CHAPTER 2
I got to work at eight forty-five, a miracle given that I couldn’t find a single clean item of clothing to wear. Just as I was about to pluck something from the laundry basket and throw it into the dryer for ten minutes, I spotted an old suit still in the cleaner’s plastic hanging around the back of my closet. Sure, I bought it sometime during the Bush administration (the old guy, not his son), but it wasn’t wrinkled, and the gauzy pink scarf I threw around my neck looked nice with the light gray wool. A little heavy for mid-May, but the spring mornings still held a chill in Illinois. It would do.
My employer, Giacomo Advertising and Design, was the newest tenant of Gossamer Space, an old factory converted into open, airy lofts. Our previous address did not hold the same allure. Frank Giacomo hired me seventeen years ago, when I was both a recent grad with no experience and a new mom (also with no experience). He took me on anyway. Short and round, always chomping on a cigar and wearing more gold around his neck than a rap star, Frank was a secret feminist, and he filled his office with smart, talented women. The vast majority of our clients were local, as Frank wasn’t ambitious in the traditional sense. Frank appealed to me because he liked stability, and he appealed to his clients because he had an old-school method of holding their interest—he wined and dined them, asked about their spouses and kids and tennis games, sent them gift baskets at Christmas, and paid his respects when one of them passed on. Everybody liked Frank, because Frank had that one quality no one could resist—he knew who he was and still liked himself.
Our office used to sit above a dental office on Wright Street, beige and bland, nine cubicles in a row, and a cramped, windowless room for Frank. It didn’t matter. Every year I got a raise, and I never worried about losing my job. When I needed a vacation, I took one. When Trey got sick, I stayed home with him. Frank usually called midday to see how he was doing.
Last Christmas, at our annual company party in the back room of Marinetti’s Chop House, Frank excused himself and never came back. He was found slumped in a bathroom stall, cigar still lit. They had to unclench his jaw to get it out. Frank’s heart, as big as the rest of him, had simply worked too hard.
Jesse had only been gone a year, and I’d never had to grieve a father—my own was gone long before tangible memories—so Frank’s death sucker punched me. I felt Jesse’s absence more acutely. Most of Frank’s employees drifted as the company slid into uncertainty, but I stayed on. With both Jesse and Frank gone, even the spare remains of Frank’s company offered some bit of stability.
So Giacomo Advertising and Design survived, helmed by Frank’s only son, Frank, Jr., a graduate of a small, private university on the East Coast who’d worked a series of vague internships in New York. He carried the city in with him when he walked into the Giacomo offices two weeks after Big Frank’s death—skinny jeans and a black leather jacket, expensive sunglasses, and a disdainful expression. Big Frank’s genes came through in ways Frank, Jr. tried to hide, his hair carefully disheveled to disguise a premature bald spot, silver rings to dress up Sicilian workingman’s hands, a laugh that seemed too hearty for his body. These ghosts of Big Frank had me nodding my head in agreement when Frank, Jr. enthusiastically vowed to make the changes his father had only dreamed of. I never thought Big Frank was much of a dreamer; he was a doer. But if his son had both qualities, Giacomo might survive.
I’d met Frank, Jr. a few times over the years, and it was hard to see him as something other than a kid, until he held a staff meeting with his nervous employees: me; Jackie, the shy, acid-washed-jeans-wearing designer who had been at Giacomo even longer than I had, and a random collection of young designers Big Frank hired when he decided to expand the company after we had a good run—Rhiannon, Seth, Byron, and the timid, newest hire, Glynnis.
On Frank, Jr. ’s first day, we had assembled in Big Frank’s office, where the walls still exuded cigar smoke. Frank, Jr. held his hands in a namaste style and seemed at a loss for words. He motioned for us to come closer.
“You’ll do a good job, Frank,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder.
He eyed my hand distastefully. “I prefer Lukas.”
“What?”
“It’s my middle name,” he said quickly.
His middle name was George, same as his father’s, but I didn’t disagree. “Okay, Lukas. I think I speak for everyone when I say we want the best for Giacomo Advertising and Design, and we will work just as hard, even with Big Frank gone. Actually, even harder.”
Frank, Jr./Lukas drew us tighter, our spines awkwardly bending forward to form a group huddle. “You’re here because you believe in me. I’m grateful for your trust, and I promise you this,” he said, voice solemn and full of emotion. “I not only want to carry on my father’s legacy, I want to surpass it by doing right by our clients, new and old, just as he did.”
Jackie sniffled, and I admit my eyes stung with tears. We managed an awkward group hug, and then Lukas (after that speech, I figured he was now deserving of whatever name he wanted) sent us back to work, renewed and energized. But I couldn’t shake a nagging feeling that somewhere out there, Big Frank was chomping on a cigar, growling, “Never shit a shitter.” My bullshit detector, honed to perfection by my former boss, quivered like a flagpole in the wind.
My reservations aside, Lukas jumped into action and, in a move of complete optimism, leased a new space with a conference room and parking lot, hoping to bring in some bigger clients. It worked. In addition to beefing up our local roster, we scored an Italian gelato company eager to break into the American market, a nationally distributed brand of caramel-cheese popcorn, a company dedicated to 100 percent eco-friendly paint, and an ancient cast-iron cookware company looking to ditch their stodgy image. I smiled to think of Big Frank’s reaction to our success. He would have been proud.
It wasn’t until a few weeks later that I was able to identify why my bullshit detector had gone off. Jackie and I sat on the fire escape silently sharing a sleeve of Girl Scout Thin Mints. Lost in thought, I remembered Lukas’s first afternoon. With all the talk of honoring Big Frank and his vision and keeping clients happy, Lukas hadn’t said a thing about doing right by us.
When I arrived at work, sweating through my gray suit, the first sign that something was awry was an actual sign. The scripted Giacomo Advertising and Design sign I’d personally supervised being hung above the door was gone, replaced by a slightly off-kilter neon-orange G.
“Did the sign break?” I asked the empty hallway, and then pushed open the door. The loft glittered with shards of light thrown by an actual chandelier. Our cubicles, lugged so carefully across town, had disappeared. Long tables lined the perimeter of the open space, white and glossy against the exposed brick, with sleek oversized computer monitors equally spaced, keyboards hidden beneath. Bright orange plastic exercise balls replaced our practical office chairs, six in total. It looked like a modern art installation, real furniture glossed and shellacked, Portrait of the Modern Office. I couldn’t spot a single personal item—where was my photo of Trey at eleven, all braces and rounded cheeks? The sand dollar found on a silvery Naples beach on our last trip as a family, a quickie jaunt to Florida? All personal items were gone. Only Jackie, in her sneakers and jean jacket, stood like a startled owl, staring at me with heavily made-up eyes wide and beseeching. “Where is everything? Where is everyone?”
Our panic ratcheted up a notch when we heard the clapping.
“Conference room,” I said, grasping Jackie’s hand as we dashed down the hallway. The door was shut, but I could hear Lukas closing up the meeting.
“Do we go in?” Jackie whispered.
The door opened before I could answer, nearly knocking us on our asses. The staff filed out, each person carrying a box with their name written in bold letters on the front in black marker.
“Oh, dear God, did the company go under?” Jackie said, her voice shaking. “Is everyone fired?”
But they were smiling, talking animatedly to one another. A few gave a general nod in our direction, but whatever they were discussing was too enthralling to make time for pleasantries. Excitement was in their bright, young, cheerful faces. For some reason, that made me more fearful of what was to come.
We stood to the side until everyone passed out of earshot. With one shared look of apprehension, Jackie and I walked in to face Lukas. He sat at the head of the blindingly white conference table, thumbing through a hardcover book. Two boxes formed an odd centerpiece on the table, with Jackie scrawled on one and Paige on the other. The photo of Trey sat atop my pile.
“You’re late,” Lukas said, but he kept his tone neutral, more of a general announcement in case we hadn’t heard the news.
“It isn’t nine yet,” I managed.
“Was there an e-mail?” Jackie said hurriedly. “I didn’t get the e-mail.”
Lukas closed the book he was reading and smiled at us. “By nine o’clock you should be completely present—e-mail checked, coffee drunk, administrative tasks already completed. I called this meeting at eight thirty this morning, and everyone was present but you two.”
Jackie grimaced, her face slowly turning a shade more purple than my favorite Pantone color, a deep burgundy. Don’t do it, I told myself. Do not show any trace of guilt. I kept my mouth shut to stop the apology on the tip of my tongue and waited for him to continue.
When he realized we weren’t going to fall prostrate at his feet, Lukas pushed the book in my direction. I caught it just before it hit the floor. He reached behind him and passed another book to Jackie. “This is your new bible here at Guh. Don’t just read it, commit it to memory. Allow its ideas to marinate in your brain, soak it in, live by it.”
I cleared my throat. “So the g is pronounced . . . guh?”
“It’s a simple name change,” Lukas said tightly, pointing at the book in my hand. “Rebranding is necessary to escape a rut. Read chapter 7.”
I didn’t immediately flip open the book, but took in its cover. The Petra Principles for the New, New Creative Workplace: A Primer for More Than Success by Petra Polly. The woman on the cover was photographed as she hung upside down, her knees curled around some colorfully painted monkey bars, while artfully dressed children played in the background. Her golden braids hung straight to the pile of woodchips beneath her head. She was cute—round, thickly lashed blue eyes, flushed cheeks, a smile like a baking-show contestant. I think I’d spotted her outfit at Anthropologie. It was a half-knitted, half-silk jumpsuit in a jumble of textures, patterns, and hues, the kind of thing that could only be worn by someone young and thin. The girl was very, very thin and very, very young.
“We’re adopting the Petra Principles here at Guh,” Lukas said proudly. “Starting with one of her most important dictums, ‘Intraoffice competition will only be productive if it is both friendly and fierce.’”
“Competition?” Jackie mouthed the word slowly, as if she’d only learned English five minutes before.
I folded my arms across my chest. “Fierce like Beyoncé, or fierce like Vladimir Putin?”
“Petra doesn’t discuss humor until chapter 10, so let’s table the wit, okay?”
I nodded and pursed my lips. A reprimand from Lukas felt like a congenial threat. Apparently, “oxymoron” was the go-to word of the day. Friendly and fierce. Congenial and threat.
Lukas offered us a tight smile. “Petra believes that what is good for the human body is good for a company. Very forward thinking, wouldn’t you agree?”
Jackie and I nodded dumbly.
“The first chapter discusses cutting the fat. ‘An overweight body will harm a person’s health, both in the now and down the road,’” Lukas recited. I got the feeling he’d been listening to Petra spout her wisdom on the audiobooks he was constantly listening to while awkwardly sprinting at his treadmill desk. I wondered what she sounded like.
“You want us to drop some weight?” Jackie asked, and I was thrilled to hear a hint of rebellion in her voice. “I’m fifty-one years old. If I want to drop a pound, I have to eat four hundred calories a day. That’s only one Lean Cuisine—”
“I’m not requiring you to lose the weight,” Lukas interjected as his eyes scrolled over Jackie’s muffin top. “Our company should shed a few. To survive, and thrive, we need to be lean.”
“We can get rid of the Christmas party,” I said, my mind reeling. “And the company picnic this summer. We don’t really need kombucha delivered every Friday, do we?”
Lukas shook his head. “Staff. We need to cut two jobs.”
Your dad hired these people just over a year ago. I didn’t say it out loud. He hadn’t said which jobs, but Jackie and I were by far the highest paid, making at least one of us most likely to get the boot. I shuddered at the thought of life on the unemployment line. When your professional life is about to end, it’s not your personal history that flashes before your eyes, but your bills—mortgage, car note, tuition, utilities. I had to ask, “Were you thinking of any two people in particular?”
Jackie inhaled sharply.
Lukas tapped the book in my arms. “That’s the beauty of Petra’s philosophy. It’s completely democratic, and so will the process be of who gets let go.” He smiled as if to alert me that what he was going to say next was a gift. “Did you notice the new desk configuration?”
Pretty tough to miss, I wanted to say, but instead, I bit the inside of my mouth and simply nodded.
“Petra believes in community,” Lukas continued on enthusiastically. “All the computer terminals are now shared property. That way, we can all learn each other’s jobs, helping when appropriate, filling in when emergencies arise, sharing the workload. What if you need to take the afternoon off for a doctor’s appointment? Rhiannon can finish up your work. Or Seth or Glynnis or Byron. Petra says we shouldn’t believe in passwords, we should believe in passwork. Imagine it.”
I could imagine it all too well. Though a talented designer, Rhiannon snorted Adderall like an ’80s coke fiend on her lunch break, and Seth thought the workday should primarily consist of scrolling through inappropriate websites and choosing exactly which porn episode he’d spend quality time with later in the evening. I wondered how he would fare in this new democratic, passwordless office. Byron was all talk and swagger, marginal talent. And quiet, mousy Glynnis? She’d barely made a peep in months. Maybe Jackie and I, stalwart and reliable, had nothing to worry about.
“These principles make sense to me,” Lukas said earnestly, breaking into my thoughts. “And I hope they do to you. The next few months will be a time of sweeping change for Guh.”
“Why not Gee?” I couldn’t help myself.
“What?”
“If I see the letter g, my brain reads it as gee.” Jackie nodded in agreement.
“That’s a hard g,” Lukas explained. “Petra believes names should be both symbolic and easy to remember. Clients should feel working with Guh is completely effortless.”
“It’s your dad’s name,” I said, unable to hide my disapproval. “Giacomo.”
“Exactly,” Lukas said. “My father did an amazing job laying the groundwork, but he left it to me to take it to the next level.”
My cliché meter had grown stronger since dealing with people who, after Jesse died, told me everything happens “for a reason.” I opened my mouth to call Lukas on his triteness, but then he lifted the box of my personal belongings and dropped it into my hands. It wasn’t as heavy as I’d thought. “Read the first chapter of Petra’s book,” he ordered. “It provides a comprehensive overview of her philosophy.”
I hoisted the box to my hip. “And do you have a timetable for letting people go?”
“We will be participating in fierce and friendly competition in the coming months. Terminations won’t happen until the end of the summer.”
“I’ve been here twenty-two years,” Jackie croaked.
Lukas briefly touched her cheek. “What are you talking about? We’ve only been here for a few months.”
“So, we’re talking fierce as in Hunger Games.”
Jackie and I sat on a bench on the outskirts of the Gossamer Space parking lot. The lot itself was unusable, as the first day of the farmers’ market had finally come. We’d talked about it in the office—would there be local honey? Fresh bread? Hemp T-shirts? Moonshine?—but now that the stiff white tents stood tall like meringue, blocking our view and forcing us to park half a mile away, we weren’t so enthusiastic.
“Frank would never stand for this,” Jackie said as the smoke curled from her lips.
I nearly laughed at the look of repulsion on her face. “I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed to smoke in the vicinity of so much fresh produce.”
“Frank wouldn’t stand for all this vegetable bullshit either,” she said bitterly.
Frank isn’t able to stand at all anymore, I thought. Perhaps if he had tolerated the occasional vegetable . . . I shook off the unkind response and focused on the practicalities. “What we should do is get our résumés in order and start looking for something else.”
Jackie nodded, but I knew her thoughts jumped to the same frightening scenarios as mine. The market was terrible. We weren’t cheap. We secretly hoped to stay at Giacomo’s until retirement.
“Then again, maybe some of our competition will leave,” I said. “Lukas said he wasn’t going to let anyone go until the end of the summer. Maybe they’ll get tired of the stress and quit?”
“Maybe,” Jackie said unconvincingly. “I don’t know. They seemed invigorated by it.” She went quiet for a moment, then said, “I can’t lose this job, Paige. I don’t have any backup, and who’s going to hire me?” The weariness in Jackie’s voice, more than the fear, had me scooting closer, my shoulder meeting hers.
“Compared to the rest, we cost a fortune,” she went on. “Do you think it’ll be you or me who gets fired? He couldn’t lose both of us. We know where all the bodies are buried.”
A Big Frank line. I didn’t mind the cliché.
Lukas couldn’t afford to lose both of us, but he could lose one of us. My heart gave a lurch. I needed my job, too. I didn’t have any backup either. I glanced at Jackie, who was sucking again on her unfiltered cigarette.
They say a woman clings to the hairstyle she wore when she was happiest. Jackie must have been ecstatic when Jon Bon Jovi and Van Halen rocked the charts, her thin blonde hair parted down the middle and feathered back (calling it layered didn’t do it justice) and highlighted and sprayed to the crispy, fragile texture of spun sugar. She wore jeans to work, sometimes with pleats, and topped them with washed-soft Henleys in various shades of pink. The photo atop her box was from the highlight of her life, when she scored VIP tickets to a Def Leppard show and got someone to snap a shot of her with the band. The drummer casually slung his one arm over her shoulder, and Jackie was grinning as though he’d just told her a delicious secret.
With Jackie Everett, all of your assumptions were correct. Frank never tried to push her from the time warp she’d been living in for three decades. Her work was always good, and anyway, he liked her style. It meant she was safe and dependable. Something told me Lukas didn’t see her in the same light.
And under which light did he see me? I caught my reflection in the window beside me. Blonde helmet bob, dated power suit, makeup applied to conceal the evidence of interrupted sleep and too much coffee. Neither of us fit into that sleek office with its neon brightness. Only youth could handle its scrutiny.
Jackie yanked a small bag out of her backpack and unwrapped her sandwich. She paused, waiting for me to dig through my purse for my bento box. “Shit,” I said. “I ran out of the house so quickly I forgot to bring something.”
“You want half of mine?” Jackie winced slightly when she caught the harshness in her tone. We’d shared lunch plenty of times, but suddenly sharing meant something more. I’d always joked that Jackie was my work spouse—were we getting a divorce, too? The thought brought on a wave of sadness. Not the Big Kahuna of grief, but a breaker that drew my energy out to sea.
I stood and smiled at her, trying to counter the uneasiness between us. “Thanks, but I’ll just buy something from here,” I said, gesturing toward the white tents. “Can’t be too bad, right? Fresh, local—”
“Expensive,” Jackie finished.
“I’m sure.” I dug through my purse and thankfully found my wallet. “Wish me luck,” I said, but she just nodded, her mouth full.
The view from inside the market was impressive. Bustling with vitality, healthy-looking, sun-kissed vendors conducted brisk business with the hordes of downtown workers on lunch breaks. Cheese, meats, veggies, honey, flowers, baked goods—my head spun as I tried to take it all in. Everything seemed a little brighter, and gave the impression of people living lives that were better, richer, more wholesome, like the produce they were hawking.
“What are you looking for?” called a woman wearing a brightly colored housedress over a pair of destroyed jeans. She’d piled her bright magenta curls atop her head and secured them with what looked suspiciously like a carrot.
I smiled tightly. “Just browsing.”
“You can be browsing with purpose,” she said, grinning back. She was missing an eyetooth, and I felt shameful relief at the evidence of poor life choices.
The girl went on in a singsongy voice. “We’ve got every little thing you need.”
Oh, yeah? I wanted to shout. You’ve got my husband in your truck? Job security? A teenage son who doesn’t seethe with unexpressed anger? You’ve got all that hanging out with the asparagus and early onions?
She separated out a bunch of vibrant greens, tied them together with a spindly length of raffia, and tossed them on the table between us. “What about these?”
“What are they?” I snapped.
She smiled again, and I wondered if she was amused or smug. “Dandelion greens.”
“People eat those?”
“They do. Cleans the liver. Helps you flush out the bad stuff.”
She was smug. Just a little, but it was there. I was sick of people younger than me feeling superior. Sick of hipper than thou looking on me with pity because I was so ignorant. “I have a toilet for that.”
She laughed, unperturbed. “Why not give this method a try?”
The greens were a perfect verdant green, maybe too perfect. “No, thanks,” I said, and walked straight back up to the office, pausing only to stuff a few crinkly dollars into the vending machine Lukas had threatened to do away with. The machine stuck, and I had to shove my hand up into it, freeing my energy bar from its noose.