The Pursuit of Other Interests: A Novel (3 page)

Helmut had a head like a bullet. He was completely bald in a dramatic way that conveyed defiance, arrogance, and possibly violence. His shiny scalp came to an amazing point so pronounced, so sharp, that Charlie was sure it could be used as a tool or weapon if properly applied. Charlie made it a point not to stare at his pointy head, though at times he couldn’t help himself.

“Helmut,” he said when he walked into the office.

Helmut ignored Charlie’s extended hand. Instead, he nodded and motioned for him to sit. He then sat down behind Marken’s desk and opened a file.

“How was your trip in?” Charlie asked. He had decided to take a casual approach, though both his arms were now growing numb. He jiggled them gently and glanced around the office. It was only then that he saw Marken sitting on the couch behind him, looking like Lee Harvey Oswald. Seated next to him was Julie from human resources. He jiggled his arms again.

“Are we having a meeting?” Charlie asked.

Helmut ignored him. He carefully placed small, rectangular reading glasses over the bridge of his nose and started reading the file. When he glanced at Charlie over the rims, Charlie noticed that his starched white shirt was monogrammed. This surprised him. He had never seen Helmut in a monogrammed shirt before and he couldn’t take his eyes off the initials on the pocket:
HJK
.

“We are making a change,” Helmut said in his accent, which sounded darkly foreign that morning.

He stopped and fixed his green eyes on Charlie. On one level Charlie comprehended what he had just said, but on another level he did not. It was clear, though, that a response was expected, so Charlie asked, “What?”

“This past year has been a disaster,” Helmut continued. “On all accounts. We have no option. There is no leadership here. Things have gone from bad to worse.” He said all this in a horribly matter-of-fact way that made Charlie feel more ashamed than angry.

“I don’t think that’s completely accurate,” Charlie said. His voice was high and weightless. He looked back at Marken, who glared.

“It’s not? Then please tell me one thing you’ve accomplished since heading this office.” He held up a finger. “Please. One thing. I would be very interested to know this information.”

Charlie looked at Helmut’s solitary finger and felt defeated. At that moment, he couldn’t think of anything other than Charlie’s Book Club.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” Charlie finally managed to say. “I’ve been working long hours and I’m running on empty.”

“We all work long hours,” Marken said.

Charlie glanced back at him again. “Excuse me, Frank, but what are you doing here?” He turned to Helmut. “What are those two doing here, may I ask? Are we having a meeting?”

Helmut returned to his file. “The Southwest campaign was a disaster. The creative that you assured me, that you promised me, would be fresh and edgy, was flat. Your idea of that woman and that rat was preposterous.”

“It wasn’t a rat,” Charlie said.

Helmut was referring to a short and very ill-fated campaign for Southwest Airlines featuring Paula Abdul and a cool-looking hamster that talked. The campaign had become something of a laughingstock within the industry and even though it wasn’t
exactly
Charlie’s idea, the shrapnel from that bomb had hit him squarely in his vital organs.

“We couldn’t get Beyoncé,” he said. “She was too expensive.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“I can’t be creative director and run an agency.” Charlie immediately regretted saying this.

Helmut’s eyes flared. “You insisted on leading that pitch.
Insisted
on it. You should have deferred to your creative team and kept out of the way. That rodent was ridiculous. You should have trusted your people. You were the manager, I placed you in charge. Instead, you took over the creative and stifled everyone.”

“I never stifled anyone. As I explained before, I thought I had a clearer grasp of the client. I knew them. I knew where they had to go and what they should be saying.”

Helmut raised his hand. “Please, I don’t want to discuss that anymore. I’ve heard all of your rationalizations.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I could list a number of additional issues here, a number of things you have failed to deliver upon, but I would rather not. Unless you would like me to do so.”

“I don’t understand,” Charlie said, though he was beginning to, and clearly.

“As I said, we’re making a change.” Charlie couldn’t speak. “We have prepared a separation package for you. It is nonnegotiable. You were not general manager very long. Under the circumstances, it is the best we can do.”

Charlie found his voice: “Separation package?”

Helmut set his jaw. “We’re making a change. We are terminating your employment here.”

“Terminating my employ…” Charlie stopped and swallowed, then said, “That’s ridiculous, that’s crazy. You can’t fire me. That’s just not possible. That’s not an option.”

Helmut stared at Charlie without expression. “Excuse me?”

“You can’t fire me, Helmut. Come on. You can’t. Let’s be serious. You can’t come in here and fire me like…like I was someone else. I mean, it makes no sense.”

Helmut looked over at Marken and then back at Charlie. “Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.” Rather than angry, he seemed embarrassed.

“Stop it right now, come on, let’s just stop this!” Charlie stood. “You can’t do this. I work too hard. Listen. I’m sorry about the Southwest pitch and that stupid hamster. And I’m sorry for some of the other things, the ‘fat’ memo. That was wrong, I realize that now. I made a mistake, a mistake. Everyone makes them. But I’ll make it up.”

“It’s too late for apologies,” Helmut said.

“Listen, I need more time. This place was a mess. You know that. Plus, the economy. No one has budgets. Everyone’s scared to spend money. Besides, I was making headway. I think we’re going to keep Odor Eaters.”

“Please sit down. Please.”

Charlie sat back down, his head ringing. The room, he noticed, was shrinking. All he could see was Helmut’s monogram. He licked his lips and put his hand over his heart.

Helmut assessed him. “Are you all right? Do you need water?” He looked Julie’s way. “He needs some water.”

“I don’t need water.” Charlie closed his eyes and jiggled his arms again. “I just need to get back to work now,” he said quietly. “I have work to do.”

“You’re through here, Charlie,” Marken said. “We’re firing you. You’re done.”

Charlie whirled to face him. “Shut up!” he sputtered. “You just shut up. You’re nothing but overhead, you know that? Overhead! An expense. You cost me two hundred and seventy thousand dollars a year to do the job a twenty-five-year-old accountant out of Illinois State could do.”

“Go to hell,” Marken said.

“I’ll have none of that!” Helmut slapped his desk and pointed at Marken. “We must remain professional and show due respect.”

Charlie turned back to him. “Listen, Helmut, I need more time. I’m turning it around.”

Helmut paused and touched his forehead with a couple of fingers, an unfamiliar look of concern in his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice had softened and held no trace of its usual metallic edge. “I am sorry this did not work out, Charlie. This was all a mistake. I know you tried. I know you did your best. I know that. I know we put you in a difficult situation, but things have gotten much, much worse under your leadership. We have no choice. Thank you, and I wish you well. I sincerely do.”

“Helmut, please, come on!” Charlie’s voice caught and they both looked away, Helmut down at the desk and Charlie out the window.

Behind him, he heard the rustling of paper. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Julie approaching, a descending angel of death, coming to take him away. He didn’t move, though. He kept staring out the window, into the sunlight and the air and into nothing.

“Charlie?” Julie said.

After they fired him and after Julie from human resources gave him an envelope with his separation package, and after she asked for his company BlackBerry and cell phone and American Express card and office passkey, and after she asked him where she should ship his telescope and globe and gumball machine, and after he took his little gold clock the old agency had given him when he left them, Charlie took a cab to the nearest zoo.

When he got there, he walked. He wasn’t exactly sure why he chose to go to the zoo, though it was the one place where he was sure not to run into anyone from the agency. He walked for a long time, passing cages and fountains, the monkey house, and pockets of children clutching snow cones, lunch boxes, and balloons. He thought and felt nothing, other than wondering how long the shock would last and hoping that, with luck, it might last forever. If he were a drinker, he would have been in a bar; if he were a womanizer, he would be in someone’s arms; if he were a fighter, he would be with attorneys; if he were happily married, he would be at home. Instead, he was approaching walrus island.

He wandered all over the zoo, oblivious to his surroundings, Helmut’s words, “This was all a mistake,” trailing him. He thought of things he should have said to him, made a list of reasons why he deserved more time. Alone, at the Lincoln Park Zoo, he made a passionate case.

He was making progress. They had new business prospects. The staff would have come around and accepted him as the boss. He was on the verge of hiring a few key people who would shore up their weaknesses. He was only on the job for twelve months. The place was a disaster when he took over.

His anger was tempered by equal doses of shame and self-reproach. He should have seen this coming. He knew he was failing, knew that while he fiddled with book clubs and “fat” memos, Rome was burning, and brightly. He suspected that he should have stayed at the old agency making Bagel Man commercials with Bob Dole. Maybe, by now, they’d be working with one of the Clintons.

His mind raced erratically—money, his reputation, his mole—before stopping, exhausted, at his family: Donna and Kyle. How would they react? How would he tell them? What would he tell them? He walked on, one foot before the other.

He lost track of time but eventually saw long shadows and got the sense it was late. Rather than check his watch, he pulled out his gold clock. It was small and circular and had a cover that slid off to reveal the time. He traced his engraved initials with a finger, then returned the clock to his pocket.

He finally found himself on a bench near the lion cage. The light was fading and the wind was blowing stronger. Dark clouds formed overhead, moving quickly into each other, thick, gray. He realized that what he had thought was evening was really an approaching storm. He looked around, noticed he was alone, saw the lions slipping into their caves, casually glancing over their shoulders one last time before disappearing. Still, he sat there and waited for the rain, and when it came, he let it wash over him, let it run down the sides of his face and mingle with his tears.

The next morning, Donna walked into the kitchen, holding the newspaper in one hand and an empty coffee cup in the other. When she saw Charlie, sitting in an exhausted daze at the table by the bay windows, his hands folded on his lap, she stopped dead in her tracks and glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at Charlie. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Nothing.” He gave her a slight wave, then folded his hands back together. He had risen early with the intention of making a healthy breakfast for himself but had gotten sidetracked into staring out at the yard. “I was going to make coffee,” he vaguely said.

Donna put the paper and cup down on the island. “It’s eight o’clock. I thought you were out of town.” She set about making the coffee.

“No, I’m here.”

“Did you sleep here last night?”

“I slept in the other room, the guest room. I got home late, I didn’t want to wake you.”

Donna shook her head. “Well, if you were in town, it would have been nice if you could have made the school open house for once. It was last night. It might have been nice for his teachers to see that Kyle actually has a father. I waited for you. For an hour. You never called. I assumed you had gone out of town.”

Charlie looked over at her and swallowed. He had, of course, forgotten about the open house. “I was busy. I’m sorry,” he softly said.

“Busy.” She unfolded the paper with a snap.

He looked down at the floor, then rubbed a hand over his face. He now regretted not leaving the house at his normal time. He could have avoided all of this.

He cleared his throat, then attempted to change the subject. “Are you going to that place today? That community place?” He was referring to a center for disabled people where she volunteered. He had little to no idea what she did there, where it was, or even the name of it, but he knew she went there.

“Yes, I’m going to that place, that community place.” Her voice was flat, completely void of emotion or inflection. “That community place, by the way, whose annual report you said you would help write.”

He cringed. Another land mine. “Annual report,” Charlie repeated. He remembered making that offer a few months back after he had missed the grand opening of a new wing, or new room, or new something there. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Wow, you’re sorry a lot.”

“Listen, I don’t want to fight right now. I have a lot going on. So can you please quit with the attacks? I mean, I’m just sitting here.”

Donna shook her head again, picked up a section of the paper, poured herself some coffee, and walked out. A few seconds later, Kyle, tall but stoop-shouldered, slunk into the room.

“Hi,” Charlie said.

Kyle jumped. “What are you doing here?” he asked in a still-wobbly sixteen-year-old voice.

Charlie gave him a tight smile. “Good morning.”

Kyle stared at him. “What?”

“I said good morning.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Charlie finally stood up and walked over to the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee. “It looks like it’s going to be warm today.” He had no idea what the weather was going to be like, but he thought this was normal family banter and he suddenly needed to have normal family banter.

Kyle nodded, then opened the refrigerator. It had been a while since Charlie had seen him in daylight, or really any light, and his condition concerned him. He was wearing baggy gray sweatpants that hung low over his rear and a black Chicago Bulls T-shirt so tight Charlie was sure he couldn’t exhale. His dark hair was shaggy and much too long.

“How’s school going?”

“What?”

“School, how’s it going?”

“Oh. Good.” Kyle poured himself some orange juice, drank it in one gulp, then disappeared into the adjacent mudroom and out the back door.

“Have a good day!” Charlie called after him as the door slammed shut.

Charlie walked back to the table and resumed staring out the window. It was a sunny day, the brightness an insult to his dark and increasingly desperate mood. He was feeling very disconnected, very isolated.

He sipped some coffee and studied the backyard. It was large. Very large. He tried to remember what they had paid for the house: $1.3 million or $1.4. Then he wondered who had run the staff huddle in his absence. Marken, of course, yellow-toothed, overpaid, off-the-rack-suit-wearing Marken. He was probably using Charlie’s office too, putting his cheap Florsheim penny loafers up on his desk, giving his globe a whirl with one of his stubby fingers. His skin grew hot. He finished his coffee and marched over to the counter for another cup.

He was back at the table, brooding, when Donna returned.

“What’s your schedule this week?” she asked. She kept her eyes on the paper. “What days are you here?”

Her question surprised him. “I’m in all week.”

She looked up. “All week? You are? I thought you said you might be gone one night.”

Charlie caught himself. “No, wait. Yeah, I might be gone one night. Wednesday, tomorrow.”

She went back to the paper. “I’m going to visit my brother.”

“Who?”

“Aaron.”

Charlie nodded and stared at Donna. Over the years, her freckles had faded, and this morning her face looked washed out and pale. Like Kyle, she was wearing baggy sweatpants and a T-shirt. He had made more than $400,000 the year before, yet his family had no clothes.

“What’s wrong?” Donna asked.

“What?”

“Are you sick or something?”

Charlie hesitated, considered telling her right then and there, but instead said, “Actually, I’m not feeling all that good.”

“What is it now?”

“Don’t start on that.”

“I just want to know what emergency room you’re going to call me from next.”

“I haven’t been to an emergency room in a long time.”

“You were there last week.”

She was referring to a brief stop Charlie had made at Wilton Memorial to check on a spot, another potential mole he had noticed on the left side of his face, a spot the attending physician dismissed because he couldn’t see it. “I was barely there,” Charlie said.

Donna shook her head. “What’s it this time? Heart attack, cancer? That…that sleep thing, that apnea thing? Six months ago you thought you were going blind. You were hysterical. You called me in the middle of the night screaming that you couldn’t see.”

“First of all, I wasn’t screaming. And if you remember I ended up being diagnosed with a pretty serious problem.”

“You had pinkeye.”

“You say that like it’s nothing.”

He stared down into his coffee cup.

Donna ruthlessly turned a page, almost ripping it. “You know this job is killing you,” she said. “You’re crazy now. Crazy. You never used to be this bad.”

Charlie sighed. These were familiar accusations. He looked back out the window and watched as the tips of the oak tree swayed in the early morning wind, its yellow leaves shimmering in the sunlight. Once again, his mind went back to his work and he remembered how he used to watch the sunrise through the wall-sized windows in the conference room.

He then realized that he was in the wrong place. He shouldn’t be in the kitchen passively drinking coffee with his wife on a Tuesday morning. No man should be home on a Tuesday morning. At least not a man like him, not someone who had been named 1998 Ad Man of the Year, not someone who once made a commercial, an award-winning commercial, of a kitten, a live, breathing kitten, parachuting out of a plane wearing tiny red boots. Much of his career had been marked by aggressive bold moves and actions. His boldness was what distinguished him and his work. It was the core of his essence. He finished the last of his coffee and stood.

“I’m going now,” he said.

“Where, to the doctor?”

“No.” He brushed past her and reached for his car keys, which were lying in a corner of the counter. “I’m going to work.”

While driving downtown to the office, he began to list some of his most successful impulsive acts: shaving his head in college thinking it would make him look dangerous and edgy for his oral interpretation final (he was supposed to read parts of
Heart of Darkness
aloud in class); buying a red BMW 325i on the way home from work after spending all of five minutes admiring it in a car dealership window while standing at a bus stop; completely changing the creative for the $90 million Midas business less than seventy-two hours before the big pitch; asking Donna to marry him after their third date in the third inning of a rain-delayed Chicago White Sox game. All of those moves, he remembered, had paid dividends: he got an A on the final, loved the car, won the pitch, and, before she decided to start hating him, was loved, he thought, by Donna.

He now planned on adding to this list of bold moves. He was going to get his job back. He was going to see Helmut, insist on seeing him without Marken, and rationally, calmly, politely ask for more time. He would pledge to have Project Phoenix Rising completely fleshed out within a week. Upon approval of the plan, he would immediately make the necessary staff reductions, develop a separate new business unit, and appoint a deputy general manager to handle all administrative issues. This would free up his time and allow him to focus on client relationships, which was what he did best. If, after six months, Helmut was not satisfied with the progress and direction of the agency, he would willingly step down, gladly leave the company. It was a long shot, he knew, but a reasonable proposal.

Traffic was predictably heavy and it was well after nine when he finally pulled into the parking garage of his building. Although his mind was racing, he felt strangely confident in his plan. His instincts usually proved right. He was counting on them one more time.

While making his way through the garage, he called Georgia.

“Hi. It’s me.”

“Who?”

“Me. I’m coming to the office.”

“What?”

“Meet me in two minutes.”

“
Where?”

He closed the phone and took a deep breath. All systems go, he thought.

She was waiting for him in the lobby, furiously wringing her hands.

“Hello, Georgia,” he said. He tried to sound crisp and cheerful, but the words were thick in his mouth. He glanced at the receptionist, who smiled at him. Charlie smiled eagerly back. “Why, hello, Vicky.”

“Good morning, Mr. Baker.” She said this as if it were merely another morning. Charlie thought that a good sign. If everyone could just act the same way, everything could go back to normal.

Georgia, however, wasn’t playing along. She pulled him over by the spiral staircase and started whispering fast. “Charlie, what are you doing here?”

“I came to see Helmut.”

“He’s gone now. He went back to Germany.”

“He did?” Charlie hadn’t factored this possibility into the bold-move equation. “Why didn’t you tell me on the phone?”

“You didn’t give me a chance. Everything is happening so fast. I tried calling you last night….”

Charlie tuned her out. His plan was dissolving. With Helmut gone, he wasn’t sure who he should talk boldly to. “Is Marken here?”

She nodded and looked around the lobby. “He’s back, you know, in a meeting or something.” She pointed down the hall. “They’re all meeting now. Charlie, maybe you should come back and call him on the phone. Go home, have a drink, then call.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

Good question. Charlie had to think about this. Even if Marken were free, he had no use for him. Helmut was his only chance. “I’m going to my office,” he said.

“Your office? Why do you want to go there for?”

“Because…” He paused. If he could just get to his office, everything would be all right. Back in his cocoon, protected by his things, he could determine his next steps, maybe contact Helmut. “Because it’s my office.”

Georgia grimaced and peered over his shoulder. “I can’t stay here right now, Charlie. I have to go. You know I love you, I tried calling you all last night, but I can’t be here right now, out here like this with you. I just can’t.”

He gave Georgia a long look, and felt his heart breaking. He had worked with this woman for close to twenty years. They had eaten lunch and, on a few occasions, even dinner together. He knew her children, though he could never remember their names and at that particular moment wasn’t really sure if they were boys or girls. He knew she had three of them, though. Or four. “I understand,” he quietly said. “I’ll just go to my office, then.”

“Charlie, why don’t you go home? Relax a little, then call back later.”

He reached over and squeezed her wrist. “I’ll be all right. I’m not going to act crazy. Nice Charlie is here.”

“Yeah, well, Nice Charlie, he don’t always stick around. Sometimes he leaves early.”

“Well, this time he’s staying.” Charlie winked. “I promise.”

He left her frozen at the foot of the staircase and strode quickly down the hallway, his head straight, jaw set. He smiled and nodded at a few people as he passed, not stopping long enough to gauge their reaction. Everything seemed to be going along as well as could be expected until he passed the desk of the oversized administrative assistant, Patty. She was lowering what looked to be a vanilla éclair the length of a Louisville Slugger into her mouth. When she saw him, her face lit up like a slot machine and she proceeded to cough, then choke. Within seconds, she was standing by her desk gagging, her hands clawing at the base of her throat.

“Good morning, Patty,” Charlie said. He walked faster.

When he reached his office, he closed the door and leaned against it. His resolve had drained off him and was now a small, sad puddle around his feet. He was breathing heavily and his eyes felt blurry. He feared a pinkeye relapse.

He pushed himself off the door and walked slowly to his desk, gazing about the room. His office looked like a looted U.S. embassy. His Persian rug was gone, his wastebasket overflowing, his Bagel Man cape, worn by a number of celebrities including Joe Montana and Elton John, carelessly tossed in a heap on the floor. A handful of boxes were stacked in the center of the room and pens and paper clips littered the floor. All that was missing was anti-Charlie graffiti on the walls and the sound of distant gunfire and sirens.