Cosmo's Deli (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-One

Georgie hunches over his microphone, poised to jump in as soon as Rockin' finishes reading a commercial for Big Fred Electronics. Stressed out by his situation with the station and Tawney, Georgie knows that if Rockin' was privy to it, he would have to take shit about it on-air. No mention so far, however, so Georgie figures if Rockin' knew anything, he would have brought it up already. That asshole can't even keep a fart in.

Georgie quickly introduces a commercial and the on-air light goes dark. He stretches a hand across his forehead and massages his temples.

Rockin' quips, “So, did you two do it all night, or what?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Georgie growls.

“Yeah, right,” Rockin' says, twirling around in his chair toward the clock. “We're back on in ten.” He turns back to Georgie, stacking his hands behind his head and a self-contented grin on his face, “Hey, look at it this way, if you have to kiss ass to keep your job, at least Tawney's got a nice one.” Rockin' puckers his lips and makes an elongated smooch.

The sound stomps up Georgie's backbone. “Shove that microphone up your ass.”

Rockin' points his eyes at the illuminated on-air light and then leans into the microphone. “And we're back. Sorry about the language folks. My partner Georgie is cranky this morning. But, he had a rough night, so let's cut him some slack. Isn't that right, Georgie?” Rockin' hits a button, triggering the loud wail of a baby.

Georgie scowls at him.

Rockin' continues, “Let's talk about last night. Moi? I was home all alone just waiting by the phone. Ladies, I am begging on bended knee. If you're out there, help me! Night after night I spend alone, just me, my TV and my hand around my remote.”

Georgie knows he has to talk. “If you were alone, I'm sure it wasn't the remote you had your hand around.”

Rockin' feigns hurt, “Ouch! Were you peeping in my windows? And what about you, Georgie? What did you do last night?”

“Not much,” seeps from his tight lips.

“That's not what we heard.”

“You heard wrong.” Georgie scribbles a note to Rockin'.
Don't do this now.

Rockin' slaps the note away and checks his computer monitor. “We have a caller.” He hits a button. “Good morning, gorgeous.”

Tawney's sultry voice fills the booth. “Hey guys. Georgie, you forgot to wake me before you left this morning.”

Her words ring in his ears and Georgie realizes they've all played him—Ben, Tawney, Rockin' and the station management. Only there's nothing he can do because they've got him by the short curlies.

Rockin' ruffles through the newspaper. “So Tawney. I've missed you, sweetie. Kiss kiss, welcome back.”

“Thanks, Rockin'.”

“You know I slipped you the tongue with those kisses.”

“You're as bad as ever,” Tawney giggles.

Rockin' shakes the newspaper, so the crinkling can be heard on air. “Tawney tell us, according to the gossip columns this morning, a certain supermodel and a certain New York deejay were spotted at the restaurant Holy having a drink with a third party.” He feigns indignation, “Okay! I'm mad at you two. You promised me that if you ever went ménage, I was the number one choice. Are you two cheating on me?”

Tawney laughs. “Rockin' you know we wouldn't look elsewhere. Right, Georgie?”

Georgie chokes with anger.

Rockin' chuckles, “So we can assume that you two have patched things up?”

“That's right,” she gushes. “Everyone knows Georgie and I have had our ups and downs. But when you truly love someone, you find a way to get through it. Just like we have. Right, honey?”

Rockin' kicks Georgie.

Georgie flinches, “Ahh! I guess.”

Rockin' sniffles fake tears. “That's so beautiful. I need a tissue.” He pushes a button and an earsplitting honk trumpets out. “Tawney, I missed my chance with you again.”

She laughs, “Sorry, but my heart is promised elsewhere. Georgie, I'll see you tonight.”

Georgie feels like his head is going to pop off his body if he doesn't take control. He shoves Rockin' away from the microphone. “Don't forget, Saturday at noon we sell off my slab of a partner at the Bachelor Auction for Charity followed by tomorrow night's Q92.7 party at the Meltdown. You want to join us? Call right now, we'll take the tenth caller at (800) 555-Q927, and if it's you, you and a friend are going to party with us at Q92.7.” Georgie pushes the song button and swivels so the back of his chair is toward Rockin.'

Rockin' waves toward the phones. “Look at the call board. It's lit up like a Christmas tree. Our listeners love a love story, even a sadistic one.” He pokes a finger in Georgie's chest. “You're lucky she took you back. And I presume you cut the chick from last week loose. I'm sure Tawney wouldn't put up with someone in the wings.”

Georgie turns away, in an effort to keep his anger in check.

“Give me her number. If she's as hot as you say, I'll make sure she's not lonely.”

Georgie breaks, grabbing Rockin' by the collar and throwing him to the ground like a rag doll. Crouching over him with their noses barely a centimeter apart, Georgie's voice is eerily calm, “You stay away from her. And if you ever, ever pull this kind of shit with me again, I'll cut off your dick and shove it up your ass. Then you'll see what it's like to be fucked by yourself.”

Georgie storms out, leaving Rockin' on the floor like a deflating balloon.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Sara wakes to the music that plays softly from her alarm clock. Casting an arm over to turn it off, she glances at Megan, who is curled up fast asleep. Sara touches Megan's forehead. Cool. Her fever has broken, Sara thinks with relief.

She stares at her daughter's profile, struck by how much she resembles Bart. As an infant, everyone thought she looked more like Sara. However, in recent months friends often commented on how Megan's looks have changed and as she sheds some of her babyface she looks more and more like Bart. Until this morning, Sara didn't see what they were talking about, but overnight, Megan's features seem to have morphed into child sized versions of Bart's. Sara traces a finger over Megan's tiny up turned nose and then rides over the round curve of her cheek, lightly skipping over the small band of dancing freckles. Bart is a part of this face, Sara thinks, so no matter what he'll be a part of their lives. Her thoughts are like that of one in mourning.

Sara rolls onto her back, holding at bay a more disturbing thought, one which barrels forward no matter how much she tries to fight it. Bart's not dead. She wants him back. How could I, she thinks? He abandoned her, cheated on her, humiliated her and yet, she still loves him. Sara wishes that her heart would allow her to fall out of love as effortlessly as he has fallen out of their lives? Only her heart has plans of its own. Fight for him, it beats. Make him fall in love all over again, it pulses. Her mind considers this. She wouldn't be the first woman to fight for her wayward man's affection. Marriages come back from the brink all the time. Anger wells up shoving aside the wishes of her heart. Why should she have to fight for his love, when it was something he'd promised to her? Something that should have been constant like the air she breathed. What kind of monster withdraws that without warning and leaves his wife and child gasping and flopping like fish thrown on dry land?

She slips out of bed and goes downstairs. Walking from the stairs toward the kitchen, Sara's socks grow damp against her feet.

“Why is it wet here,” she wonders aloud as her feet ‘thwock-thwock' with each step? Entering the kitchen her mouth falls open.

Water gushes everywhere, from the ceiling to the counters, and like a waterfall it flows from the counters to the floor. Vertical rows of waves ripple down the walls like wallpaper brought to life. Chunks of plaster lay scattered on the floor and counters, having fallen from the ceiling and exposing gaping holes of wood framing.

“Oh no,” Sara gasps. Her body tingles as she runs up stairs ignoring a cramp in her lower abdomen. She reaches the laundry room and finds over an inch of water on the floor and the overflowing sink continually dumping more, sending it rushing in little waves across her feet like she were Gulliver moored on the Lilliputian's island.

After turning the water off and pulling the plug out of the sink, Sara hurries back to the kitchen clinging to the thought that, maybe, it's not that bad.

Then a thought socks her like a fist to the jaw. This is her fault.

“How could I have been so stupid?” she groans. “How could I fall asleep and leave the water running?” In the kitchen, the water drips from the ceiling and counters. Through the walls comes the sound of rushing water, as though the house has been transformed into a raft, swimming down an angry-white river. The submerged hardwoods moan under her feet as she moves around.

THUNK!

A clump of ceiling plaster lands on the floor by her feet.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The phone rings shattering the silence in Gaby's apartment.

“Hello.” Gaby's croaks.

Annette shouts into the phone. “Wake up, it's almost eleven.”

“What? What day is it?”

“It's Friday. You missed a great time last night, girlfriend. Do you remember those two cousins who write for
No Frills
magazine? I ran into them after you left Bloomies and we ended up bar hopping until three. Why'd you leave like that?”

Gaby holds the phone a few inches from her ear. “Where are you?”

“Trying to catch a cab in Times Square. I'm just making sure you're not gonna bail on me again tonight. We're meeting some people at Live Bait at eight. You're coming, right?”

“Sure.” Gaby rolls over.

“That asshole just stole my cab. All right, I'll see you later. Ciao.”

Gaby knocks over her bottle of Valium as she puts the phone back. Hanging over the side of the bed, she retrieves the bottle but the cap pops off and a dozen pills scatter across the floor. She leaves them there, too tired to get out of bed and gather them up. Her eyes fall on the mosaic grandfather clock towering nearby. Gaby bought it last week at ABC Carpet and Home, even though it came with a $7,000 price tag.

Gaby first saw that clock during her parents' last visit. Her father was attending some medical convention and mother tagged along so she and Gaby could spend some time together. In Mama-speak that meant shopping.

Normally Gaby and her mother got along best when they were out shopping, as if the act itself diluted their differences. But after two days of togetherness, every word from her mother's mouth had become kindling for a flaming argument. When they saw the clock at ABC Carpet and Home her mother immediately pounced on a sales person to finagle a bargain.

Gaby was mortified. “Mama you can't do that here. The price is the price! You know what I am saying.”

“Gaby, if there's one thing I know, the price is never the price. There's nothing wrong with trying to negotiate a little.”

“You don't do that here Mama. This is ABC Carpet, not some backwater flea market. Besides, that thing is hideous!”

“Why I think it's precious!”

“It looks like shit with numbers.” Gaby stormed out of the store.

Her mother followed. “Gabrielle Bowers. How dare you talk to me that way?”

“Someone has to tell you that you have bad taste.”

“From my daughter, the underwear queen? Please, you call that good taste? Listen up, just because a cat's got kittens in the oven doesn't make 'em biscuits.”

“What the hell does that mean? I don't even know what that means.”

Her mother buttoned her coat. “Forget it. Let's just get something to eat. My blood sugar is dropping and I am starting to feel ill.”

“I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment to you, Mama.”

They walked down the street in silence. As they entered the coffee shop, Charlotte told her, “Honestly Gabrielle, sometimes I don't know what gets into you. You make it so that I'm afraid to talk to you.”

Gaby glimpsed a tear in the corner of her mother's eye, which made her feel even worse. The only time she ever saw the woman cry was when her own mother died. The odd thing was that Gaby liked the clock. She just couldn't admit it.

That night her parents flew back to North Carolina. Saying good-bye at the airport her mother teared up. “There's never enough time.” She touched Gaby's face gently. “I love you, Gabrielle. You'll always be my baby.” Gaby didn't know it was the last time that she'd see her alive.

Gaby loved her too, wondering if she ever let her mother know how much. She buries her tear stained face in a pillow. “It's not fair! Why'd you die on me, Mama?”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Renny's insides feel like they're being pureed into a smoothie as she surveys the conference room and maps out the main players.

To her left three men chat near a buffet of coffee, bottled water and muffins. Each one is wearing a taupe suit accessorized with the same shade shirt and tie. The Cedar Foods advertising guys, Renny realizes—these days the monochromatic look is ad-world standard issue.

Moving toward the conference table puts her in proximity to Val and Lance, who are talking to a man in his early seventies. From the corporate bios she studied, Renny knows that this is Walt Cedar, the owner and President of Cedar Foods. With his inch-long gray hair and weathered complexion, he resembles an aging Marlboro man more then a desk-saddled corporate president, she thinks. A younger man stands at his side, but Renny doesn't recognize him from any of her reading. Probably an assistant, she assumes.

Walt Cedar's words boom across the room. “This is the fourth presentation so far this week and I haven't heard anything worth using at any of them.”

Val and Lance exchange smiles as if they've just been told the secret formula for Coca-Cola.

“I can assure you sir, you'll be quite pleased after today,” Lance says.

Walt turns toward Val, ignoring Lance as if he were a flittering bug. “So where's the other sharp shooter you're bringing in for today.”

That's me, Renny realizes, and with a deep breath she strides over.

“Well, here she is, gentlemen.” Val waves, seeing Renny approach. “Renny Shuler, I'd like you to meet Walter Cedar, President of Cedar Foods Corporation.”

She shakes his hand. “It's a pleasure, sir.”

Val gestures to the younger man at his side. “And this is Trey Cedar. Trey will be overseeing the new snack chip division.”

Walt proudly smacks the younger man on the back. “My grandson is a genius! He joined the company earlier this year and he's breathed new life into us. Graduated top of his class at Wharton. He's got a B.S., an MBA—hell, he's got the whole damn alphabet.”

Trey shakes Renny's hand and jokes, “My grandfather tends to exaggerate a bit, but I do love him for it.”

He winks, and Renny isn't sure if it was at her or the old man. Glancing between the two Cedars, Renny can't help but notice the resemblance between them. Trey is blond where Walt is gray, his outdoorsy tan has not been as marred by the lines of time, but he is clearing the sapling version of the elder.

Val touches Trey's arm. “It takes a lot to be an achiever and to find your purpose. And it's evident you've done a great deal to steer your grandfather's company in some wonderful new directions.”

Something in Val's motion brings the vision of her tryst with Lance vividly to Renny's mind, and like falling dominos, it sends her unchecked thoughts into verbal flight. “I couldn't agree more. In fact, Val was saying just last night how everything has a purpose. Didn't you Val?”

Lance turns ashen.

Val's eyes narrow, but her smile remains unfaltering. “Well gentlemen, have a seat and let's get to the purpose that brought us here—launching Cedar Foods' new snack chip. Lance, you'll present first.” Like a snake in one fluid motion, she gestures for them to sit and then entwines Renny's arm. “I'd like to speak to you for a moment.”

“Hmm?” Renny says.

“Outside.”

Following Val out of the room, Renny reminds herself that it doesn't matter. Nothing does, because Val is going to fire her anyway. She's been facing down that fact all morning. Yet for all her mental bravado, when the heavy mahogany door slams behind her, she almost jumps out of her skin.

“What the hell was that about?” Val snaps.

Renny absorbs the question and throws her shoulders back. “I think we both know.”

“You're stepping in way over your head. Don't screw with me!”

“I don't need to. Lance already has that job.”

“I, well, I…” Val stammers.

Renny's entire body tingles, preening that for once she had the right comeback and the gumption to use it. The Dynasty-ness of it fuels her. “I saw you both in the art department last night. I'd tell your husband if I didn't know that is exactly what you want.”

Val's face is colored with one-upmanship. “Some information, no matter how titillating, is useless isn't?”

Renny smirks. “However, I'm sure the partners would just love to hear all about it.”

“You wouldn't dare.”

“Oh yes, I would. So Val, a piece of advice—don't screw with me. Now, I have a presentation to do and then I have an appointment to get to. I advise you to keep things on schedule.” The heavy boardroom door is weightless as Renny flings it open and walks back in. Her heart pounds wildly in her chest.

Val storms after her, all heads swivelling in her direction.

“Should I begin?” Lance asks.

Val shoos at him, “Get…let's get started. Go, go.” She takes a seat at the end of the conference table and pours herself a glass of water.

Lance begins his presentation and his boring inflections send Renny's mind orbiting. Tuning him out, Renny retraces the steps of her own presentation. After a while, she looks at Val, who appears riveted by Lance's moves.

Tapping a pointer on the easel at the front of the room after a half hour presentation delivered in monotone, Lance begins to wrap up. “After test marketing in the Southwest here, here and here.” Tap, tap, tap. “Our national campaign will lead off with the image of the potato chip that won the west.” Tap. He slowly removes one board, revealing another with a picture of a cowboy roping a Mr. Potato Head look-a-like.

Renny gasps. He took her western approach, the one Val told her not to use. But he butchered it. What was he thinking using Mr. Potato Head?

Lance waves grandly. “Together, Cedar Foods and Heffner, Wilde and Cook will create marketing history. I give to you Lasso Chips from Cedar Foods.”

Renny looks down to keep from laughing out loud.

“Heh, heh, heh.”

She looks up. Across the table, Walt chortles, while an oblivious Lance nods victoriously at Val.

“Is that Potato Head?” Walt asks, cocking one gray eyebrow.

Lance beams. “It's more a representation of him, sir. We still have to work out the licensing rights for the actual Mr. Potato Head. Fingers crossed, we'll get him.”

The older man's mouth forms a hard line across his face making the words that manage to slip out seem even more astonishing. “Son, let me tell you something. There is no way we are using that.”

Renny resists the urge to lunge across the table and hug Walt Cedar.

Val interjects. “Walter, look at the big picture. Consider the pitch a broad stroke, with the rest to be interpreted, much like an impressionist painting. The main subject can always change to say, a horse or perhaps a cow or…”

“A bull.” Lance offers.

“There's too much bull here for my liking,” Walt quips.

The taupe suits rush to be heard.

“The potato is sooo passé.”

“Completely oversaturated.”

“That potato will be lucky if he can even find work in radio.”

They nod like monochromatic bobbleheads.

“Enough!” Walt snaps, turning to his grandson. “What do you think?”

Trey pauses before answering. “I like the roll out plans, but I don't see what Mr. Potato Head or any of it has to do with the chips. I think we should move on to the next idea.”

Walt shoots a fiery glare at Renny. “What are you waiting for? Get on with it!”

“Yes Renny, we can hardly wait,” Val adds acrimoniously.

Renny's heart hammers and her stomach clenches as she takes her place at the front of the room, quickly arranging her covered boards on the easel. Then after plugging her laptop into the projector she lowers the screen in the front of the room. “Nothing to lose,” Renny whispers to herself, before turning to face them.

The blood rushes to her face as she begins her pitch. Her eyes bounce between Val's grimace and Walt's poker face, both cause her to stumble over her words. She recovers though, like an actress before a live audience for the first time, by shifting her gaze over their heads. Covering the details of her roll out plans, Renny's hand motions become reflexive instead of rehearsed and the pitch inhabits her, physically illustrating the passion and conviction behind her ideas. With a final flick of her wrist she reveals the easel, a picture of a snack package with Cosmo's Chips emblazoned across. “I give you Cosmo's Chips.”

Renny turns out the lights and taps her computer, sending her PowerPoint presentation to the screen. The opening image is a picture of a waiter in a white shirt and black bowtie holding a silver platter with a single bag of Cosmo's Chips. Only the face of the waiter is blank with a black question mark. On his shirt is an engraved nametag that reads Cosmo.

“The chips are painstakingly watched over by Cosmo, our appointed crunchmeister. And I'm sure you all want to know who Cosmo is. In the same vein as Sam Breakstone, Frank Perdue and Dave Thomas,” the next picture fills in the blank face. “I give you Walt Cedar as Cosmo, our new pitchman. Cosmo, the guardian of the perfect potato chip.”

Renny continues to narrate as pictures of Walt in a variety of clothes and settings appear. “Consumers will find Cosmo's Chips regardless of whether they shop at Wal-Mart or Balducci's. Cosmo will be the cashier at a grocery store, the waiter in a fine restaurant and the cafeteria guy at school. No matter the setting, the chips Cosmo recommends are always the same. Always the best. Always the crunchiest. Because they are Cosmo's Chips.”

Trey nods vigorously. “Grandfather as the pitchman. That's great!”

The taupe suits weigh in with their opinions.

“Brilliant.”

“Fabulous.”

“Inspired.”

“Quiet!” Walt shouts.

Renny's heart plummets like an elevator in a freefall, dragging her confidence with it. He hates it. What was I thinking?

Val flicks the lights on from behind her. “Well I think we all realize why this won't work. Renny, I'm very disappointed you didn't follow through with the original plan we discussed. I think you know what the consequences are due to this brazen disregard for my instructions.”

Walt bellows, “I thought I asked everyone to be quiet!”

Val's mouth is poised to retort, but finding herself snared in Walt's hard glare, she demurely shuts it.

He closes his eyes.

Don't cry, Renny tells herself. No matter what he says or Val does, don't cry!

Walt's eyes fly open and he silently scrutinizes Renny.

She stands erect, like a tree daring to stand up to an approaching hurricane.

“I love it!” he thunders.

Renny's head snaps back. “Sir?”

“Excuse me?” Val sputters.

His face warms, as a lazy smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Don't look so surprised. Despite what you may have heard, I don't hate everything. And I can always tell a winning idea. Only one change,” he instructs, pointing to the picture on the easel of the waiter uniform. “No bowties for me.”

Trey affectionately nudges him. “You won't have to, grandfather. The Cosmo character should be a man of the people, that's the appeal.”

Renny joins in. “Exactly! Your natural charisma will ensure that sir.”

Walt Cedar beams.

“Now Walter,” Val argues. “Let's not forget, you liked parts of the first pitch as well. And I have to advise you against this pitchman idea.”

He roars at her, “My grandson thinks it's great and so do I. What is the problem?”

For the second time, Renny has to hold back from throwing her arms around the old man.

Val huffs. “It's not a problem, I guess. Well, if you're all in agreement, I suppose…”

Walt pushes his chair back and stands. “Then let's go to your office and put it to bed.”

“That's not the only thing going to bed in there.” Renny quips as Val passes.

The meeting breaks up as the bitter aroma of overcooked coffee drifts through the room. Renny feels the coolness of her perspiration soaked blouse brushing against her skin and she shivers. Yet, like a porous sponge she absorbs the surrounding adulation, shaking the firm hands proffered and nodding at the congratulatory comments that accompany them.

***

After twenty minutes of accepting “well done's” and “start packing for your corner office,” Renny is back at her desk about to leave for New Jersey. It is one-thirty. She quickly checks her e-mail before slamming her laptop shut and stuffing it in her bag.

Lucy stands at the doorway, “The car service is downstairs.”

“Any sign of Val?”

“No, Doris said they're still in her office.” Lucy walks back to her desk.

Renny slips out of her shoes and into her sneakers. She is disappointed that Val has yet to show up and officially promote her. She wants to taste the satisfaction of whisking past Lance while he grapples with a large brown filing box containing the personal effects from his office. She imagines dipping into the back of her waiting Town Car without even a nod in his direction. Guilt tweaks at her conscience, but she flicks it away. After all, she earned this promotion and by dealing behind her back and into Val's pants he deserves to be sent packing.

“Ah-hem!” Renny looks up and finds Val in the doorway. “Daydreaming as usual?” Val says.

“I was getting ready to go. Did the Cedars leave?” Renny asks.

“Yes they did.” Val steps in and shuts the door behind her. “That was quite an idea you put out there. The Cedars were very impressed.”

“Get to it Val, I can't be late for my mother's appointment. Whose pitch are they going with?”

“Yours.”

“I won!”

“Au contraire. The team won.”