I'll Be Your Everything (21 page)

Authors: J.J. Murray

BOOK: I'll Be Your Everything

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“Yes sir.” Yep. I’m going to be extremely busy getting “tape.” Mr. Dunn is such a dinosaur. Only that “tape” will
be
the actual commercial.

He swats at the page. “Now this is good. I like this. Yankee Stadium. Safe! Drive one home. We’ll have to blur out the Canon and MasterCard signs on the left field wall, but what an idea!”

And it was inspired by someone who marked up a picnic table in Macon, Georgia.

“I know a guy who can get us in there and let us run some tape,” he says. “Let me know when you two have some time, and I’ll make the call.”

Very cool, but I’m trying to do this without you, Mr. Dunn. I suppose I could just ... break in. No one will be in Yankee Stadium in November, right? “Um, do you have any other ideas that would help us, Mr. Dunn?”

“This is strong stuff,” he says.

Thank You, Jesus!

“American made. Focused. Memorable taglines. You have a bike?”

The ... bike.

Oh no!

I walked out of JFK without it! I stood there making calls all that time and completely forgot about it! How am I going to get it? I hear it costs a mint to get the airlines to deliver it to you. Tom! Tom has two bikes!

“Miss Nance, I asked if you had a bike.”

Time for me to lie. “Oh, yes sir. Sorry. I was admiring your view.”

He swivels slightly. “I never get tired of it.” He swivels back. “Now, is the bike worth two grand?”

“Yes sir. Best made bike on Planet Earth.” And I wouldn’t have said that a few days ago.

“Where is it? I want to see it.”

Oh, it’s probably at JFK riding around and around on the luggage return. “I own one.” Technically true. “I got it as a gift.” True. “I have it back at my apartment.” Okay, so I had to “hide” it somewhere. “I’ve been testing it out for Corrine.”

“I thought you were sick.”

Oops. “Um, well, that’s kind of why I’m sick, Mr. Dunn. I’ve been riding it for the last few days. Not the best weather to go riding.”

“I thought you were a walker.”

I still am. “I’m expanding my transportation horizons, Mr. Dunn. I might even start riding it to work.” Not.

He gathers up my notes and drawings and hands them to me. “You have enough background on Peterson Bicycles?”

And this is where I
really
shine. I take a deep breath. “Yes sir. Private company, grossed forty-seven million last year despite spending only seven percent of gross on advertising, mostly regional print and web, sells an average of twenty-five thousand bikes yearly despite never entering the national TV or radio markets, sold one millionth bicycle last year, accessories they create themselves make up fifteen percent of gross revenue, ships worldwide through UPS, foreign sales up eight percent each year for last four years, contract with U.S. Olympic team through 2016 and working on an extension, though it depends on the medal count, I’m sure, catalog and web sales consistent year-round, best months are in the spring and early summer, custom fits bikes on site, has several known cyclists as spokespeople, never had a recall in over forty years of business, hires thirty-five percent minority, no labor disputes in over forty years, excellent benefits packages for all employees, even part-timers, takes returns no matter how old the bike is, guarantees frame for life, all American components, every bike made on site, each bike made by hand.” Ta-da! I want to bow.

Mr. Dunn sits back. “You have all that memorized?”

“Yes sir. I have fully immersed myself in this company.”

“Well, I guess you have.” He turns away from me. “Has Corrine met with Peterson?”

Twice. Oh, and once on a walkie-talkie. “Yes sir.”

“Has she told you what he’s like?”

I get to shine again. “Salt-of-the-earth, family man, father of three, grandfather of eight, likes to eat steak, rib eyes mainly, medium rare, works directly on the production line most days, does quality control and fixes machines himself, answers his own phone, a stickler for details, would rather wear work boots than dress shoes, hands-on manager, outstanding rapport with workers, drives American-made trucks, married over forty years, wife keeps the books.”

He spins back. “You have an outstanding memory, Miss Nance.”

“Thank you.” It’s easy to remember what you just lived yesterday.

“So we have an old-fashioned American family company with an all-American product. But Peterson Bicycles is not a huge company. What do they want with HHB?”

And once more, with feeling. “We feel that Mr. Peterson is hedging his bets. He spends so little on advertising and is still doing very well and bucking the trend of downward or stagnant bicycle sales. He wants to see what
could
happen if he spends more on advertising. We believe he’d rather have MultiCorp than Harrison Hersey and Boulder since we are the more cost-effective alternative. He’s not afraid to spend money to make money but would prefer to get a lot of bang for his buck.”

“Are these Corrine’s or your assessments?” he asks.

All mine. “Mine, sir, um, but they’re based on Corrine’s assessments.” Know thy place, Shari.

“I hope she’s right.”

Geez. Every assessment she’s had for the last five years has been mine, and I was right every time.

“I wish I knew what HHB was planning,” Mr. Dunn says. “Does Corrine have any idea? Her counterpart is, after all, her boyfriend.”

I wish people would stop saying that. “Um, Tom Sexton isn’t talking.” To anyone but me.

“I suppose he wouldn’t. How is Corrine holding up?”

She’s
holing
up in Hawaii. “Fine, sir. A little sore, but she’s managing.”

“It must be tough to be in competition with your boyfriend,” Mr. Dunn says.

It is. But it also has some nice, warm, juicy fringe benefits.

“Corrine is a tough cookie,” he says. “She’ll get through this.”

No, she actually crumbles pretty easily, Mr. Dunn, and I’ve been the one holding her together. I’m cookie glue. “Yes sir. I’ll make sure she does.”

He nods. “Corrine believes in business before pleasure. Remember that, Shari. Business always comes first.”

I am so glad I’m wearing these boots with all this crap flowing in here. “Yes sir.”

“You’re lucky to have her for your boss.”

Yes, I’m so lucky today. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

“No, no. Just keep me in the loop.”

“Will do.”

Once I leave his office, I resist the urge to scream in triumph because I pulled it off. I smile at Sheila, I wave at Ted, and I nod at Tia as I head through the heavy fire doors to the stairwell. I skip down several flights and stop, listening to make sure no one is moving up or down. And
then
I scream.

“
Yes!
”

Old Walt would say, “If you done it, it ain’t bragging.”

I ain’t bragging.

I done it.

I regain my composure, return to the office, give an okay sign to Tia, and sit at my desk.

Yeah buddy, I’m good.

Chapter 21

N
ow if I could only remember little things, like the
freaking
bicycle that’s the centerpiece of this
freaking
campaign! I use my cell phone to call Tom, and he answers immediately. “You miss me already?” he says.

“Yes.” I do. “Tom, I need to borrow one of your bikes. I left the one Mr. Peterson gave me at JFK.”

He has the nerve to laugh. “Now
this
is a definite conflict of interest. I don’t know if I should assist you.”

“C’mon, Tom.”

“It might require something of you in return.”

I like the sound of that. “Like what?”

“I have two hands that like to give massages.”

My back actually tingles. “I think we could arrange something.”

“Don’t worry about it, Shari. I had a feeling you’d forget it, so I picked it up for you.”

He ... did? “How did you know I’d forget it?”

“Shari, my dear, you tend to be a bit flighty.”

“I am not!”

“Today you were.”

True. “But how could you get it? You didn’t have the baggage claim tag.”

“I did have a twenty dollar bill.”

No one’s luggage is safe. I spin around in my chair. “So ... how will I get this bicycle?”

“Well ... I could ride it over to you now.”

While I’d like to see him and get the bike, I already told Mr. Dunn it was back at my apartment, and Tom and I are not supposed to be seen together. “Not a good idea.”

“Or ... I can drop it by your place.”

And see him again? Yes. “I’d like that.” Very much. I am so glad I am flighty today.

“But how will I get home to Great Neck?” he asks.

Ah-ha. Interesting. He keeps bringing up Great Neck, but I am not going to his little bungalow. We may have known each other for five years now, but I do not just up and go to a man’s crib after—oh yeah. He’s already seen most of me, and we both seem to want what comes next... “How, indeed, would you get home? I know. I could fly you there. I’m flighty enough.”

“I’ll have to watch what I say from now on. Hmm. This is quite a riddle. How would I get to Great Neck from Brooklyn if I only have this bike, which you obviously need so badly?”

“I have a great neck
in
Brooklyn,” I say. “This neck doesn’t stray too far from Brooklyn, you know.”

“Tempting. But I have so much work to do, and so do you.” He laughs. “But you can’t do
your
work without this bike. Man, this is a real puzzler.”

“Sure is.”

I hear him sigh. It’s kind of sexy. “We are at an impasse. You see, my first instinct is to ride this bike back to Great Neck and make you come get it.”

“So I can see your little bungalow,” I say.

“Maybe,” he says.

Maybe nothing. “My apartment is much closer.”

“True. But then there’s the principle of the thing. I rescued the bike, so I should get the reward, and riding over to Brooklyn is not my idea of a reward.”

He
really
wants me to see his place and, um, do other things.

“I haven’t been home in so long,” he says. “I want to see if it’s still there. It’s a nice place. And it might be our office after I kick your butt.”

I’d rather he did other things to my—Wow. Where’d that thought come from? And wait—how’d he get the bike to Harrison Hersey and Boulder? “Did you ride the bike from JFK to Madison Avenue or what? And with your suitcase?”

“I didn’t go to work.”

Lucky him. Wait—is he down on William Street right now? I get out of my chair and drift to the window. I look down and only see cars. “So where are you now?”

“Yankee Stadium.”

Huh? No! He can’t be. “What are you doing at Yankee Stadium?”

“Safe!” he yells. “Sure is quiet here.”

He’s not ... No. He
wouldn’t
have. Would he? I look around and see several pairs of nosy eyes staring at me. I go out into the hallway, go in the bathroom, check each stall, and stand by the window. “Tom Sexton, what are you doing at Yankee Stadium?”

“Riding this beautiful red and black bike.”

He stole my idea! “You ... you read my notes!”

“They were right beside your plane ticket in your nice little bag.”

I am too angry to speak!

“I’m having the hardest time getting to home plate in under fifteen seconds, Shari. I checked your numbers, and they’re absolutely right. I stare at the speedometer while I’m riding, but I can’t maintain fifteen miles per hour all the way through. I am, after all, pretty worn out because of you.”

It’s happened again! First Corrine, and now Tom! “You’re ... you’re stealing my idea, and you know how that makes me feel!”

“I’m trying to steal home! Hey, that’s not bad. Steal home with a Peterson bicycle? No. Sends the wrong message. Wrong connotation. Your idea is better.”

“But you’re stealing my idea, Tom!”

“No, Shari, I’m not. Okay, yes, I borrowed your notes for a minute, but I didn’t steal your idea. I’m
using,
not stealing your idea for
our
presentation. I’m putting your idea to work.”

And I thought that I took initiative. “It isn’t right, Tom, and you know it!”

“Shari, please calm down.”

“No!”

“C’mon, I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. Not sitting next to you on the plane gave me time to think. You would have distracted me. I would have been thinking about your smooth, silky skin, I would have asked for a blanket, my hands would have wandered to your nice warm legs... .”

He’s trying to distract me and it’s working. “Did you read through
all
my ideas?”

“Okay, so I borrowed your notes for
five
minutes while you were sleeping, but you proved what I’ve known for five years. Shari Nance, you are a genius. My ideas, while serviceable, aren’t inspired. At all. Your ideas work on so many levels and will actually inspire people to buy a bicycle.”

Now he’s trying to distract me with a compliment. That’s working, too. “I can’t believe you did that, Tom. It’s like working with Corrine all over again.”

“You’re missing the point.”

A perky administrative assistant who can’t be older than ten bounces into the bathroom. I wash my hands, dry them, and leave the bathroom. I head to the stairs. “
You’re
the one missing the point, Tom. It’s the principle of the thing. You ripped me off. I’m pissed at you.”

“And I’m sorry, but hear me out.”

I don’t respond.

“We have to work this thing together as Methuselah’s Breezy Hiccup. We have a golden opportunity to sell your ideas to Mr. Peterson and stick it to our employers at the same time.”

I walk up several flights of stairs and flop down in the corner of the landing. “But Mr. Peterson expects either MultiCorp or Harrison Hersey and Boulder to represent him. There are contracts waiting to be signed!”

“Mr. Peterson will have no choice but to accept the brilliant presentation of Methuselah’s Breezy Hiccup. He’ll sign with us, I guarantee it.”

All my plans are turning to crap!

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll both be fired on the spot,” he says.

“What?”

“You have a good digital camera? I bought the one I’m using a few years ago. It does the job, but I’m worried that it doesn’t have enough clarity.”

I slump against the wall. “We’ll be fired on the spot?”

“We have to be fired if we’re going to get the account,” he says. “What kind of camera do you have?”

I close my eyes. “I don’t have a camera like that, Tom, and I
cannot
get fired!”

“Maybe if I start on the warning track in center field and make a hard left ...”

“Tom, this can’t work!” My voice echoes a little. I stand and climb another flight.

“Yeah, I’ll probably wipe out and slam into the bleachers. It would look so cool on YouTube, though.”

He’s out of his mind! “Tom, pay attention!”

“You worry too much, Shari. I have been praying for some way to leave Hairy Ads. You have been praying for some way to leave Cringe and MultiCorpse. This is the time for us to do it, and this is how we can do it.”

It sounds ... like the beginnings of a plan, but... “What if Mr. Peterson doesn’t hire us?”

“With your ideas and my technical expertise, he will hire us. Trust me.”

This is insane! “Tom, we really need to talk this through in more detail.” I am not going to get fired on the day I’m supposed to shine! This is madness!

“You like my concept, right?” he asks.

I’d like nothing better than to rub MultiCorp’s nose in my success. “It’s, um, it’s edgy, but I’m standing too close to the edge, you understand?”

“Just don’t look down. Everything is looking up.”

I wish I could be sure of that.

“So ... your place or mine?”

I am so flustered right now. I need to be on my home turf. “My place.” I give him the address. “Be there by six.”

“I’ll be the guy with the bike.”

I don’t know whether to be angry or happy! I hate this feeling. “Um, what are you wearing while you’re riding?”

“What I wore on the plane. Why?”

Jeans, boots, sweatshirt. He’s rugged, manly, and sexy. “Are you, um, smiling while you’re riding?”

“Yes, well, when I’m not staring at the speedometer.”

“Because it’s important for you to be smiling and looking at the camera. And you’re wearing a helmet, right? I don’t want any family safety groups after us.”

“Yes, dear. I never ride without one. I bought one on my way to the stadium.”

What else was
I
planning for
my
commercial? “Um, make sure you end it with a shot of the plate, and try to get some dirt to fly.”

“I already have.”

“You have to do the voice-over.” He has to. Baseball is a man’s game.

“Your voice is sexier.”

“We’re selling a bike, not sex, Tom.”

“Say ‘drive one home’ in your sexiest voice.”

I look around. “Drive one home,” I say in my
normal
voice.

“I am so excited right now,” he says.

Oh right. Tell me anything. “Just ... just be at my apartment by six.”

“I’ll be powerful hungry.”

Of all the ... “You want me to
cook
for you, too?”

“You owe me twenty bucks for rescuing the bike.”

“Well, you stole my ideas!”

“Well,” he says softly, “you stole my heart.”

That’s a heart stopper. “When?”

“You’ve actually been stealing my heart for a few years, Shari, a little at a time.”

I want to believe him, I really do. But he has me climbing stairs and going crazy!

“Think about it,” he says. “How many times did I call your office when Corrine wasn’t there?”

And now he expects me to add them up? “I don’t know, a lot.”

“Just about every time,” he says. “Almost all the time for the last two years.”

He’s right. He has been calling just to talk to me for a long time. “So what?”

“So ... maybe I called her cell phone first to make sure she
wasn’t
there so that you and I could talk without her interrupting us.”

I don’t know whether to be flattered or scared. He’s been stalking me for two years! And instead of pouncing on me, he’s only been calling me and trying to run me over with a bike. “Tom, I have been so lonely for the last two years. Why didn’t you do something more than just talk to me? I would have turned twenty-five with a smile on my face.”

“I didn’t want to cost you your job.”

What?

“If I dumped Corrine and started seeing you immediately, who would you be looking at five days a week just a few feet from you?”

Cringe. The woman scorned. Her fury in my face every moment. A worse wench goddess than she already is.

“Corrine would take her rejection out on you, wouldn’t she?”

In a big way, hell on earth, the end of days, but ... “She takes everything out on me anyway! And you’re trying to cost me my job right now!”