Chapter Ten
Anthony
Well, it was nice having a trust fund. I might as well kiss that goodbye, not to mention everything else: the cars, the VIP treatment at bars and clubs, entry to any party in town, top shelf alcohol, and tailor-made clothes. It was a good life. It’s all over. Hell, at this rate, I’ll be lucky if Dad doesn’t end my life, period. I’m fairly certain that it’s only the law keeping murder from being an option.
What am I supposed to do? Besides wearing a hole in the floor of the men’s room as I pace, nothing comes to mind. How the hell did I forget the presentation? Or maybe, just maybe, I didn’t forget. I would have to commit the date to memory and prepare for it and actually give a damn in order to forget about it.
I am so fucked.
How could I be so fucking irresponsible? It’s not like I have any real responsibilities. I sit in my cushy office and pretend that the things I do there actually matter when I damn well know that I can walk out the door and no one will know the difference. Except maybe to realize my father’s stress level isn’t as high.
Am I broken? Is that it? Why can’t I get it together? Why can’t I be the son Dad wants me to be—or at least pretend to be? I’ve spent so much of my life telling myself that my dad expects too much from me. I’ve let friends tell me that he’s too hard, that I’m an adult and he needs to stop treating me like a child.
Except a responsible adult wouldn’t be stuck in this shithole of a situation. A responsible adult would have put something like this on a calendar and set up reminders and actually done his damn job. I can make all the excuses in the world that lay the blame at my father’s feet, but it won’t change the fact that this is all on me.
I have an hour to come up with something. Only an hour to put together something that’ll wow Chambersmith and his team of suits, or I’ll be out of a job and an inheritance. I’ve never met them, but I can just imagine what they’ll look like. Pretty much all the stuffed shirts start to look alike after a while.
What can I say that will impress him? What will get through? I don’t even know their full product line, damn it. Why not? Because the playboy billionaire title I’ve adopted as a shield against my father has become a fucking reality. Somewhere along the line, I went from pretending to be a fuck-up to actually being one. What other explanation is there? I loosen my tie and ask myself if faking a stomach bug would be too much of a stretch.
I take a slow breath and close my eyes. I can do this. I’ve faked my way through worse. Charm goes a long way, doesn’t it? I tell myself it does and remind myself of the many times I’ve used charm to get me by. Surely I can make something up that sounds amazing but has virtually no substance. It shouldn’t be too difficult for me. I knew all about looking and sounding good without having any real character.
Less than an hour later, I walk to the conference room, where Gary Chambersmith and his team of lackeys are waiting. And I still have nothing. Not a damn thing. Dad’s not here, thank God. One thing went my way this morning. I hope it’s not the only thing.
“Good morning. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.” I shake hands with all of them in turn. Charm, charm, charm. I make lots of eye contact, flash lots of teeth. They seem warm and willing enough. That’s a good start.
“Is this it?” Gary’s voice is a gravelly rumble full of disappointment, and his sharp eyes peer at me from over the top of wire-rimmed glasses. “I expected a team to come in and wow me.”
Yeah. I could’ve put a team together if I remembered the presentation in the first place, but I’m as much of a loser as my father says.
I push those thoughts from my head and give Gary some amazing bullshit. “I thought you’d be tired of seeing the whole song and dance. You’re unsure of us, so I don’t want to waste your precious time with a lot of filler. It’s best, in my experience, to cut to the heart of the matter.”
That came tripping off my tongue pretty easily. If the rest of the meeting went this way, I’d be golden.
“And what’s the heart of the matter, young man?”
That’s a damn good question. Time for some more bs.
“First of all, a strong social media presence. Our team is chock-full of young, savvy professionals with their fingers on the pulse of how today’s consumer makes their purchasing decisions.”
It sounds good to me. Not so much to them, if the blank looks on their faces are any indication. Not one of the six people sitting around the table looks impressed, or even interested. I see the last thing anybody making a presentation wants to see: the checking of watches. Already. We haven’t even been in here ten minutes and they want to leave. I’m losing them. They’re sliding through my fingers, and I have nothing to stop them.
Or do I? A flash of inspiration cuts through the fog of panic and I blurt out, “When’s the last time any of you got a letter in the mail?”
The volume of my voice surprises even me, and heat begins to creep up my neck. Everyone else stops what they’re doing to look at me like I just spoke Greek. I keep going before any of them can shake off their surprise and break the spell.
“Do you remember what it felt like to get a letter? Or even a card?” I focus on good old Gary, emphasis on the word “old.” He’s the one who’ll remember handwritten correspondence best.
“I remember the way my grandmom would send birthday cards in the mail every year,” I bluff. “I wish I had appreciated them more at the time. It meant something, pulling the card from the envelope, seeing her old-fashioned handwriting inside. She had the most beautiful handwriting, too. Does anybody even practice handwriting anymore?”
That gets a few snorts, but the good kind. The kind that tells me I’m on the right track. That these are the sort of men who sit around bemoaning the state of today’s youth, so anything that plays to that part of things will keep their attention.
“I wish I had saved those cards,” I continued. “I wish I had something special to look at and hold. Something she picked out just for me and took the time to write a message in with that perfect handwriting of hers. You can’t get that kind of feeling from an email, can you?”
“No, you can’t.” Gary’s attention is firmly on me. I catch a few nodding heads in my peripheral vision, too.
It’s working.
“The public already knows your name. They know you’re the best, and rightly so since you’ve been working all these years to solidify that reputation. You have that logical side of things that tells them you have quality products. Now, what you need is a way to connect with the hearts of the public. You need to show them how important it is to hold onto those old traditions, and your products will make that possible.” What did Jane describe? I search my memory, straining to get past the lustful thoughts I’d been thinking when I’d taken her home. I need to remember the story she told. “Imagine a commercial in which a little boy gets a letter from his grandfather. Then another one, and another as he’s getting older. Then, we see that grandpa has passed. The adult version of that boy is going through boxes, maybe leaving for college or something, and comes across those letters. He reads them. He runs his fingers over the signature and smiles through tears. He takes the box with him. We fade out to your logo.”
I’m sweating bullets as I finish. Huge caliber bullets. Can they see it? I sure hope not. I manage to keep my chin high and flash them a confident smile as they mull over the idea. Finally, after waiting for what feels like forever, I say, “That’s just a basic concept, of course. We can flesh something out, maybe several somethings, to create a series of commercials based on the central theme of getting back to traditional basics.”
The funniest thing happens. A slow, satisfied smile spreads over Gary’s face. I’m almost afraid to hope it means what I think it means. Then, he says one word: “Genius.”
I’ve never felt more relieved, not even that one time when Trinity had a pregnancy scare that turned out to be nothing. This is even better than that because this paints a hopeful picture of my future. The light round of applause from Gary’s team just adds to it.
“We’ll need a full write-up in two weeks, but I think it’s safe to say you’ve got the account.” Gary rounds the table and catches my hand in both of his and grips tight. The sort of firm handshake that businessmen use to gauge the measure of the other man.
The sort of handshake that I always sneer at and secretly covet. The kind that says I’ve done well.
“Excellent job, young man. Excellent.”
Whew. I have to keep from hugging the old guy. Sure, I have to write up the presentation, but I have two entire weeks to get it done. It’ll be a breeze…once I figure out how to create a write-up.