The wisdom of the willow, p.7
The Wisdom of the Willow, page 7
“You don’t have the job yet,” she said.
My eyes widened. No comment from Ma was going to cast doubt on my plans for getting a job at Kinsey and Moore, an international corporate event planning firm that topped my job search list.
Her comment surprised me. She always encouraged my sisters and me to find our places, and now, she sounded as if I should put the brakes on. Surely, she understood that her firstborn was destined to leave the nest. I was leaving the home where Ma taught us under the willow about connecting and being in harmony with ourselves, wherever our home would take us. I expected her to follow her own wisdom and encourage us to break away from our first learned home to find our next places in the world.
“I’m getting organized, Ma. I can never start too soon, as the more I get into all this, the more time I have to figure out what to do with it all.”
I pulled more stacked T-shirts from the closet shelves, letting a pile tumble to the floor.
“Slow down, Deb.” Ma unfolded her arms and put a soft hand on my arm. “Take time to have a good look at the space you’ve made your own, one that you’ll be leaving too soon. This is the only home you’ve ever known. Everything here is your connection to it.”
I glanced at the piles on the floor that told me my life was changing.
“Come, Ma, sit.” I pushed away worn college sweatshirts to make room for us on the bed. “And I’ll remember this place, where I grew up, each time I look at what I brought with me. I’ll think of the backyard where we played, the kitchen where you made dinner for us every night, and the family room where we ate popcorn and watched Rich Man, Poor Man. It will always be a point of reference, a familiarity and comfort. If I ever feel uncomfortable when I’m in the unfamiliar, I’ll think of all the memories made here.”
Looking back, I understand she would never have tried to hinder my career but rather needed to pause—to stop time, really—and to cherish the moments between her and her eldest. Ma and I hugged and breathed our memories into our souls. “Wherever I’m headed, and I’m sure it will be to K&M,” I assured her, “the willow tree will always be in my mind, and I’ll remember its stability. No matter how much it bends and sways, it doesn’t break. But I’m also ready to leave home and to start a life I’ve been anticipating since college. I’m excited and hopeful for my future.”
I didn’t get my first job after graduation like my classmates whose dads got jobs for them. Camille and Lisa started working part-time at their dads’ accounting firms even before they graduated. Camille started as a budget analyst, Lisa as an accounting clerk. I could picture her sliding nicely into a short pencil skirt. “And always, always, Deb,” she’d tell me, “black pumps. You can’t go wrong with them with any business attire.” She ought to know, swinging her hips as her Garolini heels clicked on the linoleum office floor. Me, I couldn’t possibly sashay; I’d look like I was about to tackle someone.
And then there was Tracey. She didn’t know anyone and didn’t know how to go about interviewing for a job, yet she had the most self-confidence and relied on her favorite bar as her place for networking. “Favorite” because the ad agency’s account managers hung out there, and she hoped to meet one who could give her a job. And she did, and he did. He, leaning in and touching her hand: “I’m very impressed with your sharpness . . . and such charm.” She, batting her heavily mascaraed eyelashes, licking her berry-stained lips, and turning on her dimples: “Well, thank you. I’m great with customers.” Together, I don’t think their IQs could have unfolded a paper bag. But he did ask her to come in to speak with his boss. She was hired the next day as an account executive at CMG, a marketing firm in Chicago. I didn’t blame her for her knack at getting what she wanted.
During my last semester of college, I set my sights on K&M as it was a sought-after, go-to company for entry-level jobs for college grads. I had the grades; I had interviewed well there. I had earned my way into their offices in downtown Chicago. I believed strongly in plan A, where the door to K&M remained open, and I’d be ready at a moment’s notice when, not if, I got the call. In fact, I was so confident that I didn’t make a plan B.
I can’t remember where I was or what I was doing when K&M formally extended an offer. But when they did, my dry-cleaned suits, shined black pumps, and a ready-to-be-filled briefcase were lined up in the closet, waiting for the go-ahead.
“We received an excellent recommendation from a Mr. Kirby, the college dean. And we were very appreciative to be privy to the evaluation of your senior international business studies project. You demonstrated great management skills and a few unique problemsolving ideas. We think you’d be a great addition to Kinsey and Moore. What do you say, Debra?” the hiring manager asked me on a telephone call.
“I say thank you, and I’m looking forward to joining Kinsey and Moore.”
I started working there the next month. I hardly slept the night before my first day. I lay awake with scenes that included pictures of girlhood: running through the sprinklers on a hot summer day, reading The Great Train Robbery in my early teens while listening to Elton John on the radio. It was all about me back then, and the moments my sisters and I were living. But now, it was about the future, planning for and envisioning a life I was meant to have.
Kinsey and Moore occupied the top ten floors of a nondescript, narrow building, just off the financial district in downtown Chicago. The good news was there was a dedicated elevator to floors ten to twenty. I’m not sure why I thought that good news; maybe because it made me feel I was in the big leagues now, with a great job, making good money in a city I loved with my own personal ride to the top.
A middle-aged receptionist with salt-and-pepper hair, fuzzy from that summer’s humidity, sat low behind the reception desk with barely a smile on her coral-lipsticked lips. “Good morning. I’m Debra Dowling. This is my first day here,” I said, capping my words with a bit of bounce.
“And who are you here to see?” she said, looking up at me through her heavy-lidded eyes.
“Mr. Cranston, please.”
“I’ll let him know.”
A woman of few words, but efficient. I’m sure we’ll become good buddies, I reassured myself, as this was the place where I belonged.
I used to loathe the first day of a new job. One summer in high school, I had a waitressing gig at an ice cream parlor. The screaming parents were endless, more so than the kids. The tips, adequate, and pooled. It was my first experience about fairness on the job, or lack thereof. I worked hard, turned tables, and thus made more tips. I had figured it out quickly. Andi, on the other hand, didn’t get it. For someone who did nothing but check her lip gloss and hair in the bathroom, she got equal tips for doing unequal work. Now I was refreshed, thinking I’d be making good money here, for doing good work. I’d come a long way since the ice cream parlor.
I didn’t wait long before the coral-lipped lady directed me through the double doors where KINSEY AND MOORE was emblazoned in smoky etched letters on the glass. The office floor was haphazardly configured with tall cubicles, where I searched for a Mr. Cranston’s nameplate on a door.
“In here, please,” Mr. Cranston said, poking his head out from an office ahead and waving me over. He was dressed in an off-white oxford shirt held close around his neck, not by a button, but by a solid burgundy bow tie.
“Welcome, Debra.” I sat in one of a pair of dark plaid-covered chairs in front of his large wood desk where, centered on the edge, was a traditional banker’s lamp. On the credenza behind him, silverframed photos of various sizes appeared grouped in chronological order: photos of births, graduations, marriages. An odor of stale coffee lingered. He slid into his cushy executive leather seat, then took a swipe with his left hand to clear away a stack of manila folders, paper clips, and disorganized pink message notes. “Now, tell me about yourself. I’d like to know more about you than what’s on your resume. Why Kinsey and Moore?”
I crossed my legs at the ankles, smiled when looking at my black pumps, and then straightened my posture.
“Mr. Cranston, my passions are travel, accomplishments, and people around the globe. I bring my passions here as I believe we are a good fit for each other. I believe in organizing and implementing our clients’ needs to produce an organic benefit—a happy client. Happy clients are infectious and build us a good reputation to position ourselves in promoting Kinsey and Moore globally. The key here is to be proactive, on the offense, offering options for our clients and the resources to deliver the best K&M experience.”
“I like you, Debra,” he said, pointing a finger at me and making a clicking sound with his tongue. His enthusiasm made one eye squint and hide behind an overgrown, bushy eyebrow. “You just grab ’em, don’t you, and don’t look back. I need someone who can steer us in the right direction. And we are all about people here, Debra. It’s all about them and giving them a reason to return.” His forcefully enunciated words tended to cause him to spit out his consonants.
“And please, call me Ken,” he said with a wink and a crooked smile.
After we got the verbal pomp and circumstance out of the way, I believed KC and I would get along just fine. I wondered if, in time, I could call him “KC,” as he had made me feel part of K&M’s family.
For about six months, I was well into an office rhythm, keeping abreast of client news, sitting in on account meetings, completing reports, and answering client calls. I hadn’t yet been given the opportunity to fly outside the US with the bigwigs as a liaison for a client event. I was about to talk to KC about that when he came to talk to me first.
“Debra, my office, please.” Again, the poking out of his pudgy head from his office doorway. We sat at a round table for four in a corner surrounded by clean floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of Michigan Avenue. A sunbeam slipped through the vertical lines of high-rises.
I sat quickly and straightened a gap in my suit jacket. Folding my hands in my lap, I sat back and gave KC my attention.
“One of our clients, an ad agency here in Chicago, has its annual agency event, which we have organized for over ten years now, for its head office here and three satellite offices in London and Paris. The event should be a mix of local entertainment, client reviews, budget talks, and partner meetings. Essentially, it’s a state-of-the-state address for Bates, Mather, Townsend Advertising Worldwide, but with fun time scheduled in for them, too. This is a big one for us, Debra, to show off our continued best for them.” He pushed an overstuffed, hardbound binder across the table under my face. “We have a long-standing relationship with them, and we want to keep that partnership strong.” He winked and smiled . . . again. “I’m trusting that you will listen to their needs and produce a successful event.”
“I will not, Mr. Crrr . . . Ken, let you down. You can trust me to do an outstanding job.” I flushed with adrenaline and felt as if I was on my mark and ready at the start line. KC was giving me the chance to create a successful event . . . and to not blow it.
My hands itched with eagerness as I studied the cover. When I opened the heavy black book, it would be full speed ahead, as my first opportunity to show them they could be confident in my ability to handle this client. The relentless sun shone on BATES, MATHER, TOWNSEND ADVERTISING in engraved gold letters on the black binder.
“If you need help or have any questions, ask John. He’s our senior account manager and knows them well.” KC leaned so far back, crossing his hands behind his head in the chair, I thought he was going to tip over.
“Thanks, Ken, I will.”
I scooped up the binder, held it tight to my chest, and found seclusion in my office.
I knew little about BMT. I needed to know who their clients were. I needed to know everything about this ad agency, including the people who worked for it. I opened the overstuffed binder as if revealing a treasure. I had a lot of reading to do.
I glanced out the tall window to my right and noticed how high up I was, then looked down on dark spots, people scooting up and down the avenue. It felt corporate. I was ready for my new assignment.
On paper, Dennis Townsend looked like quite an accomplished man. As a creative director and partner, he was the “T” in BMT Worldwide, and responsible for all the creative ideas to be pitched to prospective clients, including development and execution. I admired his talent for creating clever mini stories to sell products. The agency was successful because of its winning advertising. Their staff would expect nothing but the best, and I’d show Mr. Townsend nothing but Kinsey and Moore’s best.
I called a kickoff meeting with Mr. Townsend the following week. With about eighteen months to plan and execute the event, I needed all the time I could get from him. I wanted to get to know him a little, too. And what better way to do that than to meet for lunch outside the office?
“Hey, I’m looking forward to meeting you,” he said, his voice confident and energetic with an emphasis on “you.”
Maxine’s, an old-time supper club with dim lighting, dark wood paneling, comfy chairs, `and, of course, white tablecloths, was a default spot for first-time K&M clients. It was conversation-friendly with impeccable service; the waitstaff knew exactly when to interrupt and when to leave guests alone. KC took me there for lunch on my first day of work, and I made a note should I need to bring clients there.
Though Mr. T was not a first-time client for K&M, I was a firsttimer to him. I wondered if working with someone new and who would need to orient me would be frustrating for Mr. T. While waiting for him at a roomy table for two against a ceiling-to-floor bay window that looked onto hectic St. Clair Street, I divided my attention between the door and a notepad of talking points. My palms were sticky with sweat, and my heart revved in anticipation of a face-toface meeting with this important client. I closed my notepad, and while making room for it in my bag, I was interrupted.
“Ahem . . . You must be Debra Dowling,” he said. I shaded my eyes from the diffuse light coming through the grimy window and noticed a sapphire blue pocket scarf peeking from his suit coat. It was him, Dennis Townsend, just as John had told me, “Pocket scarf. He’ll be wearing one,” giving me the thumbs-up when I was leaving the office for the lunch meeting. It’s funny how after talking with someone on the phone, you imagine how that person looks. From hearing Mr. T’s youthful voice, I pictured him dressed in an ill-fitting suit, wrinkled oxford button-down, and a tie that hid stains well in its stripes. But this tall, handsome man wore a well-tailored midnight-blue suit with a shirt crisp as if spun from fine cotton, and a paisley tie that brought all of it and him together. He knew how to dress, and he also knew how to smile, I thought, as he showed off a row of white polished pearls.
“Oh, you snuck up on me.” I exhaled, with one hand on my chest and the other hitting out of alignment the neatly set silverware centered on the folded napkin. “Mr. Townsend. How terrific to finally meet you.”
He took my hands in his, and his cheerful eyes pulled me to him as we lingered over our introduction. I felt as if I were the sole person he needed to be with.
“Please sit. I’m so glad we could meet. Thank you for having lunch with me.” Is it warm in here, or are my nerves just exploding at the sight of this flawless-looking man?
“Great idea to meet for lunch. Gets me out into a more informal, relaxed atmosphere, while doing business, of course.” He pulled his starched white napkin, shook it, and placed it on his lap. I was mesmerized by his moves: slowly pulling down the cuffs of his shirt, jiggling the knot of his tie, moving the menu to one side. “I’m here for you, Debra. Whatever you need to make this event happen. I’m available. Just let me know.” His eyes remained on mine.
“Good to hear, and thank you for that. I know you might have worked with John before, so I hope to get you up to speed quickly. If you don’t mind, I’ve got a few quick—” Suddenly, I blanked at my talking points. “I, um . . .” I quickly rustled through my bag to find my file.
“No hurry, Debra, please. Let’s talk first, have some lunch, and then segue into business.” Smooth jazz playing in the background eased my nerves.
“Welcome back, Mr. Townsend,” the short, stocky waiter announced. He cocked his head and held a small notepad and pen, ready to write. I was startled to see that Mr. T obviously was a regular here.
“What can I get you to drink to start things off?” The waiter looked at me with one raised eyebrow.
“White or red, Debra?”
“Um . . . yes . . . I’ll have whatever you’re having.” I crossed my legs and sat back in my chair, eyeing him.
After a glass of Chianti and small talk over pasta primavera, our business conversation flowed easily. I couldn’t have asked for a better first-time client meeting—and ultimately, I did hit all my talking points.
As we stood outside Maxine’s doors, saying our goodbyes, he glanced at the darkening skies. “Looks like it might rain. Can I give you a lift back?”
“Thanks, but I prefer to get there on foot. And I always come prepared.” I winked and pulled out an umbrella from my tote, ready to pop it open.
“Very well, then.” He gave me a second look before turning and heading to his car. “I will talk to you soon.”
“Yes, oh, yes . . . soon.”
The office was just a few blocks from Maxine’s anyway, and I used my foot commute, chuckling at how my black pumps didn’t let me down, to take mental notes. The business discussion was quickly fading due to the looks and sound of Mr. T.
After that lunch, I would meet Mr. T once a month for status meetings in his office. I was spending more time there than was probably necessary, when phone calls between us would have sufficed. Okay, so that was my perspective as business manager. On the personal side, I can honestly tell you I looked forward to seeing him privately in his office, visually exploring his smoothness while he sat behind his desk, to hearing his clear, succinct voice, to watching him saunter around and stand closer to me, to feeling his warmth and inhaling his clean scent. He’d use some touchy gesture—a tap on my shoulder, a touch to my hand, an arm around my back—whenever he was close enough to do so. I admit our attraction was on a fast track, but our meetings certainly didn’t hinder us from moving forward with the event. “Just follow his lead, Deb,” was the only advice John could give me. “If Mr. T wants to see you, then by golly, you better drop what you’re doing and go to his office,” he told me.
