Sage. Wendy Anne
expression, which helps me to control my body language cues by way of channeling my focus on facilitating optimistic thoughts leading to a more cheerful appearance. Thus far, I can tell that this business could use more love and ambiance, which is my forte and absolute favorite thing to do. This perks my demeanor, and I need to do this because I am selling myself—more like a concept. I cannot hand them a product, only a service. Therefore, I need to be adept at the self-presentation. My business demonstration is sometimes malleable and requires a lot of improvisation, but there are no amount of files or mechanically derived lists quite as revealing as personality attributes and the atmosphere that I create. And this is just as true for clients as it is me. Calculations and reports are necessary, but they certainly don’t tell the whole story.
The obnoxious screech of Elliot’s Porsche temporality distracts the interior renovations and stories conjuring in my mind. He is here, and perfect timing, because my clients arrive at the moment of his loud entrance. Elliot always dresses sharp. He enjoys the intimidation factor of showing up in expensive tailored suits. He trusts that this is eye candy to a struggling businessman.
Moreover, he prefers to assert his image among larger corporations. Thus, he is rarely seen wearing anything but his Brioni two-piece buttoned or solid wool suits. Elliot is true redheaded ginger, with a light brush of freckles across his deceitfully youthful face. He is average in physical size but exerts larger-than-life confidence.
The closing is simple today, as hoped because the overall dynamics are pretty typical. These people are small-business newcomers in a very competitive market, and they are struggling in a weak economy. They used their home as collateral and were desperate to pull themselves from impending disaster. I pitied them, decent people, without a clue. They were lucky by way of being handed a family business and never having to partake in the difficulty of creating a business from scratch, but it is unfortunate that they inherited virtually no knowledge of how to keep it running properly.
In my line of work, I have a great deal of enthusiasm for helping businesses succeed. I feel as if I am doing something great for the economy—a healthy percentage of the jobs in this country are comprised of small- and medium-sized businesses, after all.
Elliot and I proceed to my office after catching a quick lunch to tie up loose ends. More bearable than this morning, Rose greets us at the door with overly happy chuckles and smiles. She’s a rather attractive woman. Her overall structure is petite, including her slender face with short, tiny, well-proportioned features. Her caramel-colored eyes reveal a hint of green in just the right lighting—nothing stunning but put together quite well.
It was no shocker that Elliot called the office on his ride here simply to flirt with Rose. Rose has a weakness for any flirtatious man directing interest towards her. Pathetic compliments or flattering remarks spellbind her. Elliot thrives off this need, and I suspect that these two have paired before. Elliot, being the more educated of the two, enjoys the strategic advantage he has over Rose. Her codependency and naiveté create the need for someone to have some hold on her. They have great chemistry. It would be a match made in heaven whereby Rose provides the heart and energy, while Elliot provides the financial structure and intellect—if only Elliot could keep his dick in his pants. I can understand Rose’s interest in Elliot; if not for his obvious chauvinistic characteristics and his accompanying taste for sleazy women, he would be quite the catch.
Nonetheless, Rose is a predominantly bright character, infused with innocence and genuine kindness; and the sharks Elliot plays with have the potential to rip her apart. He attracts some of the shadiest people I’ve ever met and relishes around criminals and felonious types.
Maybe he spends too much time protecting and manipulating laws by playing the game of semantics with fellow wordsmiths and needs a break from golf club parties, forced formalities, frenemies, and small talk. Either way, he enjoys the type of people he wouldn’t meet at a country club, golf resort, or boardroom; and I get that. I don’t get why he wouldn’t try to roll with people who have less murk to their energy and has no issue spending time with people who require him to pay their bar tab and would steal his watch if he wasn’t careful. If I spent as much time around the toxic energy of the legal field as he does, I’d probably spend time around Buddhist monks or jump into a mosh pit regularly, and spend less time around criminals. And, boy, does he love belligerence. All of his language that is suppressed during business meetings or in a courtroom is well compensated for during his after-hour trips to strip clubs, football games, and biker bars. He once mentioned how he enjoyed the raw thrill of the unfiltered and naked realities of life, which is why he loves those places. He believes that profanity in its crudest form is no match to the evil found in a room full of lawyers eloquently perpetuating conflict for profit. In his eyes, there are just as many criminals prosecuting criminals or finding shady loopholes to make money, as there are innocent people found guilty. He argues a good point, but again, he’s a very convincing lawyer, which is why he makes the big bucks. Nevertheless, on a purely selfish level, I’m glad his field of expertise encompasses my own, and I’m protective of Rose, so I attempt to cockblock him every chance I can. As a result of the nature of their interaction, trying to have an intelligent conversation with either of them while they’re sharing the same air is like trying to quench thirst with sand.
Sighing, I take shelter in my office and allow the charade going on outside to continue.
My work area is modest in size, equipped with a small cherrywood desk, a sleek black reclining chair with ergonomic support, and a few dusty plaques from clients thanking me for our success. The office walls are a light mint-green, which works nicely to enhance the coral window trim and to add to the liveliness and promote my family unit; there’s an 11 x 17 family portrait along the windowsill in conjunction with various trinkets my daughter, Cheyanne, made several years ago. Finally, on top of my desk is my workload consisting of files that demand attention and a list of clients who I routinely call.
Staring out the window at the city streets now paved in salty, grimy snow, I hear the muffled sounds of voices outside my office begin to fade. Just a few more moments, and I will be heading home as well.
III
Mother and Wife
My cell phone begins to ring as I rush home to my family, and I ignore it. I abhor talking on the phone while driving rush hour. As a general observation, nighttime traffic seems far worse than morning traffic. Maybe it is the tension that everyone feels during this time of night based on a variety of reasons. Second shift is beginning while day shift heads home, people who are more than fashionably late for dinner, and the occasional shopper who didn’t plan to take so long buying groceries—all forced together and barely moving. It is dark at this hour; nothing but red taillights ahead and streetlights above to beckon the eyes. I tell myself that the office and all of my high-maintenance employees (who can leave their work where it belongs) can wait until tomorrow. If it were possible, I am certain work would follow me at all hours. It has taken me years to achieve even a partial separation of my professional and personal lives. Music is an excellent way to shut out the sound of my ever so popular phone, and more often than not, it transforms my mood on my lengthy drive.
When I have a rough day, I sometimes listen to heavy metal that screams scores of truths that many people choose to ignore, while incorporating intense instrumentals. Of course, there’s also dance music that packs a fun punch but tends to increase my risk of getting pulled over for speeding. However, most of the time while driving, I prefer music with lyrics that speak to the heart and distract the mind or, instead, lure my brain into their semantically compelling trap with lyrics and sounds that penetrate my emotional boundaries. Today, I listen to Sade. Sade has a warm yet profound and husky voice. Her stories are ones of love, struggle, and triumph. She’s always classy, with something beautiful and intelligent to say, and incredibly underrated, but I suppose that makes her all the more intriguing. As her music helps to soothe me into my chair, I begin to enjoy the rest of my ride home.
Just outside the city, our 6,700-square-foot home sits on its own hill, overlooking fifteen acres of forested property. A creek crosses one corner of our yard, crowned with a small bridge Bruce and nine-year-old Cheyanne built together last summer. I have such passion for Victorian homes, but it was hard to find one in Massachusetts