Female intelligence, p.10
Female Intelligence, page 10
There was a thud. It took me a second before I realized that Brock had dropped the phone while he was leaving his delightful message. Perhaps he was flustered, the way men often get when they’re attempting to express their feelings but end up insulting someone instead.
“So here’s the situation, snookums,” he recovered. “You have delivered your last speech to me. You have delivered your last speech to my secretary. You have delivered your last speech to my girlfriend—and yes, I know all about that stunt with Kelsey; good try. There will be no further efforts to try to turn me into some wuss or whatever it is you believe men are supposed to be. IS THAT CLEAR?”
Then came a click and he was gone. Without even so much as a “Have a nice day.”
10
I was mopey after getting Brock’s message, completely down in the dumps. How was I ever going to restart my career if I couldn’t even persuade him I was for real?
I dragged myself into my office the next morning for a session with a man named Louis, a hairdresser at one of the trendy salons in the city. He was having trouble connecting with his female clients, who expected him to share gossipy stories about his other female clients when what he really wanted to do was concentrate on their hair. Within a few short weeks, I’d taught him the language of Womenspeak, of which gossip is a popular dialect. Yes, yes, I know I set myself up for a bashing by feminists when I say that. Well, sorry, everybody. It’s true. Women do gossip—i.e., talk about people, especially people they’ve never met—more than men do, but what of it?
After my session with Louis was over, I had Diane reorganize our filing system. (I had to justify her salary somehow.) And then, because it hit me yet again that I was washed up around town, with nothing to do for the rest of the day and no one to do it with, I left the office in total gloom, got into my heatless car, and drove back to Westchester. I was so depressed that when I reached the Mt. Kisco exit on I-684, I didn’t turn off. I kept going, just kept heading north, staying on 684, merging into 84 and then picking up 87 (aka the New York State Thruway). I was bound, I suppose, for Canada. I had the radio tuned to a classical music station and they were playing entirely too much Wagner, which only made me more depressed. As a matter of fact, here’s how depressed I was: The car’s left blinker was on and I didn’t even know it. People were probably driving behind me and saying to each other, “Boy, what a bozo. She’s oblivious to what’s going on in her own car.”
And I wasn’t depressed in some amorphous, nonspecific way. For the bulk of the trip, I was focused on Kip, finally allowing myself to feel his betrayal. It wasn’t just that he had slept with another woman. That was a knife in the heart, no question. It was his selling the story to the tabloid that I absolutely couldn’t, didn’t want to, let go of. I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since we’d signed our separation agreement, hadn’t even gossiped about him with my friends. The subject was too raw, too unresolved. I was so angry about how he ruined my career that I spent an inordinate amount of time fantasizing about how I would pay him back, how I would exact emotional justice. Yes, that was the need that ate away at me, that depressed me instead of galvanized me.
At some point during my flight from reality, I noticed that my car was nearly out of gas, which meant that I had to get off the highway or risk being stranded and left for dead. (I considered the latter option briefly, then rejected it as being too melodramatic. I was a scientist. For me, just driving without a destination was melodramatic enough.)
I had no clue where I was—somewhere south of Albany, I guessed—but I pulled off at the exit for a town called Coxsackie. I chose it because it sounded like Cocksucker, which, of course, was what Kip Jankowsky was.
But, not really caring where I was, I missed a turn, ended up on Route 9 and found myself and my heatless, gasless, useless car in a town called Omi, which was even more appropriate to my situation than Coxsackie because, as the gas station attendant informed me, Omi was pronounced “Oh my.”
Perfect, I thought glumly. Maybe the next town I stop in will be called “Woe is me.”
“Is there any place around here where I could get a soda?” I asked the heavily tattooed man filling my car and washing my windshield. No self-serve pumps in Omi. Not much of anything in Omi, as far as I could tell.
“Inside,” he said, nodding at the small building behind us but electing not to make eye contact with me. Well, men were men. Even Omi men.
“Thanks,” I said.
“If I was you, I’d buy myself a couple of bags of chips too.”
“Why? Are they made right here in Omi?” I said, thinking that perhaps I had inadvertently landed in the very town where chips were manufactured and that this gas station guy wanted me to sample the local product.
“No,” he said. “You’re leaking oil and your front right tire’s about to go flat and it’s gonna take me a while before I can do anything about it. I’m alone here today.”
Oh, excellent, Lynn. Good move taking the car out for this little spin. “So you’re saying I can’t drive it the way it is?”
He laughed. There weren’t a lot of teeth in that mouth. Not a lot of teeth you’d want to go near, anyway. “Not if you want to get where you’re going.”
Where was I going? Nowhere. I was running away from home, like some poor, miserable kid. But I wasn’t about to tell that to a stranger. “I’m going to Mt. Kisco in Westchester County.”
“Then I wouldn’t chance it,” he said. “You’ll break down somewhere along the line.”
I had already broken down, it seemed to me. Otherwise, I would have been in Mt. Kisco that afternoon instead of in Omi.
I went inside the gas station, bought a can of Coke and a bag of Cheez Doodles, picked up the only magazine in the place, a dogeared catalog selling farm equipment, and waited. I don’t remember how long it was before I finally got out of there, but it was too long.
During the interminable ride home I kept the radio off. The last thing I needed was more Wagner.
By the time I chugged into the driveway and inside the apartment, I was exhausted—depression will do that to you—and so I made myself some tea and went straight to bed. It was only seven o’clock but I was ready for the day to be over. I was so ready for the day to be over that I didn’t check for messages on my answering machine. Why bother, I figured as I pulled the covers over my head and augured in. Who in the world would be looking for me?
The next morning I stayed in bed until noon, since I had no clients scheduled and was still in the mood to hide. It was hunger that finally roused me. On my way to the refrigerator I glanced at the answering machine and saw that I did, indeed, have a message from the day before.
“Okay. Who are you and what do you want?” I said wearily as I hit Playback.
At first, there was no sound coming from the machine, as if the person had already hung up and left me with dead air. Or maybe he was the type who derived sick pleasure out of breathing into the phone as opposed to speaking into it.
Swell, I thought. I get one lousy call and it’s either a wrong number or a pervert.
And then I heard something on the tape, heard someone. A clearing of a throat. A clearing of a male throat. And then an actual voice.
“Hey, there. I bet you’ll never guess who this is, snookums.”
I stood absolutely still. I knew exactly who it was, obviously. The question was: Why had he called? To bawl me out again?
“I’ve decided I’m going to hire you.”
What?
“I’m going to let you teach me how to act like one of those big cry babies everybody seems to want me to be.”
Is this really happening? I thought after allowing myself a squeal of excitement. Has Brandon Brock, the same man who told me in no uncertain terms to take a hike, actually changed his mind about me? In only twenty-four hours? And if so, why the sudden about-face?
“No, Dr. Wyman, this is not a joke,” he said as if reading my mind. “I’m very serious. Well, as serious as anyone can be about a subject as ridiculous as whether or not I should be crucified for complimenting a woman on her legs.”
So it was true. He was hiring me. I still didn’t know why, but now I didn’t care.
“I’d like us to start with your system or your method or whatever it is you call it as soon as possible,” he went on. “Tomorrow, I’ll have your old pal Naomi try to reach you at either your home or your office, since you gave us both numbers, and she’ll hammer out a schedule with you for my appointments.”
This was incredible! Miraculous! My worries were over! I had snagged the biggest client of my life! I was back! Dear God, I was back!
I didn’t even pay attention as Brock continued to yammer away. I was too busy plotting my publicity campaign—my announcement to the media that I had turned America’s Toughest Boss into America’s Most Sensitive Boss. I quickly imagined the offers from book publishers, the meetings with television development people, the cavalcade of new clients, the purchase of a house in the upscale neighborhood where I used to live. I also pictured the groveling, the sniveling, the I-never-stopped-believing-in-you’s from the hypocrites who’d been shunning me for months.
This is too wonderful, too delicious, I thought. Everything I lost—everything Kip stole from me—will be mine.
After the answering machine beeped, indicating the end of Brock’s message, I hit Playback. I was compelled to listen to it all again, every syllable this time.
“Hey, there. I bet you’ll never guess who this is, snookums…”
Okay. You heard this part. I’ll pick up with the part you didn’t hear.
“…Oh, and another thing, Doc. Before we embark on this little adventure together, I’ll need you to agree to one condition: confidentiality. There will be absolutely no mention in the media that I’m a client of yours. Not a whisper to an editor. Not a blind item in a column. Nothing. We don’t have a deal without your word on this. As I’m sure you’ve figured out, I’m not coming to you because I have this burning desire to get pussy whipped. I’m coming to you because I intend to save my ass at Finefoods. My board of directors had a meeting this morning and the first order of business was their problem with the way I ‘relate to women,’ as they put it. We lost our big gun in Eastern Europe recently—she said she didn’t like working for me, can you fathom it?—and there are a few other gals who are making noises about leaving the company. As if that’s my fault, right? Well, my board members think it is. They want me to take a course in—Lord, help me—sensitivity training, and I told them I knew a linguist who specialized in that. So here we are. But you can’t go running to Fortune magazine or any other outlet. No reporters, or I entrust my sensitivity to somebody else. Got it?”
I sank down into a chair, my exhilaration from a moment ago reduced considerably.
The good news was that I had accomplished the impossible: I had gotten Brandon Brock to become a client.
The bad news was that I couldn’t use it to resurrect my career, which was, after all, the point.
In other words, I’d be stuck with this Neanderthal for six months without anything to show for it.
I was contemplating the rich irony of the situation when my phone rang. It was Naomi.
“Hello, Dr. Wyman,” she said, clearly more upbeat than she’d been in the past. “I was thrilled when Mr. Brock asked me to place this phone call to arrange for your sessions together. You must be thrilled, too.”
“I can’t begin to describe how I feel,” I said dully.
“I’ll never forget that beautiful speech you made,” she clucked, “when you said that if Mr. Brock were to undergo the Wyman Method, it would benefit all womankind.”
“Well, I was exaggerating just a—”
“And you said that he would become a kinder, gentler boss, Dr. Wyman. I’m really looking forward to that, I don’t mind telling you. And I’m not alone in that sentiment. There are others at Finefoods who will be forever in your debt.”
Debt. Taking on Brock as a client would fatten my bank account a bit, I reminded myself. Another check to deposit each week.
“Oh, it’s all so exciting,” Naomi said breathlessly. “I simply cannot wait to see Mr. Brock’s metamorphosis. Of course, he’ll be a challenge for you, Dr. Wyman, perhaps your greatest challenge thus far. Your task will be akin to turning a lion into a lamb.”
It was that reference that got to me, woke me up, snapped me out of it. The lion/lamb thing. When I was in graduate school and the Wyman Method was in its infancy, one of my professors—an obnoxious skeptic—said with a sneer, “You expect to change a man’s character by changing his speech? Ha! That’s as preposterous as trying to turn a lion into a lamb.”
His were fighting words, and, rather than deter me or discourage me or cause me to lose faith in my theory, they spurred me on. And now, here was Naomi using the very same analogy, and the effect on me was equally energizing.
Of course I’ll take Brock on as a client, I thought, grabbing a pen and my appointment calendar. So it won’t be about money and fame and higher ratings than Dr. Joy. It’ll be about my work, about helping people, about what I know to be true, which is that men can be taught to be more sensitive by fiddling with their language.
Okay, maybe it was about money, just a little. A paying customer was a paying customer.
Part Two
11
Naomi and I were hashing out the dates for Brock’s sessions when The Titan himself picked up his extension and busted in on our conversation, interrupting without remorse, as was his thoroughly irritating habit.
“Listen, don’t box me in with this schedule,” he bossed both of us. “I’m out of town at the drop of a hat, remember.”
“The Wyman Method is a six-month program,” I replied crispy. “Therefore, you’ll come once a week for six months, Mr. Brock, commencing this month and concluding in September, after Labor Day.”
“I just told you,” he barked. “I don’t keep bankers’ hours. I can’t stick to a schedule like that.”
“Of course you can,” I countered.
“No, I can’t,” he said. “I’m a CEO with meetings all over the world, not a salesgirl who can duck out on her lunch break.”
God. He was going to be heavy sledding. “I’m willing to allow for some flexibility within the schedule,” I conceded. “If you absolutely have to miss appointments, you can make up the time by seeing me on weekends or evenings.”
“Not possible,” he said. “I have what is called a private life on evenings and weekends.”
“Mr. Brock,” I said. “You led me to understand that your board of directors has asked you to take immediate action here. You indicated that they’re concerned about female executives leaving Finefoods because of your management style. Perhaps they’re also concerned about female executives suing Finefoods because of your management style.” I don’t know where I was getting all this nervy attitude, but I guess I figured that he was the one with a lot to lose and I was the one trying to help him, which put me in the one-up position with him for a change.
“What’s your point?” he said resignedly.
“My point is that I’m offering to see you on weekends and evenings in order for you to complete the program, satisfy your board of directors, and hang onto your job. If I were you, Mr. Brock, I’d take me up on my offer.”
There was no sarcastic comeback from him, just a hang up, which Naomi and I took as a gesture of acquiescence.
I called my friends and reported to each of them my amazing news, saving until the end the part about my not being able to alert the media and then swearing them to secrecy.
“What’s the point of landing Brandon Brock as a client if you can’t promote it?” was Penny’s immediate response. “The whole idea was for you to use him to rebuild your career.”
“I know,” I said, “but I really feel that I’ll be doing a good thing by working with him. And when you do good things for people, the good comes back to you.”
“Please. That sounds like something Isabel would say,” Penny scoffed.
Actually, it was something Isabel would say and she did say it, right after I gave her the bulletin about Brock. She also quoted from an ancient Buddhist monk and then blessed me.
Gail was alarmed at first. “You’re going to see this guy at night?”
“If he has to make up a session, yes.”
“Then I’d be very careful, Lynn.”
“Why?”
“Because you said he’s an animal. Well, if he’s an animal, you don’t want to be alone with him at night when there’ll be no one around to hear you scream.”
“Gail.” I smiled at her leap into melodrama. “I only meant that he’s a high-testosterone type who makes inappropriate remarks about women’s legs. I think I can cope with that.”
“I really respect you for what you’re doing,” said Sarah when I told her about Brock. “I certainly wouldn’t want to tangle with ‘America’s Toughest Boss.’ I’d find it too intimidating.”
“We won’t be tangling. We’ll be working toward a common goal,” I maintained. “Besides, I don’t let any of my clients get to me. It’s not personal with them. It’s business.”
I honestly believed that. I did.
I took a different approach when I told Diane, my assistant, about our new client. I simply advised her that his name was Brandon Brock and that he would be coming in at noon on Tuesdays. Period. I assumed she wouldn’t know who he was, so there’d be no need for all the hush-hush stuff, and I was right.
