How to Be a Grown-up (6 page)

Wow.

The package they were offering was better than I’d imagined from a start-up—and definitely more than I’d make if I booked a freelance job every day for the next year. I forwarded it to Jessica.

“They are giving you a point, Rory!”

“A point?”

“Equity, baby. Done and done.”

And to Claire.

“So you hate them, big deal. This oil tycoon loaning us a Rothko thinks ‘the gays’ are responsible for hurricanes.”

And finally, to Blake. Subject line:
What should I do?

His response came in before the griddle was even smoking:
Whatever you want.
I couldn’t decide if he was being supportive or snarky. And then I couldn’t believe that I was standing over a hot griddle in a September heat wave trying to make Mickey Mouse pancakes for the children of a man whose texts I was trying to interpret like I was twenty.

Monday morning was Maya and Wynn’s chance to give me their version of first-day pep talks before I dropped them off. “Athk thomeone if they wike Play-Doh,” Maya advised me, parroting Claire. “You could have a fwiend for wife.”

“Don’t ask questions when people are chewing,” advised Wynn. “Don’t wipe your nose on your T-shirt. And don’t be a dork.”

“In my defense,” I told them, “I only do that when I’m about to throw the shirt in the hamper.”

“It’s still gross.”

“Thanks, Wynn.”

As I stared into the impassive face of Ginger, JeuneBug’s receptionist, I was glad I had availed myself of the kids’ wisdom because I did not sense any forthcoming here. She waved in the general direction of the long white tables that filled the JeuneBug bullpen, like a library reading room by Ikea: “So you’re over there.” About thirty people working, but twice as many stations were sitting vacant. The staff typed and browsed with old-school Cinnabon-sized headphones tamped over half-shaved heads.

Ginger walked me to a vacant seat. “And there’s a director meeting in ten in Capri, ’kay?”

“Capri?”

“The conference room.”

“Thank you.” I pulled back my pink chair, looking for—anything. A trash bin, a phone, a drawer.

“Oh, do you need—?”

“Somewhere to put my things? Yes, that’d be great, thanks.”

“Right. Your power switch is on the floor.” My orientation complete, she walked off.

One could see why Capri was in need of romance. It was just a side of the room cordoned off with a glass divider that framed a beige pushpin wall, an incongruous backdrop to my flamboyant colleagues, who were all sporting a look I’d named Aggressively Unflattering. Tented, cropped, backless, speckled with zippers and revealing odd swaths of skin, their outfits represented the worst of what the last three decades had to offer. And then there was me in a pencil skirt and blouse. A stranger might have assumed I’d rounded up club kids for questioning.

Taylor stood at the front with Kimmy, who embraced her coffee as if midway through a kabuki ode to the bean. “Updates.” Taylor rubbed her bare arms.
God, she’d be so much happier if she just put on a cardigan.
“We’re going beta in thirty, so we expect decks for Halloween coverage from you guys pronto. Obviously, these should be force-ranked by potential ad rev clicks. And the latest branding op is Cushbars. Here’s the swag.” She ripped the top off a box of energy bars and slid them down the Formica table. “Ping feedback on placement ops to Kimmy. And the big get is our new Be Vertical director, Rory McGovern. Rory has legged stints for spreads that have over a million uniques. And she did the Kimye nursery. Rory?”

Recognizing my name among the lingo like a dog, I stood from the group, who alternately tore into and apprehensively sniffed their Cushbars. “Hey, everyone.” I waved. “Thank you, Taylor. I’m excited to be onboard and look forward to leading Be to phenomenal ad rev.” Ad rev I knew. And monetize. I could monetize with the best of them.

“Yay!” Taylor clapped. Everyone clapped, the sound oddly muffled by sleeves pulled over palms. “Okay,” Taylor continued.“Pitches in my office Wednesday. And I’m saying this now: don’t backload your appendixes. I’m talking to you, Merrill.”

A woman in a liberally safety-pinned RISD sweatshirt shrank further into it.

“That’s fucking B-school copout bullshit. Kimmy, anything else?”

“Just, whoever is spitting their gum into the bathroom trash, you need to stop. Just . . . stop.”

I followed Taylor as she returned to her office while I quickly pulled up “deck” on Wikipedia—Taylor was most likely
not
asking for a skateboard or a roof system. “Thank you for the welcome,” I said to her.

She nodded acknowledgment as she slipped in her Bluetooth. Kimmy joined her at her desk, similarly wired and dialing her phone.

“Okay, we’re both on. Is it cold there?” Taylor asked. “Oh, it’s hot as balls here. Summer just has to let go already. It’s disgusting.”

“Disgusting,” Kimmy echoed.

“I’ll let you have your call.” I spun to leave.

“Now’s fine,” Taylor instructed.

“You have a question?” Kimmy asked me—possibly.

“Yes,” I jumped in. “I’ll catch up quickly with your approach, but I just wanted to clarify about this deck.”

“We have a lot of confidence in people. A lot,” Kimmy emphatically informed the floor.

“Definitely,” Taylor agreed. “Hi, John, Taylor’s here. Is Greg on yet?”

“You know,” I whispered, “I really think I should come back when you’re done with your call.”

“Rory, we give everyone
huge
responsibility.” Taylor poured her Starbucks into her PUSSY mug. “Sometimes they mess it up, but seven times out of ten, they get it right.”

“That’s great.” I’d taught two human beings to stand upright, shit in a toilet, and not, you know, die. “I was just hoping for a quick translation, but you’re obviously busy—”

“I’m listening. I told you I was listening. This is Taylor.”

“Are you talking to me?” I was so confused.

“Hi, Greg,” they said in unison. “We can hear you.” Impatiently Taylor waved for me to keep talking.

I tried again. “A deck is a . . . ?”

“Oh!” Kimmy said with relief. “Funny. That’s really funny. You’re funny.”

“Me?” I asked.

Taylor’s hand slowed into a you-were-just-putting-us-on wave. “Yes, Greg, that’s better. We’re still waiting for Kip.”

I pulled the door shut behind me, circled back through the conference room, grabbed my Cushbar, and returned to my desk. I was startled to find that my colleagues, the drowsy-eyed web browsers, had been transformed into frenzied contestants in a Project Runway workroom. A few people even stood over their desks as they sketched, typed, and scribbled notes on electronic tablets. I eyed the RISD girl. “Merrill? Rory.” I extended my hand. “Good to meet you. So, what’s your vertical?”

“I’m Catch.”

“Catch?”

“As in throw and. Games? Um, I kind of really need to get back to this?”

“Sorry. Yes. I was wondering if you just could translate for me. A deck is a . . . what?”

“Your idea? How you present your idea?” She slipped her headphones back on.

“Right. Of course. Thank you.” My
idea
. One word down, forty more to clarify.

Within hours I was on a roll. (Or, as I read on the side of the wrapper a few minutes too late, on “double the rush of Redbull” that “differentiates the Cush brand.”) I knew how to present an idea. I knew Halloween. And “space” and I were like this. My ideas for Halloween space: go!

I’d attended enough kids’ parties with budgets that dwarfed our wedding’s to know if I could dream it up someone out there was not only making it, but commanding some exorbitant price. Combing notes I’d saved from the more eccentric designers I’d worked with, I called the Austrian woman who specialized in crystal skulls and the craftsman in Italy who made leather bats. While less emotive than the guy to my left, who periodically pulled his hat to his chin and dropped to the floor as if shot, I made progress.

Actually hours flew by, and before I knew it, I was unlocking the front door with kids in tow. Despite the heat, and possibly synthetically buoyed by Cushbar, I was feeling better than I had in days. I was going to rock this job, and Blake was going to rebound.

Wynn and Maya dropped their backpacks and beelined for the kitchen while I scanned the mail and discovered, as if to validate my recovered optimism, an envelope from Blake’s agency. I tore into it. Five thousand dollars from NBC Universal for the three-episode arc on
Charmed
in permanent syndication.
Yes, yes, yes!
I kicked off my heels.

But wait. The last two times he’d been paid for the same job it was $6,000. I dialed his agency as I flipped on the AC and went to the fridge.

“Richard Blankfein’s office.”

“Hey, Angela, it’s Rory, Blake’s wife.”

“Hi,” his assistant said with as much awkwardness as you can infuse in one syllable.

“Hey, I’m sorry to bother you with this, but we just got a check for five thousand, so I think the fees were taken out twice.” I handed Maya a carrot stick.

“Sure, let me pull it up.” Tap, tap, tap. “Yeah, I think you’re right. I’ll have them send you the balance. Oh, and Rory?”

“Yes?” I shook my head at Wynn, reached for the cookies, and traded him the bag of carrots.

“I’m happy to help you with this, but moving forward you should call accounting directly.”

“New policy?” I asked conspiratorially. It was a race to see who was more annoyed by Blake’s agency: its clients or its employees.

“Oh.” There was a pause. “Um. You should ask Blake.”

“Ask Blake what?” There was another stupidly long pause. “Angela?”

“Blake’s left the agency.” Her words detonated in my face.

“Oh. He’s—he’s—” I stammered. Wynn peered up at me, and I pivoted to the wall. “Been on set—doing this short for a friend—we’ve been like ships passing, so, yeah, um, thank you.” I hung up.

“I’m
starving
,” Wynn groaned.

“Take out the chicken, okay? I just need two minutes. Thank you.” I went to our bedroom, pulled the door shut behind me, and called Blake. It went straight to voice mail. I called again. And again. I could just see it. Blake losing his temper when that Netflix job fell through, taking it out on the messenger.

“It’s me.” I gripped the phone. “Look, I know you fired Richard. I don’t know why you didn’t just—we have to talk about this, Blake, we
have
to. Whatever you said to him, you guys have history. If you apologize, I’m sure he’ll understand. Please call me.
Please
.”

“Momm-mmy.”

“Starr-ving!”

I splashed cold water on my face, stripped down to a tank top, and executed a 75 percent microwaved dinner, concurrent hair washes, two hours of homework, three bedtime books, and a debate over powering down Wynn’s iPad that left me questioning life itself. The kids finally passed out, and I stood in the dark kitchen snarfing chocolate chips like a stoned burglar.

Blake would’ve used a British accent to quip about us being the staff from
Downton Abbey,
waiting on the kids’ every quixotic request. Or done the one where we’re their roadies, but instead of getting them onstage to perform in front of thousands, we’re just getting them to bed.