“Bye, Daddy.”
I kissed Allyson at the door. “What’s your day like?”
“Vacuuming. Lunch with Nancy.” She kissed me again. “Good luck. Call after your meeting so I can plan our celebration.”
Chapter 5
I arrived early at work. With the exception of Stuart Parks, the general manager, and the morning on-air talent, the rest of the staff had yet to arrive, leaving the main suite quiet except for the banter of the KBOX Breakfast Bunch that played over the office sound system.
Occasionally, during a long stretch of music, one of the DJ’s would emerge from the studio for coffee, food or a bathroom break. When I arrived, Mick, the top morning DJ, was rooting through the refrigerator in the employee lounge. On the way back to the studio, he passed my cubicle. He was wearing an Aerosmith cap and Ray-Ban sunglasses and belting out a song by the Cars as if he really could sing. When he saw me, he stopped and held up a square Tupperware container. He lifted its lid to expose a grotesque mass of green and white fuzz. “Hey, man, check this out.”
I grimaced. “What’s that, your breakfast?”
“This is our new morning feature: I call it What’s in the Tupperware? A. A tuna sandwich cloning experiment gone bad. B. The national penicillin reserve. C. A poor man’s Chia Pet or D. Life in a jar.
“Save it for your listeners.”
“Haven’t you seen our latest numbers? You are my listeners, man,” Mick said as he walked back to the studio. “You and my mom.”
The day I heard Doug was retiring I had begun compiling a notebook of ideas to increase our sales. At five minutes to nine I picked up my notebook then knocked on Stuart’s door.
I remembered the first time I came to this door—the day Stuart hired me. I was actually his second choice for the job. He had originally approached my brother Marshall, a friend of his from college, about coming to work for the station. Marshall had already committed himself to his computer training and turned him down, but knowing that I was about to graduate from college and was still wrestling with a career choice, he recommended me. Back then I was the new kid at KBOX. Now, at the age of thirty-two, I was one of the veterans.
The last three years had been particularly difficult ones for the station. Deregulation had come into the radio industry and massive media conglomerates were forcing the independents to compete or sell out. Stations who for decades had posed no serious threat to KBOX were now reformatted and infused with promotional capital. As an independently owned station, we had dropped from first to seventh in the market and were losing money almost as fast as Stuart was losing his hair.
After a half minute I knocked again and Stuart answered gruffly, “It’s not locked.”
I opened the door. To my surprise, Stuart wasn’t alone. Stacey, one of the newer sales reps—a tall, svelte bottle blonde with cropped hair—was standing to the side of his desk. They simultaneously looked up at me. There was something peculiar about the scene. Stuart had that deer-in-the-headlights look about him while Stacey looked at me with a pert, confident smile. There had been a lot of office gossip about the two of them, and though, out of loyalty to Stuart, I kept myself from it, their appearance this morning did nothing to dissuade me from believing it.
“Good morning, Rob.”
“Morning, Stacey.”
She gently touched Stuart’s shoulder. “We’ll talk more later, Stu.”
She walked from the office and I stepped aside to let her pass. A trace of perfume followed her.
When she was gone, Stuart said, “Shut the door, Rob.”
I closed the door behind me.
“How’s it going, Stu?”
Stu’s manner was uncharacteristically brusque. “I’ve had better weeks. Have a seat.”
I settled into one of the vinyl chairs in front of his desk.
Stuart looked at me with a pained expression. “I’ve been meaning to talk with you for some time now. You know Doug’s leaving.”
“Of course.”
“Frankly, between us girls, I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, look at things. Our profits have done nothing but fall over the last three years.”
“I know,” I said, lifting my notebook. “I have some ideas about that.”
Stuart acted as if he hadn’t heard me. “We’ve got to plug up the leaks before this ship sinks. As you know, I brought in some consultants to see what we’re doing wrong and what we need to do differently.” His brow fell. “Among other things, the consultants think that we’re carrying deadweight on the sales force.”
I nodded. “They’re right about that. I have that in my notes.”
Stuart leaned back in his chair. “They meant you, Rob.”
It took a moment for me to comprehend his meaning. “What?”
“These guys have all the numbers. According to industry standards, you’re not selling nearly at the level someone with your tenure should be. You’ve been here almost seven years and your sales are barely higher than what they were when you first started.”
“Things aren’t where they were seven years ago. The economy is in the toilet. Every client of mine has cut their advertising budget. And then there are our ratings. We have half the market share we had back then. Not even that.” Desperation rose in my chest. “I’ve more than doubled my accounts since I came here. What more could I do?”
Stuart’s gaze was direct. “A lot. Stacey has doubled her billings in the five months she’s been with us.”
“Stacey,” I said angrily. “Well, there’s a good reason for that. She inherited the strongest sales list here. Not to mention that every time a rep leaves, you give her the first pick of their sales list. She doesn’t have to look for new clients. You drop them in her lap.”
“That’s not true.”
“Name one account that she’s brought in on her own.”
Stuart couldn’t answer me. He blinked slowly. “This isn’t about her, Rob. What about Kinko’s? We had their account for fifteen years and you lost it—lock, stock and barrel.”
I slid forward to the edge of the chair. “I did everything I could to save that account. Kinko’s was bought out by the national corporation and they moved all their advertising to their regional buyer and you can’t schmooze this gal. She only buys numbers.”
“What about Kyoto? What gives with that?”
“The last Arbitron is what gives.” I ran my hand back through my hair. I had expected a pat on the back, not a kick in the behind. “You think I’m slacking?”
“No, Rob. I know you put in the hours.”
I slumped back in my chair. “You’re not giving me the position, are you?”
Stuart looked at me bewilderedly. “What position?”
“Doug’s job.”
Deeper furrows. “No. It’s already been given to somebody else.”
I suddenly understood that I had never even been a consideration. “To who?”
“Stacey,” he said.
“Stacey?”
“You have a problem with that?”
“She’s the last one I would have suspected.”
“She’s right for the job. She’s young, energetic, motivated . . .”
“. . . and easy on the eyes.”
Stuart frowned at my accusation. I didn’t care.
“So what you’re saying is that I’m stuck where I’m at.”
“Not exactly. The consultants say that having non-progressing salespeople has a detrimental effect on overall station growth. They say that in order to revitalize our sales team, we need to let some people go.” His last words resonated in the quiet of the office.
“You’re firing me?”
“The consultants . . .”
I erupted. “Quit hiding behind your consultants’ skirts. They work for you.” I shook my head in frustration. “I know exactly what’s going on here, Stu. I know about you and Stacey. Everyone talks about you two. And I know she wants my li
st. She’s hardly shy about it.” I stood. “Congratulations. I’m sure there will be a nice payoff at your next little get-together.”
Stuart turned red. “Get out of here.”
“Just like that. For seven years I’ve given everything to this crummy job and you throw me out for some airhead blonde you met five months ago. Who’s next? Your wife?”
“I said get out.”
I walked to the door then turned back. “I just realized why everyone calls you Stu. It’s short for stupid.”
Chapter 6
There is a place up Little Cottonwood Canyon where the river cuts a steep bank against the mountain and levels into a secluded gorge of stone and tree. It is a place of solitude, and every now and then I go there to think. It was noon when I arrived. My mind reeled. I felt like I had been sucker punched. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Even if radio sales wasn’t my first choice of occupation, I had given KBOX my loyalty. Maybe I had been working too hard to notice that the bottom line was blind to such ideals.
I sat in my car for a while, wrestling with whether or not to call Allyson. She would be the hardest to tell. I was certain that she already knew that I hadn’t received the promotion. She knew me well enough to know that I’m the kind of guy who runs home with an A on his report card and hides it if I get an F. It had always been that way. But she’d never suspect that I’d been fired. She believed in me more than I believed in myself. How could I tell her that her faith had been misplaced?
I should have been better at accepting failure. I had been raised with it. The day I graduated with my bachelor’s degree, my father asked me what I planned on doing with my life.
“Go back for my master ’s,” I said.
He thought about it then in his usual tight-lipped manner said, “Might as well. You’ll never make it in the real world.”
An emotionally secure person would wonder how a father could treat his child like that. But a child raised by such a father isn’t likely to be emotionally secure. It was as if Chuck were somehow permanently embedded in my psyche. It was Chuck’s echo I heard when Stu fired me. Only now did I realize how much Chuck’s curse haunted me.
Chuck would be a happy man today, I thought, because today he had been proven right. I was thirty-two with a family to feed, unemployed and without a prospect in the world—a great big zero. I languished in the darkness of such thoughts. I’ve heard it said that the most humble of days is when a man compares what he might have been to who he really is. It is the day when life hands you a looking glass and all you can do is stare at your own reflection and scream. Or at least weep. This was my day. Everything was in question.
Chapter 7
There is a pewter-framed picture on our bedroom nightstand that pretty much sums up our family’s relationship with Nancy Fox. I don’t know who took the picture, but it was snapped on our wedding day. I am standing next to Allyson, my arm around my bride’s waist, our bodies as tight together as the stones in those Incan walls that you can’t fit a knife blade between. Nancy’s body is invisible, but her smiling head is between us, cheek to cheek, happily floating upon our shoulders. She has been there ever since. In my marriage contract, Nancy was somewhere in the fine print.
Nancy had never married, although she had been engaged three times. She gave catch and release a whole new meaning. Again and again she would reel in Mr. Right then proceed to bash him over the head, scale him, gut him and throw him back into the lake for not measuring up.
Whenever she’d bring her latest boyfriend over to our house for dinner, Allyson and I would smile at him and ask the usual questions, while a part of me, the part loyal to my gender, would want to hold Nancy down and shout to the chump, “Run, you fool. Run while you still can.”
Still, she was obsessed with men and was always looking, bemoaning the fact that all the good ones were taken.
For the last five years Nancy had worked in South Salt Lake at the credit office of R. C. Willey, a large chain of furniture appliance stores, and she and Allyson had lunch together at least once a week at a small café south of Liberty Park. While I struggled alone in the canyons, Allyson was at lunch with Nancy, oblivious to my morning.
“I can’t believe the food still hasn’t come,” Nancy said. “If that waiter wasn’t so gorgeous, I’d say something.”
“It’s a pretty day,” Allyson said. “Enjoy it.”
“Did you see those men behind you? The good-looking one in the Armani jacket keeps looking over here.”
“Why don’t you go introduce yourself?”
“What if he’s really just looking at you?”
“Tell him I’m married.”
Just then the waiter brought out their lunch. “Sorry, ladies. The kitchen’s a little backed up.”
“No problem,” Nancy said coquettishly.
He set a bread bowl in front of each of them. “Two bowls of butternut squash soup. Can I get you anything else?”
“The mind reels,” Nancy said.
Allyson shook her head. “No, we’re fine, thank you.”
“Enjoy.” The waiter hurried back inside.
Nancy said, “You know, why do I even bother with men? It always ends up the same anyway. Besides what do I need marriage for when I can live through yours vicariously?” She waved her spoon as she spoke. “You have a handsome husband who is gainfully employed, a nice home and a beautiful daughter. What more could I ask for?”
Allyson sipped her ice tea then replied, “How about your own husband, house and child?”
Nancy laughed. She dipped her spoon into a bowl of soup and paused to taste. “Mm. This is really good. So what is my family doing tonight?”
“We’re celebrating.”
“Celebrating? Did I miss something?”
“Rob’s being promoted to sales manager at the radio station.”
“It’s about time. He’s been there forever.”
“Actually, I should say we think he’s going to be promoted. But I’m sure he will be. I’m just waiting for his call.”
“You have a good life,” Nancy said.
“I do,” Allyson said. “I’m a lucky girl.”
“What are you doing to celebrate?”
“I thought I’d make a roast. Want to come over?”
“I can’t. David wants to have a talk.”
“You mean the talk?”
“Probably. I just hope he didn’t buy a ring. It always makes me feel bad when they have to take it back.”
“Call me after it’s over.”
“I always do.”
Chapter 8
It was nearly midnight when I got home. I entered the house through the kitchen. There were dirty dishes in the sink and one place setting still on the table. There was a note on the counter that I did not read but guessed it pertained to some Tupperware container in the refrigerator. I went immediately downstairs to my den to write in my diary.
I had started my first diary as a teenager in middle school as an assignment in an English class and I never stopped. For nearly two decades I had recorded every one of the major, and a good share of the minor, events of my life. The practice was now more than habit, it was a form of self-therapy, as my writing had changed from recording events to feelings. I’m sure it saved me thousands of dollars in counseling sessions. There was something about putting my feelings on paper that made them manageable, as if I could just crumple them up and throw them away at will. But tonight, as I sat facing the computer screen, I hadn’t the stomach for it. I turned off my computer then sat back in my La-Z-Boy with my eyes closed, my stocking feet up on its footrest.
After a few minutes I heard Allyson’s soft footsteps on the floor above me. I could hear her cross the kitchen floor then descend the stairs. Embarrassment welled in my chest. I had no doubt that she had already concluded it had been a bad day. I didn’t look forward to telling her how bad it really was.
The lights were off in my den, and the room was only illuminated from a lamp in the hallway
. Allyson walked up behind me. She rested her hands on my shoulders and gently massaged me, working up to my neck. I leaned my head back, and she kissed my forehead then drew her long fingers up the sides of my neck and jaw, then up to my temples and massaged again. After a couple of minutes she said softly, “So what happened?”
I took her hands from my head and just held them. I looked up at her. “I got fired.”
“Fired?”
“Stuart said that I wasn’t performing.”
“But you’re their best salesman . . .” Allyson looked at me anxiously. “What does this mean?”
“It means what it means.”
She took her hands from me then came around the chair and sat in my lap, draping her arms around my neck. “Here, sweetie, let me hold you.” She pulled my head into her breast, cradling it in her arms. Suddenly my wall of stoicism cracked. I began to cry. She pressed her cheek against the top of my head.
“It’s okay, honey.”
She ran her hand down to my chin and lifted it until my gaze met hers. For a moment she just looked into my eyes.
“What am I doing, Al? I’ve spent the last seven years selling air. Most of my friends are moving into the peak of their careers and I have nothing to show for my time. I’m such a failure.”
“That’s not true. You’re the most wonderful husband and father on this planet. No one could take such good care of us.”
“That’s a joke. We live hand to mouth. Mark’s taking Becca on a Tahitian cruise for her thirtieth. You got a mixer.”
“I asked for a mixer. And you’re all I need, Robert. You’re my life.”
I shook my head. “Well, this isn’t what I thought my life was going to be. Working at the radio station was supposed to be temporary until I got my writing off the ground. How much more of a loser could I be, getting fired from a career I never really wanted to begin with?”
Allyson stroked my hair then pressed her forehead against mine. “Maybe this is really a blessing, Rob. Maybe it’s a sign that it’s time for you to chase your dream of becoming a writer.”