About Face (17 page)

“That would be begging. Kids here are taught not to beg. You want to buy shoes for
all
the kids, fine. But not shoes for Joy alone. Great impulse, but rules are rules.”

Ruth, in turn, understood the rule, even thought it was reasonable. If she were in Vivian's place, she might make the same rule. That's why she didn't want to be in Vivian's place. She wanted to buy Joy a pair of red shoes. Guess she was going to have to spring for 28 pairs.

“So, how was the visit?” Carlos climbed into the back seat of Ruth's car.

“Great. I loved it.”

“Vivvy does a great job. In a great place. Turn left here, the light on the next block takes too long.”

She put on her turn signal and advanced into the intersection.

“You can go, just scoot in after this car; the truck's going slow so you can make it before him.”

She waited and turned after the truck.

“The place was great, the kids were great. Did you ever meet the little girl named Joy? She's just irresistible. I—”

“Did Viv show you the list of ‘graduates' and what they're doing now? Pretty impressive, don't you think? What a difference that place makes. And her, too. Watch out for the cop who watches that stop sign like it's a pot of gold.”

“Very impressive.”

“And did she … wait a second, you missed a turn back there. Quick, quick, make a left up there. But watch out for the yellow car coming this way.”

“Enough! I know how to drive and I know how to get to my own house.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Children, children, play nice,” Vivian said. “In fact, it
would
be a little better if you'd turn here, Ruthie. It's a little faster this way. But either way is basically fine.”

She turned. “Now I know why you married Carlos,” Ruth said. “You come off like sugar and spice next to him.”

Ruth looked into the back seat, where Carlos was staring out the window. “Only kidding, Carlos.”

“No problemo.” He fingered his bracelet.

 

“WELCOME TO CHEZ TALBOT,” David said as he opened the door even before they knocked. He was wearing his “Toughest Job I Ever Loved” Peace Corps T-shirt. His blue-jean shorts were nearly covered by a JFK Middle School apron from a long-ago PTA fundraiser. It displayed reminders of all the dishes he'd prepared while wearing it. He took coats and offered drinks.

“Man, I would loooove a beer. But wait, don't we get a tour?” Vivian asked.

David was the tour-director, so Ruth excused herself to make a few phone calls, but when she got back to the living room, Carlos was there. Oh no. Didn't he take the tour?

“I never was big on house tours,” he said. “Don't take it personally.”

He accepted a club soda and they listened to music, talking about their favorite artists, for awhile.

“You know, Ruthie, I'm this way with everyone. Not just you.”

“What way?” She wanted him to say it out loud, to own up to being a pain.

“I think it's being direct, but other people call it different things. You called it ‘tactless' I think.”

“I used to think it was okay because you were so, you know, so … so passionate about everything.”

He turned to face her. “I'm trying to say this in a way that won't piss you off. Which I don't usually bother to do. You're not the only one who gets pissed off at me, you know.”

“Really?”

“Maybe I should say it in Spanish. People tell me I'm nicer in Spanish.”

“Just say it.”

His eye contact was laser-like. “I want to make an exception for you—to my world view.”

“An exception to your world view? Excuse me?”

“The things we said last time. Helping to make the world better. Being political, not corporate. But I'm not good with compromise. I—”

Vivian's voice preceded her into the room. “Not good with compromise is putting it mildly. This is a man who uses organic peanut butter in the mousetraps. If he can't bring himself to poison the mice with chemicals, what hope is there for things of slightly more import?”

“You think that's not important, babe?”

“I didn't mean it that way.”

They settled down in the living room, Vivian and David sprawled, shoeless, on the green leather couch, each with a long-necked beer bottle. Ruth sat on the bentwood rocker she'd inherited from her mother, salt-rimmed margarita glass in hand. Carlos was cross-legged on a fringed green-and-blue pillow he'd appropriated from the couch and placed in the middle of the floor. Joan Baez was singing “Diamonds and Rust.”

Vivian told Ruth how much she liked the house. Especially the wall of photos, her favorite part. “And I'm dying to meet Josh. He looks yummy, like a combination of you guys. I always knew he would, back in Djembering when I could see the future and you couldn't.”

David asked about the tour of the Shelter.

“You can't believe all the stuff that goes on there,” Ruth said. “Classes and meetings and job counseling and lots of really interesting and valuable stuff. Vivian's done such a great job. And everyone loves her. It's inspiring, really.”

“That's great,” David said. “I hope you're proud of yourself, Viv. You should be.”

“Yeah, well, proud. Okay, I guess I do feel good about what I do.”

“Sounds like there's a ‘but' coming?” David raised his eyebrows to accentuate his question.

“No, not a ‘but,' well not exactly. It's just that I know that what I do is important, really I do, I see it every day, and I like doing it, sometimes I even love doing it, it's just that I sometimes have times when all the things that are frustrating get bigger and hide my view of the value so it becomes just a job and today was one of those days. You're a teacher, so you must go through that, too, don't you?”

“Babe, how can you say that? You do something that's so noble and valuable, something that helps people every single day, how can you—”

“Face it, Carlos, I'm not a saint like you and sometimes I can't manage to keep my attention fixed only on the good stuff and ignore the bullshit and the politics and the pettiness which gets me down. Call me imperfect, Ishmael. Or call me human. Trust me, this is not the day to lecture me about my contribution to humanity.”

“Whatever you say.”

Linda Ronstadt was just starting to remind them that “Love is a Rose.” Ruth changed the CD player from “random” to one-at-a-time so she wouldn't have to yank her loyalties back and forth.

David said the worst for him was talking to people who get that woo-woo look on their face when they hear he's a teacher and talk about what a noble profession teaching is. As if appreciation makes up for pitiful salaries, huge classes, crumbling buildings.

“Do you get mad?” Vivian asked.

“Not really. I don't
have
to be a teacher, after all. I chose it.”

“We are so very different, David.”

“What made you mad today?” David asked.

Though she said she'd have preferred to forget about work and let the beer do its job, she also couldn't resist venting. Today's target was funding problems. Getting money from people to do the things that need to be done. Being in competition with other agencies that also need it, so you feel bad for yourself if you don't get the money but bad for the others if you do. Today's issue was a set of ethical-political-financial niceties surrounding a grant proposal.

“It just feels so grown up, so ‘life is complicated.' I hate when life is complicated. Simple is better. Let's drink.”

Carlos's voice softened a bit, though the Spanish accent got more prominent, as he talked about how great it would be if he were the one giving the money away for a change. Sitting somewhere with a pot of money. People coming to him to describe the things they do. Then his voice returned to its usual earthly self as he entered the next stage of his fantasy. He'd be the one deciding how much everyone deserved. Or he'd tell them how to do it better so they'd get more.

“A power trip?” mused Ruth.

“No. Not the power.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don't get him started,” Vivian said. “He's weird about power imbalances, even between teacher and student, shrink and patient. I even had to talk him into buying a dog.”

“Really? A dog?” David asked.

“As if one living being could actually own another,” Carlos said. “We adopted him, we didn't buy him. But no, it's not about power, just about giving money to good causes. A nice fantasy.”

Linda's CD finished, and Ben Webster started playing a smoky saxophone number whose combination of pain and longing seemed perfect for the subject.

Carlos asked Ruth if she had a fantasy job. Realistic, not realistic, it didn't matter. “Come on, I dare you. Think big. Or small.”

Ruth set her rocking chair going on a gentle trajectory.

“Yeah, Ruthie, what would it be?” seconded David.

“Let me think.” Since she'd been asking herself this question every day for the last few months, she didn't really need to think of her answer, just how much of her musings she wanted to share.

“I'm not sure about the job itself, just some ideas about what kind of thing it might be. First of all, I'd like it to be something that's socially valuable. Like you guys.”

Carlos made a noise that had equal parts snort and snicker.

“A snort? You're snorting?” Vivian asked.

“It's just that if it were important to her, she'd be doing it already. So maybe she just thinks she—”

“You're asking me to fantasize and then you're jumping on my fantasy? Excuse me?”

“You're right. I should wait before I jump on you.” Carlos grinned. “Kidding!”

Ruth said she had an energy she could only describe as entrepreneurial, even though she knew it was a dirty word to them. She didn't mean making a ton of money, though, she meant it in terms of creative energy, personal power, having an idea, acting on it, using all your wits and energy, and then seeing in concrete terms if it's successful. A marketplace.

“There are other measures of success. How many clients you rehabilitate. How many kids you help graduate. How many contributions you solicit to your foundation. Stuff like that,” suggested David.

“Good point. I was just going to say the same thing,” Carlos said.

“I know, but those just don't seem to do it for me like the thrill of the marketplace. And, damn it, I'm good at it, too. So that's the outline of my fantasy. Doing good and also being entrepreneurial. You want to jump on that Carlos?”

“No. It's not too-too bad. Even with the bad-e word. What about you, man?”

David confessed that, while he considered himself a world-class fantasizer, most of his fantasies about professions had to do with the past, as in people he'd love to have been, people like Jim Henson, Mickey Mantle, the guy who invented Velcro or Post-it Notes. But as for his present life and what he'd like to do next, retiring and playing golf seemed like a fantasy to him, and yet that was just what he was going to do.

“But right now, lasagna that isn't dried out and lettuce that isn't soggy would be a nice bite-sized fantasy.” David faced the group and started walking backwards toward the table, saying “Come on, follow me” with his hands.

Ruth followed Vivian to the table. Her eyes were grabbed by the generous waistband of Vivian's pants. They had to be elasticized, she figured, or they wouldn't fit so well and they'd move up and down as Vivian walked. But they didn't have that obviously-elasticized look that advertised middle-aged waist-growth. It would be better to make the waistband a little wider, though.

The four new old-friends ate a delicious meal spiced not only with garlic and oregano, but also lightly seasoned with their rekindled affection for each other. Even Ruth's affection for Carlos somehow managed to find a way around his arrogance.

At some point during the meal, Ruth started to hear the discussion—looping between the present, the past, and the future, from the facts of their daily lives and their hopes for the future to their children, their jobs, and their parents and siblings—only in the way people “hear” Muzak in an elevator. She used only enough of her brain to give the illusion she was involved, not enough to take away from an idea that had just come to her out of the blue. She was turning it around and around, right there in front of them, startled to realize it combined Carlos's fantasy, Vivian's talent, her own entrepreneurial-but-good-works drive, and David's upcoming availability.

Something about Carlos's tone of voice pulled her back. “No, no, that's not the way it is. It's never been that way. The government has always been about conserving its own power, not about working for the people.”

“But what about … let's say … social security? Or unemployment insurance? Isn't that about helping the people?”

“David, you are so naïve. Listen up, let me explain how it really is.”

David brushed away Carlos's implied superiority with a good-natured jibe of his own. Ruth thought he seemed immune to the kind of barb that she herself felt allergic to. With her, it went straight to her heart, whereas with him it only stayed on the surface for a nanosecond.

So much for her idea.

CHAPTER 18

Focus

 

 

THE OPS MEETING CONSISTED OF FURIOUS attention to detail, intermittent chaos and occasional conflict. Caps and cartons and pumps, chemicals and frills, colors and scents, dollars and cents. Late vendors, schedules, Packaging versus Marketing, budgets, bottles, blahblahblah. Same-old, same-old. She didn't necessarily have to attend these meetings, but, politically, it was good to have a presence, not to be an invisible dragonfly. Oh well.

It was harder than usual to appear interested because she kept thinking about the new round of concept-testing focus groups and, in particular, the one she'd be observing this afternoon. She was using McKay & Cohen, the expensive but top-of-the-line market research firm she only brought in when there was a reason worth busting the budget for. She'd included Pat in the meetings to develop a strategy for these groups, thinking inclusion would prevent defensiveness and that she'd also learn something useful.

McKay & Cohen had free rein to tinker with everything in coming up with their approach. And so they did: participants would be cosmetics-users and non-users together. The venue would vary; some groups would be at their offices, some in homes, some over the telephone one at a time. They'd have follow-up sessions to make sure women didn't have second thoughts that remained uncommunicated. They'd also use projective techniques that encouraged contrarian thought and interaction.

After the meeting, she stopped in at Terry's office to pick up some data for her weekly report. When Terry asked about Lipsticks & Scarves, Ruth filled her in, complete with Jeremy's peeking over her shoulder for hand-dirtying purposes. But she assured Terry that Violins & Wine—she was still attached to that name and hoped Jeremy would come around to it—would make Lipsticks & Scarves yesterday's news.

“Have a seat. Let's talk,” Terry said.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I was talking to Pat this morning about demographic breakdowns by age and zip code, and she did a funny thing. She referred to something Jeremy had said to her … ” Terry picked up a stack of papers and made sure their edges were lined up, then stapled them together.

“So?”

Terry put down the papers and readied another. “… at lunch.”

“At
lunch
? Pat's eating lunch with Jeremy?”

“That's what I thought, too.” She set down her papers and put her elbows on the desk, leaning forward. “I called her on it. She backtracked fast and furious. Something about how she was eating by herself and Jeremy happened to walk in and there were no other tables so she thought she had to invite him to join her and on and on and on.”

“You buy it?”

“Why do you think I'm telling you all this?”

“Me neither,” Ruth said.

 

ON THE THRESHOLD of the beautifully-restored Art Deco building that housed McKay & Cohen, she had a little talk with herself.

They'd been very careful about screening for the composition of this group. No one who would be likely to sway the others' opinion—in either direction. No one who was too-too beautiful. A good range, both in terms of age, income, profession, geography—the usual criteria—but also psychological factors like family size and birth order.

Then again, maybe the whole idea really was wacky, maybe women really did want to pretend to be younger than they were. Maybe she should change the name of the line, if it ever ran, to “Denial.”

It's a business idea and a business decision. I'll have given it my all. I'll go with the results. It's not a religion, it's a product. Roger that. Right.

Pat was already waiting in the reception area and greeted Ruth on the cordial side of formal. Ruth noted the photographs taken by Sandy McKay on her travels around the world. Since the last time Ruth had been here, she'd obviously been to a desert country—the camels' shadows on the dunes were as long and delicate as Japanese brush strokes—and a tropical rainforest with a riot of greenery and blossoms. Sandy's travel photography was always very dramatic. Kind of like Sandy.

“Hey, Ruth, long time no see,” the receptionist said as she hung up. “How've you been?”

“I'm good, crazy busy but good. How about you? How's night school?”

“See these bags under my eyes? If I ever meet the person who invented statistics, I'll have to … Let's just say it's not my favorite.”

“Good luck,” Ruth said, thinking of youthful energy and trying to remember when she had it.

“What's with your visit? Not that I'm not happy to see you, of course. But usually, the client doesn't come for the groups themselves, just for the planning.”

“I just couldn't keep away. This is my own personal baby we're testing. So, what room is everyone in today?”

“They're in Room C, and I think everyone's there already.”

Ruth and Pat entered Room C's “Observation Annex,” the area from which clients can watch the focus groups they're paying for. The main attraction—the window/mirror—had a trompe l'oeil golden picture frame painted on the wall around it. Unlike the minimalist one-way-mirror rooms she'd seen on police TV shows, this one was set up for clients' comfort. The plush chairs swiveled, their ochre color matching the oriental rug perfectly no matter which way they were facing.

“Hey there,” Sandy McKay said. As she jumped up to greet Ruth, she removed her reading glasses and let the chain holding them blend with her golden necklaces and pendants. She pressed her lips together to make sure her lipstick was even, and gave Ruth an air-kiss on each cheek, an affectation from her travels.

She shook Pat's hand and said “Good to see you, too.”

The moderator adjusted his tie and extended his cuffs below his suit sleeves, brushed off his shoulders, and did some relaxation exercises with his face, neck and shoulder muscles. He started for the door that led to the other side of the one-way mirror, “through the looking glass,” as Sandy called it. Just before he opened it, he looked over at Ruth. “Showtime.”

“Okay, while you get everyone settled and distribute the goody-bags, I'm going to run to the women's room,” Ruth said.

When she got there, she was immediately joined by Sandy, who asked her why Miss Muffet hadn't taken Smiling 101 yet.

Ruth said, “Pat? Long story. How about something more interesting, like the latest installment in the saga of the middle-aged woman and her young lover? And for comic relief I'll tell you about the middle-aged woman whose husband wants to retire.”

“Retire? Are you kidding? David? He wants to retire? Really? Let's have lunch next week. Meanwhile I'll try to come up with something that's sexy enough to talk about.”

Ruth and Sandy re-entered the Observation Annex silently. Chuck Cohen walked in behind them. Everyone got settled. Ruth made a mental note to talk to Sandy about Chuck's comb-over.

Ruth admired the moderator's relaxed air when he opened the session. He talked to the group in a way that managed to be intimate, yet respectful, getting them to talk about themselves as if they were talking to life-long friends. Ruth knew that comfortable participants can be as misleading as uncomfortable ones, but it was a good beginning.

He told them a little bit about focus groups in general and emphasized how the most valuable contribution they could make would be complete honesty. Many people, he explained, unconsciously tried to say what they thought the client wanted to hear or what they thought would be least likely to hurt the client's feelings. After all, these people reasoned, the client was paying them, so they should be “nice.” He told a few stories of previous groups who were inappropriately “nice” and the trouble it created for the clients who went on to launch a doomed marketing campaign.

His appearance was particularly well-suited to his profession, being all things to all people. Not so tall as to be intimidating, nor so short as to appear weak. A bland face conveyed friendliness and dignity at the same time. His mouth looked like it was smiling even when it was neutral, so when he actually did smile, everyone felt doubly rewarded. He could pass for twenty-five or forty-five, but Ruth knew he was forty, had been married and divorced, and that he doted on his field-hockey-playing twelve-year-old daughter, whom he didn't get to see as much as he wanted.

He could shade his routine, being flirtatious or macho or even nervous, according to the group. Today he seemed to be shooting for “the favorite nephew.”

One of the reasons Ruth loved observing focus groups, instead of just reading the reports, was that it was like being a tourist in the real world, to hear from people who weren't in the business. These were regular people with fresh opinions and no particular axe to grind.

What looked like an ordinary group of women always turned out to be a collection of the most diverse life experiences. The variations of how-to-live-a-life reminded her of those tiny cars in the circus. Once you open them up, there's no telling what will pop out. Ruth particularly loved it when the truth belied her initial impression.

Like the blonde woman with the tiny straw hat and the ditzy daisy-patterned dress. She looked as if the last thought in her head packed up and left five years before when she met her sugar-daddy and bought a life-time subscription to Soap Opera Nuggets.

It turned out she was a live-in nurse for an elderly man, working sixteen-hour shifts seven days a week for three weeks straight, then having a week off. The single mother of an infant son, she traveled to exotic locations on her week off. “I didn't really have a life in my twenties, but I'm saving most of what I make now and when I inherit Mr. Burns's house, I'll be set and can make up for the deprivation.”

Soap Opera Nuggets, indeed.

The soft-spoken woman with gray hair and a puffy face, whose dowdy clothes made Ruth think her greatest interest in life might be baking chocolate chip cookies for her grandchildren, turned out to be a photojournalist who'd spent much of her adult life in some of the most dangerous spots in the world.

So far, no one seemed to be deferential to anyone else, no one seemed to be dominating. She knew the moderator was watching for that dynamic, too, and would pre-empt it if necessary.

Pat's face was a cipher, though her hair was somehow different. More serious? Shorter? Darker? Less puffy? And her earrings were singing a different tune, too. Less constipated—if earrings can be constipated—and more expansive.

The mock-debate activity started. Respondents chose their points of view from a hat—“Middle-aged women are beautiful,” “I want to look young no matter how much trouble it is,” etc.—and met with their assigned teams to strategize, then presented their arguments. What was interesting to Ruth was trying to figure out which ones were saying things they really believed and which ones were performing.

After they debated, they discussed the degree to which their arguments had reinforced or changed their actual points of view. That's when the good stuff came out.

The prim-looking woman who looked like a suburban housewife and was, in fact, a suburban housewife, said, “I used to think that it was crazy to want to look your age and given the choice, anyone would rather look younger. I would probably have said that the choice between looking good for a woman my age or looking good like a young woman was, as my grandchildren say, ‘Duh!!!' Now I'm not so sure.”

Then there was the one with four-inch gray roots in dark hair, who'd just moved to New York from Kansas, was recently divorced with grown children, and was not only terrified about trying to enter the work force after a twenty-five-year absence, but was also terrified by the other women. She said, “I can't help it, I still think it's not just about the media or about being brainwashed. Young is healthy. Healthy is good. Looking young means looking healthy. And if you look young and healthy people treat you different than if you look old. They treat you better. I want that. Does't everyone? Don't you think?” She looked around at the others as if she were begging for money for food.

“That's ridiculous,” said the mousy woman with stringy red hair who, it turned out, had published three collections of poetry and was running for the council of her town. “It's just because you've been trained to think that we're all supposed to look like Miss America. We get the idea that it's normal to be gorgeous and young and skinny. But it's
not
normal, not at all. Normal people look like us.”

“I never thought about it that way, but maybe you're right. I guess I'm one of those people who just got swept up into thinking we were supposed to look a certain way. I've always been too busy.” This woman, with frizzy blondish hair and large glasses, wearing a bright red turtleneck, had caused a few rolled eyeballs during the introductions during her long list of her accomplishments—PhD in Brahms, French horn player, orchestra conductor—until she got to the part about losing her husband to cancer. “But I think I'm starting to see things differently. When you get right down to it, it's not fair that we feel ashamed of what we look like.”