s life. I’ve let all of this block out the most obvious thing in the world, and now I’m truly fucked.

“So, without further ado, it gives me immense pleasure to announce the new vice president of marketing, and the newest member of my management team, Gregory Steinberg.”

The Gregory People erupt in spontaneous applause and goodwill. The others just look at each other and shrug.

“I don’t believe it,” says Katie, not even bothering to whisper.

But I do. This really couldn’t have gone any other way. And that’s why it takes me a while to even realize that I’m laughing. It’s a dark and unhappy laugh, a man laughing who’s just come home from the grocery store to find that a wrecking ball has taken out the front of his house by mistake while he was gone.

Watching everyone react, enjoying it, Greg smiles and then shakes Ian’s hand. When our eyes meet again, mine and Greg’s, I know that he’s hoping for some sign of defeat—a clenched fist, tears, me punching an intern and storming out of the room. Instead though, I just keep laughing. “Congratulations, Greg,” I say. “You’ve earned it.”

On the way out of the room, I pass Ian. He’s switched from Rallier of the Common People back to executive again, tapping away at his stupid BlackBerry. I wonder how long it’d take me to run up to Buckingham Palace, dodge Lauren, and steal back that copy of
The Bridge That Wasn’t There
. According to eBay, the damn thing is worth five hundred dollars. I checked.

“Had your chance, mate,” he says, barely looking up from the little screen. “Good luck with the writing though.”

“You just promoted the Antichrist,” I say, and then I step out into the grim, soul-crushing beige hallway.

Chapter 23

D
o you think
it’s a good idea to have that many stimulants going into your body at once?”

Katie has a Diet Dr Pepper in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Squinting from the sun, she’s like a live wire, skittering and shaky on the roof of our building. “He hates me,” she says. “I mean, he
seriously
hates my guts. Don’t you understand that? I’m completely dead. Completely.”

“You’re not dead. Greg doesn’t hate you. He hates me.”

“Well, yeah, everyone knows that. But I’m still screwed. He’s gonna fire me and I’m gonna have to move to Fairfax to live with my parents. Oh my God. I’m gonna jump. Do you think it’s high enough to kill myself? Here, hold my cigarette.”

“Nobody’s getting fired. He’s not just gonna take over and start canning people. It’d be a mess. Besides, that’s not his style. I think he’d rather just keep us on and make our lives miserable.” I inhale from Katie’s cigarette and look down on the street below. People are just wandering down there on the sidewalk, worried about their own shit, completely oblivious to the heinous war crimes that just occurred in this big ugly building.

I’ve been in corporate America long enough to know that if Katie did get fired, even in the middle of all this, she’d be better off in the long run. She’s young enough to bounce back unscathed, and good-looking and talented enough to get on somewhere else and forget all about her time here aboard the Death Star. I should tell her that right now. I should advise her to get the hell out of here and live with her damn parents if she has to. But I don’t, because, the fact is, I don’t want her to be gone. And that’s exactly where she’d be . . . gone.

“What about you?” she asks. “I mean, he really does hate your guts. It’s not a joke.”

I smoke some more, not enjoying it, but being reminded how much “The Man” hates me while smoking makes me feel kind of like a badass. “Well, let’s review, shall we? My wife works for a nonprofit. I’ve got a seven-year-old, and we’re technically trying to have another one. The check-engine light in my car has been on for three months. And my new boss has lodged twenty-five formal complaints against me with HR in the last three years. If they gave people Pulitzer Prizes for being screwed, it wouldn’t even be close.”

Katie studies the pointy toes of her shoes, sad suddenly. In many ways, for a long time now, Katie and I have been playing house for forty-odd hours a week, carefully constructing our own chaste strand of intimacy. By talking about Anna, even in passing, I’ve taken a step outside of our little world.

“She’s prettier in real life,” Katie says after a while.

“Who?”

“Anna. Your wife. She’s prettier in person than in the picture on your desk. She looked good at Johnny Rockets. That’s quite a feat.”

Katie’s right, of course. I’m sure it took David Anderson a few trips to the gym to notice her, pumping away on the StairMaster or treadmill. But once he did, he probably couldn’t get enough of her. “Yeah, she’s not bad,” I say.

“She looks really smart, too. I wish I looked smarter. I don’t think people think I’m smart when they see me. I think they just think I’m . . . I don’t know. I thought about getting glasses once, like those fake ones. That might help.”

I finish the dreadful cigarette and vow to make it my last. I’m a goddamn adult, what in the hell am I doing smoking? “You’re very smart, Katie. At least
I
think so.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m sorry about the other night, you know,” I say. Her hair falls across her face before being swept back by the wind, and I feel a little weak in the knees. “You’re just . . . you’re just a difficult person to explain. I guess I didn’t know exactly how to introduce you to my family.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she says.

“Why?”

“When I saw you guys, I got really jealous. Like teenage-girl jealous. I know that’s stupid, ’cause they’re your family. But I wanted to mess it up for you, because you were with them and you weren’t with me. So I said that thing about your face, about how you’d gotten hurt protecting me. I knew that’d make Anna mad at you. Does that make me a horrible person? Because it definitely sounds like something a horrible person would do.”

“No, it doesn’t. Whenever I see Todd I want to punch him in the mouth. And I’ve nicknamed him Todd the Idiot.”

She laughs, and then so do I.

When we’re up here, we’re rarely alone. There are usually randoms doing the same thing we’re doing, escaping for a few minutes to smoke or vent. But right now, there’s no one else. It’s just us. We’re all alone.

“Do you ever wonder what it’d be like,” says Katie, and then she takes one of my hands in hers. At first it’s just playful, like a handshake, but then it’s something else. I’m holding Katie’s hand and we’re alone.

“What
what
would be like?” I ask.

“If we kissed?”

I’ve imagined a conversation like this, in which, somehow, everything before it would culminate—all of our trips to 7-Eleven and our cigarettes and our goofing around in the office and the funny forwards we send back and forth and our secret, complicated investment in each other. I’m not ready though. Not today. “Katie, I have to go.”

“What? Where?”

“I have to go to the bank. It’s actually kind of important.”

“You’re leaving? Right
now
? Are you crazy? You can’t leave. Do you know how pissed off Gregory’s gonna be?”

I put my hand on her shoulder, turning her toward the door to walk her back down to Cubeland. “It’ll just be one more complaint, Katie. How bad could it be?”