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Whenever a celebrity visits, the office buzzes with excitement. We staffers do our best to roll out the white carpet and keep the clients happy. Stars can be shockingly different from their public personas, either good or bad. And sometimes they bring swag. I’ve amassed a collection of pot holders, jar openers, and magnets galore. My favorite score is a screaming-red crab claw oven mitt.
Harley Johnson, a.k.a. The Big Man swaggers into the office at two p.m. He’s as handsome as he appears on television, towering over the staff at six feet and four inches. For a man nearing seventy, he’s in admirable physical shape. Perfect white teeth, bronze skin, and wavy, unnaturally dark hair punctuate his rugged face. His entourage includes an administrative assistant, two stylists, a nutritionist-chef, and a personal trainer, all of whom are perky, female early-twenty-somethings. I’ll bet he keeps a dermatologist, plastic surgeon, and cosmetic dentist on speed dial.
Harley’s Basic Balls is the only recipe that has been submitted thus far, and I’ve prepared several batches for his inspection. The beauty of this ball is it can be served as a standalone, drenched in a variety of tasty sauces, or take top billing in casseroles and hoagies. I’ve prepared bite-size samples in ground sirloin with blue toothpicks, ground round with red toothpicks, ground chuck with green, and basic 30/70 ground hamburger with white. Rhonda, my cute, young, star-struck assistant, shoots me a nervous glance. The Big Man barrels over with our boss Scott in hot pursuit.
“What the hell is this!” he hollers. “These aren’t mine. My balls are big. Big. Big. Big. Each should be a gift unto itself. Size matters.”
“G-good afternoon, Mr. Johnson. We’re delighted you’re here. I’ve prepared these in bite-size samples for tasting only–”
“Who’s this mare, and where’s the little filly they promised me?” he booms.
“Uh, Mr. Johnson,” Scott says. “Please allow me to introduce your project manager, one of our most experienced and talented employees, Beverly.”
“She’s not my project manager. This gal is the one I want.” The Big Man points to Rhonda. “She won’t pass off tiny mockups as my balls.”
“No sir, I won’t,” Rhonda says, puffing out her ample chest, and beaming. “You can count on me.”
Scott stands unmoving with his eyes and mouth open, but then he closes his lips and nods.
Now I know how the Wicked Witch of the East felt when Dorothy threw a bucket of water on her because I’m melting, metaphorically. I hold up my arms and although I can see them, I must already be invisible to everyone else. No one acknowledges me.
Mr. Johnson and his entourage scarf down the mockups. They giggle with Rhonda, and The Big Man himself invites her to dinner as they leave for a photo shoot.
Scott exhales loudly. “That was rough. I thought we’d lose the account on the first day. Rhonda, thanks for recognizing what the client wanted and stepping up. Bev will still run the project, but you’ll be the client handler. We need this business.”
“Nope,” Rhonda says. “I’m happy to work with Bev, she’s a great coworker and mentor, but I want to be Co-Project Manager, and I want a raise.”
“Okay Co-Project Manager, I’ll see what I can do about a raise,” Scott says as he turns and walks away.
Still invisible, I pack the leftover beef balls in a plastic bag for Princess to enjoy. I grab my laptop and head to my car. I’ll feel better if I hear from Bennett or Felix, or even Fabio.
Princess is interested to see me, or at least she’s happy about the beef balls. She scored big with the sirloin, as identified by the blue toothpicks. Finding ourselves with unplanned daylight hours, I put on running shoes, and we prowl the neighborhood for alternate routes to the dog park. Although it’s still business hours, we find some familiar fur babies with their owners, but we don’t run into anyone I’m hoping to see. Throughout the afternoon, I check emails but find nothing from work. Has anyone noticed I’m not there? Does anyone care?
For dinner, I prepare scrambled eggs, toast, and tea, my go-to meal for when I’m feeling blue. However, after the first cup of tea, I switch to wine because really, could the day have gone any worse? Harley Johnson called me a mare. A mare. I’d like to be his worst nightmare. And while I’d been planning to give Rhonda an excellent review and get her a raise, Scott promoted that silly filly to the title that took me a decade to achieve. I’ve never felt so humiliated in my entire life, and I’ve felt plenty of humiliation this last year.
The penultimate episode of this season’s The Bachelor is on television tonight, so the day isn’t a total waste. Between my stupid job and the bachelor not giving a rose to the most worthy contestant, I tear up. Princess comes over and hops on the sofa. She tightens her mouth, but lays her head on my knee and lets me pet her. She’s got my back.
Not one of my male persons of interest calls me tonight. I stumble to the bathroom only to discover no allergy medication left to help me sleep.
***
TUESDAY MORNING, THE alarm jolts me from my restless night. I’d prefer a root canal over returning to the office today. Would anyone believe me if I called in sick? Or worse, would anybody notice my absence if I stayed away? Sometimes adulting offers no savory options.
Rhonda and Scott are in my office when I arrive, but I left in a hurry yesterday, and I probably forgot to lock the door. “Hi guys,” I say, pretending to be cool with uninvited guests.
“We’re giving Rhonda this office for a week or two, until the project wraps up,” Scott says, avoiding eye contact. “You can move your laptop to her cube or use one of the vacant ones down the hall.”
“The cubes are miles from the test kitchen,” Rhonda says. “But I’ll run interference here, and you can stay down the hall and work undisturbed. I just sent you Harley’s latest notes.” Harley? They’re on a first-name basis?
“Great.” Scott claps his hands twice. “Ladies, keep up the excellent work.”
Along with my laptop, I grab my coffee mug, a notepad, post-its, and two purple pens.
“Do you want your photos and personal junk now, or should I pack it up and you can stop by later?” Rhonda asks.
“They can stay right where they are. Two weeks and I’ll be back.”
She sighs. “It’s going to get cramped in here when I move in my pictures and stuff.”
“Don’t get too comfortable.”
There’s no way I’m using Rhonda’s office. That cursed brat. Look what she’s done. She made me melt. Oh, what a world, what a world. No, I need to stop thinking this way, because if she’s Dorothy, then I become the wicked witch. How did I become the bad guy?
Hiking the long, narrow corridor feels like a walk of shame. I may be invisible, but I bet everyone sees steam billowing from my ears. I unclench my teeth and roll my head from side to side. If I can get through the next week or two, everything will get back to normal.
I make a temporary home in the last cubicle in the row. Lighting is insufficient, but this cube has a small window. Outside the grimy window is an unobstructed view of the building’s HVAC units.
A memo designated TOP SECRET, penned by Scott, and forwarded by Rhonda reveals Just a Man and His Balls is still in the conceptual stage. Although Harley’s Basic Ball is the only recipe ready, the publisher sees a big cash cow, so we’re to provide heroic support, whatever that means. I open Harley Johnson’s file and find a list: SOB Balls, MBBBY Balls, Rocky Mountain Balls, Molten Balls, and Great Balls of Fire. There are no other recipes or notes. Very odd. Not wanting to overlook the obvious, I google the items individually and with Harley Johnson’s name. Nothing sheds light on the mystery.
My message to Rhonda is brief: What do I do with this “list”?
She replies: Create the recipes. Can they be ready today?
I type: What’s SOB and MBBBY?
She replies: Please don’t mess this up for me. It’s hard for a woman to get ahead.
Duh. How am I supposed to respond to that? I message Scott: How should I proceed?
Scott replies: Help Rhonda with anything she needs.
I print out the page and trek down the long hall back to what I consider my office. Rhonda has taped a piece of paper with her name over my nameplate on the door. I knock on my door. She looks harried when she opens it and does not invite me in. “What?”
Holding up the paper, I say, “I need an explanation of these items. Also, we’ve never created completely new recipes for our clients. Are there intellectual property issues? Maybe liability issues?”
She snatches the paper from my hand and studies it. “Did you google?” I nod. “Okay co-project manager, what do you think we should do?”
“We need to ask the client.”
Rhonda exhales loudly. “Fine. Call his administrative assistant, but have all your questions ready. This is a one-shot deal.” She steps back into the office and shuts the door. My office, my door.
Mr. Johnson’s administrative assistant doesn’t take my first two calls, but she answers the third. She says, “Harley’s more high concept. He’s not concerned about execution, just results.”
“May I ask a couple of questions?”
“Fine.”
“What does SOB mean in terms of a meatball?” I ask.
“South of the Border. What else could it be?”
What else, indeed? “Gotcha. Let’s call the recipe South of the Border Balls. We don’t want to offend anyone with SOB.”
“Oh, no. Harley finds SOB hilarious. We had a discussion about this, and he says only old farts get offended.”
Hmm, I’ll hand that one to Scott. “What about MBBBY?”
“MBBBY is My Balls are Bigger and Better than Yours. Think Ikea meatballs, but bigger and better.”
Another one to run by Scott. “And–”
“More questions?”
My fists clench tight. I relax them slowly and take a deep breath. “We’re almost done. If Molten Balls and Great Balls of Fire are spicy meatballs, what differentiates the two?”
She sighs. “They’re completely different. Molten has cheese in the middle, while Balls of Fire is Buffalo-style served with ranch dressing and celery. Aren’t those obvious?”
“Thank you, and this is the last, uh, situation. Rocky Mountain Balls sounds an awful lot like Rocky Mountain oysters.”
“I don’t see how.” I can hear her eyes roll. “Balls start with a B and Oysters start with an oy.” Oy, she’s got that right. “Anyway, there’s no seafood in our product lines.”
“Rocky Mountain oysters are not seafood. They’re buffalo testicles.”
“Gross. Well, our balls get skewered and grilled over a campfire. Call them Campfire Balls, but if Harley gets pissed, that’s on you. Toodles.”
Toodles? Time to consult with Scott.
After an extensive search, I locate Scott in the designated smoking area by the building loading dock. I know he’s hiding there because he doesn’t smoke. When he spies me, the corners of his lips turn down and he crosses his arms over his chest. How can I reframe these issues as opportunities?
“I had a friendly conversation with Mr. Johnson’s administrative assistant and got my questions answered.” He stares at me. “The only way we can create recipes without bringing up too many intellectual property issues or steal other people’s recipes is to straight out plagiarize the other Just a Man cookbooks.” The way Scott stares at me, I might as well be speaking Mandarin. “I mean, we can copy the seasonings and recipe names directly from his other cookbooks and apply them to ground meats. For example, we take The Big Man’s sweet and sour ribs recipe and use that to create sweet and sour meatballs, and so on.”
He studies the ceiling and scratches his chin. Then he looks at me and says, “Bev, I’m counting on you. You’re up for a promotion. Harley’s a get ’er done kind of man.” He places his hands on my shoulders. “So get ’er done.”
The thought of going back to a light-deficient office cube makes me queasy. “Scott?”
He crosses his arms again. “What now?”
“Would it be okay if I worked from home this week?”
“Whatever. Please, just get it done.”