Charming Christmas (27 page)

Miracle on the Magnificent Mile

Meredith

 

 

1

“W
ith all due respect, Uncle Leonard, there is no way in hell you'll catch me wearing that red Santa suit.” When the words slipped out during a budget and planning meeting with the Rossman's board of directors, everyone in the room laughed, guffawed even, at the notion of Meredith Rossman, their future CEO, masquerading as Santa's sidekick. A joke. An amusing diversion. At least, that was what I'd thought when he'd brought up the topic of the vintage dress turning up in the flagship store's collection of holiday costumes.

That !@#$ red suit. I remembered my mother opening it two years ago right here in the Michigan Avenue store, running her hands over the velvet fabric, nearly embracing the jacket as if it were an old friend. At the time, she expected me to wear it, despite the fact that I was getting my MBA, on a total corporate track. Back then I'd fended Mom off. Now, wearing the suit was out of the question, as was celebrating Christmas.

Call me Scrooge, but it's very difficult to have a holly jolly merry little Christmas when you're fighting off a seasonal depression that cuts right to your soul. Believe me, I know. I lost my parents two years ago on Christmas Day, which is ironic in that it was probably their favorite day of the year.

Somehow, it now seems disrespectful to their distant spirits, as if the holiday they had loved most had betrayed them and every Bavarian hand-cut glass ornament, every caroling quartet, every fa-la-la mocked the two people who had built this empire, created my world and held it suspended in emotional and material riches that I considered unending.

But even in tragedy the Rossmans forged on. Dad's two brothers worked double time to pick up the slack, and I plowed on, trying to prepare and educate myself to lead the company. That's the downside about being part of the Rossman dynasty; you're supposed to carry on, assume the mantle of diplomacy and goodwill for Rossman's. If it's good for the store, it's good for you.

“If you want to use the suit, I'm sure we can hire an actress to play Mrs. Claus,” I added. I was beginning to wonder over the fact that Western civilization's archetypical devil was always depicted in red. The color of blood and stop signs and Satan and eyes that have cried all night. Really, when Santa had the wife whip up a superhero costume, what was he thinking?

“Such a spoilsport, Meredith,” Daniel said, throwing it all back on me. “That suit has been in our family since it was made.”

Although I only blinked at him, my thought waves were saying,
And thanks, again, Daniel, for proving yourself to be the weenie cousin from hell. Your bountiful gestures of greed, jealousy, and avarice are not lost on me. I'm keeping
records
!

Unfortunately, Daniel wasn't the only person touting the magic of the costume. At that point I was ready to crawl under a giant gumdrop in Santaland if I had to hear one more time how my grandmother had sewn it with her own hands one year when the stores were in trouble, how my mother had been the first to wear it, in this very Michigan Avenue store, and—glory, hallelujah—how everyone claims that suit has brought luck and profits to two Rossman's stores—Baltimore and San Francisco—in the past two years.

“The suit is a miracle worker,” Uncle Lenny proclaimed to the board members.

“Having seen the sales figures,” I chimed in, “I'd say we've definitely witnessed a miracle. However, since the suit can't give a testimonial, and we don't have Tinkerbell here to help us refine Rossman's magic pixie dust, how about if we discuss some of the empirical evidence? Can we examine some of the other changes and programs implemented in Baltimore and San Francisco?”

“I think Meredith just doesn't want to wear the suit,” my jerk cousin said, baiting me.

Which brought more guffaws from the board.

Beneath the table my hands balled into fists. Ooh, that Daniel! It was probably wrong to hate a blood relative with such flaming intensity, but our rivalry had been going on since we were babies and our parents had compared their difficulty with child labor, the ounces of formula consumed, or our dexterity with Cheerios. We'd both spent high-school summers as interns at Rossman's, both attended Stanford University, both reported to work at Rossman's Chicago the day after graduation. “A healthy competition,” my mother used to say, but since she and Dad died I'd sensed the balance of power tipping toward the other side. Which was the reason I'd kept my focus and finished my MBA at University of Chicago.

People seemed to think I should have taken time off when my parents died, should have taken a break. To do what, I don't know. But at the time, I knew that I needed activity, and I knew my parents wouldn't have wanted me to derail my career and indulge in grief. The inside players at the store knew that I was the person destined to run Rossman's; I possessed the skill, I had inherited the fortitude and stamina and insight, and I had taken the time to learn the business from the buyers to the loading docks to the shoppers motivated by coupon sales. Uncle PJ was now handling corporate matters and Uncle Lenny had always been good with operations, but I felt confident that I could oversee Rossman's the way my parents had quite successfully.

Daniel, on the other hand, spent more time on golf courses and tropical beaches. Most of his proposals were short-term fixes, some of them quite costly. Not that he was a bad person, my cousin was just not cut out for the demands of retail management. If only he could accept that . . .

Uncle PJ pushed his shiny round glasses up his nose and turned to Daniel. “All joking aside, what do you have to show us for next year's budget cuts?”

“I'm still working that out with our accountants,” Daniel said.

Translation:
Oh, crap, Uncle PJ, you were serious about cutting costs?

“And knowing how Rossman's always likes a blowout at Christmastime, I've been focusing on gearing up for the season,” Daniel added.

“We do love our Christmas sales,” his father agreed. “What have you been working on for this year?”

Daniel grinned. “Trying to get Meredith into that costume.”

This time there weren't so many laughs. At last, the gag was fizzling.

“Meredith.” Uncle PJ's chair swivelled toward me. “Do you have something for us?”

“Of course.” I stood up and smoothly launched into a PowerPoint demonstration of a reorganization of staff that would cut more than 10 percent of our operating budget. “Framing” or “spinning” had been a valuable lesson in grad school, which simply meant that you never use words with negative connotations. So firing personnel was called a “reorganization” and firing the lowest achievers was called an “employee incentive program,” and making people work harder for the same pay was called “raising the bar.” Although eyes often glaze when it comes to talk of budgets, the members of the board seemed quite perky when they heard me say “10 percent savings.” Talk like that made corporate hearts go pitter-patter. Visions of rising revenues danced on the chart in their heads. Ka-ching!

“Very interesting proposal.” Uncle PJ tapped his glasses against his chin. “You'll get us copies to review?”

“It's been e-mailed to everyone here,” I said, restraining myself from doing a wild
nanny-nanny-foo-foo
dance in front of Daniel. “But this plan is just the foundation—phase one in a three-part initiative.” I paused a moment to get a read on my audience.

Eyebrows were arched with interest. My two uncles beamed with pride. Daniel steamed quietly at the corner of the table.

Marcus Aldridge, the bald man beside Uncle Lenny, looked puffed up with pleasure, his eyes gleaming marbles in his dough-boy head. “More ideas for cutting costs?” he gasped, as if I were offering him a drink in the desert. “Do go on.”

Heads nodded eagerly.

“To start with, we need to ax the budget for Christmas decorations.” I was on a roll now, confidence flowing. “I know we're competing with the best stores in Chicago, but our customers are loyal. I have already taken the liberty of ordering our designer to stick with the decorations we used for the last few years. What's wrong with last year's window displays and floor decorations? Market testing indicates that our customers are quite loyal; they'll shop at Rossman's whether we've got dancing reindeer or tumbling snowmen in our windows.”

The room felt quieter, tenser . . . or was that just my own insecurity?

I forged on. “And then there's Santaland, a significant budget drain at holiday time.” I sighed dramatically, as if the cost pained me. “I'm afraid Santaland is a luxury of the past. And if we can separate our sentimental attachment to these things, we must consider phase three, scaling back our Toyland to a novelty gift department with prewrapped gift packages for high-end shoppers who need to be told what's appropriate for their newborn niece or five-year-old nephew whom they haven't seen since last Christmas.”

“Ax Toyland?” The doughboy deflated. “But people love it.”

“I think we're all still kids at heart,” Uncle Lenny said with a nervous laugh. “I don't want to give up Toyland.”

“But much of our toy inventory ends up damaged,” I said. “And every year we're stuck with a fair amount of surplus after Christmas. And then there are the liability issues . . .”

“Did you see that air gun they had on display last year?” someone asked. “My nephew loved it.”

“And two years ago, we were one of the few department stores that carried Fatso Catsos,” Nella Greeley chimed in.

“They've got a driving simulator that's just like the real thing,” my own uncle PJ reminisced. “It makes such a funny sound when you crash, I ditch the car just for the fun of it.”

“God forbid some kid sticks a Lego up his nose and has to spend Christmas Day in the ER,” I said, trying to regain their attention. “Do you realize Rossman's would be liable?”

“I have driven that simulator!” someone said, wagging a finger at my uncle. “I read somewhere that NASCAR drivers use it to—”

“It's just not cost effective,” I said, trying to make eye contact with someone, anyone in the room.

But it was too late. They were lost in reminiscences of dolls and cars and robots that could burp and high-five. Corporate babes in Toyland.

Much later, I would look back at this meeting and try to figure out exactly where I went wrong, at what point I'd lost the board's support.

Uncle Lenny tried to be helpful. “What can I say? Every person on that board is a kid at heart.”

“And?” I threw up my hands. “They don't want to increase store profits?”

“Don't take it personally, Mer-Mer.” He smiled, every inch the indulgent uncle. “You just can't take away their toys.”

2

W
hen I ran into Uncle Lenny the next morning, he told me the board was hinky about my proposal. “I'm not saying it's been rejected,” he told me in the elevator. “They're just feeling . . . hinky.”

Hit with “hinky” before my first cup of coffee. I had a feeling this was not going to be a stellar day.

Later that morning, Len leaned into my office with more news. “PJ had a notion, and I jumped right on it. We're going to make you the manager of the toy department for the Christmas season. Isn't that wonderful? Get you down in the trenches, Meredith. We want you to learn A, why our Toyland is a necessity and B, what it's like to manage a department firsthand.”

“Ahum,” was my brilliant initial reaction. I knew that a good manager needed experience at every level, needed the skills to do any job in the organization. I also had a strong feeling my competition would not be dealing in toys. “You know I've got retail experience, Uncle Len. I grew up here.”

“Of course, but there's nothing like the toy department at Christmastime.”

“Actually, I'd rather stay off the sales floor at Christmastime.” The carols and the decorations were a little hard to handle.

“Meredith? Please. If it's good for the store, it's good for you.”

I turned away from my monitor and folded my arms over my blue cashmere sweater. “Out of curiosity, what department is Daniel going to work the trenches in?”

“Daniel? He's going to stay on his project with the accountants. We still need to find some measures to cut down our overhead.”

“But I'm the one with financial training and skill,” I protested. “I finished third in my class at University of—”

“Of course, of course, we know you can crunch the numbers, missy. That's why we need you to learn the toy biz. And that's why we want Daniel on the financials, let him learn the numbers.” He pointed to the side of his head. “The gray matter is still working, Meredith. Give your uncle PJ and me a little credit, would ya?”

“I can give you unlimited credit with 5.9 percent APR on purchases, no payments due until March first.” I smiled. “That was a joke.”

“Always thinking numbers, that's why you're so good at what you do.”

“Mama didn't raise a slouch,” I said, then thought of Daniel. Did it ever concern Uncle Lenny that his own son was a greedy little slacker? Leonard Rossman didn't seem to be bothered by much, and to his credit, he didn't seem to resent me for outshining his son.

“Your mother would be proud of you, God rest her soul. And I'm sure you'll do just as well down in the toy department. Why don't you check in down there after lunch. I'll speak with the manager, Brian Dombrowski. He'll be glad to have you.”

“I'll bet I'm just what he wants for Christmas . . . a management puppet to breathe down his neck and step on his toes and second-guess all his decisions.”

“Such a sense of humor you have,” Uncle Len said.

 

 

Funny as I was, Brian Dombrowski was not laughing when I appeared in his beloved toy department with my clipboard in hand and my giant budget-cutting scissors strapped to my back. Of course, the scissors were invisible, but Brian in his psychic wisdom seemed to be aware of them.

“You can't learn the toy business overnight,” he told me as he built a pyramid of bright yellow and green boxes filled with dancing frog stuffed animals. “I don't understand, really. Why are you here again?”

“To cut costs, increase efficiency, troubleshoot. All that Management 101 stuff.”

Another joke lost on Brian Dombrowski. “Do what you want. You've got carte blanche, of course. But do me a favor and don't micromanage my sales staff. They're well trained, know what they're doing.”

I had to admire a manager who defended his staff. “Before I make a move, I'll check with you,” I said. “And before I start, which way is Santaland?”

He pointed up. “It's still on the ninth floor across from the café. I know, they're officially part of our department, but they're miles away, managed by HR. Are you going to troubleshoot up there, too?”

Translation:
Would you get off my back and go pick on Santaland?

And so began my reluctant tenure in the toy department. I spent the first three days observing, splitting my time between the toy section and Santaland, which didn't run quite as efficiently as the evergreen toy department. Despite my recommendations to reuse old decorations, these gumdrops and snow mountains were a little tired, the Styrofoam peppermints gone from white to pale yellow. Furthermore, our league of Santas had been cut down to three, which made lines longer, children crankier.

The fourth day I dedicated myself solely to the ninth floor, watching the lines form, watching the elves hop around and make merry, watching children wait, cry, shriek, run, crash into candy-cane arches, and generally make huge nuisances of themselves.

At the end of the fifth day, I submitted a report to Uncle Lenny.

“The key obstacle in the smooth running of Santaland is the children,” I said as I stood before his desk. “Get rid of the kids, and you'll have a smooth operation.”

“What? Ditch the kids?” he barked. “We can't do that. It's all about them.”

I touched the top button of my black wool Louis Vuitton jacket. “I was afraid you'd say that. You'll find suggestions for queuing, entertainment, and product placement in the report. The location of Santaland should really be closer to the toy department, but since it's too late in the season to make a move that extensive, we need to place some sample toys in Santaland. Get kids playing with the toys while they're waiting. And we should consider point of purchase. Maybe this year the elves can ring up the parents' toy purchases at the end of the line while the kids are seeing Santa.”

Uncle Len was reading and nodding and listening, all at the same time. Not bad for male multitasking.

“Yes, yes, yes! We can give parents the option of ringing up their items for pickup at another time, when little Janey or Jeffrey isn't with them!”

“Exactly.” That was item seven on my report, but who was counting?

“This is a moneymaker. Innovative and perfect for the season. No one else on the Magnificent Mile provides this service, am I right or am I right?”

“You're right.” I rubbed the button again. “So, I'll leave you to absorb that. I need to get back to some cost-cutting strategies I was modeling for the board.”

“What? Wait.” He stood up. “You can leave that work for now. I need you on this. Your plan needs to be implemented and supervised.”

I'd been afraid of that. “I'll bet the manager of Toyland could roll it out.”

“Ooh.” He frowned. “I wouldn't trust it.”

“He's a manager. He's in charge. We hired him because he was qualified to manage.” To be honest, I had never met Howard Reichert, probably because he stayed holed up in his office in HR, which, after spending a day or two in Santaland, is not a bad choice.

“Meredith, I need you to implement this plan. It's too valuable to waste with some half-assed execution.”

Foolish me, thinking I could weasel out of this bogus assignment by giving Uncle Len a brilliant plan. “If it's execution you want—”

“Now, now, Meredith,” he interrupted. “I'm sensing that you're not happy with this assignment, and I've got a little goody to pass on, a little incentive for you.”

I was all ears.

“I'm sure you've heard the rattling in the wind, some changes in the air. There might be some movement on the board, and I personally would love to be the one to suggest you for the next available seat.”

I wanted to break into a happy dance but I figured a nod was sufficient. When my parents' estate was settled I was given their shares in the corporation but no voting power, as control of the corporation was something that had to be decided by the board of directors. “It sounds like this is the change I've been waiting for,” I said.

“I thought so. That's why I want you in toys, Meredith. You recognized that we took a loss on toys, yes, it's true. But now, instead of just recommending that we slash the department, this is your chance to get in there and turn it around. Make it turn a profit. Here's your challenge. Bring the toy sales up by 50 percent from last year, and I will see that you get a seat on the board.”

Suddenly my palms felt clammy. There is something alarming about having your dreams laid bare before you in a quick financial statement. It all sounded so easy.

“Fifty percent, hum?” Quickly I ran the numbers in my head, calculating whether Uncle Len's proposal was feasible. “I think I can make that happen for Rossman's. Yes, I accept.” I rubbed my damp palms together. “I might have to whomp a few fannies down in Santaland, but—”

“I've been meaning to talk to you about that,” he interrupted. “You've got to stop intimidating the staff. I've gotten a few complaints. You're bossy and very forthright.”

“Complaints! From whom?”

“There's some concern that you're scaring the customers, especially the children in Santaland. So I have to insist that you wear the costume. Be Mrs. Claus and no one will worry about why you're roaming around Santaland with a scowl on your face.”

“I don't scowl,” I said sternly, “and I don't want to be Mrs. Claus.”

“Be Mrs. Claus,” he answered, “and would it kill you to be a little nice for a change?”

“Nice! Dammit, I'm always nice!”

He folded his arms. “You always did have your mother's temper, God rest her soul.” His face grew sad just before his eyes dropped down to the report. “I still miss them both, Mer-Mer. Especially at this time of year.” He sighed heavily. “What can be done? We move on. We forbear. I'll finish reading your report, you go try on the Mrs. Claus suit. I had Grace put it in your office. Wear it in good health.”

Uncle Len had a way of graciously shaping a conversation to his satisfaction and still coming out as the nice guy. He was pretending to read when I headed down the hall feeling a mixture of joy and peevishness. Six years of college and for what? To portray the doting female accessory to some frosty old legend?

A frosty legend who was going to get the next seat on Rossman's board of directors.