I'll Be Your Everything (8 page)

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Authors: J.J. Murray

BOOK: I'll Be Your Everything
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“You want me to remain impartial till the show?”
I nod.
“Then you’re on your own, Miss Ross, from this point on.”
Just where I like to be. “Will you be in Georgia on Monday?”
He nods.
“Perhaps we’ll see each other there and I can meet your wife.” I get another idea. “No offense, Mr. Peterson, but I could really use some home cookin’.” Did I just drop a
G
? I did. My hair is falling
way
down. “I’ll be looking you up for a recommendation.”
“Fine, fine.” He stands and offers his hand, and this time he shakes my hand.
“Let the competition begin, Mr. Peterson.”
He lets go of my hand. “And what an interesting competition it will be, Miss Ross.”
On my way back to MultiCorp, my sturdy legs turn into marmalade. What have I just gotten myself into? Not only have I successfully impersonated my boss, but I’ve also just invited myself to Georgia! I rest against the base of the Millennium, staring out at that cross. “Thank You, Jesus, for getting me through that, and if it’s not too much trouble, keep Your eye on me for the next twelve days.”
Okay. Breathe. My stomach is grumbling! I need quesadillas! Take stock, take stock. Corrine is out of the picture for two weeks. My heart is slowing already. Tom, who may be watching me right now, is my competition. Hmm. A worthy adversary. He has to be handsome. I look around and don’t see any remotely handsome men. For all of Corrine’s ways, she would not be seen with an ugly man of any race. And I’m going on a trip! My first! But
as
her! I really don’t know enough about these bikes to sell them. The key to the whole campaign has to be down there. One day in Georgia, then eight days to get the presentation going.
Wait. Mr. Peterson wants the
finished
copy of everything to run the day before Thanksgiving! I don’t have that kind of time! I don’t have the technical support to produce all that and somehow keep it a secret from Mr. Dunn! Wow. Harrison Hersey and Boulder is going to kick my tail.
I look to my right and squint. Is that the woman whom I helped without helping this morning? What are the chances? I approach her. “Hi again.”
She turns and smiles. “Hello there. I made it to Manhattan.”
“Yes, you have.” I wish I had her camera for what I have to do. I wonder if I can borrow one from production. No, because then they’d ask why, I’d say “never mind,” they’d start some rumor or other, the whispers would travel to Mr. Dunn ...
“You’ve changed clothes,” she says.
I look at my furry coat. “Yes. I had lunch with a client.” Sort of. He ate, I watched. Such a ... homespun guy. I have to run a homespun campaign. What could be more American than the pulled-up-by-his-own-bootstraps story? Mr. Peterson has made the best bicycle money can buy, the highest quality, American-made, good for you, good for the environment ... too expensive for normal people to actually own.
“May I take your picture?” she asks.
I blink. “You want to take a picture of me?”
“Yes. With that cross in the background.”
Oh, the ironies here. Well, Miss Cross
is
in the background now. I pose. “How’s this?”
She takes the picture. “Marvelous. What’s your name?”
I am not nor will ever be Corrine Ross. “Shari with an I, Nance no Y.”
She actually writes it down! “Thank you.”
“Enjoy your visit to Manhattan,” I say.
“I will,” she says. “You, too.”
I don’t exactly know how to take that. I hope I’ve made it.
And even if it’s just a short visit, at least I hope I make it in Manhattan for a few days.
Chapter 9
 
“H
ow did it go?” Tia asks as we exchange jackets. “It went,” I whisper. “I have twelve days to get a fully produced ad campaign going and
without
a production team for some high-end bicycles that I would never buy.”
Tia clasps her hands together. “This is so exciting!”
I blink. “Did you hear what I said? Fully produced, as in ready for air, ready for print.” Geez, all this is going to be too late to get into any December magazines. Blow-ins to newspapers are an option, but most people throw them away because they’re so annoying. The Internet! Geez, I almost forgot the Internet! I am severely losing it.
“If there is anyone I know on God’s good earth that can do it, it is you.” She places me in her comfortable chair. “Shari, you must relax.”
Relax. Right. “I may need your help. I mean, what if Mr. Peterson calls? I can’t keep answering my own phone twice, right?”
“I have you covered. I will route all your calls through me. I will be you, you will be her, and Corrine will be gone.”
I almost laugh. “I may not be in the office as much.”
Tia nods. “Just like
her.
”
“And, Tia,” I whisper, “I need to go to Georgia on Monday, and I have to make them think Corrine is going. Can it be done?”
She exhales. “Putting Corrine in two places at the same time is kind of tricky. She is barely in one place at any time. I know, we can make her sick for a day. I would really like to do that. I would like to make her vomit all over one of her fancy dresses. Make your reservations, Shari. I will just delay Miss Ross’s vacation for a day.”
Will one day be enough? I have to fly out, tour the plant, and fly back, and I will be stressing the entire time. “Um, I’ll need two days.” Corrine would take
three.
“She will be sick for two days then.” She winks. “No problem. Now, shoo! Go. Win this account.”
Back at my desk, I start to stress, and when I stress, I make notes. I write “What could go wrong” on the top of a page.
(1) Get fired or lose my job (or get prosecuted!) for impersonating my boss, misusing MultiCorp funds, and lying to a client
 
That’s a stopper. Not much more needs to be written than that. My career could end in less than two weeks, and I could be back in Virginia—or in prison?—with my tail between my legs. It has its allure, but ...
No. I can’t let that happen. Okay, let’s get practical.
(2) Can’t meet deadline
 
Oh, I’ll meet that deadline if it’s the last thing I do. And it
might
be the last thing I do here. How am I going to produce all this? Geez! I mean, I know people in production, but I don’t really know them well enough to get them to hook me up. And mainly, they don’t know
me.
All those geeks ever did was stare at Corrine’s cleavage, and they bent over backward for her. I don’t have her cleavage. The fewer people who know about this, the better anyway. So who can I use who will keep it all on the down low? I may have to hire someone using my own money, and with the amount I have in savings, I’d have to hire someone as desperate as I am.
(3) Can’t create decent ads
 
Corrine just runs my PowerPoint presentations with a script, and the production staff, which understands art, film, and print, does the rest. They’re the real geniuses and geeks who really do all the work. We’re just the idea people. A single PowerPoint won’t cut it this time, especially if Mr. Peterson wants the campaign going national the very next day. I need to design billboards, magazine ads, T-shirts, and web banners, and I also need to produce radio and TV commercials of fifteen and thirty seconds. I know nothing about editing, and I can’t draw a lick.
I can doodle. Hmm. A doodled commercial? How hard can it be to doodle a bike? I could doodle a cartoon. But then it wouldn’t show the actual product.
I have to get one of those bikes. Mr. Peterson might let me borrow one. I’d have to have it shipped up here on Monday, or maybe I could fly one back with me. If I had a camera, I could film while riding to work. That’s what I can do. I can tape a camera to a bike helmet or attach it in some way to the handlebars. I’ll have to take a day off and ride around. That would require a lot of editing, and once again, I don’t have any way of doing that.
I shake it off. I’ll just cross that bridge when I come to it.
I get out a calculator. If I go, say, fifteen miles per hour across the Brooklyn Bridge and it’s about six thousand feet across—I’ll never make it all the way across in time. I hit a few more buttons. At fifteen miles per hour, I can only go three hundred and thirty feet in fifteen seconds, six hundred and sixty feet in thirty seconds. That might be enough time to capture the Manhattan skyline ahead and to the left of me. But where can you go three hundred and thirty feet on a bicycle in New York City in fifteen seconds and not get hit by a bus or a taxi? I’ll ... I’ll figure something out.
Geez. I have to figure
something
out.
(4) Can’t think of memorable slogans or taglines
 
I have never had trouble being creative in the past. Those “hooks” just came to me. But when I think about this expensive bike ... nothing. Nada. Zip.
Use what you’ve learned from your classes, Shari. Personalize this product. What do you know firsthand about bicycles? Well, I rode a bike back in Salem when I was a kid. It was red and had plastic red and white ribbons dangling from the handgrips, reflectors everywhere, a little “Sherry” license plate (Mama couldn’t find a “Shari”), and knobby tires. I felt free on that bike. Freedom. That might be a good theme. No. I can’t say “feel free again” while riding a bike that costs two thousand bucks. “Free your mind”? No, that sounds like an ad for anti-depression medication. “Land of the free”? Ain’t nothin’ free in this country anymore.
Okay, relax. Get on the bike. You’re riding to work. You’re flying by pedestrians, zipping around taxis and buses, and getting to work on time. Then you have to find a place for it, maybe chain it somewhere to a lamppost or a bike rack. I can’t remember the last time I even saw a bike rack. Hmm. Or you carry the entire bike into your office. Riding the elevator while holding a bike? That would annoy people in the elevator, maybe mud, slush, or pigeon poo on the tires. Your bike will stink up the office.
Such nice images.
Hey—“Get to work on time for a change” might work. No. This is where I’d put newspaper clippings of local “bike versus vehicle” accidents onto Corrine’s desk. I’ll think of something. It will come to me.
Random thought: a bumper sticker that reads, “My other vehicle is a Peterson bike”?
Too random. And too snobby.
All I have to do is whisper something to
myself
this time.
(5) In over my head, competition too stiff, out of my league with Harrison Hersey and Boulder and Tom Terrific
 
Tom and his team will be slick. Perfect, probably. But brilliance isn’t always perfection, or so Corrine tells me. I’ll just have to be more creative than they are. Maybe they’ll miss the boat entirely. Maybe they’ll go snooty when Mr. Peterson wants homespun. Maybe they’ll hype the environmental end too much. Mr. Peterson is a businessman, old school. He wants to make money. He seems old-fashioned, conservative, full of American values, and he might even be a Republican. I’ll have to research him along with his company. Maybe his company is an extension of his personality.
I look around and see administrative assistants scurrying, account execs worrying, no one talking above a whisper, some even doing long-distance sign language to each other. Mr. Dunn is most likely locked in his office. Ted is glued to his computer monitor.
I am effectively alone as usual.
It’s time to do some heavy-duty research.
According to the Peterson Bicycles website, Mr. Peterson made his first bike frame in his garage when he was nineteen. I could say he’s “the Bill Gates of bicycles.” No, that would tick off Apple users, and after Microsoft’s last lame operating system, it might tick off PC users as well. Mr. Peterson raced his own homemade bike at the University of Georgia during his freshman year and scorched the brand bikes: Murray, Schwinn, Huffy, and Ross. He dropped out of college after his sophomore year, developed some family land north of Macon, and built his first plant, which looks like a long, low barn. Over the years, it has expanded quite a bit. The first production models rolled off the line in 1969. Sales are impressively steady, only a minor dip in 1980 for some reason. What happened in 1980? I run a search. Hmm. I guess I can blame Reagan, “Just Say No,” jelly shoes, mullets, “Word,” breakdancing, and spandex. Their mountain bikes sell well, and Mr. Peterson even has a few “name” riders use his bikes for BMX races, triathlons, and long-distance races. He sponsors twelve road races around the country every year. That has to eat into his profits, but I’m not here to judge how a multimillionaire spends his money. I’ll bet he gets plenty of orders when his riders win those races. Hey now. He has a contract with the U.S. Olympic cycling team through 2016 and is bidding for an extension. “Peterson Bicycles: Bring home the gold.”
No. I know I’m biting off somebody. Relax. It’ll come to you, Shari.
I finally find out why these bikes are so expensive. Every single nut, bolt, wire, spoke, rim, seat, accessory, and brake assembly is made down in Georgia at his plant. Only the tires come from elsewhere. Mr. Peterson is such a throwback. He doesn’t even order accessories from other suppliers to ease his workload. He cuts out the middle man—like I’m cutting out Corrine—and he profits nicely.
I hope I do, too.
I run a quick check for bicycle recalls. Wow. I didn’t think there would be so many. Bad frames, forks, handlebar stems, brakes, U-joints, and seat posts. But not a single recall for Peterson Bicycles for the last twenty years. None. Okay, that’s a major selling point. These things are built like tanks. They last. They survive. “Peterson Bicycles: built for the
next
millennium.”
No. That’s too much of an exaggeration.
I click on a button marked “quality control.” According to the website, Peterson Bicycles are tested more than any other bicycle on the planet, and they even do crash tests. Crash tests for bikes? With or without riders? I watch little videos starring Mr. Peterson, who wears coveralls, an orange vest, hard hat, goggles, and boots. I knew he hated wearing that suit. Then I watch bike after bike running into walls, poles, and trees at various speeds. The tires pop occasionally, but the frames and wheels stay intact. I also see some frightening videos of cars crashing into the bikes, and the bike frames survive these often-explosive collisions. “Space-age technology” is a phrase they use often on this site. That’s a little dated—and strange. You don’t ride a bike in space.
I write down several other ideas:
Peterson Bicycles: They take a poling and keep on rolling.
Peterson Bicycles: They take a drilling and keep on thrilling.
Peterson Bicycles: They take a crashing and keep on dashing.
Peterson Bicycles: They take a beating and keep on speeding.
 
Okay, they all suck and bite off the old Timex ads, but at least my mind is warming up. I must be at “lukewarm.”
Peterson Bicycles utilize the same brake pads used on the bikes that race down Haleakala, a 10,000-foot volcano in Maui. Geez, these brakes go for fifty bucks a pair, a hundred bucks a bike. That’s more than I paid for the last brake job on my Mazda ten years ago.
This is serious stuff here. I thought bikes were supposed to be for fun, discovery, and expanding a kid’s boundaries. There is nothing kidlike about these bikes. There’s more second-childhood stuff here than first childhood. They’re so expensive that a buyer probably needs to get bike insurance. Is there such a thing? Would I
ever
buy one of these bicycles?
Well ... no.
I look outside. It’s dark already? Where is everyone? Even Tia has left, and without even waving at me. Geez, I’m hungry. I forgot to eat lunch. I better get going.
I collect my stack of notes and wish I had a briefcase. I go behind Tia’s space and look at the cardboard box that serves as MultiCorp’s lost and found. Would you look at all those umbrellas? Half of them are mine. I pick up a fairly clean, white L.L.Bean tote bag and drop in my notes. It’ll have to do.
On my walk back to Brooklyn, I feel different. I can’t explain it. I stayed late and actually wanted to stay late. I also did something meaningful for a change. I feel like a real person, like someone who actually
does
something for a living. People ask me, “What do you do?” I usually say, “I’m an administrative assistant at MultiCorp.” But that’s not what I
do
. If someone asked me
now
what I do, I’d tell them: “I develop advertising campaigns.”

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