The Pursuit of Other Interests: A Novel (24 page)

Charlie didn’t say anything.

Ned stepped away from the window and turned to face him. “You’re not a bad person, Charlie. You have a temper, and you’re self-focused, which means you’re like ninety percent of the executives I deal with. The fact that you’re asking questions like this, being introspective like this, is proof to me that you’ll be all right, though. Most of my clients would never ask those types of questions. They go through life unaware of anything but their own careers. That’s all that matters to them. They care about nothing else. I can tell you care about other things, or at least you’re trying to.”

Charlie shrugged and managed to say, “I think it’s too late.”

“It’s not too late. It’s never too late.”

Charlie shrugged again. “Maybe you’re right. I don’t know.”

“I’m sure I am. Anyway!” Ned clapped his hands. “I’m afraid we have to switch gears now. My job is to prepare you for this interview. So let’s fight the battle at hand. Let’s go do this interview, let’s really knock their socks off, really give it a go, and then sort out the other issues. Are you ready for this now? Time to spark up!”

“Spark up?”

Ned shook his fist. “Right. Energy and passion! Are you ready, Charlie Baker!”

“I guess so.”

“I can’t hear you!”

“I said I’m ready.”

Ned cupped a hand to his ear. “I still can’t hear you!”

When Ned pumped his fist again, Charlie couldn’t help himself. He smiled. “I’m ready,” he loudly said. Then, because he knew Ned wanted him to, and because he was beginning to appreciate how much Ned seemed to care, Charlie slowly pointed and winked.

“Are you being sarcastic?” Ned asked.

“Just a little.”

Ned’s square face glowed. “Good luck, Charlie!” he said, and winked back.

Xanon was headquartered in downtown Chicago, not too far from the Board of Trade, near the south end of the Loop. Its location was something of an anomaly; most major corporations in Chicago had long fled to the northern or western suburbs. Xanon, however, once known as Watson Cattle & Feed, founded on May 4, 1898 (Charlie looked it up right before he left), was a traditional company that was skeptical of, if not resistant to, change. While the Watson family was still the majority shareholder, and Miss Cindy Watson, the seventy-one-year-old veterinarian and matriarch, still had a seat on the board of directors, their day-to-day involvement was minimal. For the most part, they left the company in the hands of Kevin F. Woods, the Harvard-educated, Proctor & Gamble–trained CEO. Kevin F. had been with the company for close to two years, and according to Ted Greene, the company’s human resources director, he was gradually molding it in his image.

“And what image is that?” Charlie asked.

“A dynamic one.”

They were having coffee in the company cafeteria on the third floor, a dark and silent place that smelled more of cleaning fluid than food. Ted was something out of human resources central casting: part psychiatrist, part Gestapo. A cautious man with inquisitive eyes and a white starched shirt, he gave the impression that he would eagerly give his life for his corporation, if only given the chance.

Their conversation had been going along well enough. They spent a good twenty minutes chitchatting about their histories, where they went to school (they both graduated from Northwestern), and where they had lived.

“I like Chicago so much more than New York,” Ted said. “I lived in New York for five years and never adjusted. I never could get in the rhythm.”

“That’s because it has no rhythm. It lurches from note to note,” Charlie said. “Chicago has a strong undercurrent to it. A consistent flow.”

Ted nodded. Charlie suspected that underneath his shiny corporate veneer Ted was gay, so he was trying, subtly, to act gaylike.

“So, what kind of books do you read?” Ted asked.

“Oh, fiction.” Then Charlie said, “Poetry.”

Ted was impressed. “Oh, really? I enjoy poetry. Who do you read?”

Charlie waved dismissively. “No one specifically. Whoever’s in
The New Yorker.
”

“Do you write any?”

Once again Charlie waved the question away. “Occasionally,” he said. He quickly picked up his coffee cup, desperate, suddenly, to change the subject. The conversation had veered ridiculously off track. He had never written so much as a limerick before, much less a poem. “When are you looking to fill the spot?” he asked.

Ted sized him up, his eyes narrowing. Charlie knew every question, every word, every gesture, was being filed away to be measured, weighed, dissected in a human resources laboratory at a later time. One wrong move and he was gone. This was what his life had come down to: one wrong move.

“Soon,” he said. “We’re going to move fast on this. But to be fair to ourselves, it’s a difficult fit. We’re an evolving company. It was a family business for more than a century. We’re trying to change, trying to shake things up, but we need someone to help us do that.”

Charlie nodded. “I’ve worked for family businesses before. The transitions can be a challenge. The culture is ingrained, even if the family isn’t that involved anymore. I think it has to be done in stages, phases. Pick your battles. Keep your priorities. Don’t try to do too much too soon.”

Even though Ted didn’t respond, Charlie thought he was scoring points. “How long have you been here?” he asked.

“Two years. I’ve enjoyed it. We’re building something here. Going in a new direction. It’s been exciting.”

“I can imagine,” Charlie said.

Ted glanced down at a note pad. “So, tell me a little bit about what happened at D&H. I know things didn’t work out.”

Charlie steadied himself before jumping in. “Well, I was hired in by Bob O’Malley and then…” He paused and dropped his voice. “I’m sorry, but do you know what happened to him?”

Ted nodded “Tragic.”

“I know.” Charlie tried to look very sad before continuing. “I never really recovered from it. I was out of sync, I think. I never wanted to get the position under those circumstances. It was hard. I was trying to heal an agency, heal myself, while running a business.” He paused again before saying, “He and I were close.” He folded his hands on the table and stared down at them, as if in prayer.

Charlie felt Ted watching him. When he said, “That must have been difficult,” Charlie sensed a light shifting of the wind. He was afraid Ted wasn’t buying the O’Malley-as-second-father bit. He quickly hit the brakes and spun the steering wheel in another direction.

“And I never saw eye to eye with management,” he added. “Never. It was difficult working with them. They were new to the region, new to the country, really, didn’t understand our clients. They’re a holding company. Bottom-line-focused. It wasn’t a good situation for me.”

Ted nodded. “You do good work. We’ve seen some of it. The toilet tissue commercials were especially memorable.”

“Thank you. I enjoy what I do.” Charlie sipped his coffee. It was every bit as weak and tasteless as the Rogers’s brew. “Tell me about your new direction.”

“It’s a work in progress, really. But for the first time ever, we’re thinking of doing some TV commercials. Sunday-morning-type things. More corporate profiles. We need people to know and understand that Xanon is about more than just cattle.”

“What else are you about?”

“We’re about hogs too.”

Charlie swallowed. “Of course.”

“The new products we have in the pipeline are going to change hog breeding forever.”

Charlie’s left arm began to tingle. Hog breeding. Hog
sex.
“Exciting,” he said. Then he said, “Amazing.”

Ted sipped his coffee. “So, tell me about your style. How do you like to work?”

“Oh. I’m Type A, I guess. Fortunately and unfortunately.”

“Why unfortunately?”

Charlie lightly rubbed a hand over his chin and did his best to look introspective. Even though he had anticipated a question like this and even had rehearsed an answer, he wanted to appear as if he were thoughtfully searching for words. “I suppose I expect too much from other people. I want people to work as hard as I do. Stay up all night, come in on weekends. It’s a weakness, but I’m working on it.”

Charlie thought he detected the faintest trace, the vaguest outline, of a smile. His answer had been transparent, clichéd.

Ted said, “Kevin F. is Type A. Do you think two Type A’s can work together?”

Another introspective gaze, another chin rub. “I think so, I really do. For years I worked with a client, Bagelman Delis.”

“I eat there all the time. There’s one right by my place.”

Charlie nodded. “And Jacob, Mr. Bagelman, is Type A. Very involved. I made an effort to work with him, sought his input. All that matters are the results, not the process. You have to submerge your ego in this business. The brands are the stars.”

Ted smiled. “I have to say, I enjoyed those Bagel Man commercials. This is silly and a little off subject, but did you ever meet Elton John?”

“Oh, yes, several times.”

Ted’s corporate shield vanished and his smile was large and genuine when he said, “I used to love Elton John. I still play some of his music. What was he like?”

Charlie recognized the opening and he scurried, ratlike, through it. Even though he had met Sir Elton just once, and even then only briefly in front of a men’s room, Elton was now Charlie’s twin brother. “He’s fabulous. Wonderful to work with. Funny, nice. He brought a certain energy and passion to his work. We stay in touch.”

“You do?”

“Yes. We e-mail each other.”

“Well, that’s fun,” Ted said. He was still smiling.

“Yes, it is,” Charlie said. Then he winked and pointed.

During the drive home, he dissected the interview. Overall, it had gone very well. After the magical Elton John connection, Ted had warmed to him considerably, opening up about the company (old-fashioned but with a real soul), why the search had taken so long (their number one candidate had dragged his feet before saying no because he didn’t want to relocate from San Francisco), and Kevin F. (he was tough but fair, but mostly tough). Afterward, he went so far as to lead Charlie through a brief meet-and-greet of the marketing department. Then, even though they weren’t on his schedule, Ted impulsively took him by to shake Kevin F.’s hand. Unfortunately, Kevin F.’s door was closed and his assistant said he was in conference.

On the way to the elevators, they walked past the empty chief marketing officer’s office. It was late afternoon and pink sunlight was leaking through the half-open window blinds, giving the expansive room an ethereal look. As Charlie passed, he peeked in and confirmed it had more than enough space for a telescope and a new gumball machine.

He was replaying his parting with Ted—they had patted each other on the back, always a good sign—when the Wizard called.

“Hi, chief. Heard it went well.” His voice sounded particularly Lauren Bacallish.

“Where did you hear that?”

“A little Elton John–loving bird. Say, I’d like to read one of your poems one day. Could you send me one?”

“What’s the next step?”

“Before we get to that, what did you think? Are you interested? It’s not an agency. It’s old-line and it’s animals. And remember, you’ll be a manager, not creative director. Lots of administration, lots of H.R. bullshit. So before we go much further, I need to know you’re serious.”

“What does it pay?”

“Four and a quarter, plus bonus.”

“I’m serious.”

“That’s my boy.” Preston’s voice changed, his cadence quickening. “They’re going to move fast on this,” he said. “They’ve lost so much time. I think they’re going to bring you in for an all-day thing, meet the team, bond a little.”

“Fine.”

“So, we’re proceeding?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Okay, some advice. This is our little secret. Don’t tell anyone you’re talking to them. It’s best to keep things quiet when you’re in discussions.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“That’s good. Up, up, and away, then, chief.”

“Yep. Up, up.”

The Wizard’s call gave him a jolt of optimism. He turned the radio on, then turned it up high. Beach Boys. “Good Vibrations.” A sign. A good sign. Things would turn out okay, he thought. He would get a job, jump-start the cash flow, and then fix things at home.

As he fought his way through traffic, however, his good mood slowly, inexplicably began to dissipate. The doubts, which, he knew, were always there, finally began to reveal themselves. Exactly what was he doing? Was this the right move for him? Did he even want this job? He had been out less than two months and was already getting a serious look. Maybe he was going too fast and settling too early. Maybe the phone would start ringing, connecting him to his dream job. He wasn’t exactly sure what his dream job was anymore, but he was pretty sure hog breeding wasn’t involved.

He turned off the radio and put both hands on the steering wheel.

While he was never a subscriber to the bird-in-the-hand philosophy, he was fifty years old and had to avoid Bradley’s situation at all costs. He could not survive long financially without a mature money tree in his backyard. Despite a lifetime of large earnings, he had little to show for it other than a heavily mortgaged house with bad pipes and mounting bills. Plus, his severance package was ending soon and the economy was hardly robust. He mulled these factors over and, by the time he pulled off the expressway, concluded that his decision, in effect, was already made. He needed this job, therefore he wanted it. And he was prepared do to everything he could to get it.

At home, he found things empty and dark. He called out to Donna and Kyle, but got no answer. A quick search of the first floor confirmed that he was alone.

Fighting back a sense of gloom, he poured himself a glass of pinot, then headed upstairs to the office to send off an e-mail, to Ted Greene: