The Pursuit of Other Interests: A Novel (16 page)

He rearranged the asterisks, moving them one space closer to the names, then read the list one last time with a growing sense of confidence. While it bothered him that no member of the Super Sixteen had, as of yet, made any attempt to contact him since he’d been fired, he still believed that these super people would remember his friendship and come through.

Inspired, he immediately went to work on the inaugural issue of
The Charlie Update!
On the ride in that morning, he came up with the idea of creating a newsletter that would update his networking tree on his situation and progress. He thought such a creative vehicle would play to his strengths as a former copywriter. He had already decided on a light, breezy tone. He didn’t want
The C.U.!
to be a downer of any kind.

He added a critique of two new ads, one for Odor Eaters and the other for Apple, then formatted the newsletter the best he could to make it look like the front page of a newspaper. Despite its somewhat primitive look—the margins were uneven—he was still proud of his effort and, even though a tiny and apparently uninfluential part of his brain suspected the whole thing might be a tad sophomoric, he e-mailed it out. Satisfied that he was making progress, he headed downstairs to lunch.

At the deli, he unfortunately bumped into Walter, the annoying fish-eyed man. He was seated at a table near the front and when their gazes locked, there was no escaping him.

“Walter,” Charlie said. He pulled out a chair and placed his salad on the table.

Walter hitched his shoulder in that strange way that made Charlie think he knew him, then ripped into his pastrami sandwich with his carp teeth. His face looked pasty and deep circles hung from his eyes. Charlie wondered again how long he had been out.

“Were you in the Ad Club?” he asked.

Walter swallowed. “No.”

“I thought you might be. You seem familiar. I think we know each other.”

He gave Charlie a super-sized smirk.

“Did you ever work at Southwest Airlines?”

Another smirk. “No.”

“How about Ford?”

“No.”

Charlie nodded and began tearing open the little plastic packet of fat-free Italian dressing. “So,” he asked, “how are things?”

“Things suck.”

“They’ll get better.”

Walter went back to his food. “I made thirty-six calls this morning. That’s a new record. Didn’t get a single person. All voice mail. That’s also a new record. Caller ID is killing me. They see Rogers & Newman and don’t pick up.”

“Who are you calling? People you know?”

He chewed and swallowed. “I’m way past that. These are cold calls. HR people, mostly. Responding to ads on line. Are you working with a recruiter?”

Charlie decided not to mention the Wizard. The less Walter or anyone who was looking for a job knew about his efforts, the better, he thought. “Not yet. I probably should be calling them, I guess.”

“Don’t bother. Recruiters are great if you’ve got a job and they’re trying to get you to leave, but if you’re already out, you’re damaged goods. Just ask Bradley. They won’t touch him.”

“Seems like he’s had it rough.”

“Yeah, well, that guy is crazy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say he’s had a violent past. Played football, was in Vietnam. Went after his boss with a hammer or something. Smashed his car windows.”

Charlie vaguely remembered Ned mentioning such an incident. “I think I heard about it. I didn’t know it was Bradley.”

“The guy is at the end. Been out too long.” Rather than seem worried, Walter looked amused.

Charlie finally managed to open the dressing package and spread some over his salad. He attempted to eat, but felt his appetite waning in the warmth of Walter’s sunny presence.

“Do you have any leads? Anything going on?” Walter asked. He was chewing his food desperately and gulping it down like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

“No. But I’m still new at this.”

“It’ll get old fast. It’s a wasteland out there. Nothing moving.” He quickly finished one half of his sandwich and began to wrap the other in a napkin. “I did get one lead yesterday, though.”

“Yeah? Where?”

“The Gap.”

“Really? Hey, great. They’re based in San Francisco, right?”

“I’d be working here in Chicago. Right here in sweet home Chicago.”

“That’s even better. What, regional marketing?”

“Nope.” Walter smiled. “I would work at their Michigan Ave store.”

Charlie looked up from his salad. “What would you be doing there?”

“I would be in charge of men’s sweaters,” he said. “Shirts too.”

Charlie stared at him, trying to understand. Then, all at once, he did. “You mean you’re working at the store? The Gap?”

“Pretty exciting, huh? My boss just turned twenty. She’s thinking of going to community college. Thinking about it. Hey, you don’t need any sweaters, do you? I’d get an employee discount after three months. Just in time for the holidays.”

Charlie decided not to comment. He suspected Walter was saying this, in part, to demoralize him and reduce him to his own beaten-down state. He wanted to fight back, let Walter know that he was nothing like him, but before he could think of a proper Rogers & Newman uplifting-poster counterpoint, Walter stood to leave.

“I can see if they have any more openings,” he said. “Interested?”

“I think I’m doing fine,” Charlie said.

“You do, do you?” He winked and left, the top of his uneaten sandwich sticking out of the side pocket of his shabby sports coat.

As soon as he got back to the salami office, Charlie closed the door, did twenty jumping jacks, then did twenty deep knee bends, then sat down, breathing heavily. He needed to be pro-active and aggressive, accomplish something. He knew he couldn’t stay here with people like Walter and Ned and Bradley. It was time to get going, time to take charge. He grabbed his cell phone.

He resisted calling the Wizard, and instead started in on his Super Sixteen list. He began at the top with Susan Goldman, leaving her a friendly voice mail. Then he called numbers two, three, four, five, and six, and left them equally upbeat messages. He repeated this process with the others, and in less than ten minutes had made his way through the entire Super Sixteen without talking to a single person. No one, apparently, was in. Or no one was taking his call. He tried not to think about that, then did. Was he that disliked? Didn’t he have any friends?

He stood and did ten more jumping jacks, then ten deep knee bends, then sat back down.

Of course he was liked, of course he had friends. He made four more calls, this time using the office phone and this time to people on his semi-super list. No one answered, though, and he left no messages.

He sat back, took several deep breaths, felt the room getting smaller. He wished he had the Lincoln portrait with him. He wanted to stare at Abe’s dark, soulful, wise eyes. He needed inspiration. Needed something, someone, to lean on, to draw strength from. He picked up the phone, hung up. He wasn’t sure who he should call, then, of course, he was.

Donna answered on the first ring.

“Oh, hello there,” he said.

“Hi.”

“Where are you? Are you still there, in Maine? At that place?”

“Yes. Why are you breathing so hard? Were you on the treadmill?”

“I thought you said you were coming home.”

“I’m still here. I need some time. I need some time away.”

Charlie squeezed the phone and closed his eyes. Just hearing her voice calmed him. “Can I ask you a question? One quick question?”

“What?”

“Do you hate me?”

There was a distinct pause. “No.”

“I think everyone else does. I can’t get anyone to take my call. It’s like I don’t exist. Am I so evil? When did this happen? Why didn’t you tell me I was evil? I had a right to know. Someone should have told me.”

Donna sounded tired, her voice flat and dull. “You’re not evil. You’re a lot of things, but you’re not evil.”

“What am I?”

“You’re crazy.”

“Crazy. Then why did you marry me?”

“Because you weren’t always crazy.”

“What was I before?”

“I don’t want to get into this now. I have to go.”

“Please, tell me what I was like before. Please.”

He heard her sigh. “I don’t know. Okay, you were funny and…and interesting, I don’t know, interested in other things, other people.”

“And I’m not that way anymore?”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m not?”

“No. I have to go.”

“You have to go? You always have to go. Where you going? You’re in Maine. How many times can you stare at the ocean? Just tell me what’s wrong with me again. You said some things the last time. What were they? It was like you were reading off a list.”

“You’re going to be fine. Go put your humidifier on and take a nap.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Charlie said, though the notion of his humidifier and a nap was very appealing to him. “Please come home, Donna. Please.”

“I’m going now,” she said.

“I’m going to come out to see you, then.”

“Don’t even think about that. I’m going now.”

“Wait!” he said, but she was gone.

The next day at the morning networking meeting, Charlie began to detect some not-so-subtle physical changes in Bradley Smith. While he was dressed in his usual 1980s standard-issue dark blue suit and statement-making tie, this time an eye-popping bright gold, he looked different. His face, usually ruddy and rough, had a pronounced orange tint, as if someone had applied a thin coat of paint to it but had run out around the ears. His hair also seemed to be transitioning from silver to an odd reddish brown and looked, very much, like a squirrel’s fur in autumn. His eyes too were different. While Charlie had never noticed their color before, he was almost positive they had never been emerald green.

“Morning, there, Charlie!” Bradley said when the meeting broke up. His voice was miraculously the same, deep with the hint of a West-Texas-oil-fields twang.

“Morning, Bradley.” Charlie gathered his things, not sure if he should comment on this new look.

“I’d say it was a pretty good morning.”

“Why would you say that?” Charlie asked. They walked down the hallway to the kitchen, where Charlie poured himself a cup of terrible coffee.

“Got something cooking. Think it’s hot,” Bradley said.

Charlie deliberately trained his eyes on Bradley’s gold tie, which featured a series of tiny brown stains at the bottom, near the tip. He could not bring himself to look at his face. “Something cooking? Where?”

“Confidential. Don’t want to jinx it.”

“How did you get the lead?”

“Believe it or not, a recruiter set me up. First time he’s come through.”

“Good luck. I’m happy for you,” Charlie said, surprised that he meant it. Based on how he was disfiguring himself, Bradley, he deemed, had suffered long enough. He poured Bradley some coffee, then watched as he mixed in powdered creamer.

“You know, I have a good feeling about this one. I can feel this one,
feel
it,” Bradley said. “It feels right.”

“That’s great. Think you can feel me up a lead too?”

“Ha! You just got here. Let me go first.”

“Hey, when you get back to the real world, don’t forget your old buddies in the jungle.”

Rather than laugh, Bradley fell wistful. “Don’t worry. I won’t forget anyone,” he said quietly. “Or anything.”

Charlie studied him and noticed that the collar of his starched shirt was beginning to fray. “It’s been a long road, I bet, huh?”

“You have no idea. There’ve been times…” Bradley stopped and looked down at his coffee. “This is the one. It has to be. This one is mine. I’m going to get this no matter what. No matter what.” He broke out of his trance, smiled, and slapped Charlie on the back. “Maybe we’ll do lunch later,” he said.

“At the deli.”

“The deli is for losers,” Bradley said. “Someplace else.”

“Someplace else, then.”

Motivated by Bradley’s news, Charlie impulsively decided to relocate from the small salami office to the nicest office at Rogers & Newman, Office A. Charlie had had his eye on it for some time. It was large and airy, with a parquet floor, a leather couch, and an immense and gleaming old-fashioned mahogany desk. He felt his spirits lift as he unpacked his briefcase, inspired by the partially obscured view of the lake and the powder-puff clouds that seemed within reach. This office was always occupied and he thought it a portent of good things that it was empty this morning.

He went right to work on his résumé, slashing and rearranging things with a vengeance. Five pages became three and then three, somehow, became three and a half again. Still, he was making progress. He was just about to make another run at it when Ned glided past his office door. He then reappeared and walked inside.

“Charlie?”

“Yes?”

“What are you doing here?” He looked concerned.

“Working. I’m almost done with my résumé. Can you take a look, or is that enabling me?”

He ignored this request. “This is Office A.” He said this in a quiet, reverential tone. “You can’t work in Office A.”

“Why not?”

“You’re not a Category A client.”

“What do you mean? What’s that?”

Small red splotches began forming on Ned’s cheeks. “Our agreement with your employer, former employer, categorized you a certain level.” He glanced around Office A. “I’m sorry, but you’re at a level B and can’t work here.”

“Level B?”

“Well, B-
plus
, which means you work in different office spaces.”

“Oh, you mean smaller, shittier offices.”

“Yes. Well, not exactly, but different offices, yes.”

“I see.” Charlie thought about this. “So I’m a B-plus, huh? Not an A?”

“No. Everyone has different classes—I mean, levels.”

Charlie continued to digest this information, his indignation rising. “What level is Walter, then?”

“Who? Oh, I can’t tell you that.”

“Just tell me.”

“I can’t. That’s sealed information. Absolutely confidential. Absolutely.”

“Tell me.”

“He’s a C.” Ned lowered his voice. “Don’t tell him that, though. He thinks he’s a B-minus, though we don’t really categorize people as pluses and minuses. I just say that to make people feel better.” He splotched red again. “Oh,” he said. “Sorry.”

“What about Bradley?”

“He came in an A, but he worked his way down and, well, really doesn’t have a category anymore. We let him stay on. He’s like an institution. Besides, he helps write the Rogers newsletter. It’s a bartering arrangement.” Ned glanced over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, but it’s nothing personal. I don’t make up these categories. It all depends on our arrangement with your former employer. Whoever pays the most, gets the most.”

“I don’t know why I’m not an A. I headed an office.”

“I’m sorry, Charlie, that’s just the way it is.”

Charlie shook his head, thought of Helmut and Marken, the twin devils. “So those bastards screwed me over again.”

“Level B is really a very good level, really it is.”

“Why? What’s so great about it?”

“Well, you get private office access and other benefits.”

“Such as?”

“More of my time.”

“Ah,” Charlie said. “Priceless.” He leaned forward and began working on his résumé again. “I’ll leave after lunch, maybe.”

“I don’t think that’s possible. Someone’s moving in here this morning,” Ned said. He stepped over to the desk and started gathering up Charlie’s things.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m helping you pack up. There’s one open office left, down the hall. If we hurry, we can still get it.”

“You mean the one by the copy room?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the salami office. I just left that room. It doesn’t have any windows. I can’t work in there.” Charlie took a deep breath as if he were inhaling an ocean breeze. “I like the air in here.”

Ned worked faster, his splotches creeping down his neck. “Please, come now. We have to move along. Please!”

“I said I’ll move after lunch. What’s the rush?”

“You would be doing me a great favor if you packed up now. This office has been promised to someone else. He could arrive early.”

“Who?”

“I have a new client. An important client. I’ve just been assigned him. Very high-profile.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Charlie said. “I got here first and I’m pretty high-profile.”

“I’ve explained the process.”

“Who is this guy?”

“I’m not at liberty to tell you just now.”

Charlie folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not leaving until you tell me. I have a legal right to know.”

“You have no legal right to know.”

“I’m going to find out anyway.”

“Tom Tamales.”

“Who?”

Ned lowered his voice. “It’s Tom Tamales.” He sounded secretive.

“You mean the Hot Tamales? The short guy? He got fired again?”

“Yes. Him.”

“Wow.” Tamales had a significant and controversial reputation in the ad business. A chronic job-hopper, he was adept at generating publicity for himself at every stop in a career that, despite numerous failures, seemed to lead consistently upward. He had held a number of big-time, heavy-coin positions and his name was feared and loathed by many an agency. He was a difficult, if not impossible, client.

“He’s on his way in.” Ned looked both nervous and proud. “He’s been assigned to me,” he said.

“Oh. Big-time guy.”

“Very.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“Category A, right?”

“Yes.”

“A-plus?”

“Ha, ha. Very good.”

“Working with him must be quite a coup for you.”

“It will be interesting.”

“You know, he’s supposed to be an asshole,” Charlie said. “A major pain in the ass.”

Ned started to clear the desk again, bundling Charlie’s
Business Week
,
Advertising Age
, and
Brandweek
together. “I’m sure the reports are exaggerated. Would you mind, now?” He handed the magazines to Charlie.

He took them. “I hope you won’t forget about us Category B types.”

“I’ll make an effort to stay in touch,” Ned said.

Being back in the salami office, with its hokey posters (
MAKE A DIFFERENCE—TODAY; GREAT THINGS START WITH LITTLE ACTIONS
), took the life out of Charlie and he found work impossible. Learning that he was a Category B, a mere level above short-sleeve-shirt-wearing, soon-to-be-Gap-working Walter, was a blow to his motivation, to say nothing of his self-esteem. Apparently there were different levels of hell.

He grabbed his coffee mug, got up, and strolled down the hall past Office A, hoping for a glimpse of the Great One, Mr. Category A, Tamales himself. Unfortunately, the door was closed. He paused in front of it, then doubled back and headed to the kitchen. While he was rooting around the refrigerator for a pint of skim milk, someone poked him in the ribs. He jumped and turned around to find Karen Brisco standing there, smiling, her ski-slope nose all pointy and cute and perfect.

“Hello.” He stared at her, and felt the heat roll up his neck and flood his face. She looked sternly erotic in a black suit and dark hose, offset with a low-cut starched white blouse. Her shiny black pumps completed her businesswoman/dominatrix look.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” she said.

“You look great today.”

“I feel great,” she said. “Are you ready for this? I think I have something good going with Coke. In Atlanta.”

Charlie said, “Oh.” Then he said, “Oh,” again, but much louder.

She bounced up and down on her high heels and held up crossed fingers. “I think I have a good shot. A real good shot.”

“Wow. That’s great. Congrats.”

“I don’t know yet. But it looks good. I have a contact, a guy I used to date who works there. He said it looks good.”

“When did all this happen? I didn’t know you were even talking with them.”

“I wasn’t. It came out of the blue. I had talked with them a while ago but nothing happened. Now, suddenly they’re interested. I just had a two-hour phone interview with them.”

“Great.”

“Sorry if I acted crazy. But I had to tell someone.”

“That’s great,” Charlie said again. He gazed at her and felt a strong longing. It had been months since he had so much as even hugged Donna.

“Once you get the offer, we have to celebrate,” he said. His eyes settled on her cleavage, which was picture-perfect.

“I’m ready to celebrate right now,” she said. She wiggled her hips. “I’m going to go dancing tonight. You want to come?”

“Dancing? No. I’m a middle-aged white man. There are laws that keep us from doing that.”

She gave Charlie a look that he could have interpreted any number of ways. “Thanks for being nice to me the other day,” she said. “In my office.”

“I didn’t do anything. Anyway, when you get the news, I’ll come out and watch you dance. We all will.”

She winked and did another little twist. She then touched Charlie’s nose once with her finger and walked out, her high heels clicking happily on the tiled floor.

As soon as she left, Charlie’s lust dissipated like steam and he reluctantly returned to the salami office, weak coffee in hand. Rather than feeling encouraged, he felt himself falling. Everyone, it seemed, was getting good news that day but him. He shut the door, stared at a wall poster—
GREAT THINGS START WITH LITTLE ACTIONS
—sat down, and, rather than call someone from one of his lists, quickly called directory information for the phone number of Bill Morgan of Bailey Island, Maine, instead.

Karen’s touch had activated a serious Donna longing. He desperately needed to get her back. Calling this Morgan person, confronting him, was a critical step.

He jotted the number down and dialed. Up until now, Bill Morgan had been only a name. Now he was a phone number. Soon he would be a voice.

He answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Is this Bill Morgan?”

“Yes,” a raspy voice said. “Who is this?”

“Is this the Bill Morgan who owns a lighthouse? Or lives in one or something?”

“Yes, it is. Who’s this, now?”

“This is Charlie Baker. I’m Donna Baker’s husband. I just want you to know that Donna and I have every intention of staying married and working this out. Okay? So stay away from her.”

There was a pause and then the voice said, “You must want my son, Billy. I’m his father.”

“Oh.” Then Charlie said, “How old is Billy?” He feared he had the wrong number and that the Billy in question was eight.

“I’m not sure. Do you want me to ask him?”

“Is he middle-aged? Is he a man?”

“Who is this again?”

“How tall is he?”

“You’re asking a lot of tricky questions. Why don’t I go get him? He’s up in the lighthouse right now, down the way. There’s a lot of stairs so it might take me a while before I can get up to see him, so you’ll have to sit tight. If I hurry, I can be back in an hour or so. Just hold on.”

“Doesn’t the lighthouse have a phone?”

“A phone? Funny you ask. We were just thinking we might put one in. Say, how about I try to yell up to him? That might save some time.”

“Don’t yell up to him.”

“Are you sure? Sounds like you have important business. If he’s by a window, it might just work.”