Two by Two(9)

I waited until we were nearly finished with the meal. She'd eaten two or  three ounces of her steak and I'd refilled her glass of wine when I  started to tell her about Henley and Peters and my suspicion about being  fired. She merely nodded, so I gathered my courage and launched into my  plans, walking through my projections while underscoring every reason  for the decision. As I spoke, she may as well have been carved from  marble. She sat as still as I'd ever seen her, not even glancing at her  glass of wine. Nor did she ask any questions until after I'd finished.  Silence filled the room, echoing against the walls.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" she finally offered.         

     



 

It wasn't the ringing endorsement that I'd wanted, but she didn't storm off either, which I took as a good sign. Silly me.

"Actually," I admitted, "it scares the hell out of me, but if I don't do it now, I don't know if I ever will."

"Aren't you kind of young to start your own agency?"

"I'm thirty-five. Peters was only thirty when he started his agency."

She pressed her lips together and I could almost see the words forming  in her mind-but you aren't Peters. Thankfully, she didn't say that.  Instead, she drew her brows together, though not a single wrinkle  showed. The woman really was a marvel when it came to aging. "Do you  even know how to start your own agency?"

"It's like starting any other business, and people start businesses all  the time. Essentially, it comes down to filing the appropriate paperwork  with the government, hiring a good lawyer and accountant and setting up  the office."

"How long would that take?"

"A month, maybe? And once I'm in an office, I'll start signing clients."

"If they decide to hire you."

"I can get the clients," I said. "I'm not worried about that. Peters is  expensive, and I've worked with some of these clients for years. I'm  sure they'll jump ship if given the chance."

"But you still won't be earning anything for a while."

"We'll just have to cut back a bit on a few things. Like the cleaning lady, for instance."

"You want me to clean the house?"

"I can help," I assured her.

"Obviously," she said. "Where are you getting the money for all this?"

"I was planning to use some of the money from our investments."

"Our investments?" she repeated.

"We've got more than enough to live on for a year."

"A year?" she asked, echoing me a second time.

"And that's with no income at all," I said. "Which isn't going to happen."

She nodded. "No income."

"I know it seems scary right now, but in the end, it's all going to be worth it. And your life isn't going to change."

"You mean aside from expecting me to be your maid, you mean."

"That's not what I said … "

She cut me off before I could finish. "Peters isn't just going to sit  back and applaud your courage," she pointed out. "If he thinks you're  trying to poach his clients, he'll do whatever it takes to run you out  of business."

"He can try," I said. "But in the end, money talks."

"He's got more of it."

"I'm talking about the clients' money."

"And I'm talking about money for our family," she said, a hard edge  coming into her voice. "What about us? What about me? Do you expect me  to simply go along with this? We have a child, for God's sake."

"And I'm supposed to just give up my dreams?"

"Don't play the martyr. I hate when you do that."

"I'm not playing the martyr. I'm trying to have a discussion … "

"No you're not!" she said, her voice rising. "You've telling me what you  want to do, even if it might not be good for our family!"

I exhaled slowly, concentrating on keeping my voice steady. "I've  already told you that I'm sure Peters is going to fire me and there's no  other jobs around here."

"Have you tried to talk to him?"

"Of course I've tried to talk to him."

"So you say."

"You don't believe me?"

"Only partly."

"What part?"

She slammed her napkin onto her plate and rose from the table. "The part  where you're going to do what you want to do, even if it's detrimental  to us and our child."

"Are you saying that I don't care about our family?"

But by then, she'd left the room.

That night, I slept in the guest room. And while remaining somewhat  cordial while answering questions with one- or two-word answers, Vivian  didn't otherwise speak to me for the next three days.





As good as Marge was at keeping me alive during my youth and offering  pearls of wisdom when it came to my flaws, there was a part of her that  resented having to babysit me once her teenage years kicked in. She  began spending an inordinate amount of time on the phone, and as a  result, I watched a lot of television. I can't speak for other kids, but  I learned much of what I know about commercials and advertising simply  by osmosis. I didn't learn it in college, nor did I learn it from my  older, more experienced cohorts at the agency, since half of them were  spending their creative energy trying to sabotage the careers of the  other half, courtesy of Peters. Not knowing what else to do when I was  thrown headfirst into the job, I'd listen as clients described what they  wanted to achieve, tap into my well of memories, and come up with new  spins on old commercials.         

     



 

It wasn't quite that simple, of course. Advertising encompasses a lot  more than simply television commercials. Over the years, I'd generated  catchy slogans for print ads, or billboards; I'd scripted radio  commercials and infomercials; I'd helped to redesign websites and  created viable social media campaigns; I'd been part of a team that  prioritized Internet searches and banner ads targeted to specific zip  codes, income, and educational levels, and for one particular client, I  conceived and executed the use of advertising on paneled trucks. While  virtually all of that work was completed in-house at Peters by various  teams, as a solo operator, I'd be responsible for whatever the client  needed, and while I was strong in some areas, I was weaker in others,  particularly when it came to tech. Fortunately, I'd been in the business  long enough to know local vendors who provided the services I'd need,  and one by one, I made contact with them.

I hadn't been lying to Vivian when I told her I wasn't worried about  landing clients, but unfortunately, I made a mistake, one that was  filled with irony. I forgot to plan an advertising campaign for my own  business. I should have spent more money putting together a high-quality  website and creating promotional materials that reflected the firm I  intended to have, not the one I was building from the ground up. I  should have put together some quality direct mailings that would inspire  clients to reach out to me.

Instead, however, I spent the month of May making sure that the  infrastructure was in place to accommodate my success. Using vacation  days, I hired a lawyer and accountant, and had the appropriate paperwork  filed. I leased an office with a shared receptionist. I purchased  office equipment, signed leases for other equipment, and stocked my  office with the supplies I knew I'd need. I read books on starting a  business, and all of them stressed the importance of being adequately  capitalized, and in mid-May, I submitted my two-week notice. If there  was any dimming of my excitement, it had to do with the fact that I'd  underestimated my start-up costs, while the regular bills still kept  coming. The year of no income I'd mentioned to Vivian had shrunk to nine  months.

But no matter. June first rolled around, and it was time to officially  launch the Phoenix Agency. I sent letters to clients I'd worked with in  the past, explaining the services I could offer while promising  significant savings, and I let them know that I hoped to hear from them.  I started making calls, lining up appointments, and after that, I  leaned back in my chair, waiting for the phone to ring.





CHAPTER 4





The Summer of My Discontent


Lately, I've come to believe that having a child jumbles our sense of  time, stirring together past and present as if in an electric mixer.  Whenever I looked at London, the past was often propelled to the front  of my thoughts as memories took hold.

"Why are you smiling, Daddy?" London would ask me.

"Because I'm thinking about you," I'd answer, and in my mind's eye, I  would see her as an infant asleep in my arms, or her revelatory first  smile, or even the first time she rolled over. She was a little more  than five months old and I'd put her down for a nap on her tummy while  Vivian went to a yoga class. When London woke, I did a double take while  I realized she was lying on her back and smiling up at me.

Other times, I would remember her as a toddler and the cautious way she  crawled or held the table as ballast while she was learning how to  stand; I remember holding her hands as we paraded up and down the  hallway before she could walk on her own.