Читать книгу The Calling - Kim O'Neill - Страница 17

The moment I reached my car after the shoot was completed, I called the client who refused to pay the $80,000 he owed the agency. I fully believed there was some terrible mistake—that Shirley had gotten the message all wrong and misunderstood what he had told her.

“Hardcover Computers,” answered their receptionist. “May I help you?”

“Hi, Barb, this is Kim O’Neill,” I said, attempting to sound upbeat and positive. “Is Chuck there?”

“Oh . . . hi, Kim. He told me that if you called he wasn’t going to speak to you.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the phone, right before hanging up.

I was incredulous. Suddenly, a little voice inside of me warned that Chuck Dugan and his wife, Dawn, who co-owned Hardcover Computers, were in the process of shutting it down. They didn’t intend to honor any of their outstanding bills. I just somehow knew it.

My heart was beating so hard that I thought it would explode in my chest. Up to this point, my partner and I had weathered all the storms: sporadically going without paychecks; working fourteen-hour days; pitching new business alongside much bigger agencies; trying to attract and keep good employees; and juggling bill paying, which included taxes. Hardcover Computers could force us into bankruptcy. We’d have to fire everybody and close the agency. All of our hard work would go down the drain. I had nowhere to turn for help. I began to cry. How had it come to this?

I thought about how everything had started. In the early 1980’s, my husband and I had grown weary of the long, frigid winters in our hometown of Chicago, so we left to move to the warmer, subtropical climate of Houston, Texas. We quickly discovered that millions of other Midwesterners had recently done the same thing. By the time we reached what the locals call “The Bayou City,” even the renowned southern hospitality had apparently reached its limit. Every day we Midwestern expatriots were greeted with a growing number of bumper stickers that ominously proclaimed Yankee Go Home! and We Don’t Care How You Did It Up North! and Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche—Real Men Eat Road Kill!

My husband had worked in marketing in Chicago, so we decided to open an advertising agency. Our long hours and hard work quickly paid off, and soon the business was growing and appeared to have very positive prospects for the future. Unfortunately, our personal relationship was spiraling out of control, and after seven years together, we divorced, claiming irreconcilable differences.

At that time, the advertising agency was still a small enterprise, and all of our money was tied up in the business. Just after the divorce, the agency’s financial situation started to nosedive, following the path of our personal relationship. It became almost impossible to handle our small payroll, and soon we found ourselves hurtling toward a frightening crossroads.

Each new day became a mad, frantic scramble as I tried to handle the copywriting, pitch new business, collect the money owed to us, and negotiate with the angry suppliers hounding us for money, as well as handle the myriad of other tedious administrative responsibilities. Most days I ate lunch at my desk while creatively brainstorming with employees, tackling an avalanche of routine paperwork, or returning necessary phone calls. I was so mentally, emotionally, and physically drained by the end of each work day that I couldn’t see straight.

There were many times when we had to work all night to complete an important project. I felt numbed, burned out, and trapped—not having the faintest clue of what else I could do professionally. I believed that I had nowhere to turn and there was no one to help me out of this dilemma. And now, after all of that turmoil and hard work, it looked as though we were in the awful position of having to shut our doors because one client refused to pay his bill.

Suddenly, the little voice inside of me suggested that I call the client’s wife for the money. The idea hit me with such force that I stopped crying. Although Dawn Dugan was a silent partner in the business, I truly had nothing to lose. In better days, Chuck Dugan had given me their home telephone number and told me that I could contact him there if I needed to. My hands were shaking as I dialed their number.

“Hello,” breezily answered Dawn, his wife.

“Dawn! It’s Kim O’Neill.”

“Oh . . . hi, Kim.” She didn’t sound pleased to hear from me.

I decided to skip the pleasantries and get right down to pleading. “Dawn, I really need the money Hardcover owes us.”

“Well . . . I don’t know what to tell you because—”

“Please, Dawn, I’m begging you,” and I began to cry again.

“But I really don’t make any of the decisions—”

“Please, don’t do this!” I wailed uncontrollably. “Make out a check and I’ll come pick it up before he gets home from work. I’m begging you!”

In the long pregnant pause that followed, I aged at least ten years. She finally responded, “I’d better give you cash. That way, he can’t stop payment on the check.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “You’ll give it to me in cash?”

“How soon can you get here?” she asked worriedly.

“Now!” I answered, drying my tears. “I’ll be right over!”

“Okay . . . but hurry. He usually gets home about three.”

I looked at my watch. It was just after two, and they were on the other side of town. “I’ll be there right away! Dawn, I’ll never be able to thank—”

“Just hurry up! If he comes home early, I won’t be able to give it to you.”

Racing to their house, I could have broken Indianapolis 500 speed records. I worried about what Chuck Dugan would do if he found me on his doorstep. I got there at 2:45 p.m. I jumped out of my car and ran up the stone steps that flanked the entrance of their palatial home. I tripped, fell, ripped the sleeve of my white silk blouse, and bloodied my knee, but I had so much adrenalin pumping through my veins that I didn’t even feel it. I frantically rang the bell. Ding . . . ding . . . ding . . . ding . . . ding.

The door quickly swung open and there was Dawn, holding a large Neiman Marcus shopping bag. She was obviously surprised by my tear-stained, disheveled appearance. Worriedly looking up and down the street, she shoved the bag at me, obviously concerned about her husband finding out about what she had done.

I grabbed the heavy multi-colored bag by the handles, looked inside, and gasped. I had never seen so much money before. Rubber bands held stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills that appeared to have been hurriedly assembled and stacked.

“I counted it twice,” she assured me. “It’s all there. I’ll just tell him that I ran out of shopping money.”

I looked at her in astonishment, my eyes wide, mouth open. Shopping money?

“Well,” she said, reading my mind, “I have to have something to look forward to in this fucking marriage. Now GO!” She quickly shut the front door.

Limping, I scurried back down the stairs, opened the car door, threw the bag inside, and was on my way. When I got to the four-way stop at the entrance of the affluent subdivision, I saw Chuck Dugan driving past me.

I rushed to the bank. I wondered about the impression my appearance would make—a woman with red, teary eyes; a bruised and bloodied leg; and a soiled, torn blouse—holding a Neiman Marcus shopping bag loaded with $80,000 in cash. I had never made such a substantial deposit, and I was surprised that the teller didn’t bat an eye—until she presented me with the deposit ticket, and I held it to my heart and began to cry. I felt like someone who had just survived a natural disaster.

Rush hour slowed my progress, so it was after 4:30 p.m. when I finally reached my office in the congested Galleria area. I didn’t want to take the time to go home and change my clothes because the staff was waiting for me. I called Shirley from the car to let her know that I was minutes away.

The glass and steel mid-rise office building was a welcome sight as I swung my car into the multi-tiered parking garage. I pulled into my space, turned off the car and stepped out. My leg was now throbbing; I realized that blood had glued the pantyhose to my knee, which by this time also sported a swollen purple bruise. I grabbed my purse and briefcase, hobbled into the building, and got on the elevator. A man who owned an insurance company down the hall joined me just before the doors closed. He regarded my appearance with a startled expression.

“Typical Monday,” I said.

The bell finally sounded, the elevator opened, and I limped down the hall toward the office. An ornate gold plaque inscribed Advertising & Design, Inc. hung outside the double glass and mahogany doors. I walked into the agency’s large reception area and found Shirley hard at work behind the circular desk that served as her base of operations. The reception area was appointed with buttery-soft leather furniture and chrome and glass tables. The walls were lined with numerous framed ad campaigns that we had created, and we also showcased all of the design, advertising, and public relations awards that had been presented to us by our peers in the industry. Special lighting produced a soft glow that made the cavernous space appear like a warm, soothing, enveloping cocoon. Instead of feeling pride with what we had accomplished, I felt nothing but knee-buckling, gut-wrenching, mind-numbing stress each time I walked in the front door.

The moment she saw me, Shirley jumped out of her chair as though she had been shot out of a cannon. In her sixties, she was nurturing, stoic, capable, and able to thrive on stress. She had been with us since we opened our doors.

“Thank God you’re back!” she exclaimed. “What happened to you?”

“I’m fine. Where is everybody?”

“They’re all waiting in the conference room. You have a slew of messages,” she announced, holding up a handful of pink While You Were Out slips with my name on them. “Want them now or later?”

“Later—we have to get going on the pitch.”

She bent to examine my knee. “Ouch! I’ll get the Bactine—I have some in my desk.” Shirley was always ready for anything. “You’re gonna need some aspirin, too.”

“Thanks, Shirley.”

“Kim, before you go back there, I need to share something. David has someone—”

“Did he finally come back? Good of him to join us. Call Star Pizza—”

“Done,” she quickly replied. “Should be here any minute.”

“Great! Bring the pizzas back when they’re delivered. And would you make some good strong coffee?”

“Just finished brewing,” she assured me. “I’ll get you a cup. And the aspirin. You’re going to need it.” She then hurried through the reception area and across the threshold that led to the labyrinth of offices, the conference room, the file room, and the full-service kitchen. I limped behind her to my office, tossing my purse and briefcase on my desk. I grabbed the thick file I needed to create the proposal and hobbled down the long hall to the conference room where the staff had already assembled.

The door to the conference room was open, and I could see the seven staff members all sitting around the large oval table. They were unusually subdued. David, my business partner and ex-husband was standing just inside. I couldn’t wait to share what had happened at the shoot and how I had collected the $80,000 from Dawn Dugan.

“I’m finally here!” I announced as I entered the room. It wasn’t often that I felt a sense of buoyant pride. “I have big news!” I exclaimed. There was dead silence. Confused, I looked at the staff members, and I saw all seven pairs of eyes shift to another part of the room. I turned to see what they were gazing at.

There stood a beautiful blond who appeared to be around my age, looking at me with apparent shock. I wasn’t exactly ready for the cover of a magazine, but there was nothing I could do about it. So, without apologizing for my appearance, I looked at her and nodded a hello.

“I have some big news, too!” shared David, with his most charming smile. “This is Monica. During our ride around the lake, we decided to get married. We haven’t set the date, but when we do, you’re all invited.” David and Monica looked at one another as if no one else was in the room.

His news hit me like a ton of bricks. I found it utterly demoralizing that at the same time he was romancing his new sweetie, I was still emotionally reeling from the divorce. It had been a monstrously painful time, and my self-worth had never been lower. Like reliving a bad dream, those years of marriage flooded over me in a sudden, nightmarish flashback.

Not long after the honeymoon, David had begun to express hurtful criticism about my looks. He would routinely point out a young, pretty girl and suggest, “Why don’t you wear your hair like hers?” or “Why don’t you wear tight jeans and a tank top? Wow! Look at her!” It certainly wasn’t long before I began to believe that David looked at other women because I just wasn’t enough. As time went by, I found myself lacking in every way. After all, my husband—ten years older than I—was handsome, charming, funny, creative, and undeniably charismatic. I tolerated years of that abuse because I loved him; and, if the truth be known, I really didn’t want to be alone. I was also terrified that a separation would lead to the demise of the business.

David started spending most of his time away from home, either with friends or staying late at the office. When I tried to get him to talk with me about his feelings, or our relationship, his reaction was always a stony silence. There came a time when, apart from pitching new business, we didn’t see one another. I had become controlling because of my insecurity, desperately needy, and lonely. I routinely confronted him, pleading to know why I was so physically and emotionally lacking, and he would turn his back and walk out of the house without a word. Finally, one day, I decided that I simply couldn’t endure any more hurt, anger, rejection, or emotional melodrama. I reasoned that no matter what happened in the future, it would somehow be better than the lonely, living hell I had been experiencing. I realized that I couldn’t change the past, or make David the husband I wanted him to be. Nor could I waste any more time beating myself up over having stayed in the relationship so long.

And now, without a word of warning, my ex-husband was going to remarry so quickly—while I remained hopelessly single. I wanted to be reasonable. I certainly didn’t begrudge David moving on with his life. I had realized, of course, when I filed for divorce that he would very likely remarry. I truly didn’t care. His engagement had just taken me by surprise because it had occurred so soon after our breakup. I guessed that he had been seeing Monica while we were still married. He was going to enjoy a brand new future with gorgeous, skinny, adoring Monica—and I would spend the rest of my life alone, eating Chinese carry-out in front of the TV in a dismal apartment with my cat, Winston, as my only companion.

Shirley tapped me on the arm, holding out two aspirin and a small cup of water. I blinked several times, trying to neutralize the kaleidoscope of events and feelings that were threatening to make me cry. That was the last thing I wanted to do in front of Monica and all the staff members.

“Congratulations,” I told the happy couple, trying valiantly to muster a smile.

“So, Kim . . . what’s your big news?” asked one of the art directors, trying to diffuse the tension.

“Oh . . . the shoot ended up with Arthur in the spot,” I answered in a small voice, shrugging my shoulders. My news now seemed dull, anal, and unimportant. That’s me, I thought: dull, anal, and unimportant. “And . . . I was able to collect all the money that Hardcase owed us.”

“That’s nice,” casually declared David, without taking his eyes off Monica.

The agency staff, on the other hand, was delighted. They knew they were going to get their paychecks the next day—and have continued employment. They clapped for me in unison. Biting my lip to keep from crying, I silently nodded my thanks.

“Well, I guess we’re off to celebrate,” said David to Monica.

“W-W-What?” I stuttered. “You can’t leave! We have to create the proposal for the big pitch tomorrow—we haven’t even started it! We’re all going to stay late.”

“You can handle it,” he replied, nuzzling his new fiancé. “This is a big day, and I can’t disappoint my Baby Girl.” And with that, he led her from the conference room.

I felt all eyes on me. No one spoke a word. I was so incredulous at his behavior that it took me a few moments to get my brain around everything that was transpiring. Anger started to bubble up inside of me, and I was on the verge of exploding like a bottle rocket. I silently wished David a bout of a long, lingering, hideous disease that would cause painful hemorrhaging from every orifice of his body; and then, when all of his internal organs began to liquefy and he’d scream for mercy, I’d just watch and laugh at his misery . . .

“STAR PIZZA!” a young male voice shouted from the reception area.

“I’ll go,” said Shirley, and she scurried down the hall.

I gave a deep sigh and shook my head. I looked at the staff, and I could see the fear and uncertainty in their eyes. My knee started to throb again. I felt dizzy and lightheaded. I yearned to go home, pick up my cat, and feel him purring against me. Then I would eat at least three pounds of chocolate.

“Okay, guys,” I heard myself say, thankful that they were so loyal. “Let’s make this the best frigging proposal we’ve ever done. If we pull this off, I promise you all a big, fat bonus.”

“What will you give us if we don’t pull it off?” teased one of the designers.

“An evening with Chuck Dugan,” quipped Shirley, who had returned with the four large fragrant boxes and numerous cans of soda. The starving staff began to inhale the pizza. Then we settled in for a long night’s work.

The proposal was finished at 3:30 a.m. I sent the staff home and stumbled back to my apartment. I fed Winston and then took a long, hot shower to help ease the pantyhose off the wound on my knee. I threw myself on top of the bed, too exhausted to sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about how David had walked out—not just on me—but on the whole staff.

I was suddenly so desperate to get away from David and the relentless stress of the agency that I decided to put a resume together and look for a job. I’d be starting all over again at ground zero. I fantasized about having a Mr. Wonderful, children, my own business, and the ability to earn an income—completely on my own—without someone always working against me and belittling what I was trying to accomplish. But that fantasy seemed a million miles away and completely unreachable. The thought of that made me feel so overwhelmed with fatigue, frustration and despair that I began to sob. Through my tears I pleaded aloud, “I need help! Why does everything have to be so difficult? What am I going to do with my life? I have no husband, no good friends, no children, no professional security, no savings, and I’m in debt up to my eyeballs! I’m thirty-two years old, and I have absolutely nothing to look forward to. I’m a complete failure. I can’t stand this anymore!”

I began to wish I could die right there in my bed and be done with it. I had made a disaster of my life, and I had never felt so defeated and demoralized. I finally cried myself to sleep, feeling nothing but self-pity and hopelessness.