Domestic Violets (9 page)

“Certainly.”

“I wanted to ask you, how are things going down there? All right?”

For a nanosecond, my brain interprets “down there” as a reference to my fledgling penis and I’m horrified. But then I remember that to this man, everything can be classified as being down there, particularly where I work. “Good,” I say.

“More specifically, I’m wondering about Marketing. How are things in the department?”

I have to speak carefully now because I have this strange habit of imitating British people without even realizing that I’m doing it. “Great. Everything’s . . . great.”

He laughs, running his hands through his wavy British-guy hair. “All right, all right. Fair enough. I’ve put you on the spot. I guess what I want to know is, what exactly do you do all day?”

I really don’t see how any good could come from a question like this, particularly when it’s posed by my boss’s boss’s boss. “Well, I write. I’m a copywriter.” I give Ian a muddled ten-second version of everything that I do. “I wrote a letter for you once, a while ago. A letter to our best clients about an end-of-the-year offer on our Requirements Management courses. We sent it first class.”

Ian nods. “Is that all?”

“There are other things, too,” I say, which clearly means that there aren’t. “I wrote a companywide e-mail last month about the annual HR bake sale.”

Sadly, he seems unmoved by this. “You mind if I ask you how much you make?”

“Well—”

He holds up his hand and frowns at some papers on his desk. “Actually, I’ve got it right here.” If he’s looking at my employee file, then surely I’m fucked. I think of Greg’s list of complaints and make a mental note to key his car on the way out. “How do you feel about your salary, Tom? Are you satisfied?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

I’m suddenly very aware that this would be a strange way to be fired.
Are you happy with your current salary? Well then, how would you feel about no salary at all? Zing.

He takes a breath, starting again. “There are a lot of people in this organization, Tom. Five hundred and eighty-two, to be exact. We’re a worldwide entity—and part of an even larger worldwide entity. Some of these people are content to just do their jobs. They grab a cup of tea and a biscuit, accomplish tasks A through D on their lists, and grab a cheeky pint on the way home. But others . . . others are capable of more. As the leader of this organization, I’m tasked with identifying those people and presenting them with the opportunity to succeed. I’ll be frank with you, mate, I suspect that you might be one of those people. I just don’t think you’ve had the chance to realize it. Yet.”

There are few things this man could have said that would have surprised me more than this, and I’m tempted to ask where he’s gotten his information. “That’s flattering, but I don’t really know what other things I could do. I’m a director, and there’s not a—”

The hand again, and again I stop talking.

“How do you feel about your boss?”

“Doug? I think Doug is great.”

“Listen, Tom, it’s no secret that some of my vice presidents have grown ineffective—as well as some of my departments in general. I think it’s time for some new voices here, and Doug is not a new voice. A financial downturn, even a significant one, can be a terrible thing, or it can be a tremendous opportunity. It can be an opportunity for fresh blood, some new perspectives and energy. A whole new way of looking at things.”

“Well, Doug has always been—”

“Do you know what the definition of insanity is, Tom?”

I wish he’d stop using my name so much. I feel like we’re arguing. “I . . .
think
so.”

“It’s when one does the same thing over and over and expects a different result. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for some new results. This could be a tremendous opportunity for you, Tom, along with MSW. You can do more than you’re doing. We both know that. Bloody hell, you’ve certainly got the genes for it.”

“Genes?”

Ian nods to his bookshelf. “I saw that you noticed it when you sat down. Let’s not pretend that I don’t know who your father is. That’s one of my favorite books of all time. Bloody brilliant.” He removes a Montblanc pen from his shirt pocket and circles my salary on his paper, unimpressive in its little block numbers. “And I’m quite certain we’ll be able to do a little something about this. Something significant.”

“Oh,” I say, hardly sounding like the dynamo that he’s mistaken me for, and, for a long moment, we’re just sitting in this giant office.

“Right now you’ve got a job, Tom. Nothing more. You come in and do your job and leave. But this—this could be a career. Something real. That’s something you want, right? Don’t you? That’s what we all want. Otherwise, why would we even be here?”

It’s been a long time since someone asked me what I want. So long, in fact, that I’m not even sure I have an answer.

“Give it some thought, Tom. And of course, this should remain between us for the time being. No sense in causing a spot of bother. At least not yet.”

Chapter 14

W
ow,” says Katie
. “Gregory is gonna shit his pants.”

“What, you don’t think he recommended me for the job?”

“Right. He’s been angling for Doug’s office from day one. I think I caught him measuring the drapes last week.”

We’re in the middle of 7-Eleven, a few blocks from the office, and Katie’s holding a twenty-ounce bottle of Diet Dr Pepper and I’m filling a Big Gulp. She’s left her corduroy jacket back in her cube, and in a fitted pink blouse and navy blue skirt she’s a distraction to everyone in the store.

Telling Katie about my conversation with Ian was fantastically unprofessional, but I had to tell someone. As we wind through the candy aisle, I inspect the Snickers bars, aware of two construction workers near the cash registers eyeing Katie. Like so many beautiful girls, she’s either oblivious to this or chooses to be. One guy elbows the other, and the other guy laughs.

“My first action as leader would be to outlaw ties,” I say. “And I’d insist that Greg call me Lord Violet, Vice President of Awesome.”

“What was his office like?” she asks.

My heart isn’t in this. I’m thinking about Gary back in Virginia at the Ford dealership, waiting for the cell phone on his belt to ring, looking out at the vast sea of American automotive metal. I’m also thinking about poor Doug. “Oh, standard president stuff,” I say. “Water slide. Gold-plated desk. Little Korean boy fanning him with a giant feather.”

She picks up a box of Nerds and gives it a good shake. This is what we always do when we come here for our meetings. We get our sodas and loiter in the candy aisle without ever buying any candy or talking about Katie’s projects like we’re supposed to.

“What did he do when you told him to shove it?” she asks.

“Shove it? I don’t think that translates into British English. He did call me ‘mate’ a couple of times though, which was nice.”

“But you definitely told him no, right?”

Before I can answer, her cell phone chimes. As she reads a text message, I see the two construction guys leave, getting one last eyeful of Katie for the road. “Fuckin’ A,” says the taller of the two.

Breasts and hips and olive-colored skin must be such a liability sometimes. Men look at my wife, too, but not the way they look at Katie—it’s less visceral and raw with Anna. You could see my wife at a cocktail party and not even really notice her at first, until maybe an hour later when you saw her again, petting a dog or looking thoughtfully at a painting, and then you fall a little bit in love. Even their names are different—like opposites. Anna, this graceful sound, trustworthy and classic. And Katie, sharp and impossibly young, curvy and small, clomping around in wedge heels and outfits bought specifically to draw attention to all of it.

“Why are guys so stupid?” Katie asks, and I wonder if I’ve been thinking aloud.

“That’s a complex question,” I say.

She jams her cell back into a little purse. “I bought these concert tickets like two months ago and now he’s—” But she stops there, fizzling out as we step into line to pay. “Maybe it’s just young guys that are stupid. Maybe I should be looking for someone who isn’t a twenty-four-year-old teenager.”

I think of Todd the Idiot, considering his unique brand of idiocy, comparing it to that of men my age
.
The only real difference that I can see is volume. Young idiots are louder than their older brethren.

“I know what would make you feel better.” I say.

“What?” she says.

She’s looking at me seriously, as if anticipating some legitimate moment of insight, and so I feel bad when I point to the slowly rotating hot dogs sweating under their incubator lamp behind glass. “Do you want jalapeño or spicy chili? They come with dipping sauce. My treat.”

Outside, it’s surprisingly warm, and we dodge a group of Asian tourists. Each of them is wearing sunglasses and Obama T-shirts and they’re all thrilled to be here. That’s the funny thing about a world crumbling—it often seems as if it’s crumbling only on TV. Because out here, everyone seems to be happily going about their lives, and so I consider the ramifications of guiding Katie to the Metro and joining our visitors from the East for a day of sightseeing.

“You’re not a vice president, you know,” says Katie. “Not by a long shot.”

“Ouch.”

“That’s a compliment, you moron.” She shoves my shoulder, a small girl’s punch. “You’re a writer, dude. You’re not a suit. Thank God. You’d hate it. And they’d eat you up with all their buzzwords and bullshit.”

“I could be a novelist
and
a VP of marketing. I think that’s how Faulkner started out. I would terrorize Greg by day and write beautiful, generation-defining literature by night.”

A W-shaped scowl forms across her brow. That’ll turn into a wrinkle someday, but not yet. Her feet make little smacking noises as we walk. “You told him no, Tom, right? Come on, you’re not gonna break my heart and sell out, are you?”

“Maybe it’s more complicated than that. Being poor and tormented is charming when you’re young. You can wear flannel shirts and complain about how stupid everyone is. It’s hard to be like that when you’re older though. Everyone my age is talking about eight-hundred-billion-dollar bailouts and the value of their 401(k). I am thirty-five, you know.”

I’m just talking, riffing my way through an explanation, but it’s amazing how logical what I just said sounds.

“Man, you’re really thinking about this, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s . . . well, it’s money.”

A teenage boy with a skateboard glances at Katie, as do two mailmen drinking Gatorades. She looks at me, the W gone. “When I was a freshman, I took this drawing class as an elective,” she says. “We would spend the whole time sketching like apples or pictures of dogs or whatever and talking about shading. Our teacher was a super-skinny little woman with huge seventies glasses. One day she was talking about how when we’re little kids, all we want to do is draw pictures and color in coloring books and write stories about our stuffed animals. And we’re encouraged to do all that, because that’s what kids do, right? But when we’re not kids anymore, that encouragement stops and we’re expected to be something practical and worthwhile. The world loses artists all the time because they think they need to be just like everyone else. They let other people determine who they’re supposed to be. And it sucks.”

I fight back a smile. Her youth beside me—that idealism of being twenty-three and somehow untouched by any of this—gives off a buzz that I can almost feel. “I didn’t know you could draw,” I say.

“I can’t. I’m freaking terrible. But you’re not. You’re an artist. For real.”

The pinky finger on my right hand brushes the pinky finger on her left hand. “Brush” isn’t even the right word. They pass, the smallest part of me and the smallest part of her, just close enough to suddenly be aware of one another.

I want to have sex with Katie. But, then again, so do all of the men we’ve passed by in the last fifteen minutes, and the men she sees every day at the office or on the Metro or at the grocery store. That’s a simple, harsh reality tied to hormones and procreation and evolution, and so my wanting to have sex with Katie doesn’t worry me at all. It doesn’t keep me awake at night or make me afraid for what might be happening. What does worry me, though, is how badly I want to put my arm around her and pull her close to me. It would feel so natural, so simple. The muscles in my arm actually twitch, as if remembering a time when I could.

“So, you don’t think I should be a vice president?” I say. “Even if I’d be a super cool one who would abolish the dress code and bring in pizza every Friday.”

“No,” she says. “But it would be pretty sweet to see Gregory freak out.”

A block or so later, the sun on our faces, I ask her finally about her projects and about her job and actually behave like a legitimate boss. We turn a corner, near our office now, and I’m startled to see the same two construction workers from 7-Eleven. They’re leaning against a work truck drinking Red Bulls. Up close, covered in a light film of dust from the day, they’re just kids themselves, hardly older than Katie, and they notice her again right away.

“Everything is fine with me,” she says, still oblivious. “Gregory hates my work, but what else is new?”

“Goddamn,” says the taller guy. He has a goatee and a Redskins sweatshirt on.

I look at Katie, who stares straight ahead, not breaking stride. They look at her unabashedly, and it’s uncomfortable as hell. “Hey, honey,” says the other guy. He looks meaner somehow, less dopey. “Looking good.”

“OK guys,” I say. “That’s enough.” I sound friendlier than I’d intended, as if I’m in on the joke, too.

Katie tugs my sleeve, moving me along.

“Oh, don’t go,” the taller guy says, and they’re both snickering. “I didn’t get your number yet.”

The smaller guy finds this hilarious. “Hey, I called her first. She’s mine.”

“Good God, look at that ass. You’re killing me.”

I stop walking and turn around. “Really?” I say.

Their faces don’t change, two unconcerned smiles.

“Is that the kind of thing that works for you guys? You have a lot of luck with that?”

“Uh-oh. Daddy’s gettin’ mad. Sorry, Gramps. Didn’t know she was taken.”

They’re laughing at me, and I feel helpless, because what am I really going to do? They’re two guys next to a truck and I’m in loafers carrying a Big Gulp, and it pisses me off.

“That’s really original, fellas. Leering construction workers. You’re doing a lot for your people.”

“Ha. Yeah, nice khakis, Mr. Original. You’re a real trailblazer.”

Pinpricks of heat erupt along my spine.

“It’s not a big deal, Tom,” says Katie. “Come on, let’s just go.”

“Yeah,
Tom
, hustle back to the office. You’ve got a conference call.” It’s the little guy—and he
is
little, a smart-mouthed runt.

I’m supposed to be fucking witty, right? I tangle with Greg all day like it’s in my job description—but against these grinning assholes I’m plagued with erectile dysfunction of the mouth. “Fuck off,” I say. In my own ear it sounds corporate and effeminate.

“Bye girls,” says the taller one. “See you next time.”

I open the top of my Big Gulp and step toward them to toss it all in their faces, avoiding any thought of the likely consequences. But the toe of my stupid loafer catches a crack in the pavement, and I go lurching forward, stumbling like a drunk. They both step away and I trip right between them, struggling to right myself. My Diet Pepsi splashes across the hood and fender of the dirty truck, and I actually reach for the little guy, not to hit him but to stop myself from falling. Startled, he shoves me away. My plastic cup hits the tire and I face plant against the passenger door. The side mirror, which I manage to catch on my way down, is the only thing that saves me from completely wiping out onto cement.

Katie says my name and the two guys seem stunned at what they’ve just seen while I die inside from embarrassment, holding the side of my face.

“Jesus, dude,” says the tall guy. “Chill the fuck out.”

“Yeah, man, we’re just fucking with you.”

I’d be happier now if these two guys attacked me with wrenches and hammers and I was forced to fight them off here on the street in front of Katie and the various pedestrians now pretending not to be watching this bit of street theater. But they don’t. They’re not cartoon villains or thugs or criminals. They’re just two buddies on their way to or from some construction job who’ve just watched a physically incompetent, nearly middle-aged man make an ass of himself.

“Dude,” says the taller guy. “Are you, like, OK?”

“Shit, man,” says the other.

Thankfully, Katie is there to take me away. The two guys don’t even laugh. They’ve become sympathetic characters, the rotten little fuckers. Where’s a construction worker stereotype when you need one?

Outside our office building, Katie lights a cigarette and grins like she’s trying not to.

“I’m . . . really sorry about that,” I say.

“Look at you, tough guy. Defending my honor.”

“What was that you were saying about guys being stupid?” My face hurts, which makes sense because I smashed it against a truck. The skin there is all hot and stingy.

She exhales laughing smoke. “That’s why you just keep walking. Hulking out doesn’t do anyone any good. You wouldn’t make a very good girl.”

“Is that something you deal with a lot—guys like that?”

She looks at her feet, shy, and I guess it was a silly question. “But that’s the first time anyone’s ever lost a Big Gulp over it,” she says.

She offers me a drag of her cigarette, and I take it. The smoke burns, but the tip is thrillingly damp from her lips and if this is how all cigarettes were I’d take up smoking full-time again.

“Does it hurt?” she asks. “It looks like it hurts.”

“A little,” I say. “The good news is, I think I dented that jerk’s door with my face. So, it wasn’t a total loss.”

She kisses her hand and then presses it, warm and soft, against my burning cheekbone. “My hero,” she says.

We share the rest of her cigarette, and because there’s nowhere else for me to look, I look at our reflection in the ground-floor windows of this monstrous building. My hair is a little too long and perhaps my khakis a little too short at the cuffs. And then there’s Katie, hugging herself from the chill of our building’s shadow, looking up at me and smiling.