Chapter 7
I
take off my glasses and rub my eyes.
I am so tired of this!
All of it.
Corrine.
Covering Corrine’s absences.
Making
her
shine.
Lying to clients all day.
Lying to Mr. Dunn.
Taking MBA classes one at a time.
Mr. Dunn and his condescending “maybe next year” tone.
The elusive JAE program.
What am I doing here? All I’m doing is chasing the freaking pavement, eight miles a day to and from anonymity, futility, and misery.
I look at the phone.
Mr. Peterson is going to call in twenty minutes, I can’t transfer his call to Corrine, and I don’t know ... what ... to ... do.
Hmm.
Yeah. That’s what I’ll do.
I am going to take the call.
As Corrine Ross.
I did it once before when she was in “vanish mode.” It wasn’t hard at all to mimic her accent and use her high-end vocabulary. I know the lingo. That client never knew, and Corrine never suspected a thing.
Yes.
No one will be the wiser. Corrine is going out of the country and will be incommunicado. It shouldn’t be too hard to field phone calls for her
as her
for two weeks. And when she gets back, we’ll go to work as we normally do on the account, and she’ll probably be just as ungrateful as always.
Grr.
I take a deep breath. I’ll just have to look at this as practice. Yes. This is only practice. Mr. Dunn won’t let me into the JAE program, but if I can pull off this account on my own—and make sure he knows about it this time with lots of written proof—I’ll be the only person on that list when I finally get my MBA.
It’s game time.
If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right. I log off MultiCorp’s network and hit the Internet to research Peterson Bicycles, taking rapid notes. Geez, the prices for these bikes are outrageous. Two thousand bucks for the
standard
model. I like the idea of getting and staying fit, but I also like eating. They’re called “the Rolls-Royce of bicycles”? That’s so elitist and snobby. I’m surprised their sales are so steady. And they don’t look that special. They look more like longer versions of BMX bikes.
My phone lights up again. Ted. Again. This is a record.
“About those receipts, Shari.”
Shoot! “Just a sec, Ted.”
God, I hate Excel. I quickly list Corrine’s three extra meals as “client incentives,” lump the facial, nails, hair, and brooch as “business attire,” and call the bar tab and adult movie “meals and entertainment.” I save it and send Ted a copy. “I’m sending the spreadsheet to you now, Ted.”
“I’ll, um, also need the actual receipts for our records.”
I slide the receipts back into the envelope and walk all of forty feet to Ted’s desk. Whoa. Ted has some new black hair plugs. They look so fake! The man has jet-black hair and orange freckles, and only a few weeks late for Halloween. I place the envelope on his desk. “Here they are, Ted.”
“How’d you get so good at Skee Ball?”
I don’t have time for this! “I practice every night, Ted. Bye.”
Geez, it’s 10:45. I only have fifteen minutes to prepare. Clients don’t usually just drop out of the sky like this. There are rules to this sort of thing. Clients call in and ask for an appointment with Corrine, I crank up MS Outlook, and I “pencil” them in for whenever it’s convenient for her. This ... this is tantamount to treason!
I heard that line in a movie once, I forget which. It’s a very cool line.
But I have so little written down. I mean, it’s a nice bike, but would I ever buy one of these? I sigh. No.
Okay, think like an ordinary ad executive who isn’t named Corrine Ross and has more than a dozen brain cells. Forget the product and how useless it is to you—just sell the stupid thing. Focus!
There are bike paths all over New York, mostly in the parks, one on the Brooklyn Bridge. A bike can be a commuter vehicle like those courier guys flying around. It’s an eco-friendly commute. I could tie the bike into breast cancer—you can tie anything into breast cancer if you paint it pink. Pink bikes? That might work. It’s a fashion statement. A bike saves gas, energy, the planet, the universe, the whales, and the Democratic Party. A bike helps prevent traffic jams. Riding is healthy for you, great for your booty, thighs, calves, and cardio. Oh sure, you’ll arrive sweaty to work, but you’ll probably beat the bus. Peterson Bicycles have all the accessories New Yorkers could ever want: outfits, gloves, briefcase carriers, lights, bells, horns, rearview mirrors, speedometers, turn signals, even a cool cell phone/MP3 holder. The helmets Peterson recommends are pretty bland. Maybe we can get them to market specific helmet models for the Knicks, Nets, Mets, Jets, Yankees, Giants, Islanders, and Rangers—
The phone lights up again! And it’s not even Monday. Oh man, it’s Bryan.
“I bought my plane ticket today, Share,” he says. “I’ll be arriving at five thirty next Friday night.”
This is such a bad time for me. “Five thirty next Friday.”
“You don’t sound too excited about it.”
Because I’m not. “Um, yeah, I’m excited, Bryan.” But I’m more excited about this campaign. I think a moment. Hmm. This campaign isn’t likely to kick off till the spring when the weather changes. That’s when you ride bikes, right? I’ll have time.
“I’m excited, too,” Bryan says. “Anything I can bring?”
Oh no! What if the client wants a Christmas sales boost now? But Christmas ads started assaulting the airwaves after Labor Day two months ago. This client is way behind. “Uh, no, Bryan, just, um, just bring yourself. But I’ll be really busy. I,
we
have a new project, and I’ll,
we’ll
be working on it. I might have to pull a few late nights here at the office.”
“And I’ll be waiting for you back at your place. I’ll even cook for you.”
That is never a good idea. The man burns water and thinks black toast tastes good if you scrape it off just right. “Um, how long are you planning to stay, Bryan?”
“Through Thanksgiving Day if that’s all right.”
I like the guy, and we usually have some fun, but that’s ... five days! I don’t know if I can tolerate him for five days. And I have this
golden
opportunity now. “You won’t be at your mama’s for Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Oh right,” he says. “I’ll be leaving Thanksgiving morning so I can get back home in time.”
Something about his mama’s cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, and dressing has always been more important than I am.
“And I was hoping you could come back with me, Share,” he says. “You have that Thursday and Friday off, don’t you?”
That’s not going to happen. For one, I can’t afford the plane ticket. Two, Daddy might open the door for me, but Mama wouldn’t, all because I chose to live my dream in this “nasty city.” And three, I get so few days off! I need that “me” time. How do I calm him down? “We’ll see, Bryan.” It’s how Mr. Dunn calmed me down, right? “We’ll see.”
“So I’ll see you next Friday, Share. I can’t wait. Later.”
Oh,
can’t
it wait?
I organize what few notes I have into some sort of plan that lacks a slogan. I jot one down: “For the urban commuter who’s not a polluter.” That would tick off everyone who drives, though. Um ... songs! “You Spin Me Round”? No. Too monotonous. “Proud Mary” has something about wheels, but you don’t go rollin’ on the river on a bicycle. Didn’t John Lennon have a song about spinning? “Ezekiel Saw the Wheel”? Geez,
I’m
spinning. I hum “The Wheels on the Bus” and envision a scene of a biker passing the bus, the bus not seeing him—ouch. I need something vibrant, um, something alive. “Live dangerously”? No. There aren’t any air bags on those things. “Live by the seat of your pants.” Yeah. Like I’m doing now. “Live ... something something.”
I check the clock. Eleven on the dot.
My phone lights up.
“Corrine Ross’s office. This is Shari Nance. How may I help you?” That’s
not
what I wanted to say! I am such a creature of habit.
“This is Woody Peterson. Miss Ross is expecting my call.”
“One moment.”
I take the deepest breath I’ve ever taken. Corrine said not to bug her, so it’s her fault I have to do this. I exhale. Okay, Shari, you’re ready for this. This moment has been five years in the making. This moment has been your whole life in the making. You can do this. And stop tripping. You’ve done this before, and you didn’t get caught.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Peterson,” I say in a southern version of Corrine’s voice. I can’t help it! “This is Corrine Ross. How are you?”
“Did Mr. Dunn give you the skinny?” he asks.
I smile. Mr. Peterson is country. I can deal with a country man. This may just work out. “Yes sir.”
“Did he tell you how soon we wanted this thing turned around?” he asks.
“No sir, but I am confident that we’ll meet your deadline. Sometime in the spring perhaps?”
“Nope. The deadline’s the day before Thanksgiving.”
No ...
freaking
... way! That’s ... twelve days from now! He has to be kidding! And if Corrine is going to be gone for two weeks—
“Miss Ross, I’d like to meet with you today at ... what’s the name of this place? Thank you, honey. That was my waitress. I’m at the Church & Dey restaurant, third floor of the Millennium Hilton.”
He’s not kidding. He wants to meet with Corrine Ross at the famous misspelled hotel across the street from the World Trade Center rebuild. That’s just three blocks away from me! And he wants to meet with me today! No Friday should be this stressful.
“You know where it is, Miss Ross?” he asks.
My heart is threatening to leave my chest and bounce over to Ted and his bobblehead. “I’m only three blocks from you, Mr. Peterson.” And my legs won’t stop shaking. “When would you like to meet?”
“I’m already here,” he says. “How soon can you get here?”
This is happening
way
too fast! He wants to meet with me now! “Um, I can meet with you in about fifteen minutes, Mr. Peterson. I have just one more task that requires my attention.” And that task is screaming and then pulling myself together! “I’ll be there directly.”
“I’ll be waiting. See you soon.”
Click.
The receiver falls out of my hand, bounces on my desk, and rattles a little.
The whispers at MultiCorp stop.
I replace the receiver.
The whispers continue.
All is well in their self-satisfied, silent worlds, while my world has just gotten very interesting.
I can’t do this. I just can’t. It’s payday. I want to get paid. I want to eat. I’ve never even thought of impersonating Corrine further than a few phone calls. What if I get caught? I could lose my job. I don’t want to go back to Virginia a failure. I just ... I have to let Corrine know what’s going on. That’s what I have to do. I have to keep being the good little MultiCorp soldier. I’ll tell her that a client wishes to meet with her, and Corrine will leave Delmonico’s and go to the meeting, and all will be blissfully crappy ever after.
I call Corrine’s cell, and it doesn’t even ring, sending me straight to her voice mail. I hang up before leaving a message. She told me not to call her unless there was a crisis. This ... this is a crisis. This is important.
I call Delmonico’s and have her paged. “She must have just left,” they tell me. Heifer! She ate a lobster in less than half an hour? So that means ... she’s on her way home—or on her way to the airport. Is she leaving for Australia already? I’m sure she has to go home to change and pack fifty suitcases. I don’t have time to check flights to the Great Barrier Reef. I wonder if her plane could land on the reef. Nah. Sharks would spit her up, and there would be a nasty international incident.
So if her phone’s off and she’s en route somewhere, and I’m the only one who can do this ...
I have no choice, right? Corrine is obviously gone, not that she’s ever truly here when she is here.
I
have
to be her now.
Eww. Rephrase.
I have to be her
position
now. I have to represent her
as
her.
I stand, willing my legs to stop shaking.
We can do this. Right foot, you lead, and the left one will follow.
I grab my jacket and put it on, looking out the window. Yo, Brooklyn, I’m about to do something as crazy as you are. What would Walt Whitman think? He said that freedom was to “walk free and own no superior.” He also said that the “future is no more uncertain than the present.” If Walt were still in Brooklyn today, he’d be asking, “So, whatchagonnado, Shari?”