Odd Mom Out (24 page)

Freedom Bikes. Taking the road back.

Making life yours.

I grab a charcoal pencil and begin to sketch on a huge notepad. I see it. I can do this.

And
Easy Rider
is just the first inspiration.

I’m picturing a whole series of ads based on the 1970s classics, classics popular when Freedom Bikes ruled the road.

But not just white guys like Dennis Hopper. Think the color spectrum from
Hair.
Blacks, whites, Latinos, Asians, men, women. Everyone groovy. Feeling good. None of the Harley-Davidson biker gang associations. No gangs or groups at all. Freedom Bikes isn’t about fitting in or belonging.

Freedom Bikes are about being yourself. Doing your own thing. Making your own way. And loving it.

Loving rebelling.

Loving flaunting societal mores.

Loving being outside the pack. Alone. Unfettered.

Aretha Franklin, “Rock Steady.” African American woman, big Afro, tan leather knee-high boots, and leather vest over an orange-and-brown-and-white-striped turtleneck.

T. Rex, “Planet Queen.” Biker at dawn, riding Highway 66, desert landscape and the sun rising, appearing over the rugged rocks of Arizona.

Nick Drake, “One of These Things First.” Rider on Golden Gate Bridge, heading up the coast. Vineyards. Napa. More sun. Sun everywhere, glazing, glossy, blinding. Sun being warm, sun being easy, sun being freedom. Life.

The 1970s color, the 1970s mood, the desire for self-determination, the rebellion against the big corporate giants.

And isn’t that what people still need? Isn’t that what they crave? Time for themselves? Time to relax, breathe, think?

Living in Microsoft land, I’ve seen firsthand the price one pays for giving so much of yourself to the company. The burnout’s huge, the stress on families immeasurable.

What America needs is Freedom.

A return to Freedom.

And I’ve forgotten just what started all this until I reach for my coffee and take another sip of really bad java.

I splutter down the bitterness before pushing away the cup and drawing the halogen lamp lower, bringing it down toward my work desk.

I’m excited. But it’s going to be a long night. Especially as I keep thinking about Luke and wishing he had at least called. Just once. Just so I could have told him no, I’m sorry, I’m afraid this can’t work. We can’t go out again.

Chapter Thirteen

The staff and I meet early Monday morning, and I share my ideas with the rest of the team.

While I can draw, Allie and Robert are the real graphic artists, able to create a visual for virtually anything imaginable.

Chris is the word guy. He’s the one who can do anything with copy. Witty as hell, he can take any concept and vision and make it punchy, poignant, clever.

All of us worked together at the Keller & Klein Seattle office, while two of us—Chris and I—moved from the New York office to open the Seattle branch.

We were all shell-shocked when the corporate office decided to close the Seattle office less than a year after opening it. Chris was angry. He’d sold his apartment, ended a relationship, purchased a car. He’d made huge life changes to head to Seattle, and he wasn’t ready to chuck it all after nine months. I knew I couldn’t go back to New York, either, not after moving Eva here, not after realizing just how quickly my mother was deteriorating.

Robert, another Seattleite, was the one who came to me with the suggestion that I start my own advertising agency. “You’ve got the experience,” he said, “and the reputation. The rest of us have talent, but you have the ability to woo and sign huge accounts.”

In hindsight, I was probably a little too flattered by his praise. As a single mom, I probably should have been more logical and taken a job working for another Seattle firm. Instead I rolled up my proverbial shirtsleeves and got to work.

“Robert,” I say, turning to him now, “can you put together a small-budget commercial we can show Freedom Bikes by October ninth?”

“You really want to do that?” Chris interjects. “Even a small budget’s going to be serious money. We’ve got to hire talent, find a film crew, secure wardrobe, makeup, never mind the production services—”

“Yes, I do want to do it,” I interrupt. “Because even with facts and figures, storyboards aren’t going to be enough to win the Freedom Bike Group. Freedom’s been gone for thirty-plus years. No one remembers Freedom. I don’t think Freedom even remembers Freedom. So what we need to do is show customers what they’re missing, show them what they crave, need, long for. Freedom. Space. Peace. Good times.”

“Groovy,” Robert mutters.

I ignore him. “The seventies are enjoying a renaissance. We’ve been dealing with it for the past couple of years in fashion, interiors, cars, entertainment. The seventies represent a larger-than-life attitude, an openness and expansiveness we didn’t have in the eighties or nineties. The sixties were exploring change and protest and innocence. The seventies were riding it.”

“On Freedom bikes,” Chris intones.

But Allie’s listening intently. “You mentioned the Kinks’ ‘20th Century Man.’ ” She turns to look at the others. “Think about the song. The Kinks hated the modern world. They were so antitechnology.”

“But not just technology. Bureaucracy, too,” I add. “The feeling was that society was strangling the individual, stripping man of his freedom.”

“Freedom Bikes,” Chris repeats.

I know Chris is hammering me here, but I’m okay with it. This is how we create. It’s how we’ve always worked together. We lock ourselves in a room and brainstorm, bounce ideas off one another, analyze, criticize, and somehow through our differences we find common ground and end up producing amazing things together.

My favorite part of advertising is this collaborative spirit, of working with talented people who are as passionate about being creative as I am.

“We’re shooting a commercial, then,” Robert sums up, tapping his pen on the table. “And we need it when?”

They’re going to love this. “Seven days.”

I ignore the collective gasp and smile my “don’t f—— with me” smile. “Or would you prefer three?”

Robert sighs. “Seven’s great. Thank you.”

The next morning, Eva’s just left for school and I’m doing a quick dash about the house to tidy things up before I head into the studio.

The Freedom Bikes proposal is heavy on my mind, but it’s almost too heavy. It’s got my insides tied up in knots. I can’t put this much pressure on us about a deal, either. It’s not fair to the team, and it’s not fair to me.

In just seven days we do our thing. The meeting’s been scheduled, and Robert’s under the gun to get film made. Allie and Chris worked late last night putting together gorgeous mock-ups that look more like posters for an art gallery than just sample ideas.

Bending down, I grab one of Eva’s stray gray socks from under the coffee table, push the magazine basket back under a side table, and adjust the couch cushions, shoving the big ones against the frame and plumping the top ones. It’s while adjusting and plumping that I find a book squished between the couch cushions.

I study the paperback with the glossy cover:
How to Be the Most Popular Girl in Your School,
screams the title.

I read the title again, needing time to absorb the full implications. This book has got to be a joke.

I flip the book to the back, read the back cover blurb.

Ever wonder what it would be like to be your school’s It Girl? The girl everyone wants to know? The girl who gets invited to all the parties?
How to Be the Most Popular Girl in Your School
will tell you the secrets known by only a select few . . . teenage models, actresses, pop stars . . . and now you! Follow the simple steps in this book, and before you know it, you’ll be the Popular Girl everyone wants to know!

I nearly throw up. This is so bad, it’s funny. It can’t be serious. It’s got to be a spoof. No one would really write something like this.

No one would buy something like this.

Yet there’s enough doubt that I stop reading the back cover to flip through the chapter titles.

Be Cute If You Want to Be Popular

Keep Up with the Latest Trends

Make the Internet Yours

Don’t Stay Home on Weekends!

Become Super Cool

Wow. I’ve no other words but . . . Wow.

On the back cover, I look for info on the authors, but all it says is, “Written by two Hotties who know what they’re talking about.”

Oh God. What if this isn’t a joke?

What if people are really writing and publishing this crap, targeting insecure girls? I know I’ve struggled with Eva finding herself, but this . . . this . . . this is a whole new level of scariness.

This must be the book she bought at Barnes & Noble last month. No wonder she didn’t want me to see it. She knew I wouldn’t approve.

Horrified, I take the book with me to the studio and slide it across the conference table. “Look what Eva’s reading now.”

Everyone stands to get a look at it. Chris smiles, Robert howls, and Allie says absolutely nothing.

I shake my head, dumbfounded. “Can you believe Eva’s reading garbage like this now?”

“That girl needs help,” Robert says, tapping the desk with the tip of his pen.

“Not this kind of help.”

Allie clears her throat. “You should be pleased she’s taking positive steps in the right direction.”

“Positive?” I throw myself in my chair, lean back, and shake my head. I can’t get the offensive words out of my head. Be the most fashionable, glamorous girl in your school. Wear mostly brand names. Get a boyfriend, pronto. Have rules that make everyone want to be in your group. “A book that tells girls to spend money on clothes, accessories, and to host the party of the year?
That
is positive?”

“The book also encourages girls to be themselves, teaches hygiene, and gives pointers on how to start a conversation.”

I get a little twitchy feeling above my left eyebrow. “Eva showed you the book.”

The studio is suddenly deadly quiet, and it might have been my tone of voice or the fact that Allie has been privy to something I haven’t.

Allie crosses one leg over the other. “I bought her the book.”

“
What?
” My voice must have just gone up three octaves. Chris immediately gets busy with paperwork on his desk, and Robert picks up his iMac sketchpad.

“You bought that for Eva?” I repeat, dropping my voice, but not much. I was upset by the book, but that was nothing compared with what I feel now. I’m offended, deeply offended, that someone who works for me would buy crap like this for my daughter.

“This book,” I say, jumping up to grab the book in question, “is about selling out. It’s about buying into all the bullshit society shoves down our throats.”

“What bullshit?” Allie asks quietly.

“How about the chapter on how owning the right handbag will make a difference.”

“It doesn’t say that.”

“No? Then let me find it for you,” I say, flipping open the book to search through the table of contents. “Here it is: ‘Get a nice bag to carry all your essentials, your cell phone, physics book, and makeup.’ ”

Allie gives me a long-suffering look. “It also tells girls to be friendly and nice to everyone.”

“Oh, does it? How about this, then? ‘Try making conversation with a few girls in your class, the popular ones, but never those who are not as popular. It is nice to meet a lot of people without compromising your image.’ ” I hold up the book. “Did it not just tell girls not to talk to girls who aren’t as popular because it will compromise their image?”

Allie shakes her head. “I was just trying to encourage her, let her know that lots of girls want to be more popular and that there are things she can do to help feel better about herself.”

I close the book, look at the cover of two blondes, their heads nearly touching, laughing at some private, secret joke, and I just have to leave.

Outside the studio, I walk around my garden and then through the side gate into the front yard with the lacy Japanese maples and copper-leafed dogwoods. I wander around the lawn, looking at the fall-blooming azaleas and evergreen rhodies that riot in yellow and orange color through the fall.

I know Allie didn’t do this to hurt me, but it does hurt; it hurts because this isn’t what I want Eva to believe. Yet people believe the media. They buy into anything they see in print.

The printed word has so much power.

One image in a magazine is incredibly influential. Imagine the impact of thousands of words and thousands of images? Photo after photo of half-starved girls and women, words repeating thin, slender, fit, sexy. Words about sex, boyfriend, pleasure, pleasing him, happy. Words about cars, freedom, opportunity, satisfaction.

I know how we link one idea to another. I know how we deal with one insecurity by creating a dozen new insecurities.

We’re a consumer society, and we’re taught to consume.