Two by Two(8)

     



 

The party itself was largely forgettable-it was no better or worse or  even all that different from any other office Christmas party-but after  we got home and let our teenage babysitter go, Vivian asked me to pour  her a glass of wine and check in on London. By the time I finally made  it to the bedroom, there were candles lit and she was wearing lingerie …   and …

That was the thing about Vivian; trying to guess what she was going to  do next was often pointless; even after seven years, she could still  amaze me, sometimes in blissfully tender ways.





Big mistake.

That's pretty much the way I think about that evening now, at least when it came to my career at the agency.

Jesse Peters, it turns out, wasn't pleased that Vivian had avoided him,  and by the following week, a distinct cooling breeze began flowing from  his office toward mine. It was subtle at first; when I saw him in the  hallway on the Monday following the party, he walked past with a curt  nod, and during a creative meeting a few days later, he asked everyone  questions but me. Those types of minor snubs continued, but because I  was buried in yet another complex campaign-for a bank that wanted a  campaign centered on integrity but that also felt new-I thought nothing  of it. After that came the holidays and because the office was always a  bit crazed at the beginning of a new year, it wasn't until the end of  January when I registered the fact that Jesse Peters had barely spoken  to me for at least six weeks. At that point, I began swinging by his  office, but his assistant would inform me that he was on a call or  otherwise busy. What finally made me understand the depth of his  peevishness with me came in mid-February, when he finally made time to  see me. Actually, through his secretary, and then mine, he requested to  see me, which essentially meant I had no choice. The firm had lost a  major client, an automotive dealer with eight locations throughout  Charlotte, and it had been my account. After I walked him through the  reasons I thought the client had chosen another firm, he fixed me with  an unblinking stare. More ominously, he neither mentioned Vivian nor  asked about her. At the conclusion of our meeting, I walked out the door  feeling much like the executives I used to feel superior to, the ones  I'd seen teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown. I had the sinking  feeling that my days at the Peters Group were suddenly numbered.

Even harder to bear was the fact that it wasn't because of anything I  did or didn't do for the auto dealer-a man in his late sixties-that made  him leave. I've seen the print ads and commercials from the agency that  took over the account and I still believe that our ideas were more  creative and more effective. But clients can be fickle. A downturn in  the economy, change in management, or simply the desire to cut expenses  in the short run can lead to changes that affect our industry, but  sometimes, it has nothing to do with business at all. In this case, the  client was going through a divorce and needed money to pay for the  settlement; cutting advertising for the next six months would save him  more than six figures, and he needed to hoard every penny, since his  wife had hired a notoriously cutthroat lawyer. With court costs rising  and a nasty settlement in the making, the guy was trimming every expense  he could, and Peters knew it.

A month later, when another client pulled the plug-a chain of urgent  care clinics-Peters's displeasure with me was even more evident. It  wasn't a major client-frankly, it barely classified as even a medium  client-and the fact that I'd signed three new clients since the  beginning of the year seemed to matter to him not at all. Instead, after  again summoning me, he ventured aloud that "you might be losing your  touch" and that "clients may have stopped trusting your judgment." As a  final exclamation point to the meeting, he called Todd Henley into the  office and announced that from that point on, we'd be "working  together." Henley was an up-and-comer-he'd been at the agency five  years-and though he was somewhat creative, his real skill was navigating  the political waters of the agency. I'd known he was gunning for my  job-he wasn't the only one, but he was the most sycophantic of the  bunch. When he suddenly began spending more time in Peters's office-no  doubt claiming more credit than he deserved for any ad campaign we were  working on-and leaving with a self-satisfied smirk I knew I had to start  making plans.

My experience, position, and current salary didn't leave many options.  Because Peters dominated the advertising industry in the Charlotte area,  I had to cast a wider net. In Atlanta, Peters was number two in the  market and growing, gobbling up smaller agencies and landing new  clients. The current market leader had gone through two recent  transitions in leadership and was now in a hiring freeze. After that, I  contacted firms in Washington, D.C., Richmond, and Baltimore, thinking  that being closer to Vivian's parents would make the move from Charlotte  more palatable to Vivian. Again, however, I couldn't land so much as an  interview.         

     



 

There were other possibilities, of course, depending on how far away  from Charlotte I'd be willing to move, and I contacted seven or eight  firms throughout the Southeast and Midwest. And yet with every call, I  also grew more certain that I didn't want to leave. My parents were  here, Marge and Liz were here; Charlotte was home for me. And with that,  the idea of starting my own business-a boutique advertising  agency-began to rise from the ashes like the mythical phoenix. Which, I  realized, also happened to be a perfect name …

The Phoenix Agency. Where your business will rise to levels of unprecedented success.

All at once, I could see the slogan on business cards; I could imagine  chatting with clients, and when visiting my parents, I casually  mentioned the idea to my father. He told me straight out that it wasn't a  good idea; Vivian wasn't thrilled about it either. I'd been keeping her  informed about my job search and when I mentioned my idea for the  Phoenix Agency, she'd suggested I try looking into New York and Chicago,  two places I considered nonstarters. But still, I couldn't shake off my  dream, and the advantages began to tumble through my mind.

As a solo operator, I'd have little in the way of overhead.

I was on a first-name basis with CEOs and other executives throughout Charlotte.

I was excellent at my job.

I'd be a boutique firm, catering to only a few clients.

I could charge the client less and earn more.

Meanwhile, at the office, I began running numbers and making  projections. I called clients, asking if they were satisfied with the  service and pricing they were getting from the Peters Group, and their  answers bolstered my certainty that I couldn't fail. Meanwhile, Henley  was verbally slipping me into concrete loafers and tossing me overboard  every time he walked into Peters's office, and Peters actually began to  scowl at me.

That was when I knew Peters would fire me, which meant I had no choice but to strike out on my own.

All I had left to do was officially tell Vivian.





What could be better than celebrating my future success on date night?

Granted, I could have chosen another night, but I wanted to share my  excitement with her. I wanted her support. I wanted to share my plans  and have her reach across the table to take my hands while saying I  can't tell you how long I've been waiting for you to do something like  this. There's no doubt in my mind you'll be a success. I've always  believed in you.

About a year later, when I confessed to Marge my hopes for that night,  she'd actually laughed aloud. "So let me get this straight," she'd said  to me. "You basically ripped away her sense of security and told her you  were about to turn your lives upside down …  and you honestly believed  she'd think it was a good idea? You had a child, for God's sake. And a  mortgage. And other bills. Are you out of your mind?"

"But … "

"There are no buts," she said. "You know that Vivian and I don't always agree, but on that night, she was right."

Maybe Marge had a point, but hindsight is twenty-twenty. On the night in  question after we'd put London to bed, I grilled steaks-about the only  thing I could actually cook well-while Vivian prepared a salad, steamed  some broccoli, and sautéed green beans with shaved almonds. Vivian, I  should add, never ate what might be considered unhealthy carbs-bread,  ice cream, pasta, sugar, or anything that included white flour-all of  which I considered to be rather tasty and indulged in during my lunches,  which probably explained my love handles.

Dinner, however, was tense from the beginning. My intention to keep  things light and easy seemed only to put her more on edge, as if she  were preparing herself for whatever might be coming next. Vivian had  always been able to read me like Moses read the Commandments, and her  growing unease made me try even harder to keep things breezy, which only  made her sit even straighter in her chair.