January 1982 – Fairfield, CT
Angela twirled her fork in the white posterboard container. "Mmm, this chow mein is good!"
Mona nodded, and slurped her egg drop soup. "Yeah, one of these days, I'm probably going to have to pay for these extras."
Angela rolled her eyes, and shook her head. "I don't want to know."
Mona smirked at her daughter, and stabbed a fork into the sesame chicken container. "Well, you must be doing some questioning of your own. You look great, dear."
Angela smiled. "Thanks. You know, I haven't been struggling as much recently. I think you were onto something with that 'being honest about how I feel' stuff."
"Go figure," Mona said drolly.
"Well, it wasn't in my toolbox, I can tell you that. But it seems to be helping."
"I'm glad, baby."
Angela chewed for a second, then tilted her head at her mother. "How did you know about that, anyway?"
"What? Telling the truth?"
Angela let out a little laugh, "Yeah, and the effect on a person's mental and physical health."
"I've been interested in psychology for a long time. That was my major before I got knocked up with you."
Angela rolled her eyes, "Do you ever think about going back? Finishing? How far along were you?"
"I had just started my second semester when I found out. So, I withdrew from my classes, and got married." Mona sighed. "One semester. I have one semester on the books."
Angela's eyebrows rose even as the rest of her face remained unchanged, "So…do you want to finish?"
"What? Now?" Mona scoffed.
"Yeah. Now," Angela pushed.
Mona sat up from where she'd been digging into the beef and broccoli container. She didn't say anything, but looked into her daughter's serious eyes.
Mona smiled.
Angela smiled.
Angela continued, "You know, the spring semester should be starting now. You could call tomorrow."
Mona's smile smooshed in thought for several seconds. "Yeah. Yeah, I could, couldn't I?"
Angela nodded, "Yes, you could."
February 1982 – Wallace & McQuade, NYC
Angela looked up from the radio script she was proofing at her desk. Her and Michael's black and white wedding photo gleamed like moonlight from the Lenox frame. She picked it up, and ran her finger over Michael's shoulder in the picture. This was the nicest photo they had together, and, truthfully, it was a beautiful close-up shot. The photographer had posed them holding onto one another, looking intensely into each other's eyes; they looked madly in love. But Angela remembered that shot. Michael had been itching to get it over with so he could call Tim about their agenda, and he had snapped at her a little to do it right. It wasn't a big thing, but every time she looked at it, something inside of her hurt. I wish we had a good one from the desert. We were so happy out there.
Angela often didn't feel good enough with Michael. She lifted her eyebrows. Except in the sack…actually, I never did figure out what he meant by that light thing. Angela started to sweat. Great. The one area where we're okay, and I don't even know if that's okay. Angela closed her eyes, steadying herself, and gently placed the picture back on her desk. She tilted her head at the photo, and stared at their expressions. We look like we're going to devour each other. She smirked. That intensity is real, but so is the hurt. I wish I could separate it out, and only keep the good parts. ...I really miss the good parts.
Angela shook her head and refocused on the radio script. She didn't have time to daydream. Everything checked out on the script, and she signed the approved copy and gave it to Anna to file. She grabbed her legal pad and a pen, and headed in to the 1pm emergency meeting Paxton had called.
Paxton shut the door to the boardroom, walked to the head of the table, and leaned over to place both hands in front of him. "$125,000," he said seriously. "Feldman's Furniture is estimating a $125,000 loss in returned flyers among their 6 brands. We aren't talking about the mailers people throw away, or which otherwise don't convert to a sale. These are simply the returns from the Post Office. They had specific addresses! These mass mailers weren't blindly sent to certain postal codes. Yes, Feldman's a medium-sized regional business. But they're still a client, and they're rightly pissed. This level of oversight is inexcusable! I want you brainstorming now on how to get these numbers down!"
Everybody looked at each other. Finally, Peterson spoke up. "Feldman's never wants to pay for the confirmed addresses. Aren't they on the hook for this one?"
Paxton's eyes narrowed, "I don't care whose fault it is, Jim! This meaningless loss is wanton! They hired us to handle their advertising, and we are going to handle it."
Angela raised her pen. "Mr. Paxton, we didn't just purchase these addresses. At least half of them came from their own customer records."
Looking like he appreciated the stab at real troubleshooting, Paxton nodded. "That's right."
"Well, sir, they're an established company – aren't they close to 40 years old?"
"They are."
"And their stores are aptly located near military installations, since they cater largely to that demographic."
"And?"
"Well, seeing as that's a highly transient population, a large portion of those customers probably don't live there anymore." Paxton started to nod in understanding. "And even the customers that do still live there, if they bought a side table thirty years ago, it doesn't mean they necessarily want to still be on their mailing list."
"Indeed. But repeat customers are prime fodder for marketing campaigns. How does Feldman's separate the good from the bad?"
Angela bit her lip. "They need to scrub their customer list by hand."
Peterson scoffed, "You want them to cold call thousands of customers, and ask if they want them to be on their list?"
Angela lifted her chin. "Yes, but just the names from these returned flyers. Whoever is at those phone numbers now, whether they were ever customers or not, can tell them if they want to receive their mailers."
Peterson shook his head patronizingly. "Who would say yes to that? We'd just be inviting a bunch of people to say we can't send them anything anymore. People don't want flyers, but they see them, and realize they really could go for couch right about now."
Angela shook her head in mocking disbelief, "It's not all about trickery, Jim. Feldman's serves mid-level furniture for decent prices, and military families are highly interested in smaller ways to step up their space. Whoever has those residential numbers now are likely also military, and would want to know about Feldman's sales."
"And if they don't, we've just lost the arguable right to send them anything."
"No, we've just not wasted that flyer on someone who has already said they don't want it."
"People don't know what they want 'till it's gyrating in front of them," he chuckled.
Angela scrunched up her nose is disgust. "You have as little respect for the consumer as you do for anyone else around you." She turned her attention back to Paxton. "Sir, Feldman's has a lot of usable data in their records. They could draw a line as far as how old of a customer they want to ask – ones from the last 5 years, 10 years, whatever. But even quality furniture doesn't last forever. The older customers from these returns may still want to be on the mailing list. But whatever line Feldman's decides on, they'd be creating a confirmed address list in the process. They could call them, leave a message if they're not home, and keep the names in alphabetical order, for reference purposes if they call back. Whoever doesn't return the calls, they can assume they don't want to be contacted at all, and take those names off the mailing list. Whoever does call back can get manually inputted into the system with the correct confirmed address."
Paxton's jaw slanted in thought. "That's a massive undertaking."
Angela agreed. "It could take a couple of months." She put out her hands, acknowledging. "It's a lot of details and organization, but any intern they have could orchestrate this. So, implementing it wouldn't cost them much."
Jim let out a sharp laugh. "This is ludicrous. Nobody's going to call back a furniture store!"
Paxton spoke dryly, "$125,000 may be worth the risk." Paxton looked between his warring employees. "I don't know that this will amount to anything, but if they do it right, their investment would be near negligible anyway, and only leave room for reward." In a mark of decision, he slapped the table. "Done!"
Paxton turned to Angela. "Angela, contact their marketing manager and tell them the plan. And Jim is right about the bought addresses. Stress to them the importance of buying confirmed. For the other half of the problem, let's hope this works."
The room of executives nodded and rose, mumbling their opinions to themselves as they gathered their stuff. Angela walked past Paxton on her way out the door.
He smiled at her. "Good work, Angela. I don't know if this is going to work, but it's a bold and gutsy approach."
Angela smiled back, "Thank you, sir. It's certainly a multi-pronged problem, but I think this is a step in the right direction." Paxton nodded, and Angela rose her finger in an idea. "Oh, and those flyers they got back in the mail…I wouldn't throw them out, if I were them. Those are confirmed bad addresses. They could be compiled, alphabetized, and cross-referenced against any customer list they buy in the future. Even confirmed addresses aren't fool proof."
Paxton nodded his head, "True. But that would be an extraordinary amount of work, and I think we're onto the low-hanging fruit with their own customer list – especially if we can talk them into the confirmed addresses. We may bring up the potential bought list problems, depending on how this pans out." He looked at her for a couple seconds. "But keep that brilliant mind cranking. I like the way you think."
Angela smiled widely, "Thank you, Mr. Paxton." Wow. It's really nice to be valued. She hugged her legal pad as she walked into the hall.
Anna flagged her down as she walked past her desk. "Oh, Mrs. Bower!"
Angela shook herself out of the daydreamy smile, "Yes, Anna?"
"Your husband called."
"Oh?"
Anna scrunched her face like she was slightly bracing for impact. "Yeah, I told him you were in a meeting, but he didn't sound too happy that he couldn't get a hold of you."
Great! Now, he's bringing our relationship problems to my employee. That's so unprofessional! Angela closed her eyes for a second or two, and kneaded the side of her forehead. Angela raised her eyebrows, and looked at Anna. "What did he say?"
Anna tore off a piece of paper from her notepad. She handed it to Angela, and her eyes squinted cautiously again. "He left this number, and said, uh, he said to confirm with you his name was Michael Bower, and that he's in Iceland." Angela let out a slow breath. "He said, if you ever find the time to call him back, he'd be up until 8pm your time, but he's heading to dinner now."
Angela tried to smile through significant chagrin. "Thank you, Anna," she said as she turned toward her office.
"Yes, ma'am," Anna said quietly.
Great. My 22 year old secretary is pitying me because my husband is mean. That's so embarrassing! Angela shut her door, and slumped into her chair.
She squinted over at the photo. From this angle, especially devoid of color, Michael looked a bit like Gregory Peck. She shook her head. If only life could be so dreamy and tidy. She longed for Michael to actually be as happy with her as he looked right there. She was always disappointing him in some regard or another. Her eyes narrowed. This is ridiculous. I was in a meeting, and I have work to do anyway. She shook off her listlessness, and called up Feldman's marketing manager.
Angela pushed herself hard at the gym that night. She was irritated and antsy, even after four miles on the treadmill. She jogged up the stairs when she got to Wendy's to pick up Jonathan, her damp hair freezing in gelled waves. She rang the doorbell, and her teeth chattered as she waited miserably for an answer. But even shivering, she was still filled with gratitude that Wendy was willing to pick up Jonathan from preschool on the nights her mother had class.
"Oh, just come in!" Wendy barked good-naturedly, pulling her inside. "If I've got your kid here, you can just come in."
Angela tipped a half-smile, "Thanks, Wendy."
Wendy paused. "What's the matter now?" she said with worried brows.
Angela pulled Wendy passed where the kids were playing in the living room to the kitchen. She released her once they made it past the swinging door. "I am exhausted!" Angela roared.
"You know, I know you and Isabel have a thing for running. But have you tried not running?" Wendy offered.
Angela squinted her eyes at her smartmouth friend. "I'm serious! Michael's driving me nuts! He called while I was in an impromptu meeting today, and he left this snarky message with my secretary about how 'his name is Michael Bower, and if I ever find the time to call him again' and blah blah blah…" she vented sarcastically. "I was mortified! I mean, this is my work! Where does he get off?"
"Probably part of the problem is he's not…" Wendy said drolly.
"What?" Angela snapped.
Wendy shrugged innocently. "Well, neither you nor Oscar the Grouch are really getting off, are you?"
Angela rolled her eyes, "That is no excuse!"
Wendy lifted a sad smile, "I know. But he's been gone a long time. Do you miss him?"
Angela looked at the floor. "Sometimes. Before he pulled this stunt today I was missing him a little…" She flipped her head up to Wendy's. "Now I'm incensed!"
"Sounds like passion to me. What if you went there?"
"What?"
"Go to Iceland! Surprise him! You always say it's everything else that gets in the way. When it's just you two, you're good."
Angela looked at her for an elongated moment, then started to talk quietly. "Yeah, at least, we used to."
"Huh?"
"We've always been really hot for each other. But right before he left this time, we were 'saying goodbye'…and it was getting really hot and intimate…and then, all of a sudden, he wanted to turn the lights off, right in the middle of everything." Wendy's mouth dropped open a little. "I was horrified, and I've been reeling ever since. I think he thinks I'm fat."
Wendy's eyebrows skidded the floor. "You've gotta be kidding me," she said flatly.
Angela shook her head. "I've lost some weight since he left, but not all of it."
"Were you trying to lose all of it?" Wendy asked incredulously.
"I mean all of what I'd gained, genius."
Wendy pacified her friend's exasperation. "I know, I know…but seriously. Maybe he just wanted a different mood. What makes you think he thinks you're fat?"
"Trust me. The way he said it, the timing, it was all pretty clear – well, not clear, exactly…just fuzzy enough to drive me nuts."
"I see," Wendy said dryly. "…Well, shit. That kind of changes things."
"How so?"
"Well, you've always said you guys had it bad for each other, and that means something. It's private, and the realest you two are together. But when a husband gets you to doubt how sexy you are somehow…" Wendy shook her head dismissively, and threw her hands up. "I'm out. Now, we're in Herb territory."
Angela's expression softened. "What do you mean?"
"Ever since I found the Penthouse under the bathroom sink, all bets were off. I don't buy into that whole, 'Men have to lust' thing," Wendy glared.
Angela squinted her eyes, "Really? Because I kind of got the impression…you felt pretty free to look around…"
"Hey, when do you think that started? What's good for the goose is good for the gander!"
Angela gave her a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry, Wendy."
"Yeah, well, if Michael's acting like you're not sexy – shit. You're like, what, a 6?" Angela shrugged. Wendy shook her head and folded her arms. "Unbelievable… You don't owe him no conjugal visit."
Angela tipped a sad smile. "I don't know that I do, either. But I also don't really know what he meant. It was right before he left, and I was too stunned and humiliated at the time to remark on the situation."
"Hmm…well, I don't know, Angela. I think you should just go with your gut. It's all really crappy. I just remember when I found that magazine. I was so embarrassed, and Herb wasn't even anywhere around. Just me and the magazine, all alone in the bathroom, and I still wanted to hide."
Yeah, that sounds familiar. Angela touched her friend's arm. "Did you ever ask him about it?"
"Oh, we had a big blow up! The bastard doubled down, acting like it was no big deal, and I was, like, fine!" Wendy hollered through wide eyes and wider gestures. "I've felt pretty liberated since!" she punctuated her statement with a sharp nod of her head.
Angela was sad for both Wendy and herself, not sure she could quite take her friend's freedom at face value. "This is lousy. I still have no idea what Michael actually meant."
Wendy's expression quieted. "Would you ever ask him about it?"
Angela scoffed. "Not until I could take the truth. Michael would tell me, and at this point, I'm just not asking questions I don't want the answers to."
"Well, you're sexy as hell, and if your husband doesn't want to see that, I'd say that says more about him than you."
"The same goes for you, Wendy. If your husband prefers paper dolls to flesh and blood, that is not your problem!"
Wendy held her hand up for a high five, and Angela obliged solemnly, then pulled her in for a hug. "I might need a reminder before he gets back," Angela muffled into her hair.
Wendy stepped back, and squared up seriously in front of Angela. "Anytime."
