The Pursuit of Other Interests: A Novel (10 page)

In addition to his being fired, Charlie had had three other traumatic experiences in his life, moments when he felt things were out of his control, when he was at the sole mercy of circumstance and fate.

The first was when Kyle was born. They had arrived at the hospital in plenty of time for the delivery, but had to wait almost an hour in a labor area for an available birthing room. By the time Donna was in a bed, she had been in labor for hours. The doctors and nurses, however, seemed unconcerned and warned him that it would be some time before anything happened. After Donna received an epidural, he briefly nodded off in a rocking chair. He woke a few minutes later to a room full of grim-faced doctors and nurses, all hovering over Donna, who lay silent and ashen-faced. When a nurse approached him, sitting paralyzed by fear in the rocking chair, he heard himself ask if Donna was dead.

“No. But we lost the baby’s heartbeat.”

He remembered fragments of what happened next: a whirl of doctors and equipment; a blue light flashing above the door; a nurse holding his hand. He was a mere bystander, a witness to what was happening. Hours later, when the emergency C-section was over, and they let him briefly hold Kyle, a healthy baby, a miracle, his son, Charlie cried so loudly and shook so violently that they had to sedate him. He slept for eighteen straight hours and essentially missed the first day of his son’s life.

The second traumatic moment happened the year he was in the Black Forest for the Thought Leaders Conference. He had gotten into a terrible fight with Donna over the phone about his constant travel and the lack of time he was spending with Kyle. The call was memorable because it was the very first time that Donna had ever hung up on him.

Rather than call her back, he decided to take a walk to let off steam. The resort didn’t have much of an exercise room, so he set out on a hiking trail that wound uphill and through the woods. On the way back to the hotel, he took a shortcut and left the trail, heading into the forest. He eventually came to a train tunnel that he assumed was no longer in use; it looked ancient, its entrance overgrown with weeds. He walked into it, thinking the hotel was close by on the other side. Partway through, he heard a train whistle. He looked around to see which way the train was coming; he didn’t see any lights, but heard the whistle again, this time louder and nearer. He also felt the ground tremble. The train was coming, and right at him. He started to run in the direction he had just come, staying as close to the wall as possible, but after a few seconds he realized it was hopeless; the train was on him. He threw himself off to one side of the tracks and crouched down, covering his head with his arms. The entire tunnel was vibrating, exploding with noise. He thought he was going to die.

He didn’t, of course. The train passed overhead, on
top
of the tunnel, leaving him shaken but unharmed. After it was gone, he composed himself, went back to his room, and called Donna. He wanted to tell her he loved her, that he had always loved her and always would, but the phone just rang and rang.

The third time he was truly traumatized was the day the paper ran a mention of his leaving the agency. The announcement in the business section was brief, dwarfed by the news that Sears was firing its agency:
Frank Marken named Managing Director of DiSanto & Herr, replacing Charlie Baker, who resigned to pursue other interests. The move didn’t surprise insiders: reportedly Baker’s frenetic style didn’t mesh well with the new ownership.

He read the item while sitting at his preferred cubicle in the Wilton Public Library. He had grabbed the paper off the front steps earlier that morning but hadn’t gotten around to reading it until late in the afternoon. (He had spent most of the day reading the book
Beloved
, a Charlie Book Club selection finalist.) His head had kicked back when he saw his name in print. After a few stunned seconds, however, he made his way to the large dictionary by the ancient photocopy machine and looked up the word
frenetic
. Although he knew what it meant, he wanted to confirm that the word didn’t have multiple or varying definitions that were, in fact, more insulting than he thought.

Unfortunately, there was an elderly man with a ripe smell using the dictionary and Charlie had to stand downwind from him and wait while the man looked up every word in the English language. When he finally finished, Charlie jumped on the book and found the word:

Charlie returned to his cubicle, sat down, and closed his eyes. It had come to this.
This
. His entire career, his entire life, was being dismissed, discarded, mocked. He had been diagnosed as frenetic. He was
insane.

He took deep breaths, gulped them. It was one thing to be fired, it was quite another to be humiliated. No doubt the agency was behind this. Frenetic. Marken probably had the entire creative team working overtime to come up with the perfect word to publicly slander him. His fury overcame him. He clenched his fists, he cursed out loud, he pounded
Beloved
down onto the desk.

Then he called Ned Meyers because he really had no one else to call.

“I don’t think you can sue someone over being called frenetic,” Ned said.

“Then I think you’re very naïve.”

“I think you should move on.”

“And I think I should talk to a lawyer.”

Ned and Charlie were sitting in a large, sun-splashed conference room overlooking Lake Michigan, drinking coffee and discussing Charlie’s pending slander case. It was the day after the mention in the newspaper and, while sympathetic, Ned was anything but helpful.

“Actually, I am a lawyer,” Ned said.

“You are?” This threw Charlie. Ned was wearing a black turtleneck, a dusty brown blazer, along with his signature Hush Puppies, and looked like no lawyer he had seen before. “What do you mean, you’re a lawyer? Like for the ACLU? That type of lawyer?”

Ned folded his hands in front of him on the table, delicate fingers intertwined. “I was a trial lawyer. Well, still am one, technically, though I don’t practice anymore. I mean, I never introduce myself as a lawyer at parties. Not that I go to that many parties.”

Charlie studied Ned a little longer before saying, “It’s libel. It can hurt my career. Who’s going to hire me? I’m frenetic? Would you hire someone who was frenetic? It’s libel. It’s like calling me a Nazi or something.”

“Charlie, you’re overreacting. You yourself said everyone in your industry, in advertising, already knows you, is that correct?”

“So?”

“So, what the newspaper says shouldn’t have any bearing on your prospects. People all know you’re a good adman. A damn good adman!” He slapped the top of the table, then sat back and crossed his legs, flaunting his Hush Puppies.

Charlie spoke slowly. “Thank you. That’s very nice of you to say, but I don’t know everyone everywhere. And that column won’t help me. Do you know what frenetic means? It means insane.”

Ned waved a hand. “It doesn’t mean insane.”

“It’s in the dictionary. I looked it up! It’s right there!”

“Please, calm down, please.” Ned stood and clasped his hands behind his back. “Now, let’s talk this through. Now, do you think you’re frenetic?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“Not at all? Maybe just a little?”

“You can’t be a little frenetic!”

“You don’t have to shout. Please.”

Charlie took a very deep breath.

“Thank you,” Ned said. He began to pace in front of the windows. It was still before eight in the morning and behind him the early fall sky was streaked pink. “Now, objectively speaking, how would you describe yourself, Charlie?”

“What do you mean?”

“How would you describe yourself to someone else? Someone who didn’t know you.”

“I don’t know. I’m five-eleven and a hundred and seventy pounds.”

“That’s not what I mean. Would you describe yourself as a victim?”

Charlie seized on this word. “What? Yes, I’m a victim. Very much so.”

Ned paced some more. “Interesting. A victim. Let me ask you another question here, if I may. Do you think there were any reasons, any legitimate reasons, for you being let go?”

“No.”

“None whatsoever?”

“No. They needed a scapegoat.”

“You’re quite sure of that? You’re being totally honest?”

Charlie was quiet.

“You’re being quiet,” Ned said.

“I don’t know,” Charlie said softly. He had managed maybe three hours of sleep the night before and was exhausted. He suddenly had no energy for Ned or any of this.

Ned reached a wall and stopped to examine one of the many inspirational posters that graced the halls and rooms of Rogers & Newman. This one was particularly clichéd: a canoe banked on the grassy shores of a river:
SUCCESS IS A JOURNEY
. “And what do you think some of those reasons are, may I ask?”

Charlie sighed. “Listen, I don’t want to get into that now, okay? I want to know about my legal options. Who can I sue? The paper, the agency? That’s all I want to know right now. You said you’re a lawyer. Who can I sue?”

Ned removed his glasses, wiped the lenses with a white handkerchief, and resumed his serious pacing. “I’m sorry, as I said, I don’t believe you can sue anyone.” He put his glasses back on and slipped the handkerchief into his pants pocket. “Now I’d like to switch gears and talk about something else.”

“What?”

“Grudman Simmons.”

“What?”

“Grudman Simmons. Your evaluation test.”

“Grudman, what? Oh, hey, listen, I don’t want to talk about that test. Not now.”

“I think we should. Now is as good a time as any.” Ned cleared his throat. “As you know, Grudman Simmons reveals certain personality traits, certain characteristics that are important in the progression of your career. Would you like to know what your test said about you?”

“Not right now, no.”

“It will only take a second. Now, according to your results, you’re energetic and ambitious. But also impatient and, well, somewhat scattered in some areas.”

This got Charlie’s attention. He feared some kind of health risk associated with this condition. “Scattered. What does that mean?”

“It means you have a short attention span. You move from thing to thing to thing.”

“So? I’m creative. I’m in a creative business.”

“Well, yes. But that isn’t always a characteristic needed in a manager.”

“What are you saying? What’s your point?”

“That you should consider getting back, possibly, on the creative side of things rather than pursuing another management position.”

“I am a manager. I run things. You know, I wasn’t even paying attention when I took that test.”

“I know that.” Ned sat down at the table again and opened a folder. “You shouldn’t put too much stock in it, I agree. But still it is worth a look.” He studied the contents of the folder and frowned like a schoolteacher examining a disturbing term paper. “The test showed that in addition to advertising, you might want to consider other professions. For example, according to the test, you have the same interests and traits as a musician.”

“Musician,” Charlie repeated.

“Yes. May I ask, do you play any instruments? The saxophone?”

Charlie thought of the Steinway, silently brooding in their living room, and ignored the question.

“To be honest, I didn’t think that was very practical either,” Ned said. He returned to his file. “According to the test, you might want to consider something in television.”

This actually interested Charlie. In college he had briefly considered a career in TV. “What do you mean? Like a producer or writer?”

“Well, not exactly, no—but maybe as an on-air talent. Be involved in a talk show of some kind.”

This took a moment to sink in. “You mean be a host of a talk show?”

“Cohost, actually.”

“Cohost? Cohost of a talk show? You mean a sidekick?”

“Yes.”

“Be a sidekick on a talk show. Like Ed McMahon? You know, Ned, I don’t know how long you’ve been in America, but there are like two jobs like that here.”

“I realize that. I don’t think we should take these tests too literally. We should view them more as suggestions, or guidelines. Find a position
like
a sidekick.”

“Such as?”

“Well, a copilot, for example.”

“A what? You mean like on an airplane?”

“Well, no. Once again, something like that. Something in a support role.”

“Fine. I’ll get on that right away.” If Charlie had had somewhere else to go, he would have left immediately. But it was still early and neither the zoo nor the library were open yet.

Ned continued to study the file. “Now, the test also identifies your position in a tribe, or a tribal society. For example, it puts people into different categories such as tribal leader, medicine man, warrior, things like that.”

“Where did I place? Head of marketing for the tribe?”

Ned laughed and pointed at Charlie. “Very good, very good.” He quickly grew serious again. “You were—again, based on the test, which I know you didn’t take that seriously because you were asleep—you were categorized as a warrior’s aide.”

“What’s that? What do you mean?”

“Well, someone who sharpens the warrior’s weapons, cleans animal hides, and clears the battlefield of dead bodies. You know, drags them off. Things like that.”

Charlie paused. “A tribal janitor.”

“Yes—well, no, I wouldn’t go that far. But you were categorized, once again, in a support function.”

Charlie fell silent and tried to imagine what, exactly, cleaning an animal hide involved.

Ned solemnly closed the file and folded his skinny hands on the table. “I think what we’re hearing here is that maybe, just maybe, possibly, you aren’t the right fit for leading an agency. That rather than head a company or a major division, you might be better off looking for second-in-command-type positions. Vice president, chief of staff. Those types of positions.”

Charlie shook his head. He would have none of this. “Let me tell you something about my business, okay? I was head of an agency. Once you’re the top man, once you’re the boss, you can’t take a secondary job. First of all, no one will give it to you, even if you want it. They’ll think you’ll take the job and then…then plot to take over. They’re not going to trust you. Advertising is cutthroat. No one trusts anyone. It’s a horrible profession. There’s very little humanity.”