Chapter 10
A
fter booking a flight to Macon, I spend most of Saturday sitting at my window desk researching bikes on my laptop. Normally I’d curl up on the couch with a few good books. Today, though, I’m different.
I’m on the job.
I look at how other bikes are marketed and how other bikes compare to Peterson bikes, and most don’t do very well head-to-head. Peterson bikes consistently make all the “best” lists, and even ratings at
Amazon.com
, where buyers are often critical of a product because
Amazon
screwed up the delivery, are four and a half stars or higher for every Peterson bicycle, even some ten and twenty years old. And some of the prices of used Peterson bikes are
higher
than the new ones! “Most Peterson bikes,”
Consumer Reports
says, “are still on the road fifteen to twenty years after purchase.”
Mr. Peterson needs to go to Detroit to show the automakers how it’s done.
It takes me quite a bit of digging to find more information about Mr. Peterson, because unlike other millionaire entrepreneurs, he’s a very private man. I had to read through clips I found online in the
Macon Telegraph,
the
Georgia Informer,
and the
Macon Daily.
All I can say is that Mr. Peterson is the proverbial salt of the earth, or as we say in Virginia, “He’s good people.” He has three kids, who all have his chin, and eight grandkids, who
also
have his chin. Member of the Chamber of Commerce, Kiwanis Club, the Rotary Club. Member of Highland Hills Baptist Church for forty-five years. His residence, a modest two-story with a wraparound porch, adjoins the plant property. The man lives where he works and works where he lives. He hunts, fishes, rarely takes vacations, and gives away hundreds of kids’ bikes every year.
The man is a saint.
On a whim, I navigate the Harrison Hersey and Boulder site looking for any pictures of Tom Sexton. I have, um, been looking for these pictures for about four—no, five—years and have come up completely empty. Yeah, Tom has had a listing, a simple bio (“Mr. Sexton has been with Harrison Hersey and Boulder for twelve years”), but there hasn’t been a—
Is that him?
I do a happy dance in my bare feet.
I even fog up my glasses a little.
This man is
hot.
And it’s only a head shot. He has thick, wavy dirty-blond hair that brushes his medium-sized ears, devastating dark brown eyes below dirty-blond eyebrows, an aquiline nose, a strong jaw, nice lips, tan skin, and a laughing smile. He had to be laughing when they took that picture because that smile seems to say, “I can do anything I want. Ha! Whatchagonnado about it?”
He has told me he’s tall. I wonder what the rest of him looks like.
I type “Tom Sexton” in Google pictures and find the
same
freaking head shot. Shoot. I wish I could see more of him. All I know is that he’s terrific. Maybe I could find his high school or his college picture. I check
Reunion.com
, MySpace, Facebook, and LinkedIn. Nothing. Why doesn’t Tom network? I’ll bet he doesn’t have to. All he has to say is, “Hi, I’m Tom Sexton from Harrison Hersey and Boulder.” Yep. That’s enough information to give out to impress and network with anyone.
I return to the Harrison Hersey and Boulder site and search for any kind of account information. All Harrison Hersey and Boulder does is list their major clients, and there’s a freaking long list. Since each client is hyperlinked, I wear out my index finger clicking till I finally find the executives who maintain each account. This could take all night! But what else do I have to do? No Skee Ball tonight. My high score is safe.
After clicking literally hundreds of accounts, I learn that Tom Sexton, my competitor for the Peterson Bicycle account, has had forty-three “wins.” I am so in trouble. I have two unacknowledged wins, three if “Just ... go” impresses Detroit. If I had only known from the first time I talked to Mr. Peterson that Tom Sexton would be my enemy—
Oh no! Mr. Peterson told
me
about Tom, and I’m sure Mr. Peterson has told Tom that Corrine is his competition! Was that why Tom was calling to talk to Corrine on Friday? Was he calling to tip her off? Oh no! What if Tom has already told Corrine about it? And if he did tell her—
I’m basically wasting my time.
I pull away from my laptop, wave at a full moon, and call Corrine. Her phone rings seven times, doesn’t shoot me to voice mail, and then she answers.
“Hello, Shari dear,” she says. “How’s the world treating you?”
She sounds drunk. “Um, you sound funny, Miss Ross.”
“I’m on medication, Shari dear. Heavy, wonderful, magnificent, astounding medication.”
She’s not drunk. She’s high. “Are you all right?” As if I care. “Have you, um, arrived in Australia, Miss Ross?”
“Yes. I took an early flight, and ooh, I’m still flying.”
Yes! She’s ten thousand miles away where she can do no harm. And, strangely, I almost like her soft, spaced-out voice. “Have you done any scuba diving yet, Miss Ross?”
“I smell like vinegar.”
She is
heavily
medicated. “Um, why do you smell like vinegar, Miss Ross?”
“I went snorkeling as soon as I stepped off the plane. I was only in the water five minutes, and a box jellyfish stung me. They practically bathed me in vinegar. I had tingling in my hands and feet, the worst headache, and terrible back pain.” She giggles.
Corrine never giggles. How terrible could it be?
“But I don’t feel a thing anymore, Shari dear. I love this stuff. I’m floating on water. I’m flying on air. I am encased in a fluffy marshmallow.”
I will never eat another marshmallow as long as I live.
“Has Tom called for me, Shari dear?”
Which means—yes!—that he hasn’t called her yet! But ... why hasn’t he called her yet? “He, um, he hasn’t called you, Miss Ross?”
“No, and I miss him
so
much.” There’s the whiny-voiced wench I’ve come to hate. “I need him here beside me to nurse me back to health.”
Why hasn’t Tom called her? Hmm. She told him to meet her in Australia, so he knows she’s in Australia. He also knows that Corrine is supposed to be competing against him for this account.
The rat! He knows that she
doesn’t
know about the account, and he’s not letting her know
what
he knows. Or, he knows she knows and thinks that
she
thinks that
he
doesn’t know—
My brain hurts. A lot.
Maybe he thinks she’s really
not
in Australia and is only trying to sabotage his project by getting him to waste his time flying out there. She’s not that devious. She’s not even that smart. Or maybe ...
“He is supposed to be here to take care of me,” Corrine whines. “I call and I call. I call just to hear his voice on his message.”
Nice. I hope Tom calls me so I can hear his voice, too—and I can ask him what he’s up to! “Have you been leaving messages when you call him, Miss Ross?”
“Yes, of course. I never hang up on Tom without leaving a message. Why won’t he call me, Shari?”
I wish I knew. I know Harrison Hersey and Boulder folks play cutthroat, but this ... this is just weird.
“Is vinegar flammable?” she asks. “I want to smoke a cigarette so badly.”
I didn’t even know she smoked. “So when was the very last time Tom called you, Miss Ross?”
“Um, let’s see... .” She fades out. “He called me while I was eating at Delmonico’s.”
And he called
me
Friday morning about the same time she was there. “Did he mention anything about his work, Miss Ross?”
“No. Why would he? We’re supposed to be on vacation together. Oh, I miss him so much. I need him to make love to me, Shari. I need him to bathe me in rainbows and whipped cream. You know what I mean, don’t you?”
Too much information. Whipped cream? What a waste of an ice cream topping. “Um, Miss Ross, are you in a hospital?”
“Yes, and they all speak Australian. What a dreadful language.”
It’s your own language, wench. “Which hospital are you in, Miss Ross? I want to send flowers.” Not. She only likes bird of paradise flowers, and those are usually expensive.
“It’s near the hotel, which is on Dunk Island.” Corrine giggles again. “And there are no basketballs anywhere! Get it? Dunk Island? No basketballs? Oh, I kill me.”
Oh, please do. “Is it the Dunk Island Hospital?” I ask.
“I don’t know. They took me on a boat ride, and I was in too much pain to notice.”
I’ll have to ask a nurse. “Um, do you know how long you’ll be in the hospital, Miss Ross?”
“I don’t know, Shari dear. Days, weeks. I could have died, you know.”
Really? I run a search for “box jellyfish” on the Internet. Geez. Some species’ venom can be fatal in as few as four minutes. “Oh, you poor dear.” I may vomit. “Where were you stung, Miss Ross?”
“On my left breast, Shari. It’s all swollen and puffy now, and it looks so ... huge.”
How can she tell? How could the doctors tell? And when the swelling goes down, will her stretch marks have stretch marks? I may vomit for real. “Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Ross?”
“Well, now that you mention it, and I was going to tell you this before I left, but could you air out my penthouse sometime this week?”
Who airs out anything in New York in November? “Um, air it out, Miss Ross?”
“Yes. Just open all the windows, Shari dear. Surely you know how to do that.”
Grr. I’ll have to find something heavy to “open” them.
“They all have screens,” she says. “I just want some fresh air in there.”
“Okay.” Great. I have to go to Trump Place on the Upper West Side on my day off for a wench who has an overinflated breast. “Um, how do I get in, Miss Ross?”
“I’ve left a message with the concierge. He’ll let you in.”
Well if
he
can let me in ... “Um, why not just have the concierge air out your apartment, Miss Ross?”
“Because I’ve asked you to do it, Shari dear. But if you really must know, I’m afraid the concierge will steal my shoes. He looks like a transvestite. I know that you won’t touch my shoes, will you?”
“Um, no, Miss Ross.” I’d only touch them long enough to make a bonfire of her excessive vanity.
“Did Mr. Dunn call me again on Friday?”
Oh yeah. Mr. Dunn. “Yes, but it was like we thought. He only wanted to know about your plans for the Christmas party.” The first creative lie you tell your boss is the hardest to tell. “He didn’t even mention LA.” The second lie is easier to tell. “In fact, he seemed glad that you were taking a vacation and wished you well.” Wow. That last lie was like second nature to me. I’m executive material for sure now.
“Ah, the party. I may have to wear a turtleneck this year. It looks like a football, Shari!”
“What does, Miss Ross?”
“My breast! It has laces and everything. They had to shave me.”
If the sting was on her breast ... “They ... shaved you?”
“Yes. They shaved my poor breast. They put cold shaving cream on it and shaved it. They said they had to get all the stingers out, and my poor nipples were out there for everyone in Australia to see.”
There’s an image I hope to forget soon. “Um, well, uh, do you want me to ...” I have to get a hold of Tom ... I mean, I have to get in contact with—
Geez, I don’t know what I’m doing.
“Do you want me to call Tom for you, Miss Ross?” I do, after all, have all his phone numbers memorized. I’ve just been too chicken to call him myself because I could never think of a valid reason.
“Why on earth would I
ever
want you to do that?” she asks.
Yeah, why would I do that? “Um, you’re obviously in no condition to be making phone calls, Miss Ross. You need to rest.”
She sighs. “I suppose.”
“And you
have
been trying to get through to him, right, Miss Ross?” I ask.
“Every second of every moment I’ve been in here. I have left him fifty messages at least. I miss him so much. I need him to pleasure me so badly. My happy spot has been so alone, so alone for so long.”
Her ... happy spot. Is that something she learned in anatomy class at Harvard? “Miss Ross, I’ll try calling him until I get ahold of him, okay?”
“Would you do that for me, Shari dear?”