by Trisky
"I thought I told you to knock before you came in."
He wanders over to the wall that houses Opera Guy, inspecting it as if I might have pulled it out of the trash on the street and stuck it on the wall, just to piss him off. I have an urge to make him avert his eyes or at least block his view, which makes hanging it there for all the world to see to begin with sort of pointless. I just can't take his pinched, judgmental snarl.
"Who's the artist?" He inspects the small signature in the corner of the piece. "Just Justin, no last name?"
"Just a local guy I know. Is there something you wanted?" I gesture to the pile of work sitting in front of me, hoping he gets the message. I'm far too busy for his usual cat and mouse games. Apparently we have very different definitions of the meaning of the word "partner". His doesn't include an equal say in how this company is run or even the slightest acknowledgment that I'm not his underling. It's Vance's world and the rest of us just hold up the back end. Which makes the title "partner" sort of pointless, as well. Of course as partner, it's perfectly acceptable for me to take half the blame for whatever disasters strike. Then, and only then, am I perfectly qualified to stand beside him and not a step behind. I know the way he works by now. He can have all the imagined power he wants. I have the clients and I make nearly the same money. And I don't have to shine my ugly bald head twice a day to impress anyone. It's too bad he's fucking brilliant. He'd be so much easier to hate if he wasn't.
"You might want to rethink your decorating choice." He waves in the general direction of Justin's portrait, not even bothering to turn and acknowledge its existence. I sit up straight in my chair readying my defensive stance. I know I'm going to need it. "It doesn't match the rest of the office. It's distracting. And it looks cheap."
I feel my hand gripping the ledge of my desk, my tongue growing heavier with unspoken vitriol with every passing second. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Opera Guy singing his aria, oblivious to the world. I almost wish I had that kind of unforced focus, the ability to tune the world out at will. I find it oddly calming imagining the sound of his voice. "Well it was either that or a poster of Zach O' Toole." His eyes flash a brief question but he knows better than to ask it out loud. "We're meeting with the Brown Tech guys tomorrow and I have a ton of work to do. So if you don't mind..."
I motion to stand and see him out the door. He takes a seat right in front of me, crossing his legs in an unhurried manner. There's no getting out of this meeting. I should have known as soon as I woke up and found the sink backing up all over the bathroom floor that today was not going to be my day. Justin made it no better with his early morning attitude. So I woke him up out of a dead sleep at 7 in the morning and told him to get his ass over to the loft in ten minutes... Who else has the time to wait for the plumber, isn't that what friends are for? Mikey would have been there in five. Fucking brat strolled in almost an hour later, still in his favorite sleepwear eating a bagel. I could have killed him. I don't know how many times I 've woken up to the feel of those sweatpants tangled in my legs. I woke up one morning and suddenly I was wearing my own pair. I have no idea how I let him talk me into buying them. I didn't make it in to work until almost 10 because of him and his ass holding up those sweatpants. Oh, and the sink. Then Cynthia chewed *my* ass out for missing the conference call she spent three hours trying to set up yesterday at my insistence. I spilled coffee all over the few notes I did manage to make for Brown Tech and now I have some guy who thinks shoulder pads in his suits are a good thing giving me decorating tips.
"That's why I'm here. It seems to me Ryder let you get away with murder. I don't like being thrown off guard Mr. Kinney." I *hate* that snotty fucking accent of his. Even when I was 23 and eager, I never felt as dissected as I do whenever Vance decides to share his so-called wisdom with me. "You have absolutely no direction with this campaign. If you can't handle it, I'll find someone who will."
"You're a businessman Gardner, surely you looked at the contract that made me partner. I'm not your lackey, don't threaten me. " He can pull this senior partner trip with the bottom feeders he hired. I have no time and no patience for this routine today. "Have I failed yet?"
"That's not what matters Mr. Kinney. The ability to tap dance your way out of certain disaster isn't a skill I admire. I want to see this genius you're so proud of on a more consistent and regular basis." His tone is a strange mix of derisiveness and sincerity. "I have no doubt that you're good at what you do. But I don't like feeling like I can't rely on you. I made you partner, I expect you to act like one."
That stings, more than it should. Just the implication of it.
"Well that goes both ways Gardner. I expect you to show me the respect I've earned for all the work I've done. Something you have yet to do."
"Prove yourself worthy. Tell me what your thinking is, for Brown Tech."
I take a deep breath, unsure of how to proceed. I can talk my way out of this, I've talked myself out of worse. But what do I know about selling semiconductor chips? I can't even figure out why Brown Tech feels like it needs a "hip" campaign for a bunch of technobabble magazines that no one has ever heard of. All I could picture while reading all that research on silicon and doping was a group of strung out computer techs sniffing acid off their floppy disks. I still don't know what it is. If it weren't for the payoff Brown Tech was offering, I would have handed this campaign to the first junior exec who passed my office. A decidedly unpopular approach to acting like I'm in charge and something Vance would no doubt use as further proof of my incompetence to justify treating me like a toddler who always needs supervision. I shift some papers in front of me and stare at them as if the answer will leap right out at me, while his eyes bore holes in my scalp, waiting for just the right opportunity to admonish me again. I hate the nervous pull in my chest, but I remain as cool as possible given the circumstances.
The intercom rings, Cynthia's voice breaks my concentration. "Mr. Taylor on line one." My chest relaxes in gratitude for the last minute save and tenses back up as soon as I see Vance's reaction to my answering the call. If he wasn't aggravated before, he's certainly a steampipe waiting to burst now.
"Mr. Taylor? How are you?" I gesture as if to suggest the call can't be helped and turn sideways, away from Vance's hooded scowl.
"I'm standing here staring at a delivery from Bradford's. One 10,000 BTU standing air conditioner with remote control. How the fuck do you think I am?" Damn, forgot that was coming today.
"I see. Well I believe it's a reasonable offer."
"What? Shit! Brian are you talking to me with someone in your office again? Can't they leave?" He hates it when I do that.
"That's not an advisable choice at the moment." I watch Vance's fingers tapping impatiently on the arm of the chair, an annoying rhythmic tip tap... tip tap. I lean back in my chair and relax my shoulders. Let him wait.
"Oh good, then that must mean your boss is there." I bite my tongue and prevent myself from correcting his assertion, even *he* can't acknowledge that I'm a partner. "So that means I can ream you out and you can't answer me back!" *That* he loves. "Didn't I specifically say I didn't want you to buy me an air conditioner?"
It's absurd really that he's throwing a hissy fit over something so insignificant while water is threatening to leak into my bedroom and soak right through my hardwood floors, Vance is waiting to pounce, and I'm about to lose an account worth several million dollars. But Justin is unhappy, and when Justin is unhappy he has no qualms about making the rest of the world, or rather me, suffer with him. My entire life could be falling apart, but I've ignored his wishes and that takes precedence above all else. It's not absurd, it's insane. "That's something we can work out later Mr. Taylor. It doesn't have to be negotiated at this juncture." Much later, with you out of those sweatpants. I'll give you a reason to beg me to buy you ten air conditioners to cool you off, several times in fact. The thought, surprisingly enough, relaxes me even more.
"I asked you something, you ignored me, you got your own way yet again. If you can't see the problem with that, then there's nothing to 'negotiate'."
I cannot believe I'm having this discussion, with Vance's thick fingers tapping out my dirge song and floods threatening to wash me right out of my own home. He's going to kiss the ground that I walk on for that air conditioner when I'm forced to move in with him, penniless and homeless because we have to have this conversation right this very minute. "It's a minor bump in the road, nothing that we can't fix with a little rearrangement of priorities." It occurs to me that if I'm not careful I'm going to be singlehandedly responsible for the destruction of my entire life, as I know it. Because I know Justin, and I know he's listening to every word I'm saying, staged for someone else's benefit, as it may be. He's the one getting all the reward. I'm saying everything he wants to hear! Negotiate, priorities, worked out, fuck me!
"Which one of us is supposed to do the rearranging? I hope you don't think it's me." He's egging me on because he has me right where he wants me, dead to fucking center. I let out a sigh and check to make sure Vance's head hasn't exploded all over my newly painted office. "Brian? Are you gonna answer me?"
"I'll be certain it gets worked out to everyone's satisfaction." The client always comes first, how many times did I drill that into his head? Would I ever disappoint a client in front of "my boss"? Of course not. I wish Justin were that manipulative. It'd be so much easier to blame him.
"I hope you're serious about that," he takes a brief pause before he lowers the gauntlet. "Promise me."
I now officially have honorary membership to the land of... *relationship*... hell. Heteros greet you at the gates and give you the tour, the lesbians work the gift shop. Please don't feed the hungry homos, because they'll bite your dick right off as soon as they smell weakness and you'll be forced to live out your days in their dirty, smelly swamp because no one else will have you. You'll be dickless, penniless, and homeless, but you'll be cool because you had the forethought to bring an air conditioner with you into the fires of hell.
"I... promise." I hope the plumber leaves his snake, because I know a certain pipe that needs a good cleaning. "I'll work something out and call you back in a few minutes Mr. Taylor."
"No wait Brian, there's something else. I think I know what's wrong with the sink, and I think I can fix it myself. I think there's some kind of hair clogged in the drain from all that water you dump in there after you're done shaving. All I have to do is pour some vinegar down. My mother does it all the time."
Oh God, I'm a dickless, penniless, homeless... WIFE... in HELL! "Please don't," I threaten. I'm quickly losing my resolve and Vance is quickly losing what hair he has left waiting for me to be done.
"It'll save you a lot of money."
"I strongly, and I can't emphasize this enough, advise you *against* that Mr. Taylor, especially if you want things to go smoothly later," I'm about half a step away from breaking character, or maybe his legs, entirely, "...down the line," I add, absentmindedly.
"Fine, I'll leave the cleaning to the professionals. Don't freak out on me."
"What? What did you say?"
"I said don't freak out on me," he repeats himself.
"No the other part."
"I'll leave the cleaning to the professionals?" Yes! Yeeeeesss!
"That's it, that's what I needed to hear, thank you." I scramble for a pen and pad, writing in a shorthand only I, and Cynthia, understand. "I'll call you back Mr. Taylor."
"Okay, but Brian one last thing."
I'm not even listening, just jotting down quick notes. "Yes?" The receiver is practically back in it's cradle.
"I still love you, even if you are a shit who wakes me up at 7 in the morning and who never listens to me. Just thought you should know you don't get off the hook that easily," he practically screams in victory. Maybe it's just the unnatural sound hitting my ear...
"Goodbye Justin."
"Byyyyeeee." It's like a melody.
"Are you quite done Mr. Kinney?" I snap out of my momentary daze, adjust my suit jacket and swivel back in Vance's direction. "Pressing business?"
"Something like that." I ignore the way his cheeks have a tendency to puff out to an immeasurable circumference when I become obstinate. "You were asking about Brown Tech? Well I've come up with an idea. It's irreverent, it skews younger, and it makes the point Brown is trying to emphasize, that they're the company of choice for manufacturers. They're reliable, they're efficient and without their semiconductors, nothing else would run."
"What's your idea?"
I'm a fucking genius, after all. "Picture a centerfold pull out, say three pages. On the first page, you have a bunch of techno geeks with palm pilots and headphones in disarray in an orchestra pit, all of them beautiful of course. Sheet music all over the place, chairs turned over, instruments all around. Second page a full orchestra with a conductor playing a symphony. Third page, same techno geeks installing their chips into computers in harmonious effort on an assembly line. Tag line "Leave the conducting to the professionals... Leave the semiconducting to us. Brown Tech Ltd."
He laces his fingers on his lap, tapping his thumbs together, trying to come up with some justifiable reason to start screaming, killing time until he has to admit I'm good. I'm very, very good. "Fred Astaire lives again. Have it drawn up."
He stands, straightening his tie, regarding me with disdain and doubt in equal measure. "I don't know what your boyfriend said to you on the phone just now that inspired that campaign and I don't really care. But I'm not kidding when I say I want less 'inspiration' and more solid work from you. And it would behoove you to inform your muse, Mr. Taylor, that you need to deal with your domestic squabbles on your own time, not on mine."
I rise to my full height behind my desk. I don't give a fuck what he has to say about me or how I work, or how he dismisses our partnership, there are certain lines that he will not cross. "If I ever want your advice, I'll ask for it. Until then, don't ever come into my office again and tell me how to conduct myself or my life. And don't ever bring Justin into this again. This is between you and me, and it'll stay that way."
"You brought him into this Mr. Kinney. It's up to you to keep him out of it." He glances at Opera Guy and back at me with a thin, tight, threatening smile across the two reeds that pass themselves off as lips before turning to leave as abruptly as he walked in, stopping at the door before he leaves. "He's *your* partner, not mine. I only have one partner, and I know how to keep him in line. Pity you can't say the same."
Bastard.
I pride myself on being able to read people, but I can't get a firm grasp on Vance. He has yet to show me his true colors either because he doesn't have any at all and this is all there is, or because he doesn't want me to see them anymore than I want him to see mine. He just sticks his claws in every pot, stirring up trouble to keep me on top of my game. He never wants me to get too comfortable, no matter what titles he might give me. He'll always force brilliance out of me by making me jump through hoops. I adjust, because he knows I can. I half respect him and half loathe him. All bets are off if he continues on this track, and I won't even blink when I respond, if he continues to make this personal. He's only seen the tip of my true colors and they bury themselves pretty quickly, almost as soon as they appear, shedding their skin until they're entirely different and unrecognizable. I'm beginning to think he's already seen too much.
I look at Opera Guy, he's always himself, he doesn't have to be a chameleon and change himself to please everyone else. He is who he is and that's enough. It's what makes him a work of art and what makes the rest of us a bunch of frauds.
I wonder how does a partner act? And if you can't be your true self, whatever that may be, is the act worth all that much? But I guess that's the beauty of being a chameleon. You're never truly one thing, you can be all things to all people and still be you for better or for worse.