Russell Wiley Is Out to Lunch (23 page)

“Yeah. You really should rent it.” She stabs at her food, teasing it around the plate without picking anything up.

“And you’ve never even seen
The Godfather
?”

“I think my boyfriend had the DVD once,” she says. “I fell asleep.”

“And what do you do on the weekends?” I say.

“I don’t know. The usual. Dancing. Shopping. Church.”

“And how did you get that bruise on your face?”

She turns and looks out the window. Her eyes fill up and her lower lip trembles.

“It’s OK,” I say. “You don’t need to say anything.”

But it’s too late. In an instant, we’ve switched from the gauzy, soft-focused world of the Playboy Channel to the brightly lit set of an afternoon talk show. Angela spills out the story of her troubled home life, her jealous boyfriend, the depths of her religious convictions, the grandmother she loves, the anguish she feels over breaking her personal vow of chastity. She started having sex with her boyfriend. Then, soon after, one of his friends saw her talking to some other guy in the park. It was completely innocent. Now someone keeps calling her cell phone and shouting that she’s a shameful sinner, a disgraceful slut. The story gets jumbled, grows more complicated. I’m baffled by all the twists and turns, breakups and reconciliations. I’ve lost track of who’s who. But I nod sympathetically at what I think are the appropriate moments.

“You can hardly blame yourself,” I say softly.

“I thought he was the one,” she says.

“The one who was calling you? Or the one who hit you?”

“The one I’d be with forever.”

We walk back to the office in silent reflection. Angela’s puffy eyes are hidden behind her dark glasses.

Most people think they bury their true selves—that they compromise their essence, give away part of their soul—when they enter their generically designed, monotonously systematic workspace. But maybe some people’s true selves are more compromised, more rigidly controlled in their lives outside of work.

Maybe Angela’s one of those people. Maybe she needs the safety and structure of an office to allow her true self to surface. Maybe we’re the only ones who get to see her as someone confident, playful and relaxed. If she’s lucky, she’ll find a career path that makes her feel empowered and not simply exploited.

Angela and I ride the elevator back to our offices on the twenty-fifth floor. We pass through the doors and pause by the wall where the
Chronicle
logo still hangs. From here, we will be heading in different directions, me to my office and Angela to her cubicle.

She takes off her sunglasses.

“Thanks for lunch,” she says. “And for listening.”

My sense is that, more than anything, Angela needs a hug right now. But I’m not the person and this not the place to do it.

“No problem,” I say. “I hope it all works out.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Greg Witchel arrives. He brings wine and beer. He hugs Sam and kisses her on both cheeks, European style.

“You look fantastic,” he says to her, and she smiles sweetly in her new outfit, her face framed by the honey-like glow of her recently highlighted hair.

He turns to look at me. “It’s great to meet you, Russell,” he says. His handshake is cool and firm. He has the confident air you’d expect from an envelope salesman.

He and Sam sit on the couch. I sit on the armchair. We each drink a beer.

Sam asks Greg about the conference, and he starts talking about an interactive multimedia demonstration he saw.

“The technology’s really amazing,” he says.

“Those are neat looking sneakers, Greg,” I say. “Did you get them here in the city?”

Sam asks Greg how things are in Springfield, and he starts talking about the three-bedroom house he’s renting and his new Mazda and Nate Murray’s near-fatal motorcycle accident last year.

“He broke everything,” says Greg. “But I saw him last week. He’s looking great.”

“You’re looking great too, by the way,” says Sam, returning the compliment she received earlier. “It looks like you’ve been working out.”

Greg talks enthusiastically about his workout regimen and the dietary supplements he favors. Sam seems interested even though I’m sure she knows that some of the products he mentions make unproven and controversial health claims.

“I don’t like the way those things are sold,” I say. “With those dubious multilevel marketing operations.”

“It’s funny you should say that,” says Greg. “Because in addition to my day job, I’m a part-time distributor for Nature’s Strength. I have the rights for three separate zip codes.”

“Well, whatever you’re doing,” says Sam, “it looks like it’s working.”

We go out to dinner and order different kinds of salad and different fish entrees. We all drink a couple more beers. Even Sam, which is unusual for her.

We go to a bar and Greg tells me more about the envelope company he works for. He tells me how lucky I am to be with Sam. He tells me that his company has a patented paper technology. He pulls an envelope out of his pocket and demonstrates both its non-tear tensibility and its easy-opening design features. He drinks two more beers and goes to the bathroom.

“You two seem to be hitting it off,” says Sam.

“He certainly knows his envelopes,” I reply, trying unsuccessfully to rip his product sample in half.

“You know what, Russell?” says Greg, returning from the bathroom. “I’d love to get a meeting at Burke-Hart Publishing. We’ve been shut out for years. You guys should know our latest envelopes are proven to lift response rates at least ten and up to fifteen percent. I told my boss I was going to meet you socially tonight. He said to let you know we’ll be happy to extend you guys a thirty percent discount on your first order. You can’t lose.”

“Thanks, Greg,” I say. “I’m not really the person who does that, but I’ll pass it on if I can.”

We go home and Sam puts sheets and blankets on the couch for Greg. We decide to drink the wine Greg brought earlier. Sam and Greg sit on the couch, on top of the sheets and blankets. I sit on the armchair again.

Sam tells the story of how Greg dumped her in high school senior year to go out with Karen Barbash, who had bigger tits and loved giving blowjobs. Greg tells us about his bitter divorce from Karen. How he moved to Seattle for a couple of years. Dropped out of sight for a while. He had to move back to Springfield, though. He missed Greg Junior and Paul so much.

We finish the wine, and Sam and I go to the bathroom to pee and brush our teeth and wash our faces. We say good night to Greg and go into the bedroom, and even though it’s after midnight on a weeknight, Sam immediately puts her arms around my neck and kisses me. We fall onto the bed, kick off our shoes, and unbuckle, unbutton, unzip, unclasp, and shed each other’s clothes. Sam tells me she loves me and wants me right now. She’s not usually vocal during sex, but tonight when I enter her she groans loudly and shouts, “Fuck me!” She wraps her legs around me and screams “yes” and “harder.” And I thrust harder. And the bed bangs against the wall. And Sam’s groans and shouts grow louder and louder.

I’m in what’s called the Empire Room on the thirty-fourth floor watching Judd present his recommendations for the D-SAW launch to Jack and a few other onlookers—finance types mainly, along with Tyler Milken, who’s here to take notes and report back to Connie Darwin.

Henry is seated next to Jack, watching Judd like a proud father. Only Jeanie is seated with the grown-ups at the main table. Susan, Dave, Martin and I are relegated to chairs against the wall.

Judd is in his element. He’s abandoned all dubious fashion choices and is wearing a straight-down-the-middle blue suit, white shirt and solid red tie. It’s the uniform favored by the execs who ride the New Haven line—Jack and Henry are similarly attired.

“This presentation is about the future of a brand,” he begins. “It’s a great brand. A powerful brand. It’s a brand that has helped Burke-Hart Publishing grow into what it is today.”

It’s familiar stuff, but he delivers it well. I count three beats during his meaningful pause.

“At the same time,” Judd goes on, “the
Daily Business Chronicle
is a mature brand. With an audience that has declined more than fifty percent over the past ten years. With a readership that’s aging twice as fast as the general population. And with an advertising base that’s down forty percent since the year 2000. Everyone in the newspaper industry is struggling to capture the next generation of readers—and the
Chronicle
is no different. But the truth is, these younger readers have grown up on the internet. It’s how they get their news and their entertainment. It’s where they explore their interests and meet new people. The internet is home to these consumers. It’s where they
live
. And increasingly, it’s where advertisers go to reach them.”

I realize why this intro is so familiar. I wrote it for Henry two years ago. At the time, it was the foundation of our argument that the
Chronicle
’s print and online divisions be merged as soon as possible. Of course, the argument was rejected on the grounds of being too logical. As long as the idiotic Mark Sand runs our online unit, doing things logically is not an option.

“At the outset of this project,” says Judd, “I was purposed to find ways to restore growth to this great brand. To open up new revenue streams. To enhance our bottom-line profitability. This great brand is not going away. But we need to restore it to growth. Because in business, as they say, growth is the only sign of life.”

I get stuck on the “I” part of Judd’s phrase “I was purposed.” Having set up the rationale for our new brand extension, he’s positioning himself to take credit for this whole new direction. There’s not one word of acknowledgment for the input the rest of us have given him.

I watch in silence as Judd zips through slides talking about the new metrics this project will give to our business. How
he
’s streamlined the cost base and leveraged economies of scale in production and distribution. How
his
marketing plan relies more on efficient upselling through our customer database than expensive awareness advertising.

Judd’s pumping up this opportunity as if his entire future depended on it. It doesn’t even matter that the content he’s delivering is like a warmed-up plate of yesterday’s refried beans. He’s selling it hard. Jack and Henry are lapping it up.

Clearly, it’s not only Judd’s future that depends on the D-SAW project. Jack and Henry need it too. They’ve been stuck in “slow-growth/no-growth” land for way too long. They’ve sat idle as Yolanda Pew and Barney Barnes—in just three years—have rolled out one new magazine launch after another. Meanwhile, even as he trails his online competitors, Mark Sand can still point to double-digit advertising growth.

Now Jack and Henry are not just feeling the heat. They’re desperate. Before they get restructured out of their jobs, they need to sell a new idea to Connie Darwin and gain her support in selling it on to Larry Ghosh.

Unfortunately, this tired, lamebrained project—with Judd at the helm—is the best they’ve come up with. This time around, the
Daily Edge
has been reimagined as a free tabloid targeting young urban commuters, with a design that’s based more on the
Huffington Post
than the
Daily Business Chronicle
. Multiple stories will appear on every page, with quick-read summaries of all the major news and business stories. Judd’s plan also calls for the
Daily Edge
to be included as a supplement to the
Chronicle
, delivered each day to all our home subscribers. The hope is they’ll pass this dumbed-down version of the news along to their kids. There’s no plan to increase our subscription price because research has shown that
Chronicle
subscribers don’t want anything more to read. That means the project’s success or failure will hinge entirely on advertising revenue. Right now, Judd is furiously painting a rainbow that imagines advertisers actually accepting the value of—and paying a premium price for—this unwanted product and its unproven distribution model.

I look over at Tyler Milken, Connie Darwin’s executive assistant. Despite his seemingly innocuous job title, he’s the person Judd has to sell to the most. Like Judd, he’s an ambitious MBA-type who wants to be running the world one day. What Tyler reports back to Connie will make or break the launch plan. Tyler’s taking copious notes.

On the wall behind Tyler are a series of rather menacing black-and-white art portraits. Each one captures an animal’s face in close-up. I gaze at them for several seconds before I realize the animals I’m studying are all sheep.

Susan Trevor digs me in the ribs and points at the screen. Judd is taking the audience through his project P&L, detailing the investment required for the launch and the long-term profit potential which, if deliverable, would justify the upfront investment. This is where this project always falls down. The risk is too big and the reward too small. In our division, we can’t afford to spend years losing millions on a project that’s never been seen as a surefire success.

“What’s remarkable about this plan,” says Judd, “is that, unlike most launches in our industry, we’re looking at a profitability right from the outset. The risk is small and the reward is potentially huge. Even using conservative revenue estimates, we’re looking to add three million dollars to the bottom line in year one, growing to fifteen million by year three.”

“What the fuck?” Susan whispers loudly in my ear.

“What the fuck?” I say loudly to myself.

I’m studying a hard copy of Judd’s presentation, alongside the spreadsheet Angela created. The numbers we gave Judd showed a seven-million-dollar loss in year one, but the arrogant shitheel has cut the marketing budget from twelve million to two million dollars. He’s doctored the numbers, butchered the plan I gave him. The little bastard is out to create a job for himself. This is not going to stand.