Chapter 40

George Contemplates
His Life

George lay on his sofa in stocking feet, his back supported by a pile of tasteful throw pillows, and scowled at the rain-heavy clouds that spoiled his view. The year his office was remodeled, George had been all about radical transparency. “Let the smart mob in,” he’d said. “We have nothing to hide. Burnam & Green is about openness and communication. Secrecy is dead.” His architect had taken George’s buzzwords literally and designed his new office as a glass cube that jutted out of the hundred-year-old
brick warehouse.

In concept, George loved it. In practice, he soon realized his error. The office was a fishbowl. Instead of looking out on the world, he felt everyone looking in. Eyes watched him from all sides. A rival agency even opened a satellite office in an adjacent building with a telescope pointed directly at George’s cube. George could see someone now, a man, peering at him, probably wondering what transformational campaign George was conjuring. George sat up and gave him the finger. The man jumped back into the shadows, knocking over the telescope in the process. “Serves him right,” mumbled George as he settled back on the sofa cushions.

George tried in vain to spot Mount Hood through the gloom, thinking of the spectacular view from Victor’s conference room. Giving up, he pressed his fingertips to his temples, trying to drive away the pressure building in his head. It was the biggest pitch he’d had since the quake, and he’d messed it up royally.

No one had ever dared ask George to explain his stock phrases before. Rapid progressive regression. Purposeful redundant navigation. Inferring consumer transference. George had a vague sense what they meant, yet clients generally had the decency to nod appreciatively and not ask questions.

And those assholes, his team of so-called creatives, they’d all just sat silent like a herd of mute sheep. George shook his head in disgust.

Victor’s voice—so condescending, so combative. It still rang in George’s ears.

“I’m not challenging, I’m just asking,” Victor had said. “How exactly will this campaign be the . . . what did you call it? The North Star of VSC's digital revolution. Do I need to remind you that VSC is a construction company? Brick and mortar. I don’t see how ‘purposeful redundant navigation’ or ‘progressive regression’ are relevant. Sounds like bullshit to me.” With that, Victor had called the meeting to an end and ordered them to get the hell out of his office.

George had never seen his creatives move so fast.

And Victor’s kid. What an asshole. Like father like son, he thought. He saw the resemblance, but something else about the little prick seemed so familiar. George just couldn’t place him.

George sighed. None of it mattered now. He needed a drink. George looked over at his side table, usually stocked with a few choice bottles, but they were all empty. He should send the girl out to buy more. Then he remembered who the girl was.

He glanced through his glass office door and could see Lisa sitting at her desk. Maybe she’s a stalker, he thought. It had been a while since George had one. Though it seemed doubtful. Even he could see that Lisa loathed him. He shouldn’t be surprised that Lisa was here, now, sitting outside of his office. Karma was a bitch.

He thought back to the weekend of the party. It had been a while since he’d slipped up. But he and Sue had been fighting. She wanted marriage counseling. He’d refused, terrified it meant their relationship was over. Sue had driven off in a huff to another yoga retreat, and as usual he overcorrected. He spent Sue’s first night away from home with Burnam & Green’s CFO, a gorgeous, petite redhead who’d nicknamed George her CFB, or chief fuck buddy.

Then, at the party, he’d met Lisa. She’d seemed so simple, so uncomplicated. What an idiot he’d been, taking home the mayor’s toxic daughter.

And so, he’d failed at his marriage, and now at his job. He stood up from the sofa and crossed the room to the back wall, where a tall bookcase buckled under the weight of various awards. ADDYs, Clios, Caddys, Cannes Lions, and Effies. He’d won Gran Prix, Palme d’Ors, Advertiser of the Year, and been inducted into more societies, halls, and academies than he could remember. He’d nominated himself for every one of them, paying top fees for the right to be judged by his peers. Each were phallic symbols of his powers as an ad man, a marketing genius, a creator of digital worlds. Behind the gold, silver, bronze, and crystal accolades, sitting back in the dust where the cleaning staff never bothered to reach, sat a tiny piece of tin on a ribbon of red, white, and blue.

He reached for it, knowing exactly where it would be, almost wishing he wouldn’t find it. But it lay there, waiting for him. He pulled it out, the ribbon almost catching on the spiked wings of an Emmy.

He wiped the dust off the medal with his thumb. It felt like nothing. A trifle. Yet its weight was immense. “Participant,” it read. He hated this non-award with all his being, yet he was loath to toss it away. The shame of that day, when the teacher had placed the medal around his skinny ten-year-old neck, still burned. Every other student in his class had received lauds for their skills—Math Whiz, Handwriting Hero, Chore Champ. Everyone stood out in some special way, but not George. He had built his life and career on that moment. On that failure. His first. Though sadly, no longer his last.

There was a light knock on his door. It was Lisa. He dropped the medal into the breast pocket of his jacket. “What do you want?” he said.

The door opened. “Sorry to disturb you. It’s just, I have something that might interest you.”

He couldn’t imagine what Lisa could possibly have that would interest him other than a big bottle of bourbon. “I’m really busy right now.”

“It’s about Sue.”

His heart skipped a beat. “Did she call? I didn’t hear the phone. Is she okay? What’s wrong? Does she need me?”

Lisa stepped back a few steps, obviously alarmed by his outburst. “No, I mean in a way she does. Today is her birthday. A reminder popped up on my computer from your shared calendar. You also have a colonoscopy scheduled for next week. Just FYI.”

The blood drained from George’s face. “Sue’s birthday. Oh my god. I forgot.”

“You could take her flowers.” Lisa pointed to a tasteful bouquet on his desk.

“You mean today?” George looked at Lisa in horror. “Go see her today?”

Lisa nodded, obviously confused by his hesitancy. “Her birthday is just once a year. You can’t really put it off.”

“I’m not ready. I still have so much more work to do on myself,” he said, his voice reaching an octave not heard since puberty. “What if she rejects me?”

Lisa shrugged. “There’s a high probability of that, considering you’ve been cheating on her for years.”

George gasped in fright. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t face Sue yet.

“At least you’ll know,” said Lisa.

“I don’t know how to find her.”

“I do.” Lisa held out her phone to display Sue’s social media stream. “Your wife is quote ‘On my way to the Relentless Rejuvenation Clinic. Hashtag embrace-perfection,’ unquote. She posted this about two minutes ago. If you leave now, you might be able to catch her before she checks in.”

George looked at Lisa with terrified eyes. “Okay. I’ll go.”

“Let me wrap up the flowers for you.” Lisa picked up the bouquet from his desk, left the office, and disappeared behind the kitchenette partition. Moments later, she reappeared with the flowers carefully wrapped in newspaper and held them out to George. “Just do it.”

Taking the bouquet from her hands, he said, “Thank you,” and sprinted out of the office.