I'll Be Your Everything Read online

  It was beautiful.

  “Um, Shari, are you doing anything interesting this weekend?” Ted asks.

  Ted is white and divorced, chain-smokes seventeen floors down on William Street every three hours, and roots for the Mets. The Mets bobblehead doll on his desk is cuter than he is, though it has far fewer freckles than Ted does. He asks me the same thing just about every Friday. If he would just drop the word interesting, I might think he’s trying to ask me out again. I’d turn him down gently again, I’d probably rent another silent movie again, and I’d probably cry again.

  “Everything I do is interesting, Ted,” I say. Not really. What exciting thing will I do (but not really do) this weekend to impress Ted? Last weekend I “attended” an all-day novel writing contest, and Ted was fascinated. Who would ever go to one of those? “I’m in a Skee Ball championship tournament this weekend,” I tell him. I love that game. The Brooklyner actually has a Skee Ball machine in the Lounge, and while the other cool, hip, and generally drunk singles and couples play pool and snuggle up to an imminent hangover in the Lounge, I shake my booty and rack up the points.

  To the excitement of no one, apparently, but me.

  “Yeah?” Ted says. “A championship Skee Ball tournament? I didn’t know they had those.”

  They don’t, Ted. Only I have them. I am always the champ because I’m the only one who plays.

  “So you’re pretty good, huh?” he asks.

  “Good” is such a relative term. I’m good at managing my boss. I’m good at flossing. I’m good at singing and praising at Brooklyn Tabernacle, my church. I’m good at walking. I’m good at cleaning my glasses with my sleeve. I’m good about paying my bills. I’m good at eating. I’m good at giving massages.

  “I’m the reigning champ, Ted. No one has ever beaten my high score.” Mainly because no one else ever plays. “Anything else you need to ask me, Ted?”

  “Um, no. Bye, Shari.”

  “Bye, Ted.”

  I loosen my boots under my desk and attack Corrine’s e-mails, most of them memos from the upty-ups. None are particularly interesting or well written. They all want to know how it “went” out in LA. I’m sure it didn’t “go,” since Corrine decided to “go it alone” this time without one of our usually productive “storm sessions” because the client had an upscale and ridiculously unaffordable designer clothing label. “What could be more perfect for me?” she had asked.

  I so much wanted to answer her. In my mind, I saw a blade from a guillotine dropping onto and through her neck. That would have been “more perfect” for her.

  And yet ... and yet ... we work together.

  I know, I know. It makes no sense.

  We’re kind of like Fluff and Mutt. She’s Ebony, and I’m Jet. She’s Toni Morrison (although I do love Toni’s writing), and I’m graffiti on the wall. She’s Stormy Weather, and I’m Uptown Saturday Night. She’s haute couture, and I’m greasy spoon, pass the ketchup and the salt. She’s Whitney Houston when she wasn’t strung out, and I’m Tracy Chapman, only without the deep voice or the dreads. Corrine is steak tartare, and I’m “Burn me one!” She’s—

  Here.

  Well, isn’t this a fine how-do-you-do.

  Chapter 5

  And she’s not happy.

  She must have sucked up in LA.

  And how do I feel about this? Do I feel happy? Do I feel angry that she didn’t consult me before going on this little jaunt all by herself? Do I want to say, “I told you so”? Yeah, I do. Will I?

  No. It is payday, and I want to eat for the next two weeks.

  I usually have something to hand her, some slips of paper or some Post-its that really mean nothing at all to her since she only flips through them once and throws most of them away. Memos. Phone numbers from clients who need a callback. Reminders for meetings and events. Today, I have nothing to hand her but the Neiman Marcus catalog and a compliment.

  “You look no worse for wear, Miss Ross,” I say. Okay, so it’s not much of a compliment. You work tirelessly for the wench for five years with absolutely no recognition and see if you can come up with something better.

  “We need to talk privately,” Corrine whispers. She wears something neutral for a change, a crème pantsuit that still accents her cleavage, two evil prongs springing out at me from behind the silky fabric. Is it that cold in here? Back off, evil prongs!

  “It didn’t go so well, Miss Ross?” I whisper back, rolling my chair around to the right side of her desk. This is our “private space” where we’re not supposed to be heard. She used to call me from all of six feet away to have these talks, but then she worried that our conversations were being monitored and her (my) ideas were being stolen by other account executives.

  Corrine drapes her Fugli (or whatever) “throw scarf” over the back of her Corinthian leather chair and sits, her dark brown eyes drifting over to Brooklyn. “It didn’t even begin, Shari dear,” she says in her clipped Connecticut Yankee accent. “And I wore my Jason Wu.”

  I blink. I know no one by this name. He is not in my (our) files.

  “The green dress, Shari. The one you said you liked.”

  Ah, the green one. Too high up on the thigh for Corrine. That dress makes her look like a Christmas tree with a brown face on top instead of a star.

  “I walk in to talk to ... what’s his name.”

  “Carlo Pietro.” I memorize all client names so Corrine doesn’t have to. One day I will memorize the names of her dresses, too. Not.

  “Yes, him,” she says. “He was a dreadful, frightful man. He was also bald as an eagle.”

  I want to tell her that eagles aren’t really bald, but why spoil her inaccurate metaphor? She went to Harvard, not me.

  “That dreadful, frightful man smoked like a chimney the entire time I was there. I had to take my Fendi jumpsuit immediately for dry-cleaning. The silk was actually bruised.”

  The horror. The shame. The pain of it all.

  “I pitched my ideas ...” She sighs. “And he shrugged. The dreadful, frightful man actually had the nerve to shrug at me.”

  I almost shrug. It’s a Brooklyn thing. “Fuggedaboutit,” I want to say, but I don’t. It’s payday.

  “What, um, what were your ideas, Miss Ross?” I ask, pinching my thigh out of her sight. I hate being so polite to her, and my thigh pays the price.

  “I only had one excellent idea, Shari dear.”

  This should be good.

  “A glamorous black woman sweeps into a room wearing a whatever-his-name-is original. A handsome white man in a tux, tails, and white gloves takes her hand.”

  So far so stupid.

  “He says, ‘You look absolutely ravishing in that dress, my dear.’ And she says, ‘This old thing? I only put it on when I don’t care how I look.’”

  No. This is about as far as stupid goes. Only Mae West herself could have pulled that off, and while Corrine has the cleavage, she sure doesn’t have the chutzpah.

  “You understand my concept, don’t you, Shari dear?”

  No. I don’t get stupid, and I am not and never will be your dear. “Um, you were going for a little ...” If I say “humor” and I’m wrong, I’ll regret it. “It’s, um, it’s edgy, Miss Ross.” I like that word. “Edgy” is just vague enough to sound like a compliment, especially when it isn’t.

  “It was edgy, wasn’t it? He just didn’t comprehend it. I took him to the precipice, to the very edge, and he just shrugged and lit up another cigarette.”

  I respect Carlo Pietro. He didn’t like stupid either. “Did you, um, did you have a backup plan, Miss Ross?”

  She stares at me. “You agree that my concept was sound.”

  I agree that your concept was butt. “It has possibilities.” I know how to suck up like the rest of the people here. “Possibilities” is another compliment that’s not really a compliment at MultiCorp.

  “I didn’t think that I needed a backup plan, Shari dear. Brilliance is not always perfection. You know that. I�
��ve been telling you that for years.”

  And you’ve been wrong for years. “The principal mark of genius,” so the saying goes, “is not perfection, but originality.” I doubt Corrine has ever had an original thought that I didn’t give to her.

  “So there I was, stunned, staggered, and bewildered, as you might imagine,” she says. “Me, and with how many active, thriving accounts?”

  Us ... with fifteen accounts. “Fifteen so far, Miss Ross.” But no more if I don’t help you anymore, wench.

  “I was aghast, I was flabbergasted, and I was appalled.”

  And wearing Jason Wu, too. How wounded you must have felt.

  She leans in. “Have any of the upty-ups called?”

  I shake my head. Not yet. “No, Miss Ross.”

  “Mr. Dunn hasn’t called today?”

  Yesterday, yes. Today, no. “No, Miss Ross.” I’ll spring Mr. Dunn’s earlier call on her in a minute. I just want to prove to her that I listen to everything she says.

  She leans in closer, and I smell her perfume. It’s something almost musky. “Well, if Mr. Dunn calls, I’m not here.”

  She talks to her boss less than the president talks to Congress. “Yes, Miss Ross. And if anyone else calls, I’ll handle them.”

  She sits back, throwing one part of her mane to the side.

  I see spots, lots of little white spots.

  “He was a beastly, horrid, revolting, hairy man,” she says. “And you know what?”

  I know nothing. I just do most of the work here, and right now I can’t see. Wave your hair somewhere else.

  “He was wearing an Armani sports jacket with Lee jeans and one of those ... those ...” She points to her shoulders.

  I see a blur of motion through the spots. “Wife-beaters?”

  “Yes. A common T-shirt. And he was barefoot. He had these little wooly worms squirming out from under his frayed jeans.”

  I have to meet this guy. He’s just the kind of fashion misfit the world needs.

  She hands me an envelope. “Here are my receipts. Do your magic as you always do.”

  It’s too thick for only three days of normal travel. I’ll have to do a lot of magic.

  “Did Tom Terrific call while I was away?” she asks.

  This means that Tom, her alleged boyfriend, didn’t call her for three whole days. But why would Tom call here this morning if he knew Corrine was in LA? “No, Miss Ross.”

  She shakes her mane, I mean, her head, little streaks shooting off her like lights beaming off a disco ball. I’m sure Ted and Tia are blind by now, too.

  “We’ve, um, we’ve been missing each other lately, Tom and I,” Corrine says. “He’s such a workaholic that it’s often so hard for us to keep in touch.”

  In touch? You’re out of touch, wench. It’s most likely Tom is sending you a message by not sending you any messages. The man obviously doesn’t want to talk to you. He’d rather talk to me.

  “I think he’s supposed to be in Detroit this week or next,” she says. “Can you imagine? Detroit, and this time of year. It must be awful for him.”

  Tom’s a survivor. He’ll be fine. I mean, Detroit is kind of like Brooklyn only farther west and hopefully with smarter tourists.

  “Any other calls?” she asks.

  I nod.

  She looks around her spotless desk. “Where is the memo then?”

  “I didn’t write it down, Miss Ross.” Mainly because of who the caller is. “Um, Mr. Dunn called yesterday and said to send you to his office as soon as you returned.”

  Corrine blinks her false eyelashes. They have to be false. She looks like one of the Marvelettes. “Shari, I distinctly asked you if Mr. Dunn called.”

  “Today. You asked if Mr. Dunn called today, and I said no, Miss Ross.” I love messing with her like that.

  She breathes heavily. “Well, when did Dunn call yesterday?”

  “About two o’clock, which would have been eleven a.m. out in LA.”

  Corrine fans her face with both hands, a nervous habit that never fails to amuse me. One day I’m hoping that she’ll actually achieve liftoff. “I had my meeting with ... What’s his name?”

  “Carlo Pietro,” I say.

  “Yes, him, at ten. Do you think ...”

  “Carlo Pietro,” I say again.

  “Yes, him, do you think he called Mr. Dunn immediately after I left?”

  After hearing your stupid idea, I would have called Mr. Dunn the second you left. “I don’t know, Miss Ross.” Of course he did. Duh. “Um, we’re getting near the end of the year, you know. Bonuses. The year-end party. Parties are your forte, Miss Ross.” I hate bucking up a crumbling diva, but whatyagonnado? It’s payday.

  Corrine smiles, her lips tight, her dimples visible, even her eyebrows blinding me. “You’re probably right. I’ll bet that’s it.”

  Yeah, and there’s this bridge I’d like to sell you in Brooklyn. It’s on the other side of that window you keep staring through over there.

  “But, Shari dear, what if it isn’t?” she asks. “What if, heaven forbid, what if it’s about LA?”

  Then I might be working for someone else very soon. I’d even return any IKEA gift card they might give me this year. I wouldn’t need another bonus if Corrine is gone. I do a happy dance in my mind. “But what if it is about the party, Miss Ross ... or your bonus?” Always buck up snobs with bucks.

  “The timing, Shari dear, is obvious.”

  Against my better judgment, I decide to do damage control. This is what she’s been waiting for me to do anyway, and I do it well. “Well, if Mr. Dunn says something about your not getting this account, simply say something like ...” Start up some Mamadou Diop music. “We Are the World” might also suffice. “The Carlo Pietro clothing line does not represent the aims or thrusts of MultiCorp’s vision statement.”

  Corrine’s eyes widen slightly. “Yes. Go on.”

  I know she’ll make me type this up for her to memorize in a few moments, so I begin jotting down notes as I talk. “We are a multicultural ad agency specializing in Latina, African, and Asian demographics. As lucrative as this account might have been, it flies in the face of everything MultiCorp stands for.” It ought to work. We, I mean, Corrine has brought in many millions to MultiCorp. Mr. Dunn wouldn’t fire her because of her Mae West fiasco.

  “Yes,” she says. “Go on.”

  Shoot. I was done. “Um, do Latina, African, and Asian people really need to wear Carlo Pietro?” Or Jason Wu. Shoot, Carlo Pietro wears Lee. I wear Levi’s. I guess we all wear somebody daily.

  “But weren’t, um, doesn’t ...” Corrine’s eyes glaze over.

  “Carlo Pietro,” I say. I will hear this name in my dreams tonight.

  “Yes, but doesn’t he produce his clothing primarily in African and Latin American countries?”

  Oh yeah. There’s that. “But Carlo Pietro’s very workers cannot afford the clothes they make.” It’s time to wrap it up. “If we had gotten this account, we’d be sending the wrong message to the multicultural world.” End music. Hit the lights. I’m done. Applause all around.

  “Yes. Go on.” Corrine’s voice gets all dreamy sometimes, and it makes me want to earl all over her nice clean Plexiglas.

  Cue music. Something with a marching band to speed this up. “What would it look like to, say, the typical Kmart shopper—”

  “Buy George, by George,” she interrupts.

  She has to rub it in. “What would it look like if we simultaneously represented Kmart’s George line and Carlo Pietro? We are not hypocrites here at MultiCorp, are we?” That ought to do it. Tell the band to go home.

  Corrine smiles, her jagged tooth spiking her lower lip. “Type that up for me.”

  “I will.” I push my chair away and stop. “Miss Ross, you did raise some objections about going to LA before you went, didn’t you?”

  Corrine looks away. Of course she didn’t. She never misses a chance to travel and spend the company’s money.

  “Don�
��t worry,” I say. “I can send a memo that voices those concerns, and these concerns will arrive in Mr. Dunn’s inbox a week ago.”

  Corrine stares at me.

  I am chilled to the bone. Look away! Look away!

  “You can do that, Shari?” she asks.

  My boss is Harvard-educated and doesn’t know how to type up a memo, back date it, stuff it in an envelope, and hand it to Tia with a wink so she can suddenly “find it” and bring it to Mr. Dunn. “Yes, Miss Ross.” I’ve done it plenty of times before, and all it takes is an extra order of quesadillas for Tia from John Street Bar & Grill.

  She points at my notes. “Make a note of my objections in your notes.”

  Duly noted. “I will, Miss Ross.”

  Corrine rises. “I’m going to ... lunch.”

  It’s barely ten a.m., wench. “Should I reroute any calls to your cell?”

  “Not today,” she says. “Only transfer Tom’s calls.”

  Gee, thanks. I’ll have to lie like a dog to everyone all day. “I will, Miss Ross.”

  “Have that ...” She points at my notes. “That ready for me by ... two.”

  This means she’s taking a four-hour lunch. Geez. I hate asking the next question. “Should I type up these notes on three-by-five cards as I’ve done before, Miss Ross?”

  She picks up her “throw,” shawl, blanket, whatever the heck that is. “Of course. Could you make the type bigger this time? I could barely read it the last time.”

  Of course. “And if Mr. Dunn should call, Miss Ross?”

  Her voice catches, probably on that stupid Afghan-looking thing she’s holding. “Tell him I’m on—” She stops. “Just ... divert him as you usually do.”