Part 4 (1/2)

Imagine how effective I could be at removing your pancreas with my grapefruit knife when we reach the conclusion of this conversation.

That afternoon, I sulked all the way from our midtown hotel to lower Manhattan. After pa.s.sing what seemed like a million cool shoe stores and indie coffee shops that I could have been patronizing, we arrived at our destination.

We were to meet with Lawrence. Lawrence was a vice president at, um, let's call it an influential business publication. I was, of course, stoked because there's n.o.body more interesting than a financial journalist, especially once he's become management.

Oh, wait, except everyone.

It was going to be a long afternoon.

We gave our names at the security desk and were guided to a bank of elevators. I punched the UP b.u.t.ton and waited. Josh pressed right after me. Apparently I hadn't pushed it to his satisfaction, but I bit my tongue.

As we entered the elevator, Josh turned to me and said, ”Since you're still learning the sales process, I'd prefer that you not speak in this meeting.”

”Come again?” Did I hear him correctly?

”In the meeting, please don't say anything unless you've been addressed. I don't want the client to get confused. You are not yet up to speed on the way I pitch, and I want to present a consistent message.”

I had to give up shopping for this?

”Shall I also walk three paces behind you, Josh-san?” I asked, bowing slightly.

”Oh, I don't think that will be necessary,” he replied. Apparently Harvard didn't teach him to detect sarcasm.

We got to reception and a secretary guided us to a lush conference room on the fortieth floor and brought us espresso in beautiful enameled cups. The chairs were elaborately hand-tooled leather jobs and the giant round table had cherrywood inlays. The mahogany paneled walls were covered with Asian-influenced oil paintings, and a variety of interesting vases were scattered artfully about the polished sideboards.30 I took a deep breath and realized that all I could smell was money. The windows of the room ran floor to ceiling, and there was nothing but gla.s.s between us and a sun-dazzled Manhattan skyline. Wow, just wow.

Lawrence joined us momentarily. He was immaculately appointed in Brooks Brothers, and his powerful handshake crushed one of my metacarpals. We exchanged business cards, and I'd barely gotten my name out before Josh gave me the stink eye. Oh, yeah. No noise from the peanut gallery.

Josh launched into his tedious pitch immediately, and I zoned out. He blathered on about our products and services for a while, and I'd occasionally smile and nod. I didn't care to listen, and I might not be allowed to partic.i.p.ate, but at least I could look like my presence served a purpose. I pretended to take notes in my leather-bound Filofax but was actually penning flattering a.s.sessments about myself. Jen is smarter than Josh. Jen is a better salesperson than Josh. Jen is more interesting than Josh.

Eventually, their conversation turned to Harvard. This was not surprising. Because he was an alumnus, ALL of Josh's conversations eventually led to Harvard. Frankly, I was shocked he'd kept quiet about it that long. Usually he introduced himself as Joshua, and would add, ”But my friends from Harvard call me Josh.” Luckily, he also wore a Harvard ring and rep tie in case the introduction was too subtle. And what a lucky day! Lawrence had gone to Harvard, too. Yay, or boola, boola, or rah, rah, or whatever!

Josh and Lawrence prattled on about Crimson, Cream, the Boat House, Steve's mix-ins, the Coop, and Beat Yale! as I stared out the window. At some point, they realized that I was still in the room and Lawrence finally decided to include me in their nonversation.

He began, ”Tell me, Jenny...”

Whoa, hold it right there. Does it say Jenny on my business card? Did I introduce myself as Jenny? Do I look like a Jenny? No. Strike One, pal.

”...did you also attend Harvard?” he finished.

If I had, wouldn't I have mentioned it at some point in the last half hour?? Stee-rike Two.

With a sneer, Josh interrupted. ”No, she went to some Big Ten school.”

I tried to smile through my aggravation. I may not have gone to Harvard, but I was proud of my education, especially since I paid for a lot of it myself. ”That's right. I graduated from-” I began.

But the damage was done. Lawrence and Josh were already exchanging barely perceptible smirks at the idea of a state school. Armed with that little nugget of information, Lawrence deemed that I wasn't good enough to be included in their conversation and I became invisible again. Strike Three. Thanks for playing. I returned my attention to my notebook. Jen is not a condescending jacka.s.s like Josh. Josh sniffs his own farts. Josh has dirty fantasies about Alan Greenspan.

Eventually, Lawrence gave us a tour of their operations. When we pa.s.sed by the team of Web developers Lawrence oversaw, I noticed that all of them were busy trolling s.e.x Web sites. And none of this arty, I'm-only-modeling-to-pay-my-tuition stuff, either. I'm talking hard-core with money shots and everything.31 Curious, I thought. Shouldn't those developers look guilty having been caught ogling beavercentral.com?

When we returned to the conference room I still smarted from being silenced and having my college slighted. Who could blame me? I decided it was time to have some fun.

As we arranged ourselves in the posh softness of the leather chairs, I asked, ”Hey, Larry, what's the deal with the nudie sites?”

Call me Jenny, indeed.

Josh gave me that look, but I ignored it.

”How observant of you. Our developers are attempting to add more subscribers to our online venture. They have been studying how p.o.r.nographic sites use interst.i.tial windows to capture registrants' information. They have been working day and night on that technology,” Lawrence replied while nodding his head, agreeing with himself. What an a.s.s.

”Let me see if I understand this, Larry,” I proceeded. ”Your team spends all day looking at p.o.r.nography.”

”That is correct.” More nods.

”You sanction this?”

”Absolutely.” Bobble, bobble, bobble.

”Because they tell you it's for business?” I continue.

”Affirmative.” Josh started to shake his head, too. They both appeared to have contracted Parkinson's disease.

”And you BELIEVE them? HA!” My laughter bounced off the urban canyons of lower Manhattan while Lawrence and Josh blanched, realizing that the emperor was as pants-free as all the girlies on those Web sites. Our meeting ended shortly after that, as did my formal training sessions with Josh.

Diss my alma mater, indeed.

I'm thankful for my time at Midwest IR. Working with all those boys taught me to compete like a man.32 I gained the confidence to look my present employers in the eye during salary negotiations and ask for a sum so outrageous that they should have laughed me out of the interview.

Should have.

But didn't. I refer you again to the careless temp.

Suckers.

My work ethic being what it is, I'm always the first person here in the morning and the last one out at night. Since we returned from Florida, I've been especially buried. I've done three appointments today and can't count how many calls I've taken. Which is why it's four o'clock and I have yet to eat lunch.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mini mirror hanging on my cubicle wall. Yikes. My lipstick is a distant memory and my mascara is everywhere. And, ugh...the chlorine in the resort's pool completely bleached out my highlights and my roots are overgrown. I look like one of the easy girls at my high school who'd sit on the hoods of their boyfriends' Monte Carlos wearing roach clip earrings and eyeliner heated with a lighter for maximum smudge-ability. All I'm missing is a Billy Squier tape, a Virginia Slims cigarette, and the desire to cruise Dairy Queen's parking lot.

I glance over at Courtney's desk. Earlier she was weeping, but now she's whispering into the receiver and giggling flirtatiously. She's still wearing her engagement ring, yet I get the sense she's not speaking with Brad. Courtney has tried to catch my eye numerous times, but I've been on conference calls. I contemplate slipping some lithium into her frappuccino because I don't have the time to ride her emotional roller coaster; I have sales to close, proposals to draft, and hair to fix.

I look in the mirror again. Sales and Courtney's mental health can wait; my hair takes precedence.

I pick up the phone.

”Good afternoon and thank you for calling the Molto Bene Salon on North Michigan Avenue. How can I help you?” a pleasant voice asks.

”Hi, this is Jen Lancaster. I need to make an appointment with Rory for highlights. If you have something sooner rather than later, I'd really appreciate it,” I say.

”Let's see...” As I wait, I hear a keyboard clicking efficiently in the background. ”You're in luck! Rory just had a cancellation and can take you at three thirty tomorrow if that works for you,” the voice asks. Ding, ding, ding, score! You can never get an appointment on Sat.u.r.day this late in the week.

”That would be so great. Thanks very much,” I gush.