I'll Be Your Everything (37 page)

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Authors: J.J. Murray

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“Please log on.”
I log on. “Happy?”
“Yes. There is another problem. You are now married and have incorrect information in the system.”
Wow. News is certainly traveling fast. Go away, twinges. “How is it a problem? It’s only been one day.”
“The system has you listed as a single woman when you are obviously not a single woman anymore.”
“Like I said, it’s only been one day,” I say. “I just got married yesterday.”
“Yes, and you showed up afterward to work with Miss Ross, again without logging on to the system.”
I blink. “So I wasn’t here yesterday when I
was
here yesterday?”
“Correct. You should have also come immediately to my office to revise several important forms.”
“But I wasn’t here, right?” I say. “How could I have come to your office yesterday if the system said I wasn’t here?” I have this wench now.
She doesn’t respond.
“Piper in personnel? Are you there?”
I hear her clear her throat. “You must revise tax forms, beneficiary change forms, and spousal information forms.”
“Wow, that’s so formal,” I say.
Piper in personnel does not laugh.
“Um, what do you need spousal information for?” I ask.
“To see if you plan to go on his health plan,” she says. “Payroll needs to know immediately.”
But I don’t intend to work here after today. Hmm. “I will call them.” Not.
“You must come to my office this afternoon to fill out these important forms, or your paycheck will not reflect your new status.”
“Oh, I will,” I say. “Thanks for calling. Bye.” Not gonna happen, Piper. I log off. Wow, I was “here” for five whole minutes today.
I look up at Corrine staring at me. “Yes?”
“I’m just concerned about what you’re wearing today,” Corrine says. “This is a very important meeting, Shari.”
“I know that.” And I know my outfit is much more appropriate than yours for this meeting.
She shakes her head slightly, and her hair doesn’t move. She must have had that weave tightened. “If you ever want to get into the JAE program, Shari dear, you must learn to dress more professionally.”
“I’d rather eat,” I say.
“What’s that?”
“I’d rather eat,” I say. “You spend, what, ten, fifteen, maybe twenty thousand a year on clothes?”
She squints. “About that, maybe more. Why do you ask?”
She may never get it. “Miss Ross, I spend that much on rent for a year.”
“That little? Is your building rent controlled?”
Okay. She’ll
never
get it. “Never mind.”
She sits on the edge of my desk. “No, I’m interested.”
Now she gets interested in “the help.” I don’t want to get into this right now. I just want all this to be over. “Do you mind if I go to lunch early today? I’m really hungry.”
She puts her hand on mine. “I was going to take us out to Delmonico’s for a pre-battle meal.”
I remove my hand from under her hoof. “It’s okay,” I say. I only want quesadillas right now. “I’d rather eat something simple. My stomach’s been bothering me.”
“Oh, you just have some butterflies,” she says. “I get them all the time, and trust me, the more often you do this, the fewer butterflies you’ll have.”
So that’s what she has in her head instead of brains. Whatever, wench. “Um, so may I go to lunch early?”
“Sure,” she says, showing me all of her teeth, including the little vampire tooth. “In fact, why don’t you meet me in the lobby at the Millennium at, say, one thirty. That will give you a two-hour lunch.”
Which would be a fairly short lunch for her. “Fine.” I stand. “See you at one thirty.”
“I’ll be there waiting,” she says. “Go team!”
I get my usual at John Street Bar & Grill, eat like a horse, and leave an extra-big tip. I’m going to miss this place. Maybe I can get Tom to bring me here every now and then.
I walk over to the World Trade Center rebuild in front of the Millennium and marvel at the progress. From ashes to beauty. Story of my life. Sort of. I’m not Cinderella, though I did have an evil step-monster for a boss. And today, I get to ride off with the prince.
What are those quesadillas doing down there? The Twist? Geez. Chill out.
I go into the Millennium, find a bathroom, and barf up my meal. Am I that nervous? Geez. I know what’s going to happen. Sort of. I know what I have to do. For the most part. Our campaign is sound. Of that I’m sure. Tom will be there. Of that I’m surest. So why am I so nauseous? Maybe the waffle was bad. I hope that’s it.
I’m sitting in the lobby when Corrine walks in carrying her “lucky” briefcase, one that cost at least a thousand dollars. I look at my tote bag and shrug. It ain’t the package—it’s what’s inside.
“Let’s go get us a win,” she says, leading me to the elevator.
Yes, let’s go get us a win.
“I’ll show you how it’s done,” she says.
No, no, you won’t.
I’m gonna show you how it’s done, Mr. Dunn will can you, and you’ll be done in this town, Corrine dear.
It’s showtime.
Stomach, please take a nap or something. Mama’s got to go to work now.
Chapter 36
 
T
he view from the meeting room on the fifty-fifth floor of the Millennium Hotel is breathtaking, incredible, and inspiring. I stand at the window soaking up all that energy, all that industry, all that resilience. I don’t think I’d ever get tired of just ... looking.
And I’m about to become part of all I see.
I hope.
And I hope I keep breathing! Geez, there is a definite lack of oxygen at this altitude.
When the bigwigs from Harrison Hersey and Boulder enter, I smile at my man. Yep, Tom cuts quite a corporate figure in that black suit, but I think Tom could wear a garbage bag and still turn heads. Mmm.
That
is going home with me.
That
will be in my bed holding me for the rest of my natural life. I want so much to give him a kiss, but everyone looks so serious, even Tom, though he does give me a quick wink.
And that takes my breath away. C’mon, man. I’m trying to breathe over here.
Mr. Dunn arrives next, and he and Corrine do a quick powwow at our table, beads of sweat dotting his forehead. Eww. He used too much cologne, which reminds me of the subway, which reminds me how far away I was from this moment five years ago.
I hope I don’t start to hyperventilate.
I sip a bottled water and kind of drift from window to window. I don’t mind that Mr. Dunn is completely ignoring me. I mean, after today, he’ll have to explain
why
he completely ignored me and my potential for five years. Yeah. I’m the “star” he let get away.
Mr. and Mrs. Peterson are the last through the doors, Mr. Peterson in what might be his only suit. Mrs. Peterson, wearing a stylish white dress that actually slims her, leaves him and comes over to me.
“Shari, is it?” she whispers.
The twinge jumps past the pang to a convulsion. I look at my boots. “Yes ma’am.” Oh man. Your sins will find you out, all right.
“I just love YouTube,” she whispers. She smiles at Tom. “I am so glad I was able to help you two in some way.”
I nod. “Yes ma’am. And I am so very sorry—”
“Shh,” she whispers. “You were just goin’ after your man. No shame in that. I did a few iffy things to get my man, too, and I’ve never regretted a single one of them for forty years.”
I turn to her. “But I lied to you and Mr. Peterson.”
She hugs me. “All is fair in love and war,” she whispers. “And it looks as if the war is about to begin.” We turn toward the U-shaped table. Everyone is seated but us.
I take a seat between Corrine and Mr. Dunn and look directly across at Tom. Mr. Dunn’s eyes scrunch up at me, and I smile. I know I’m not supposed to be here, Mr. Dunn, but my boss invited me. After all the introductions, I learn the men surrounding Tom are Mr. Harrison, Mr. Hersey, and Mr. Boulder. Geez. They sent all their guns.
Good thing they’re all dressed for their own funeral.
Wait a minute. If Mrs. Peterson already knows the truth, does Mr. Peterson? I am so afraid I’ll puke all over this table!
At some cue I don’t notice, both Tom and Corrine stand simultaneously. “Ladies first,” Tom says, and he sits.
“Thank you, Mr. Sexton,” she says, smiling at no one in particular. I suppose this is how you smear a smile on a crowd. It’s so fake. She walks into the space between the tables, a wide-screen TV set up behind her.
“Mr. Peterson, it’s so good to finally meet you,” she says, her hair sending out its usual moonbeams.
Mr. Peterson looks from Corrine to me and back. “And who are you?”
“I’m Corrine Ross.” She nods at me. “I think you’ve already met my assistant, Shari.”
“But that’s—” Mr. Peterson starts to say, but Mrs. Peterson is fast in his ear whispering.
Please don’t bust me out,
please
don’t bust me out ...
“Okay, okay, Freda,” Mr. Peterson says to Mrs. Peterson. “Um, what was your assistant’s name again?”
“Shari,” Corrine says.
“Shari what?” Mr. Peterson asks.
Corrine hesitates. “Shari ... Sexton.”
Mr. Peterson nods once at me, sighs, and shakes his head. “Go on.”
It is not the greatest moment in my life.
“Thank you, Mr. Peterson,” Corrine says.
Thank you,
Mrs.
Peterson! I owe you a thousand Monday lunches at H&H. And thank you, Mr. Peterson, for listening to your wife. I owe you a bloody rib eye or two. I look across at Tom. He is so cool. Why isn’t he at least fidgeting? My feet won’t stop running in place.
“Mr. Peterson,” Corrine continues, “I think what we have for you today speaks for itself. I hope you enjoy it.” She nods to a technician, the lights dim, she takes her seat, and the worst ad campaign ever made for a bicycle begins.
A snarling, barking, slobbering mass of hounds in search of a fox precedes eight bicycle-helmeted, upper-crust,
ancient
white men wearing red coats, white pants, and black boots, who burst out of a forest on Peterson bicycles. The lead rider blows a trumpet then beeps the horn on the bike. Wow, they used a lot of blue screens for this one. It all looks so fake! It looked so much better on the little monitor in the production room. More bicycle horns sound, we hear gunshots that make everyone jump, we see close-ups of the bike and lots of dirt, and the scene fades to the words “Peterson Bicycles: The Rolls-Royce of Bicycles.”
I glance at Mr. Peterson. Yep, his mouth is open.
The fifteen-second spot is a shortened version of the fox hunt.
Mr. Peterson’s mouth is still open. I hope there are no flies in here.
Then the billboards flash up on the screen, and I mean, they really flash because there’s some serious nudity going on. Each billboard has several scantily clad models frolicking on and around a bicycle. One bicycle is missing its seat, and a model seems to be caressing the seat post, her lips dangerously close the top of the post. The last picture is so nasty—the woman is obviously nude, her naughty bits barely hidden by the seat and the handlebars, her legs spread very wide—that Mrs. Peterson gasps.
Mr. Peterson’s mouth is closed now. Yep, that’s a good ol’ Georgia boy frowning and scowling.
The radio spot is the real kick in the tail, a rip-off of the Oscar Mayer song:
 
My bicycle has a first name, it’s P-E-T-E-R.
My bicycle has a second name, it’s S-O-N by far.
Oh, I love to ride it every day and if you ask me why I’ll say ...
that Peterson Bikes have got a way with A-M-E-R-I-C-A.
 
Corrine squeezes my leg, and I almost laugh out loud.
I had nothing to do with the radio ad. That was all her.
“Lights please,” she says.
The lights come up. Mr. Dunn coughs. The HHB upty-ups snicker. Corrine is completely oblivious. Ouch. It’s going to hurt her even worse now that she thinks she just blew Mr. Peterson away.
“Do you have any questions for me, Mr. Peterson?” Corrine asks.
Mr. Peterson shoots the most evil look at
me.
“No,” he says.
It’s also not one of my best moments.
Corrine’s hands shake. “Uh, I can go into more detail about our concept, Mr. Peterson.”
Mr. Peterson simply shakes his head.
“Well, um,” Corrine stammers, “thank you for the opportunity to, um, thank you for the opportunity.”
I look to my right. Mr. Dunn has his forehead pressing into the table, and if he presses any harder, he’ll go through the table. It would be hard to hide in here, Mr. Dunn. Is that some drool coming from his lips? Eww. I look at the Harrison Hersey and Boulder bigwigs, and they all look so smug, so superior, so freaking Republican.
Tom stands, nods at me, and turns to Mr. Peterson.
Nail ’em, Tom! Hit ’em hard! Go team! That’s
my
man.
“Mr. Peterson, it’s good to see you again, sir,” Tom says. I just love his voice. I might just ask that man to make a few babies with me.
Mr. Peterson nods.
“And you, too, Mrs. Peterson,” Tom says, flirting his butt off. “I like that dress.”
Mrs. Peterson smiles.
My man can work a room.
“After visiting with you kind folks, I learned a great deal about ... craftsmanship and integrity.” He moves over to the TV. “I was impressed by the amount of craftsmanship it takes to make a single Peterson bicycle. I was also impressed by your integrity, Mr. Peterson. At this time, I’d like to show you what we at Harrison Hersey and Boulder think about craftsmanship and integrity.” He nods at the technician, and the show begins.
We look at a split screen on the TV. On the left screen are ads made by Harrison Hersey and Boulder for an expensive European sports car while the right screen is dark—at first. After several slick ads run on the left, the right side of the screen fills with pictures of the same expensive cars wrecked, smoking, and falling apart, with uncountable recall notices and headlines announcing lawsuits scrolling through the carnage!
HHB is going
down!
Yes!
The left screen then shows an ad for a building while the right screen shows the same building collapsing. A cruise ship sails boldly on the left and sinks on the right. Cute “moms” sell products on the left that are linked to sickness and obesity on the right. A restaurant chain with a catchy jingle rolls on the left while fat percentages balloon out of nowhere on the right. An ad for a Las Vegas casino runs while a red line showing rising crime rates in Las Vegas climbs off the screen.
The kicker, though, is a hidden camera video on the full screen of Hairy Ads execs talking to someone who sounds exactly like Tom!
Tom’s Voice
This vehicle is overpriced, under-tested, and flat-out dangerous to the public, Mr. Harrison. It failed every crash test, and it barely gets eleven miles to the gallon on the highway. It’s a lemon, Mr. Harrison. This is a lawsuit waiting to happen.
Exec #1
Why do you care, Tom?
Tom’s Voice
Because it’s overpriced, under-tested, and dangerous to the public.
Exec #2
When will you ever understand what we do here at Harrison Hersey and Boulder, Tom? We turn shit like this into gold all the time....
 
Tom smiles. “Lights please.”
I want to give him a standing ovation! Whoo! My butterflies are freaking gone now. Whoo! Encore! Author! Author!
The silence in that conference room is so loud, that if I screamed, no one would hear me. One of the Hairy Ads men, Mr. Harrison himself, approaches Tom and says something.
Tom doesn’t react. “What was that again, Mr. Harrison?” he asks.
“I said,” Mr. Harrison says loudly, “you are fired, Mr. Sexton.”
Tom exhales and loosens his tie. “Thank you, Mr. Harrison. Nice toupee, by the way. Does your mistress in Milan like it better than your mistress in Paris does? Or are you bald for one and hairy for the other?”
Mr. Harrison’s mouth drops open.
So does mine. Two mistresses
and
a wife? With that hair? The man needs a body lift, too. Eww, he has hairy ears.
“You ... you will
never
work in this town again!” Mr. Harrison says.
That tired old cliché? Man, Mr. Harrison is whack. I was hoping for something more original than that from the head of a powerful advertising agency. I mean, he could have said, “You are dismissed, sir!” or “I’m giving you the sack, Jack!” or “You are terminated!”
Tom winks at me. “I don’t plan to work in this town again, Herb.”
That’s right. We’re going on the road, y’all. I’m going to see the world!
Mr. Harrison points at Tom. “You will hear from our lawyers, Mr. Sexton.”
Tom removes his tie and tosses it on the table. “Can’t wait, Herb. Um, now that I’m fired, does that mean the confidentiality clause doesn’t apply?
Good Morning America
is always looking for whistle-blowers with video to back up their claims. I have twenty hours of meetings for them to use, Mr. Harrison. Might even make a good
Dateline
, don’t you think?” Tom removes his jacket and throws it onto the table. “Or
Sixty Minutes.
”
I wonder how far my man will go. Mmm. The shirt! Take off the shirt!
Mr. Harrison’s mouth drops open again. Eww. Look at all those filled cavities and beige teeth. His mistresses must be blind.

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