The Big "O": A Romantic Comedy (11 page)

M
AX, AFTER DROPPING his young son at the childcare center near their neighborhood, spent the morning in a book store looking at books on marketing. He felt overwhelmed by the sheer number of books offering guidance. The books were mostly for fiction writers. Some of them included information about marketing online, and he wasn't certain what really applied.

He thought back to his MBA courses. So much of the information that they'd been taught was applicable to large corporations with a marketing budget and strategic decision-makers in the private and public sectors.

He felt irritated that he couldn't seem to immediately connect any of the marketing principles which he'd been taught to their own business. In theory it was simple.

They needed to find people who needed their book.

Tons of people needed a guidance in eliminating personal debt and creating financial freeMax but, short of going door-to-door, pounding the pavement, and standing on the street corner, hawking books each day, he couldn't think of free ways to get people to buy their book. How could his MBA be so useless?

He realized that much of his degree coursework was supposed to educate him how to critically think his way through situations, to problem solve, and achieve solutions, yet he couldn't seem to do it. He thought back to B.S. concepts like situation analysis, market strategy, targeting and positioning, marketing mix decisions, implementation and control. What a load of crap.

He felt like nothing that he'd learned in his degree program had prepared him to do what he needed to do as soon as possible: to successfully promote and market non-fiction digital and print books and sell as many as possible as quickly as possible.

Victor spent the morning at his computer, watching stocks go up and down.

He'd programmed his automated stock trading software to buy and sell stocks at certain triggers. Of course, he always checked in to be certain things were on track. He wasn't about to slack off and screw up big time. It was all working beautifully. He made $400 by lunch, hitting his goal for the workday, yet he still felt terribly glum.

Juliette would be gone until late, in the lab, doing research, meeting with her mentor.

After lunch, dressed in a pair of ratty shorts, Victor went to his basement man cave and hit the punching bag repeatedly until he was slick with sweat and began to feel better.

After quitting work, on an adrenaline high, Isis spent the morning painting the mostly inexpensive furniture in her tiny apartment.

She moved from room to room, placing an old shower curtain under whatever she was working on. If it was made of wood, or textured plastic, like some of the pots which held her trees and plants, it was lightly sanded and painted a pale shabby-chic white.

She worked carefully, slowly, and methodically, and avoided splattering or spilling paint. The windows were open wide to minimize fumes.

The furniture makeover made the place feel much fresher. She took down all of the dark curtains in the space and put up sheer off-white inexpensive gossamer curtains which further transformed the space.

By the time she was done her apartment felt and looked more spacious; it was all white, light, and filled with verdant green living things. She took down the couple pieces of art that she had hanging on the walls, which were brightly colored, and replaced them with mirrors in carved wood frames which she had painted silver metallic. The place shone.

After a salad for lunch, Isis dropped the curtains and art off at the thrift store.

Then she took a long walk for clothing design inspiration.

She didn't look at consumer goods in department stores or boutique store windows. She looked at parks, the colors and textures of trees and plants, at art and photographs in gallery windows, and elsewhere. She fell in love with silver and gray, and the silvery greenish bark texture of certain trees. She decided that she would use those colors somehow.

Inside of a chic restaurant, Max and Edwin sat in a private booth.

They appeared to be waiting for someone. Victor, seated in an adjacent private booth, wore a ridiculous disguise that consisted of a blonde mullet wig, a fake mustache, and violet oval lens glasses set into thin gold metal frames. He was unrecognizable. He strained to hear, without being seen.

Max and Edwin stood up as a healthy looking blonde, with pink cheeks, and curves approached them. She looked around uncertainly. Edwin smiled encouragingly.

“Amy?” Edwin inquired. She nodded, looked about, and slid into the far side of the booth.

Before the men, on the table, were two clipboards with paper, some pens, along with several envelopes. Each of the envelopes contained a gift card, a “relationship study” participation thank you. Edwin did the talking.

He was so genteel and well-spoken that it was impossible to find him a threat or to consider that he might be lying; that the interview was not in fact part of a supervised, funded, psychology relationship study, but was instead a private, personal, endeavor.

Edwin, with Max largely observing, proceeded to interview Amy. For Max, the scene became surreal, as one attractive blonde merged into another, so much so that he could hardly remember who was in front of him. Max remembered Edwin delicately asking, after a brief explanation of why they needed this information, for a relationship study of whether men with tremendous self-confidence were also great in bed, how the sex had been with Victor.

The women sometimes launched right into an explanation.

Other times they sat quietly, various expressions rippling over their faces, as if trying either not to laugh or cry, before replying.

Like pop-up targets at a carnival, a new blonde showed up on the hour. Like Amy, they had silky long golden tresses, similar voluptuous bodies, with skin more pale than tan, and cheeks either pinkish or almost apricot colored. They each sat down and shared their thoughts with Edwin and Max.

“How was it?”A girl repeated the question that they had asked, as if dumbfounded by it. “Well, he—uh, I suppose it was varying degrees of insensitivity wasn't it?” Then she stared at them as if they had somehow known the answer or were responsible in some way for Victor's past fumblings. “Awkward...” she finally added and then hopped up and left.

Edwin and Max shared a look. Before they could utter a word, the next one, Tammy, was sipping her water coolly and replying to Edwin's query. She answered in quite a sharp tone, again as if they were in some way to blame for what had happened, about her collegiate sexual experiences with Victor.

“…as if he were self-conscious, totally focused on himself, and it was, well, painful. He's aggressive. He was just…”

Max found his attention sliding away from the present moment. He was horrified that Victor, dressed in a disguise that made him look like some aging hippie redneck, with a cheap blond mullet and mustache, and violet tinted glasses, was overhearing these recollections.

He cringed and felt his own manhood shrink a little, as the women recounted their oh-so-similar experiences. He looked down at his black tea and stared at a plate of tea cookies in front of him; he and Edwin had found that they couldn't go on without sustenance.

Frankly, Max had secretly hoped that the tea cookies, tiny elegant sugar cookies, white fluffy powdered-sugar covered puff cookies, and teensy sharply cut lemon and raspberry jam thumb cookies, might sweeten some of the women's demeanors.

“…jabbing at me, jabbing at me, jabbing at me,” said Jilly, emphasizing her point with a fork, by jabbing at a plate of tea cookies, then added, “I couldn't… I couldn't...”

And, without him seeing Jilly leave, Max found himself staring at Heather.

“…come, but he always did,” Heather said angrily. Then she glared at Edwin and Max and looked as if she might burst into tears. They nodded compassionately.

Then he'd grunt and roll off of me and, uh, switch on the TV,” Heather added, her voice so sharp it could cut hard cheese, “Oh, how that bastard loved late-night television.”

The women were expert at terse good-byes, whirling away, as if in a snit, their expression tight and hard, fists clenched, with a hurried, angry or stilted, “Thank you,” which sounded much more like a “Fuck you very much,” for the $20 gift card, the reward for their participation in the relationship study, that Edwin always made certain to hurriedly press into their hands.

At the end of the five hours both men were disheveled and sweating and it was clear to Edwin and Max that, for each of the women, the discussion of their past sexual experiences with Victor had triggered a volcano of latent rage.

When they turned to look for Victor, to their sorrow, he had already crept away.

Inside of Astro Cafe, another branch of the trendy celestial-themed coffee shop chain, a male clerk, not the least bit humiliated by his astronaut headgear and uniform, took orders from a long line of coffee addicts. Behind him, a barista wearing an alien outfit, the kind that a team mascot from outer space might wear, made drinks.

At a bistro table, Emily sipped from an Astro Cafe cup and tweeted from her cell phone.

“Sorry I called so late last night,” Emily said and looked up curiously at Isis. “Guess you were sleeping. How come you didn't go in to work today?”

Isis looked amazing. She wore huge, funky gold earrings with some kind of ancient alphabet, or possibly carvings, on the surface, a matching necklace, and an outfit of cream and beige natural fabric. Her ensemble was belted with a brown, woven belt. She was, quite obviously, euphoric.

“I was busy. You won't believe it,” Isis said as if about to reveal a mysterious secret, of great fascination, to the world. She grinned and her face lit up with her joy.

“What?” said Emily, almost astounded by the transformation of her friend. Isis was always beautiful, and took care of herself, but today she was entirely stunning.

“Chérie, I'm free. I quit my job. I want to design clothes, help women maximize their beauté…” Isis said happily.

Emily was shocked and took a moment to gather her thoughts and give a suitable response. She didn't want to discourage Isis again, though it was her natural inclination.

“You should. You're great at that,” Emily finally managed to reply.

Emily's tone of voice, thinly covered, in her attempt to be happy for her friend, was obvious. Isis stared at Emily and realized that she was deeply upset about something.

“What's wrong?” Isis asked quietly and wondered if Max had failed her friend

“I can't sleep most nights but I sure am getting a lot done,” Emily shared.

Isis looked more closely at her friend. Emily looked thinner but also much more tired; she had shadows underneath her eyes and was more pale than normal. She had, however, made an attempt with her outfit and makeup. She wore a black dress and jacket and had carefully done her makeup in shades of pale pink. Her blond hair was freshly washed and her blue eyes shone.

“I've made serious progress on the new book and I'm getting more fans online every day,” she added, “I've got a new marketing plan that is kicking butt, big-time.”

Unbeknownst to Isis and Emily, Xavier Roberts, the CEO of Cafe Astro, watched the two of them and listened to their conversation from a nearby table.

“The amazing thing is that book sales picked up and the new book is really flowing. The focus is on professional finance for the small business. Some of the concepts are scaled up and, of course, more expenditures are tax deductible,” Emily said.

Isis noticed that while Emily was certainly more upbeat, she didn't seem entirely happy.

“Uh-huh,” Isis said and felt just the teeniest bit guilty for a moment about her own happiness. But really, she thought to herself, since when did one person's happiness reduce the joy of another? It didn't. Still, maybe she could do something for Emily.

“I want you to be my first client,” Isis said in a burst of words that unexpectedly came from her mouth like a little flock of birds. Emily looked startled.

Truth be told, Isis felt startled herself.

“You can teach me about marketing, the materials I'll need, and what you know about social networking... maybe look over my business plan and such... in exchange, I'll make you a few couture items, business clothes, for important meetings, ” Isis added.

Suddenly Emily found herself smiling. Her clothes were a bit looser and she really needed to redefine her sense of fashion or find a new style altogether.

Husband troubles, or not, she needed a non-surgical mommy makeover. Just the thought of feeling prettier and more put-together, gave her a little burst of energy.

“It's a deal,” Emily said happily, and stuck out her hand, “you'll be moi personal designer and we'll get rich and famous together.”

The two of them dissolved into giggles which only increased when a barista dressed as an exotic alien of indistinct gender came and delivered an iced coffee to Isis.

Emily grabbed a napkin and sketched out several ideas for Isis.

“Most social marketing is based upon the concept of personal access with potential clients. You tailor your approach, depending upon which platform you're using, but essentially think attractive photographs, short videos, quotes related to your brand, expressions of your brand,” Emily said. Isis shrugged and laughed.

“You're going to have to create something turnkey for me, and, uh, maybe a little guidebook to keep me on track,” Isis replied. She felt totally overwhelmed by the thought of adding urgent tasks to her to-done list.

“No problem, gorgeous,” Emily said happily. It felt great for her to realize that she really knew a lot about this area of business. It came easily to her and she enjoyed it. It would be incredibly satisfying to help Isis make great strides in her business.

“Great, because everything you just said was Greek to me,” Isis said.

“I get it,” Emily said with understanding, “Don't worry about a thing. I'll explain everything you need to know when we get to that stage. Here, take a look at the web-site for the new book. I've got it mostly up.” Isis leaned over and admired the site.