I Have the Write

THE GREAT AND POWERFUL BILL

            You might remember Bill; he’s the guy from the earthquake story.  I knew I couldn’t write for long without telling you more about him.  And I have not changed his name, as I often will when I tell my stories.  Bill was larger than life to me, and he deserves for you to know his name.

            William and Mary grad, Viet Nam vet and Marketing V.P. extraordinaire, Bill made me the lean, mean office machine I am today.  While he could be best described as my Svengali, that description fails, because his intent toward me was never sinister in nature.  He molded me and shaped me and taught me what it meant to be the right hand of an executive.  He taught me to do it to perfection.

            My initial meeting with him was after hours, as I had to come all the way from Sonoma for the interview.  We talked for a bit as he openly sized me up, deemed me suitable and hired me on the spot.  For the next five years, he was more than today’s “office husband;” he was God, and I was the gatekeeper.

            Once I was onboard, I learned he’d not kept a secretary for any longer than six months.  That was as long as anyone could handle him.  I was told they would flee in tears, leaving him to hire yet another assistant.  Soon I was duly afraid, but the work was exciting to me, and the commute to Santa Rosa was much closer than my previous one, so I was determined not to be run off.

            Bill was not a physically imposing man.  He stood maybe 5’9” and weighed about 175 pounds, probably because he lived largely on cigarettes and coffee.  In five years I rarely saw him eat.  His face was craggy and his eyes were an unearthly shade of green that put you on notice the minute they locked onto yours.  When he looked at you, you knew you were in the crosshairs.  What made Bill special was his life force, which sorely defies description.  To call him intense would be a gross understatement; to call him driven would be the same.  To say he was a perfectionist sadly demeans what he really was.  You see, marketing people are different.  Supremely clever and creative, the best ones keep their demons barely concealed.  And you always felt that with Bill; you always felt he was a man who was on the verge of creating his own orbit.

            I was young and determined, and he was older and wiser and infinitely patient in shaping me.  Within six months, I could think for him.  I knew what he wanted before he did.  I knew a great many of his idiosyncrasies, and I catered to them all.  I reminded him that a special occasion was coming up, and he’d toss me a few hundred dollars to shop at Nordy’s for an appropriate gift.  Often he would be on the road and would call to tell me to write a letter to so-and-so, say this, sign his name and get it out.  He trusted me. 

            We worked hard in those days.  Under his command, our company far and away exceeded the market share of the nearest competitor.  They were good days.  I’d come in and brew my tea while I made his coffee.  I’d sit at my desk and page through the Wall Street Journal and Ad Week before giving them to him.  We’d often work late writing and re-writing and proofing contracts and collateral material.  The minute I’d finish a round of revisions and give them to him, they’d be back in my hands with more changes.  It wasn’t uncommon for us to revise something 15 times or more, but when we were done, it was a masterpiece.

            While he was busy infuriating everyone around him and making the female managers cry, I remained at the periphery awaiting my next directive, which I knew could come at any moment.  Once he actually had someone come into the ladies’ room in search of me.  On another occasion, he called me at home at midnight to ask me to go in to fax things to the P.R. firm in New York no later than 3:00 a.m. because they had to be there at 6:00 a.m. Eastern time.  My co-workers often told me he would call out for me long after I’d left the office for the day, and they’d had to remind him I’d gone home.

            He’d have worked non-stop if he could.  He made a two-hour commute, each way, from Walnut Creek every day.  He was always there when I arrived, and he was always there when I left.  There was a very nice boutique hotel called Equus, with a fine, bronze horse head logo where he’d stay every now and again when he didn’t want to drive all the way back home.  He’d fling his AmEx card at me and say, “Lori, get me a room at the horse head hotel for tonight.”  Always that would make me laugh.

            He pushed us, and he pushed us hard.  One day he informed me that my sole job was to make him look good, and he was right.  I took that to heart and smoothed more issues than he would ever know about in pursuit of that objective.  I spent a lot of time glad-handing in order to get his unreasonable demands met, and in the end, most people were happy to do what I asked.  Better to deal with me than with him.

            I’ve thought of him so many times over the years and wondered what he went on to accomplish.  I run upon situations even now, more than 20 years later, and I ask myself, “What would Bill do?  How would he handle this?”   I’ve often wished him well in my mind and remembered the things he did that would, by turns, amuse and frustrate me.  And, yes, I’ve often missed him.  You’ll hear more about Bill.  Someone with such presence simply can’t be confined to just one story, and besides, my stories about Bill are some of the ones I most love to tell.

10-25-11

THE HOLY ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH…

…had all but reared me, and although I’d not been to church in many years, I was compelled to go to confession.  It had been four years since it happened, and still I could not purge the uneasiness from my soul.  I’d done all I knew to do to heal myself, and the images from those last minutes refused to release me.  Finally, I had to admit I could be guided if I told someone, which was a difficult concept for me.  A priest seemed the most logical choice and was cheaper than a shrink.  I was weak and so in need of someone to tell me I’d done the right thing that I returned to a church I’d sworn I’d never worship in again. 

           I was oddly nervous.  I stepped inside the church, and lightning did not strike me down, so I was off to a good start.  I never liked the idea of face-to-face confession, so I sat in a pew waiting for an open confessional.  I sat there for a long time trying to work up the courage to actually do it.  Several people came and went, and still I sat there.  I wasn’t going to be able to do it.  I rose to leave but, instead, found myself moving toward the confessional and opening the door. 

            Once inside, the total darkness enrobed me, and I could feel cool air swirling as I knelt facing the screen.  I had a moment to compose myself when I heard the long-forgotten-yet-familiar sound of the panel being slid back.    Ready, set, go.

            “Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” I began by rote, crossing myself.  “It has been at least 15 years since my last confession, so I hope you packed a lunch.”

            Nothing.  Silence.  Oh, swell.  I’d gotten a tight-ass as my confessor. 

            I gave him the 30-second version of the story.  It didn’t take long to tell.  It was really very simple.

            He cleared his throat.  “But you are not confessing.  You do not feel you have sinned.”

            “That’s correct.”

            “You are expressing no remorse.”

            “That’s correct.”

            “Why then are you here?”

            “I’m here for assurance,” I told him plainly.

            “But surely you must know there is no mercy for you until you come before God in remorse for what you’ve done.”

            I felt my face grow hot with shame.  I cursed myself for expecting something from God that He’d never before been willing to give me. 

            “I have no remorse.  That will not change.”

            “Until it does, you will remain a murderess in the eyes of God, unwelcome in His house.”

            “Then I’ll not disgrace His house with my presence,” I said coldly.

            I rose and flung open the door with all the bad attitude I had.  As it banged behind me, I heard another door close, and I felt him looking after me.  He wanted to see if he knew me, the bastard.  I was so angry at myself for looking for any kind of solace there that I could have spit fire.  I held my head high and strode out of a Catholic church for the last time.  

            In my mind and in my heart, I finally got my answer.  I didn’t need to be told I’d done the right thing any longer.  My unfailing ability to tell him the story and stand firm in the face of God by proxy was proof enough.

            Afterward:  It was the last time I went…until the next time I went, because the Mother Church sucks you back.  But that, my friends, is another story.

DOMESTIC TRANQUILITY

Domesticity is far more agreeable to me than I ever imagined.  Twenty years ago, I had absolutely no interest in the things that bring me the most joy now.  I knew nothing of cooking, growing herbs or doing maintenance on a house, and I didn’t care to know.  I suppose I wasn’t yet ready for these Zen-like comforts. 

I wasn’t ready to teach myself how to cook a pot roast nearly as good as my mother’s, though I’ve never learned to make her gravy.  As time passed, I became a good cook, and I take pride in that, because by the time I was interested, there was no one to teach me.   I learned all on my own.  Now, I’ll cook most anything with a fair degree of confidence.  It tickles me when people like my cooking, because not long ago, I only cooked with a microwave.

Twenty years ago, I certainly wasn’t ready to bother with growing flowers and herbs from seed.  I could barely keep an air fern alive, let alone take on that project.  While I’m not great with plants, I can manage to keep a few going and reap the benefits of fresh basil, rosemary and hopefully, one day, lavender.  And I try, with just a smidgeon of success, to grow roses.

And never did I think I could learn to stain and put up chair rail, cut and lay ceramic tile, install ceiling fans or do any other major household project.  I’m especially fond of demolition and of cutting wood with any kind of nice, sharp saw.  There’s nothing like a handsaw to release your aggressions.

All these things were so foreign to me twenty years ago, because I was still eager, still hungry to see the world and all that was in it.  I had too many things to do; I couldn’t stop to cook or nurture plants or fix things.  I had to catch up to my life, because it always ran a little fast. 

In the days since then, I have been everywhere and done more than I should.  I’ve seen what is in this world.  And I’ve seen it some more.  All in all, I’m more than content as a homebody and in making a comfortable, quiet home.  A good meal, some pretty flowers and faucets that don’t leak are all tranquil things I can now gratefully appreciate.