“And that’s with no income at all,” I said. “Which isn’t going to happen.”
She nodded. “No income.”
“I know it seems scary right now, but in the end, it’s all going to be worth it. And your life isn’t going to change.”
“You mean aside from expecting me to be your maid, you mean.”
“That’s not what I said…”
She cut me off before I could finish. “Peters isn’t just going to sit back and applaud your courage,” she pointed out. “If he thinks you’re trying to poach his clients, he’ll do whatever it takes to run you out of business.”
“He can try,” I said. “But in the end, money talks.”
“He’s got more of it.”
“I’m talking about the clients’ money.”
“And I’m talking about money for our family,” she said, a hard edge coming into her voice. “What about us? What about me? Do you expect me to simply go along with this? We have a child, for God’s sake.”
“And I’m supposed to just give up my dreams?”
“Don’t play the martyr. I hate when you do that.”
“I’m not playing the martyr. I’m trying to have a discussion…”
“No you’re not!” she said, her voice rising. “You’ve telling me what you want to do, even if it might not be good for our family!”
I exhaled slowly, concentrating on keeping my voice steady. “I’ve already told you that I’m sure Peters is going to fire me and there’s no other jobs around here.”
“Have you tried to talk to him?”
“Of course I’ve tried to talk to him.”
“So you say.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Only partly.”
“What part?”
She slammed her napkin onto her plate and rose from the table. “The part where you’re going to do what you want to do, even if it’s detrimental to us and our child.”
“Are you saying that I don’t care about our family?”
But by then, she’d left the room.
That night, I slept in the guest room. And while remaining somewhat cordial while answering questions with one- or two-word answers, Vivian didn’t otherwise speak to me for the next three days.
As good as Marge was at keeping me alive during my youth and offering pearls of wisdom when it came to my flaws, there was a part of her that resented having to babysit me once her teenage years kicked in. She began spending an inordinate amount of time on the phone, and as a result, I watched a lot of television. I can’t speak for other kids, but I learned much of what I know about commercials and advertising simply by osmosis. I didn’t learn it in college, nor did I learn it from my older, more experienced cohorts at the agency, since half of them were spending their creative energy trying to sabotage the careers of the other half, courtesy of Peters. Not knowing what else to do when I was thrown headfirst into the job, I’d listen as clients described what they wanted to achieve, tap into my well of memories, and come up with new spins on old commercials.
It wasn’t quite that simple, of course. Advertising encompasses a lot more than simply television commercials. Over the years, I’d generated catchy slogans for print ads, or billboards; I’d scripted radio commercials and infomercials; I’d helped to redesign websites and created viable social media campaigns; I’d been part of a team that prioritized Internet searches and banner ads targeted to specific zip codes, income, and educational levels, and for one particular client, I conceived and executed the use of advertising on paneled trucks. While virtually all of that work was completed in-house at Peters by various teams, as a solo operator, I’d be responsible for whatever the client needed, and while I was strong in some areas, I was weaker in others, particularly when it came to tech. Fortunately, I’d been in the business long enough to know local vendors who provided the services I’d need, and one by one, I made contact with them.
I hadn’t been lying to Vivian when I told her I wasn’t worried about landing clients, but unfortunately, I made a mistake, one that was filled with irony. I forgot to plan an advertising campaign for my own business. I should have spent more money putting together a high-quality website and creating promotional materials that reflected the firm I intended to have, not the one I was building from the ground up. I should have put together some quality direct mailings that would inspire clients to reach out to me.
Instead, however, I spent the month of May making sure that the infrastructure was in place to accommodate my success. Using vacation days, I hired a lawyer and accountant, and had the appropriate paperwork filed. I leased an office with a shared receptionist. I purchased office equipment, signed leases for other equipment, and stocked my office with the supplies I knew I’d need. I read books on starting a business, and all of them stressed the importance of being adequately capitalized, and in mid-May, I submitted my two-week notice. If there was any dimming of my excitement, it had to do with the fact that I’d underestimated my start-up costs, while the regular bills still kept coming. The year of no income I’d mentioned to Vivian had shrunk to nine months.
But no matter. June first rolled around, and it was time to officially launch the Phoenix Agency. I sent letters to clients I’d worked with in the past, explaining the services I could offer while promising significant savings, and I let them know that I hoped to hear from them. I started making calls, lining up appointments, and after that, I leaned back in my chair, waiting for the phone to ring.
CHAPTER 4: The Summer of My Discontent
Lately, I’ve come to believe that having a child jumbles our sense of time, stirring together past and present as if in an electric mixer. Whenever I looked at London, the past was often propelled to the front of my thoughts as memories took hold.
“Why are you smiling, Daddy?” London would ask me.
“Because I’m thinking about you,” I’d answer, and in my mind’s eye, I would see her as an infant asleep in my arms, or her revelatory first smile, or even the first time she rolled over. She was a little more than five months old and I’d put her down for a nap on her tummy while Vivian went to a yoga class. When London woke, I did a double take while I realized she was lying on her back and smiling up at me.
Other times, I would remember her as a toddler and the cautious way she crawled or held the table as ballast while she was learning how to stand; I remember holding her hands as we paraded up and down the hallway before she could walk on her own.
There is much, however, that I missed, especially when it came to firsts. I missed her first word, for instance, and was out of town when London lost her first baby tooth. I missed the first time she ate baby food from a jar, and yet, it didn’t much change my excitement when I eventually witnessed those things. For me, after all, it was still a first.
Sadly, though, there is much that I don’t remember. Not everything can be reduced to a single event. When exactly did she move from toddling to walking? Or how did she move from that first word to speaking in short sentences? Those periods of incremental and inevitable improvement now seem to blur together and it sometimes feels as though I turned my back for an instant, only to discover a new version of London had taken the place of the old one.
Nor am I sure when her room and toys and games changed. I can visualize the nursery in amazing detail, right down to the wallpaper border that featured images of baby ducks. But when were the blocks and stuffed animals in the shape of caterpillars put back into a box that now sits in the corner? When did the first Barbie make her appearance, and how did London begin to imagine Barbie’s fantasy life, one that included the color of clothing Barbie must wear when she’s in the kitchen? When did London begin to change from being a daughter named London, to London, my daughter?