Everything about Ward Borden seemed fixed. He’d been with our agency forever. He always handled the same brands. He was 20 years older than most of us. Nobody ever called him a bastard, and nobody ever mistook him for a player either. I did hear people call him (behind his back, of course) Ward Boring…which I have to admit, made me laugh. Even his hair never moved.

But when my brand started killing people and got yanked, and half our group was laid off, and Stephanie told me I was now part of Ward Borden’s “group” – Ward and a shared secretary – I was relieved. I still had a mortgage.

“It’s all set, Sal. Just don’t act like you know it. Don’t be too funny. Nod a lot, stay awake, and you’ll be fine. Then like every guy around here he’ll be your slave.” Stephanie shook her head in admiration, which almost made me forget she was getting rid of me.

I was in day one of my period (cramps and paranoia), had a ripped stocking, herpes bud on my lip, and some brown roots since Kip had pushed my blondness back a week. But my new boss didn’t seem to notice. He was reading something from a neat pile, and when I tapped on his doorframe he said without looking up, “Sally Balluchi? Ward Borden.” He stood, flicked a smile on and off, and shook my hand. There was a small conference table in his office, but he put me in the chair directly opposite his desk, and went back behind it.

“Stephanie Riley tells me you’re a good senior account executive. I have an opening in the pediatric consumer therapeutics group. Let me tell you about our products. Then I’d like to hear about your background.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Since that sounded jokey, I pressed my lips together with a nod. Then I noticed the hair. Black as tar. Too black for his age. Anyhow when I’m nervous I fixate. So while Ward Borden talked about his brands I fixated on that hair. He combed it back from his high, narrow forehead. Neat sideburns, nothing touching the ears, but straight and full on the top and sides. Not one stray hair visible in the light of the window behind his head: it was like he didn’t have individual hairs, it was all one thing frozen in one direction. Had to be a wig. Or he piled on God knows how much dye, gel, mouse, spray, grease. It just…never moved, and it looked like nothing could make it.

OK Sally, and how would you feel if he stared at your tits? So I looked at other things. He wore a white shirt, tie, and suit jacket, even sitting; nobody did that anymore. A jacket handkerchief and, I swear to God, a tie clip. He had a long nose that looked like a pool cue when he perched his bifocals at the tip to read me something from the marketing plan. His shoulders were the narrowest I’d ever seen on a man. His hand shook a little as he handed me stuff. There were pictures on his credenza, the wife, daughter, two sons, but also, in the biggest frame, a green Jaguar convertible with the top down. One of the sons stood next to it. Then I realized it was Ward Borden, a lot younger – a good height, just so thin, the shoulders and hips so compressed, it was like someone had put the family mold in a compactor. My waist was wider, I just knew it.

Ward Borden abruptly looked in my direction.

“So, Sally, that’s our portfolio. Do these products interest you?”

Even when I don’t listen, part of my brain hears everything. I played it back: A product to keep kids from vomiting, another to restore electrolytes if the kid did too much vomiting, still another to treat acid reflux in infants, and then the really hot one – the grape-flavored allergy syrup. I had just spent a year working on the world’s leading brand for helping men have sex. “Definitely,” I said with another firm nod.

“Well. This requires real grasp of the dynamic between the pediatrician, the child, and most importantly the parent. Do you have children?”

“No, but all my sisters do.” One sister, in Pittsburgh, but she does have three. “Some weekends I feel like I’m running a daycare center!”

“Well,” Ward Borden said, “my wife and I had four, and…well…every child is different.” I gave him my look of bimbo awe – four? that’s some sperm, you stud – but he didn’t get it, or acknowledge it. “We need to bring more credibility than ever to this account, because the client has finally recognized its potential.”

“Oh really?”

“There’s a new brand manager. He comes from pharma. He’s very excited about putting more focus on the doctor. He wants to double our budget.”

“So I’ve got good timing.” I let myself laugh. Even bounced my hair a little. Ward Borden didn’t laugh, and his hair didn’t move, but he didn’t seem displeased with me, either.


“The account will definitely be more active. This new manager, Mr. Collucci, is high energy. Likes to travel and be entertained. So yes” – he looked past my shoulder and sighed – “it is good timing for you to be on the team.”

That sigh stayed with me as we agreed on salary and title (same as before), as I purged my files of erections and filled them with baby puke, as I ran out to buy more pantyhose. Usually it was a smirk or glance down my chest, but it said the same thing: Big blonde Sally with the big laugh and big tits, thighs and shoulders of a linebacker and equally delicate taste in jokes and conversation. Not the sharpest tool in the shed but indispensable with clients who had money and were men. All woman yet one of the boys, always ready to party and dance and drink and bring the credit card anywhere, but still able to keep it, and them, under control.

I pondered my outsized personality and love of excitement as I revved up my seven-year-old Toyota for the crawl home on 287 from our office park in Parsippany to the one street in Peapack that had “starter houses”, all filled with young couples except mine. Along the way I picked up dry cleaning at my semi-ex-husband Neil’s (Neil, thank God, was out) and stopped at Power Video to look for the new Bruce Willis where he shaves his head and saves the planet. He wasn’t there, and this latest proof of my exciting life drove me to Feed the Bear, a huge sports bar on the edge of Chester. Seven screens mounted strategically so even if you’re taking a crap you can keep an eye on the game. The place was filled with blue and white collars, united by worship of sport and lust-hate for us broads. I’d decided I needed to be picked up. I hadn’t experienced actual sex in 377 days. Ward Borden, of all people, reminded me I was horny. I sat there drinking ladylike Daiquiris. Was that blood seeping between my legs?

I flirted with Rick, Lester, Charles, Miko. Even Kerry the bartender though my gaydar tells me he goes the other way. When I acted slutty they laughed and slapped me on the back. So much for blond hair and big tits. I’m really not bad-looking. I’m overweight but even when I lose weight it’s still the same. Men talk about sex around me, just don’t have any with me…most of the time. A gay friend told me once I’m bigger than life. “Your features are great, Sal, just your scale keeps you from being beautiful. But,” he added in a hurry, “it makes you more likeable.”

“Ward Boring is a loser.” Will put that hammy emphasis on boring and loser that makes him so dramatic in his concept presentations. “Like so many here at S&M, he’s a lost soul.”

“A broken toy,” Jake said.

“A drunk,” Will said.

“Gets totally liquored up every lunchtime, and like a good WASP, comes back to the office and works without passing out and you’d never know.”

“Then again, if he did pass out who’d notice?”

“Hey, he’s a rebel. He smokes in his office.”

“True. And he openly admits to loving his Jag more than his wife.”

“Let’s not forget the kiddies – ”

“Well, that’s the problem. He did.”

I clapped my hands. “Yo. Guys. Can you answer my question?”

“There is no answer,” Will said. “He’s a sphinx without a secret.”

“And I’ll bet my 401K the man does not even own a comb. That rug – ”

“Oh, he’s not so bad!” I yelled it. They stared at me. Will sighed loudly.

“Sal, this is a man who for the past two decades has done exactly the same thing every day, which is to say, nothing. OK?”

I stomped out (and heard, behind me, “Boring and Balluchi – there’s a brain trust”). Mina our traffic queen was walking by – Mina always happened to be walking by – and she squeezed my arm and held out her middle finger as she passed Will’s doorway. I felt better, until I remembered her comment about my new boss: “Oooh, Sal, you with him? They must want you to quit so they don’t have to pay severance.”

After two weeks of Ward Borden, I did want to quit. We all have routines. But this guy….Every day he got in at 8:44, holding a brown bag. He took out a plastic container with chopped up melon and orange that he ate with a plastic fork while reading the Wall Street Journal for 25 minutes. Then he looked through yesterday’s mail – never opened a letter the day it came – and any contact reports I had left him. 35 minutes. Then he stared out the window. I swear to God, 15 minutes. I come in during any of this, he looks at me with no expression, gives me a one-word answer, or, if I don’t have a question, if I try to shoot the shit, stares silently at me until it gets too weird and I leave. I learned not to approach him before ten. We’d work straight till 12:17. He’d say “let’s pick this up after lunch” and walk to the elevator, already lighting a cigarette. No sign of him until 2:14. Never saw him come in but there he was, back behind his desk, and out came the brown bag again and a tuna fish sandwich wrapped in foil. By 2:30 we were back at work. I never smelled booze on him, just cigarettes and shoe polish. We worked straight ‘til 4:51. If I was in his office, the phone would ring and he’d gave me the stare and I’d leave. A couple of times I listened outside. I knew it was his wife but never heard “Hi Honey” or “I love you” or “Get off my back, I’m busy”. I never heard anything. Ward Borden talked like an usher at a funeral. At 5:16 on the dot he was gone. He never said good night.

Yeah, this was an advertising agency – sweatshop and nuthouse, a crisis a minute and psychodramas performed hourly. None of it touched Ward Borden. He never broke a sweat or raised his voice. He never swaggered and he never gossiped. He never complained, and neither did he ever seem enthusiastic about anything. He was polite and to the point with people from every department. Traffic, production, editorial, even the creatives never gave him a hard time. As if dazed into courtesy in his presence. ‘Course the second he walked away they dismembered him. Bore, bonehead, old fart, loser, drunk, fraud, freak – “He wears a thong and nipple rings under that suit,” claimed Bill, one of our editors. “He should’ve been fired ten years ago but he goes to the same Anglican church as his client,” said AnnaMaria, his own secretary. “He’s 68 without the wig and facelift,” said John Donnelly. “He murdered his own kid, you know,” Raghu from human resources told me. “Well, his wife did, but he helped her cover it up.”

I had to say the guy knew his stuff. One-task-at-a-time was dull, but every day I left feeling like I got something done. He handled the departing client smoothly; there was never a complaint about the work. He made me write too many contact reports, but they forced me to get organized. Just by watching him, asking questions, I was learning a lot. He never made me feel a question was stupid, or said, “I already told you that.”

But he never laughed at my jokes. So be grateful, I thought: here was a chance to be recognized for my brain. I studied the market. I called my sister at night to get the mommy perspective on baby vomiting, diarrhea, and allergy. I came into Ward Borden’s office with an idea I didn’t see in the marketing plan. He heard me out and said, “This client doesn’t do programs like that. Much too expensive.” Looked down at his papers. After a minute I walked out. I went back the next day with another idea. This time he said, “Their sales force will never work with a format like that.” The next time it was, “Regulatory will shoot that down. It’s not an approved claim.” Then I realized the answer didn’t matter: Ward Borden didn’t want my ideas. He didn’t even pretend to consider them, or indulge me with five minutes of give and take, or praise me for making the effort. I’ve been shot down before. I’ve been told I’m not strategic (nobody with my cup size is considered strategic). My skin isn’t thin. Somehow, though, his reaction, non-reaction, made me feel like a piece of shit.

One day we’d finished reviewing a layout, but instead of leaving I said: “You’ve got a nice-looking family, Ward.”

“Thank you.”

Your wife is really beautiful, I wanted to say – but she wasn’t. Tanned and trim, but her face looked like a fist when she smiled. I said: “Your son is gorgeous.”

He nodded. Didn’t thank me this time. Didn’t ask or turn his head to see what son I was referring to.

“But hey Ward, how does your wife feel about the Jaguar getting a bigger picture than her and the kids?”

“She’s got more important things to think about,” he said, “and so do we.” Not angry, but that was the end of that.

Another time, we were hot on a topic at 12:17, and I said: “Want to continue this over lunch someplace?”

“Well, Sally. I have errands to run.”

We never had lunch. We never talked about anything but work. I couldn’t gab with him about something funny on TV, or even some harmless dish on a coworker. He was a wall, a blank, and he never, ever asked me a question about me.

Once I was so desperate I even tried politics: “So you must be happy.”

“Happy?”

“The impeachment. Bubba’s on the ropes. Newt’s gonna be the man.”

I figured anybody who wears his suit jacket all day had to be Republican. For once Ward Borden seemed startled. He stared at me over his bifocals, and then slowly shook his head. “It doesn’t matter who’s in charge, Sally.”

He sounded bitter, which should have encouraged me. Instead, my face felt weird and I found myself rushing out of there. Bumped into Mina, who grabbed my arm. “You OK, Sal?”

“No. That fucking Ward – ” And I was crying – me, who only cries at movies. “Whoa,” Mina said, and steered me to an empty office, shutting the door. “What happened?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“Did he do something?”

“You were right. I can’t work with him. I hate him.”

“Really? Wow. I figured you’d be yawning to death, but…”

“He hasn’t tried to hit on me,” I said, “and he hasn’t screamed at me. He hasn’t done anything. He’s a zero. It’s driving me crazy!”

Mina handed me a tissue. “But he has nothing against you, Sal.”

“I know that….Sorry. But this guy isn’t an ad man. He’s an undertaker!”

“Yeah, well, he has some issues. Bigger issues than the next journal ad. Poor Ward. He wasn’t always like this. You know, I started the same week as him – ”

“No way. You could be his daughter.”

“Thanks for lying. Now, he was always a little stiff, but he knew how to work a client, and he was a pretty good presenter, believe it or not. Loved his cars and cigars. Loved a good martini. But then something happened with his wife…the kid you don’t see a picture of anymore.”

“Raghu told me they killed the kid.”

“Raghu’s an idiot.” We both giggled. “But, something…did happen. Nobody knows what for sure. He was out for a while. Then he came back. He never said a word. Did his job, but…he just stopped talking to anyone about anything other than work.”

Great. Now I felt guilty. The waterworks were starting again.

“Sal, just hang on,” Mina said. “It’ll get better once your new client starts.”

Val Collucci looked like a mailbox. Not exactly fat but wide, low to the ground, boxy chest and rounded shoulders, and heavy, sloping arms that poured straight into his kneecaps. My next thought was he looked a little like Ron Jeremy; no mustache but a permanent blue shadow above his lip and chin, and the half of his scalp that still had hair was thick and crazy curly, like a misplaced crotch. He didn’t look sexy, I can tell you that, and he didn’t look like he wanted to fuck me. For a second I did think he wanted to kill me.

He said: “How long have you been on this account?”

“About three weeks. But I’m already all over it – ”

“I just spent the last hour getting briefed by Mister Borden. I have two questions for you. One, do you agree with how these brands are being promoted?”

“No. I don’t.” I started to say something about the lack of budget but Val Collucci waved his long arm violently.

“Good. And two, how do you look at that guy’s hair with a straight face? My jaw is hurting.”

“Hey, I’m in the service business,” I said. “My jaw hurts all the time.”

He opened his mouth and a harsh, scraping sound came out.

“Good answer! Funny, some sexual innuendo, and at the same time you avoid the issue. I can tell you’re a good account person.” Again he gave me that look of death that must scare everybody he deals with. I decided it didn’t scare me at all. “But come on, Sal – Sal and Val, oh that’s gonna be fun – come on, that thing is a carpet. Wall to wall, indoor-outdoor, not one organic fiber. How do you stand it?”

“I don’t. I just try not to look at it. Him. Which isn’t hard, since he never looks at me either.”

“Hmmm, do I detect…hostility?” I almost said fuck you and then reminded myself: He is a client. But I didn’t deny it.

“Anyhow, when I do look at him, I think of my cat that died. Putty. Like Putty-Cat. She was 17. Sobers me right up.”

“I had a cat too! White, part Angora. Sheena. She made it to 20. I cried on and off for two days.” He made that sound, like radio static, and I realized he did it at the end of every sentence; I couldn’t tell if it was a laugh or a tic or if the guy just lived on the verge of hysteria. “I love cats. We have two now, but my kids terrorize them so much I never see them, I think they live and shit under the bed – ”

“How many kids do you have?” Trying for safer territory.

“Five. Don’t start! I know it’s obscene, this day and age. I know it. I don’t need you to tell me.” He started pacing around my room, which was so spacious he had to turn every four steps to avoid hitting a wall. He kept shaking his head, tapping his thumb against his index, middle, and ring fingers. He wore black pants, artsy black shoes with blunt fronts like Will and Jake’s, and a long-sleeved mock turtle neck…mailbox blue, I realized. Small diamond stud in his right earlobe. Dark eyes with long lashes; eyebrows perfectly shaped, which put a blip on my gaydar. But not for a second would you mistake this guy for a New Yorker. You just knew he was a wage slave with kids, wife, and crummy split-level in Cranford, probably two blocks away from his parents.

“Hey.” He turned to me abruptly. “I have an idea. No matter what I do or say, Sal, just roll with it, OK? Come on.”

We went to Ward Borden’s office. He was behind his desk, suit jacket on as usual – he couldn’t be happy about Val’s outfit – but he stood up with a beaming smile. A smile I never got. “That was fast! Did you two have a good talk?”

“Ward. Sally’s been telling me all about your Jag. It sounds great.” That death look at me, for confirmation.

“Ward, it is,” I said, “really sleek.” Thank God I’d actually been in it.

“I’m so sick of my Volvo, and that goddamn Explorer my wife drives isn’t even technically a fucking car.” Ward Borden, still beaming, blinked. “Please can I see it? Maybe we can take a spin? Let’s do it now! We can talk the plan outside.”

“Certainly,” said Ward, “my car needs a wash, but…certainly. It’ll be a nice change from the conference room. Think I’ve spent half my life in there.”

“I’ll bet you have.” They both laughed. The sounds came from different galaxies.

Most of us had to park under the building but Ward Borden had a prime spot out front. The wind was blowing and the sky was turning black. Soon as we reached the Jag Ward pressed the unlock button, but Val walked slowly around the car. This Jag was green, too, but didn’t look anywhere as nice as the one in the picture. Or was it the same Jag, just a lot older and neglected? Needed a paint job along with a washing. The bumper had dents from a rear-ender that Ward never got repaired. The top was up; it looked like a napkin that had been folded too many times. But Val whistled softly, and asked a bunch of technical questions. Ward knew every answer. I could see at one time this was a passion, though now he spoke like a smiling robot. My hair was already a mess. I felt drops. “Uh, this weather is about to undo what my hairdresser spent two hours doing yesterday…Mister Collucci,” I said.

Val shot me the look of death; then probably decided that I was being devious, so Ward wouldn’t suspect collusion, and really hinting at stronger action. “Sally’s right,” he said, “we’re about to get soaked. Let’s just take a quick spin before we go back inside, OK Ward?”

Naturally I banged my head jamming myself into the back seat. Even before we left the parking lot rain was bouncing off the roof like a trampoline. Val said, “This is so great. My car handles like a rhino compared to this. Look, I’m sorry. Could we just open the windows? All of them? I’m a little claustrophobic.”

Ward Borden said nothing. The back of his head was as blank as the front. All the windows went down, and instantly rain slapped our faces and arms. “Thank you, Ward. Just one more favor, and then we’ll get Sally’s hair out of harm’s way. Can you push it to 100 for me?”

Suddenly it was like the car had no top. I gasped and cupped my hands over my head, which still got drenched. Val screamed like he was on a roller coaster, then stopped when he realized Ward was silent. Val’s crazy hair almost flattened on the right side, and water rolled off his turtleneck, over the back of his seat, dripping on my knees. Ward Borden was soaked too, but he sat straight and still, and his hair…well, it never moved. Not one strand separated itself. Not one dent or ripple.

“Christ Ward! Close the windows already.”

“Oh! I’m sorry,” Ward Borden said, and up they went.

“Christ. Claustrophobia is one thing, drowning is worse, don’t you agree?” Sarcastic, like it was Ward’s moronic idea to open the windows in the first place.

“Well, Val. Where would you like to go now?”

“My house so I can change clothes. No, just kidding. Back to your office.”

“So…how did you like the pickup?” Ward said. Val grunted. So much for the Jaguar, and when Ward attempted to bring up the marketing plan Val groaned theatrically, “Please. I can’t think until I dry off.”

After a minute Ward spoke again: “So…we have big families in common.”

“Yeah, and wives that don’t work. Sorry. I shouldn’t assume. What does your wife do?”

Did he know something? Ward said, “She’s a homemaker. How old is your oldest?”

“Eighteen.”

“Really? You look too young to have a child starting college.”

“I’m 40,” Val said. “But you know us wops – we start breeding early.” His voice was pure venom, like he was certain that Ward looked down on him. “And how many you got, four?”

“I have three.”

Silence the rest of the way. Twice Ward turned his head toward Val as if to say something, and failed. Val was being a pure prick but I enjoyed watching Ward struggle the way he made me struggle. Wall meets wall, I thought.

“Hey, Val, thanks a lot,” I said when we got back, still dripping, to Ward’s office. My hair was curling into spirals: “I’m gonna look like a Chia Pet.”

“You can use a change,” Val laughed, and then to Ward: “And so can our marketing plan. We will meet again tomorrow, and we will start rebuilding our whole promotional effort from scratch. What we have now just doesn’t cut it. Don’t look so upset – it’ll mean more money for you guys anyway.”

“I’m not upset, I’m excited,” Ward said with his pasted smile. “Just one small caution, if I may. The plan and budget have already been approved by the head of marketing. We’ll meet less resistance if we amend it rather than – ”

“Paulsen brought me in to be a change agent. I’m presenting to him and the global director in Boca Raton in two weeks. I will unveil a radically different, more competitive, and for the first time in years effective plan for the pediatric franchise. We will do things differently on this account from now on. I promise you that.”

He then announced he had left his planner in my office. Linking arms with me, he started to march us off, then turned back to Ward: “Oh, and next time we meet, Ward – no suit, no tie. Casual dress from now on. I’m paying for your brain, not Brooks Brothers.”

Next thing I knew we were driving, in Val’s Volvo, to some place in the Village that Val claimed was the coolest business bar in New York City.

It seemed like in one motion he had grabbed his planner and got me out of the building and into his car. Didn’t ask me if I had plans (naturally, I didn’t); didn’t give me one second to even think to suggest we invite Ward Borden along. I just saw my boss reduced to rubble; now I was party to the most rude, blatant snub. I won’t pretend I didn’t enjoy it, but I’m not a total moron: betray your boss and he’ll find a thousand ways to pay you back. “You know, Val,” I said, “we should’ve asked Ward to join us. Let me call him – ”

“No!” Val bugged his eyes in mock-panic, and the car swerved a little. I put the phone away.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” Val said. The bar was on Worth Street, and no great shakes. Dark and seedy and obviously decorated to be that way, with beat-to-shit tables and bar stools but also sleek computer terminals. We did not fit in. Val was too loud. I was too blond and looked like a fat Farrah Fawcett in this crowd. Our waitress with the rusty dreadlocked hair smirked the whole time she took our money. After two whiskeys, I didn’t care.

“I brought you here so we can really talk,” Val said, “because we have to do something, and we have to do it fast.”

For a while we talked strategy and tactics. The guy had a quick brain – ideas shot off him like sparks – the kind of person who makes you think harder and smarter. Plus we just hit it off, and although we really were working, we spent half the time laughing. The more he drank – white wines but a lot of them – the more Val stared at me. Not the look of death and not the look of lust, either, but he seemed…fascinated. Started asking me questions, wanted to know everything about me, childhood, family, relationships, where I lived, clothes, makeup, my battle with weight, even my hair…in fact, as I was whining about the damage done by our joy ride, Val said “I’ll fix it.” Before I could protest he was behind my stool. “Brush first.” He made my scalp tingle. “Comb.” Steadily but gently he pulled the comb through. I did yelp at one knot, drawing more smirks from our waitress and the cool threesome at the next table. “Wow. First time I’ve made a woman scream,” Val said.

“Thanks.” I was glad when he went back to his seat.

“You look lovely, Sally Balluchi…did you notice that’s the only time Mister Borden doesn’t sound like a machine? Balluchi, Collucci – like we’re from the hills of Sicily, or fat opera divas. Fucking jerk.”

“That’s probably why I got the job. He figured we’d be perfect together.”

“Right! Wop heaven…He’s such a snobby, old-boy bigot. You’re either a WASP or you’re some kind of wog. Probably thinks Italy is part of Africa.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Fuck you. You can say that ‘cause you’re not Italian.”

“Oooh, you caught me. Who told you?”

“Nobody had to. Honey, you don’t look it. Eastern European, I’d say.”

“You’re good. I come from big-boned Slavic – Czechoslavic – stock. I think I’m getting a little drunk here…”

He laughed more static and called for another round. “The joke is, Balluchi, your husband, ex-husband – ”

“Separated – ”

“Whatever. He’s Indian, right? As in curry.”

“Now you’re scaring me!” I felt creepy, yet flattered.

“Simple deduction. Balluchi’s is an Indian restaurant, a big chain, there’s probably one in this neighborhood.”

“Well, that’s not Neil – my husband. I wouldn’t be working if it was.”

“But now you’re split. What happened? Did he want you to wear the dot?”

“Stop it. He’s a very nice man. We just didn’t – ” With whiskey clarity Neil’s face eclipsed Val’s and I wanted to be with him – not here, but on the couch in the dark, our spot, his arms around my belly and lips pressing the back of my neck. I missed his smell. He was so kind. He actually wanted me. He’d been here three years and worked two jobs so he could save enough to start his own business. Six months before we married, he opened Balluchi Cleaner. It made money immediately, and the day we walked into our starter house, he said, “We won’t be here long.”

But I never stopped noticing his accent. Even after I made him buy new clothes he looked – not off the boat, but foreign. I couldn’t share his dream of a dry-cleaning empire. He kept urging me to work with him – “Be our own boss, Sally” – and he kept talking about having kids. “You know, it’s so unreal. I met him – he was driving me to the airport – ”

“Please,” Val said. “My wife sat next to me in Trig. I let her cheat off me so I could get into her pants. If she had sat one seat over, my whole life would be different….We married so, so young.”

“Is your name really Val?”

“Oh yes. Valentine. Can you believe it? My crazy mother – ”

“Who you have dinner with every Sunday – ”

“Bitch! I was born on Valentine’s day. People usually call me Sal even after I introduce myself and hand over my business card.”

“Well, I think it’s romantic. I’ll be your wife does too.”

“She’s…just fertile. She could get pregnant off a toilet seat.”

“You’re disgusting! Here I’m feeling bad because I’m keeping you from her – ”

“No,” he said, laughing hysterically. “Really. She’s happy to see me for half an hour in the morning and half an hour at night. With CNN on. I think she’s really married to my oldest son.” He dug his fingers into his eyes. “Oh Sal. Spent my whole life cleaning baby crap and puke. Now it’s my marketing focus. I’m 40 years old, my youngest is two, and I’m never going to stop working.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you have fun.” I patted his wrist, and just as quickly pulled my hand away. As if offended, he gave me the look of death, but then said: “Let’s make something of this, Sal. Please. Let’s make an impact. That’s why I loathe Mister Borden…he’s just coasting. He could care less. I have to shake things up – whatever I’m working on – I have to make something happen, even if it means I’m a jerk, even if they throw me out in a year…which has happened to me. But don’t worry, we – you and me – we’re going to take this franchise up. This could be very, very good for you. ‘Cause I’m gonna deal with you, not him.”

“Val, the man is not stupid…and he’s still my boss.”

“We’ll do something about that,” Val said. “And we’ve gotta do something about the carpet.”

I didn’t get home till 2:30, and I let myself slide in the next day at 10. I went straight to Ward Borden’s office.

I told him everything. Well, almost. I didn’t tell him about Val’s obvious desire to get rid of him. But I did tell him that Val dragged me out, that we talked about the key account issues – a discussion that Ward, of course, should have been part of – and that Val was going to tell him he wanted to work day to day with me.

Ward continued staring out the window, and I saw a curl of smoke rise from behind the far side of his chair.

“Ward,” my voice shaking, “please don’t be mad at me. You know – I would never – please know that I’m not playing games or trying to stab you in the back. I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

“Sally, what I want doesn’t matter. He’s the client. It’s his money and his brands, and he can make whatever changes he wants.”

“He does have some good ideas—”

“Of course he does. They cost money and they involve risks. They will go against the grain of his company’s culture, no matter what mandate he’s been given. That’s fine. Our job is to tell him what we think is right – and to let his management know we haven’t totally lost touch with reality – that’s our duty, as his agency.”

“But I’m telling you, that’s going to piss him off!”

“He’s the client, Sally. I never forget that. That’s how I’ve kept the business all these years.”

“But – how he acted yesterday – he shouldn’t just dismiss your experience…”

“Oh, he’ll learn. They all do.”

“So you’re not mad at me?”

Ward must have butted the cigarette someplace, cause there was no more smoke. “He likes you. That’s good. You have his ear and we’ll just keep trying to do the right thing and keep the business. You just…keep him happy.”

He didn’t leer. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t look at me at all. You fucking bastard, I thought.

Val called me constantly. I saw him every day of the week and went out with him most nights. The work part was great. The guy meant it about creating a new plan from scratch, and he wasn’t just using me for dictation. He listened to me. He thought I was strategic. We brainstormed and wrote ideas down and shaped them at all hours. The big Boca meeting was in two weeks and we were working toward a knockout presentation. Around this time it was announced that Paulsen – Val’s boss and Ward’s main connection – would be retiring in six months. Although Ward didn’t act like this meant anything, Val got almost manic with confidence. He stopped calling Ward and ignored him when visiting the agency. Once, because I insisted, he let him sit in on a brainstorm, but shot down all his ideas, barely looked at him, and after it was over said to me: “Well that’s the last time we do that.”

Ward Borden did his duty, called Val every day. He made appointments through Val’s secretary that Val would then cancel. He reviewed the presentation slides; I have to admit, a lot of his comments were sharp, and I got Val to modify some things by pretending Ward’s insights were mine. Ward knew I was doing this – I couldn’t help confessing to him – and he never showed anger. It was like the guy had no ego. At the brainstorm and on days when he knew Val would be visiting our office, Ward wore a dress shirt with no tie, and a blazer and gray slacks instead of a suit. It made me want to cry. It made me despise him.

Why didn’t Val just ask him off the account? Ward wasn’t really protected anymore. But Val was weird. I almost wished he would hit on me, so I could respond with a definite no. But with Val it was more like we were racy girlfriends cruising, or bored housewives out to pamper ourselves. We went into New York constantly, to hot restaurants and bars and clubs he had read about. We went shopping at Bergdorf’s, Armani, Prada, and Barney’s for our “Florida wardrobe.” (He made me buy a purple bathing suit – “I want you to wear more purple from now on.”) We went to Arden for a face pick, seaweed wrap, even a “couples” massage side by side in the same room. To my surprise Val had no chest hair. He confessed to having it lasered out. As they were turning him over he dropped his towel. I looked away, but for the rest of the session Val kept saying, “What do you think? Your silence is killing me.” I took him to Kip to get his head shaved. Val agreed but insisted that I do something radical too, so I had mine cut short and dyed black as Ward’s. Val looked at us in the mirror and said, “Great – I look like a dildo and you look like a dominatrix.” I had asked Kip in advance to assess whether this guy was gay or not. Afterward Kip whispered, “Inconclusive.”

But no sex, never even a hint. I started to wonder if Val’s substitute was Ward Borden. He catalogued every ridiculous detail about the man, he mimicked his robot voice and walk and shaking hands, he speculated viciously about the fate of Ward’s fourth kid – drowning, car crash, drug overdose, schizophrenia, rape and murder, devil worship, human sacrifice – and blood would rush to his face and his shoulders would swell and his arms extend like his whole body was an erection. He creeped me out, but I couldn’t stop laughing. I would bring up Ward, for a second hating myself, and then laugh and laugh until I was ready to pass out.

The carpet was topic one. How, Val said, how the hell did that thing never move? How the hell does he do it? Who the hell does he think he is?

“Uh, earth to Val. It’s a wig. You said so yourself.”

“No. It’s the key. To everything. Turn that key and we’re rid of him, Sal.”

Three days later, we were in Boca Raton. Arrived late Tuesday, so we’d have all Wednesday to prepare for our presentation at nine o’clock Thursday morning. But when the three of us met for dinner Tuesday night Val didn’t mention the plan once, and the agenda he laid out for Wednesday was vacation stuff: shopping, the beach, stone crab lunch, a boat tour. “When do we rehearse?” Ward asked.

“When do I rehearse?” Val said. “I’m the one who’ll be standing up there. I know this plan backwards and forwards. I’d rather be relaxed and fresh.”

The next morning, at breakfast, when Ward went to the buffet for his melon, I said to Val, “You sure you don’t want to practice a little today? We could have lunch brought in.”

“Sal, tomorrow we are marketers. Today” – leaning toward me with the look of death – “we are carpetbombers.”

Val and I did some pointless shopping while Ward Borden played a few holes of golf with Paulsen. Then, as agreed, we met up at the beach. Ward did his duty: he wore bathing trunks. Same dark blue as his suits. He had a little belly sag, but a decent, if narrow build…and dark hair on his pale chest. “Freak!” Val whispered. “He must dye that too.” Meanwhile Val with his surgically bare chest and his bright orange trunks and tan makeup was quite a sight himself. Ward helped us spread the beach towels. He put on his own sunblock while Val slathered me down. But when Val said, “Let’s check out the water,” Ward shook his head.

“I don’t swim,” he said.

“What?” Val’s static raised heads along the beach. Ward’s private time with Paulsen had pissed him off. “You don’t swim? You can’t swim?”

“I don’t swim,” Ward repeated. He didn’t say “any more” but I was sure, then, that whatever had happened to his kid was somehow connected with water. He didn’t raise his voice. But I knew – and Val knew – that even if his job was on the line he would not put one foot into the ocean.

“OK, be a spoilsport! Come on, Sally, let’s cool off.”

We didn’t really swim, just splashed around. Enough to wreck my hair and wash off most of the lotion. I could feel the sun silently frying my skin. Then Val insisted we build a sand castle. The sand near our blanket was too dry, and Val borrowed two plastic buckets from a family near us and came back with both filled with ocean water. Just as he reached us, he pretended to stumble on a bump in the sand. The buckets and their contents flew right into Ward.

“Val you’re such an idiot!” I said without hesitation. I really hated him. Ward jumped up. He was drenched; the carpet was dripping and looked like the water had really soaked in. It was all so obvious but Ward simply stared at Val as the asshole made a loud, phony apology.

“Bye-bye sand castle! OK, change of plan. Let’s do the boat before lunch.”
I said, “But there’s no tour now – ”

“Fuck the tour. We’ll do our own tour. Let’s rent a cigarette! Come on, Sal, I’ll bet you got a credit card tucked in your bra somewhere.”

Ten minutes later we had chartered the boat, long and sleek and pink like from Miami Vice. The driver was a deeply tanned little guy with white buck teeth and an earring – which Val pointed out loudly looked just like his. He glanced blinking past Val and asked us where we were headed. Val said, “It doesn’t matter. Fast and furious.” “You’ll be needin’ jackets,” the guy said. Val: “What we need is speed.” The guy shrugged and directed us into the boat. Val’s stubby legs stumbled – this time for real – and he might have gotten dunked himself if Ward hadn’t grabbed his other elbow. “Thanks, Ward,” Val said.

“Stay in your seat the whole time,” the boat guy said. “And hold onto the metal bar in front of you.” But the seats were elevated like bar stools, and leaning forward to hold the bar made you feel like you were half-standing. Val was in the front row, to the left of the driver; he put me directly behind him and Ward to my right so that he could turn pretending to talk to me and check how Ward and his hair were doing.

The engine started up. “I feel seasick already,” I said. Val laughed. I looked at Ward. He wasn’t smiling or bothering to talk. He managed to look dignified, even as he half-sat and half-crouched forward to grasp the bar. The instant the boat started moving we felt the wind. Ward must know what Val was pulling. Why didn’t he make an excuse and leave? I wanted him to leave. I heard myself say: “Hey Ward. You OK?” He nodded and shook his head at the same time, as if to say: Not in front of the client.

The driver started gently, but as soon as we were clear of the dock and the other boats, he hit it: I thought the wind would rip my body apart, tear my hair out by the roots. I said goodbye to an earring, the credit card receipt was gone, and I almost fell down. I held on somehow, didn’t scream. Val looked like a shaved ape squatting in front of me, but the bastard held his position OK, and even turned to laugh at me: “You look relaxed.” I said, truthfully, “Val I may throw up,” and he said “Well if any of it hits my back, you’re off the business! Just you and me, Ward, right?”

Ward didn’t answer.

“Fast and furious!” Val shouted to the driver. The guy must have lived on tips because he didn’t argue, just called out, “Hold onto the bar,” and doubled our speed. Now we were bouncing up and smacking down, over and over, and I did scream. We skipped like a giant stone across the water. My teeth were hammering and the wind made my nipples hard as darts. The breath whipping through my mouth was sour and I knew it was only a matter of time before I was sick.

Val yelled: “How’s everybody doing!” You couldn’t see his eyes for the sunglasses; his teeth were crazy enough. “Well look at the two of you!”

I remembered Ward. I looked at his hair, and I saw, for the first time, turbulence. I saw strands – single, long hairs – detach and flap against the side of his head. One hair whipped from the crown of his head to the tip of his nose. His hand shot up, to smooth or hold it down; and this must have affected his balance because his hips rocked at the end of the seat. He pressed his lips together and put his hand back on the bar.

“All the way!” Val screamed to the driver and the idiot obeyed. The wind beat my chest so hard I couldn’t make a sound, even with the Zapruder film running next to me. One second the carpet was intact. Then the carpet was gone, Ward’s head was gone, it was like a bullet had struck and the head exploded, hair spurting and flying everywhere like black blood, for a moment I was sure brain and skull fragments were pelting my purple suit….So his hair was real after all. Guess he kept it long and glued it down. Maybe the dunking loosened it; maybe the wind was just too much. Ward stood there, hands on the bar, no longer trying to pull his hair down. And then I did throw up.

Tried to do it over the side but some of it landed inside the boat, gray hunks of oatmeal against pink. I felt it dripping down my arm and threw up again. “Stop it,” Ward said, “stop the boat, slow down, she’s sick,” and when the driver did slow and look back at us he said with authority, “Take us back right now.” Val looked back, over his sunglasses. “Aw Sal, you wuss!” Then loudly to the driver, “Yeah, take us back,” though the driver had already turned toward shore.

At the dock, Ward and Val helped me off the boat and onto a bench. Val fussed over me, wiped my mouth and arm with a wet towel, smoothed my sweaty, salty hair. “Hey,” he whispered, “we did it.” Ward was a few feet away, his back to us; he put both hands up and tried to smooth down his hair. It was hopeless. Floated above and around his head like a cloud of gnats. Val went up to him and patted his shoulder. “Nice head of hair, Ward,” he said, “you know, this could be a new look for you – ”

Ward turned. Val’s hand slipped off his shoulder. Ward slapped his face. Not a punch. A slap. I knew then that Ward could have destroyed Val. But he picked the gesture that would fully express his contempt. Val’s sunglasses climbed up his head on one side so an eye was exposed. Val’s tan makeup now registered all five fingers of Ward’s hand.

Val shuddered. “Ward!” I said. He looked at me, once, and I looked down. When I looked up he was walking away, arms at his sides, toward the hotel.

“You’re off, off this account,” Val shouted. Though Ward was out of earshot. Then, to me: “Well congratulations girl. You’re in charge.”

“Fuck you,” I said.

“Fuck you. It was a joke. Christ!” And he stomped off, leaving me there.

I stayed in bed all afternoon. I met Val for dinner. Ward did not show up, and Val didn’t mention him. We talked presentation, but drank so much that he never practiced. Next morning, the stone expression on Paulsen’s face as we entered the room told me we were dead in the water. He didn’t ask about Ward, but stabbed and gutted every idea, every slide we presented, and smelling blood, the director of global joined in. Val got more and more sarcastic in response. At the end, Paulsen – who didn’t speak to me once – told Val to stick around so they could discuss “next steps.”

I flew back to Newark, drinking all the way. Went home and kept on drinking until I nodded off. The next morning, I bumped into Mina as I was walking into the office. She squeezed my arm and said, “I’m sorry, honey.” An hour later Raghu paged me to his office. Ward had retired; Val had, apparently, resigned; Paulsen had pulled the business; and so they had to let me go. No transfers this time. Two months severance and it was fine if I left today.

I just nodded. I figured I deserved it. I never called Val and he never called me. I tried to call Ward, but his cell phone was disconnected.

For a while, I didn’t do anything. Couldn’t bring myself to call other agencies. But I still have a mortgage, and I called Neil. By now he had three stores. He made me the manager of his Bedminster branch. The work was OK, in fact I felt better than I had in a long time.

Except I kept thinking about Ward. I had his address. Over months I wrote and rewrote a letter of apology to him and finally sent it. I wasn’t expecting him to answer, and he didn’t.