Dance Lessons — Part 2 (a short story)
A married couple faces an inevitable transition
PART 2 OF 3
The next day at work, Jim was pleased to make the last mark on a piece as the clock hands touched noon. He took his sandwich outside, sat on his usual bench, and waited.
Fifteen minutes later, Donald strode down the sidewalk without stopping, only nodding his head at Jim and continuing on.
“Donald, wait.”
“It’s okay, Jim. I won’t bother you.”
“Come over here.”
Jim gestured for Donald to sit next to him. The invitation put a big grin on Donald’s face. Jim didn’t know where to start, so he said what he figured Donald was waiting to hear. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”
“Hey, it’s your lunch. I interrupted you.”
“But you just wanted my help. That’s what friends do for each other, isn’t it?”
Donald smiled and shrugged. “Suppose so, if you’d ever let me.”
“You still got that piece on you?”
“You said you didn’t want to look at it.”
“But you still have it?”
His face red and not just from the cold, Donald opened his jacket and removed his latest page of ideas.
Jim took out his favorite red pen, took a deep breath, and for the first time in his life leaned into the poetry.
He marked several misplaced commas in the first three paragraphs, one quick slash after another. The one-liners and product descriptions were meant to sell a new brand of lawnmower to wives buying last-minute gifts for their husbands, but it was all technical jargon. One worthless phrase after another naming spectacular feature after spectacular feature, and much of it clumsily delivered.
Slash. Slash. Slash.
“Wait, wait,” Donald said. “It can’t be that bad. Some of that’s a matter of taste, yeah?”
“It’s not just the punctuation. Women don’t care about what a lawnmower can do.”
“But Jimmy, this is state-of-the-art stuff. New brand, new technology.”
“That’s the problem. Nobody’s ever heard of it.”
“Which is why I thought I oughtta tell them why it’s good. How are they going to know if I don’t spell it out?”
“They won’t care about that.” Jim circled a one-liner at the bottom of the page: Give him what he’s always wanted.
“Go with this.”
“You sure? I thought that was the worst one.”
“You want them to buy anything besides the socks they always get their husbands?”
“Obviously.”
“Then be precise. Get rid of all this other stuff. You tell them it’s new, they’ll be suspicious. Make them realize it’s something that’s been on their minds. They just didn’t know it.”
Donald turned his head crooked and looked at the paper that way, as though that would help it make sense. He laughed and stood up. “I better get back. Listen, Jim, I get fired for this one, I’m coming to you.”
“Donald, wait. I want to ask you something.”
His eyebrows went up. “Sure.”
Now that it was here, the words didn’t want to come out, but he made them. “That interview. Were you serious?”
The wind blew the page in Donald’s hand and sounded like a small roar before Donald answered.
“Of course I was serious. The least I could do.”
“Because this is a big deal for me. This would change my life, and my wife’s life, and our life. I can’t do this unless you’re sure. Are you sure?”
“Jimmy, as sure as anything can be.”
The platitude didn’t reassure him, but still he said, “If you can get me something, I’d appreciate it.”
“Gonna be the best decision of your life.” Donald spread his arms like he was addressing an adoring crowd. “I got a sense for these things. I can feel it.”
“Precision.”
“Yes, sir,” Jim said.
Mr. Hatfield leaned back, clicked his pen, picked up his legal pad, and scratched something onto it. Jim assumed Hatfield was recording his answers, but the writing came and went too chaotically for Jim to be sure he wasn’t scribbling randomly. Its sparse jabbing sounds weren’t a match for the easy momentum of the graphics on the posters of successful campaigns lining his office walls, or the large windows behind his desk so clean and clear Jim felt he could step through them.
The legal pad went back to Hatfield’s desk and next to his steaming cup of coffee. He hadn’t offered Jim a cup. Did that mean something? Was it important that Jim had been called up here only a few days after he’d asked Donald to set up the interview?
Hatfield set down his pen and looked over at a framed poster for a local beer company. Jim remembered that one: REAL BEER FOR REAL MEN. Its directness had won them the account. He looked back at Hatfield and saw him glance back and forth between the beer poster and the legal pad.
“You think precision is the answer to our advertising problems.”
Jim felt he had been quite clear about this point, but he stifled himself from saying so. “Yes, sir.”
“What does that even mean?”
“You can’t affect people if you don’t say what you mean. Use the wrong word, the wrong punctuation, you change the meaning.”
“That’s technical speak, Jimmy. What does that have to do with Creative?”
“People have a hard enough time figuring out what they want without us telling them. How are we supposed to help them if they don’t know what we’re saying?”
“Interesting.”
“Remember that soda ad? Just be cool?”
“The one that almost crashed the product.”
“Of course, it almost crashed. No one knew what it meant.”
Hatfield made another note. “I hear they fired the kid that came up with that one.”
“I hope so.”
Hatfield put down his pen and leaned over his desk with his hand outstretched. Jim shook it and tried to get a sense through the man’s grip for how the interview had gone. Was it firmer than when he’d first sat Jim down? The handshake ended before Jim could figure it out.
“I want to thank you for coming in. I know you’ve been a big help to this agency, doing what you do. The problem is we have no openings.”
“I’m aware of that, sir.”
“But you came anyway. So I think it’s fair to tell you we are thinking of doing a little reorganizing. Nothing certain. But you are now at the top of the list. We’ll be looking to make a quick decision if this happens.”
“I’m sorry for asking sir, but if I could, just how quick do you think?”
“Let’s say as soon as a few days.”
“End of the week?”
“Yes, that sounds fine. We’ll let you know by Friday.”
Jim took out his planner and wrote down on Friday, next to the reminder to supply his wife with a love note, to expect Hatfield’s call.
“That a pocket calendar?”
“Just like to be precise, sir.”
“Some of my writers say precision obstructs creativity. What do you say to that?”
“As I said, without precision, it’s no good.”
Hatfield laughed and clapped his hands together. “Can I get you a cup of coffee before you go?”
“No, but thank you for offering.”
“I’ll walk you back to the elevator.”
“That’s okay. Thank you for seeing me.” He turned to go.
“Jimmy.”
“Yes?”
“I wasn’t exactly happy to bring you in here, not when it was Donald Carter that suggested I see you. But you’ve given me something to think about. I want you to know that.”
“I appreciate you saying that.”
“Good man. We’ll be in touch.”
In the elevator, he pressed the button for his floor and waited. A definite date. And he’d offered Jim a cup of coffee. Those had to be good signs. Enough to go ahead and make some plans should things work out.
His planner made a constant firmament in his front pocket. He felt it now. This was going to happen. He would do this small thing. And from that, he would go forward far enough into his planner to know what would happen and to tell Susan it would happen.
Finally, she would be whole.
He loved her as she was. He wanted her to feel that love for herself. If this was what would do that, he couldn’t stop now.
Back in his office, he took out last week’s newspaper from the top drawer of his desk. It was still wrinkled from its time in the wastebasket. Foolish to throw it away, but he hadn’t known what would happen. At the bottom of the dance instructor’s advertisement was a phone number. He called and spoke with a girl who sounded young and a little too thankful when he asked for an appointment this Friday evening.
On Friday, the clock struck 4:30 pm. He picked up his briefcase and put on his coat.
He couldn’t believe it, how quickly it hadn’t happened. Anticipation made a week pass as easily as a few lines on a page.
If Donald’s bosses hadn’t called Jim by now about the job, they never would. He thought about asking Donald, but Donald hadn’t shown up to lunch all week. Must not want to be the one to break the bad news.
Jim sighed. At least he’d tried.
But now he had a stack of unfinished corrections built up from the time he had wasted on that interview. He’d been working on them since Monday, unable to make any headway. He needed to take them home to finish them by next week’s deadline.
When he came home, his wife glanced at the briefcase he usually left in the car. He apologized and wanted to explain, but he couldn’t decide what to say.
Before he could think of something, she told him it was fine, just make sure to eat something first.
So he put the work aside while they ate dinner and talked. Afterwards, they sat on the couch and watched their show, and then she read next to him while he proofed. Sometimes she smiled and stroked his hand. He was still working when she laid her head on his shoulder and fell asleep with her book open.
Next week, he came in to an excited stare from the receptionist.
“He called.”
Jim didn’t have to ask who. “What did he want?”
“Mr. Hatfield said he wants you to come to his office as soon as you’re here.”
“Okay.” He looked at his briefcase, then his office.
The receptionist came around and took the briefcase out of his hands. “I’ll put it in your office.”
“Okay. It’s all very well organized in case someone needs to see it.”
“Mr. Talbot, just go.”
TO BE CONCLUDED IN PART 3 of 3
