Chapter 1 of COUPON GIRL

JUNE 8   Monday   LET’S START AT THE VERY BEGINNING

     I was witty in my waking dream, confident and persuasive. Crowds laughed and made way.  Colors were bright, grins were genuine, and hope bubbled in the air like a first glass of champagne.  Then I woke up and faced my bathroom scale, which proclaimed in its somewhat British accent, One hundred and forty pounds.

     Screw the waking dream.

     And the yogurt waiting for me. 

     And your little dog too.

     You might think I would skip breakfast.  You would be wrong.  Two slices of cold pizza, both with extra cheese--good and good for you.  The giant can of Redi-Whip was in there calling my name too. Don't think I haven't started my day with a good squirt of that stuff right down the hatch.
    When I looked out the kitchen slider, I caught sight of my 86-year-old grandfather, who owned the house next to mine and who had recently been told by the cardiologist not to overdo things.  To Gramp, this meant mowing and clipping and edging and trimming only once a week instead of twice, and keeping the chainsaw in the Off position while climbing the extension ladder. 
     He was wearing his Heidi outfit--turquoise shorts with red suspenders, dress shirt, and black socks pulled almost to the knee.  I stuck my head out and called to him.
     "Gramp!  I thought you said you were going to relax today!"
     "I am!" he called back.    

       I stood looking at the bags of powdery white material surrounding him and the contraption he was banging up and down.  My grandfather is a Home Depot dream customer, though I keep trying to get him to shop at Mort’s Hardware, one of my coupon clients.

     “But what is all that stuff?” I asked.  

     “Lime,” he said, or I think that’s what he said.  I turned away.  It was 7:30 and my treadmill stood lonely and despondent in the corner of the dining room.  I walked past it and caught my image in a gold gilt mirror, which hung above the antique sideboard.  Both the mirror and the sideboard came from my mother, who had assured me that possessing these two items was a clear sign of good taste, though she didn’t know about the treadmill and I wasn’t planning to tell her.  The whole house was like that.  A Victorian silver tea service, from my mother of course and mostly black from lack of polishing, on top of a sagging card table.  Three expensive Steuben glass squirrels, or creatures of some kind, next to a curled-up photograph of some of my girlfriends.  I really should have that thing framed before it disintegrates. Though my mother tries, in matters of taste and refinement I consistently score low.  But I have good skin.  Everyone always says so.

     “You have good skin.”  That’s usually how they say it.  Sometimes they sound shocked.

     I looked squarely in the mirror, never a good idea in bright sunlight, but without my contact lenses, not as frightening.  My 36-year-old face looked back at me—beaky little nose, wild hair and all.  My driver’s license says my hair is brown and it is, sometimes the brown of a picnic basket, other times of  fairly dark butterscotch.  In days of yore I would have been called an old maid.  An old maid and then some.  The treadmill was going to have a bad day, so I gave it a pat on my way to the shower.

     An hour later, my car began to have psychological problems.  Much like the scale, it too speaks, but something must have gone haywire with the computer chip because it kept saying the same thing.

     “Your door is ajar.”

     “No, it isn’t. My door is closed.”      

     “Your door is ajar.”

     “No, it isn’t.  Shut the fuck up.”

     The car and I were still arguing a half hour later and my day had not improved.  I could see the new Dunkin’ Donuts going in just a few yards beyond the cyclone fencing near my office, and I waited for the day when I could spend half my week’s pay there before work.  

     Up on the third floor, things were bustling.  Magda, our blonde bombshell European receptionist who was learning English swear words as fast as she could, was taking calls and turning away business with lightning speed.

     “Huh?  Hallow? Screwing you too, mister big nobody.”

     “Hey, Mag, what’s up?”

     “Hi, Zheenie. Wassup you?”  

     “I’m dangerous today, Mag.  No one better mess with me.”  Magda’s section of the office was mainly devoted to nail care and normally reeked of various polishes and chemical products.  Now and then she typed something and distributed a sales lead to one of the reps.  “Very weird guy calling you today,” she said.

     “A weird guy for me?  No way,” I said.  I could never remember which country Magda was from, or which country it formerly was, although I knew it had a long and proud history of partisans and bombs.  I browsed quickly through my mailbox to see if any of my deadbeats had paid their bills.  “Ah, there is a god.  Shinola Cleaners sent a check.”  

     I was the best in our office at collections and considered every client a deadbeat until their balance was paid in full.  We sell coupons.  It’s called direct mail advertising, but I don’t like to use big words to my clients in Worcester, who get odd throbbing veins when something is hard to understand.  Veins where you don’t want to see them, trust me.  I collect money better than anybody and this had not gone unnoticed by the new owners and particularly by our new boss, Dan Albright.  We didn’t have a nickname for Dan yet, not a true nickname that would be used behind his back, although several had been tried, including Dan Notbright, Danny Boy and the wimped-out Danno.  But none seemed to be sticking.  He was an okay guy, Dan, and I felt sorry for him.  He was even a little bit handsome, in a washed-out, over-the-hill kind of way. Managing our group of salespeople was not an easy task, lousy bunch of whining showoffs that we were, and he was trying his best.  So far into the new regime, Dan loved me passionately, both for my collections skills, and for my on-time performance.  I was never late.  He was running the Monday meeting that day and had asked everyone to come in prepared to say what they were doing to get “close to the business,” that having been the buzz phrase of our recent regional sales meeting.

     “The contest starts today,” Dan reminded us as the meeting began. “Five thousand dollars.  That’s right, five thousand big ones,” he said.  We nodded.  We already knew this.  It was the point of the whole meeting.  “Five large, ladies and gentlemen, to the rep who gets the most new customers for this mailing.”  We did some more appreciative nodding and eye widening for Dan’s benefit as he continued.  “Plus one thousand dollars for every one of you who signs ten new customers.”  I was motivated.  New owners will give out prizes like that, and since LotsaCoups had just been sold again, it was a good chance to cash in.  I already had five new customers in the bag.

     Henrietta Lewis, our group’s top performer and worst dresser, raised her hand and went first.  “Dan, I’m taking the bull by the horns.  I’m leaving no stone unturned and I’m planning to give 110% to this contest.”  

    “Good news, Henrietta!” burst out Abe McNamara, another of my fellow reps and one of the shortest, as he rolled his chair backwards and whanged it into the wall.  “On the cliché meter, you’ve scored a perfect ten!  Tell Henrietta what she’s won, Dan.”   This earned smirks from the regular crowd and a dirty look from Dan.

    “Cut it out, Abe,” Dan said, showing very weak resolve.  Cut it out, Abe?  He’d be eaten alive if he didn’t do better than that.  “That’s fantastic, Henrietta,” Dan continued and I looked to see just how brown Henrietta’s nose could get at this hour.  Then I gazed across the room at the ragtag assortment of reps, twelve of them here today including me, and most staring vacantly into the oxygen.   Connie and Garrett Shonsky, old time coupon veterans and dandruff victims, always sat next to each other and it was very touching, a reminder that couples who plan discounts together, stay together.  Then there was Florence Keating, a timid soul who wore wigs some of the time and never apologized for it. But I had to turn back to Dan’s voice. We had all just been renamed the Metrowest Team by the new owners, attributing far more energy and cohesiveness to our group than was warranted.  Whatever.  We handled business west of Boston, much of it in the boonies of orchard country.  Abe had returned to his customary dozing position, or as he called it, checking his eyelids for pinholes.  

     Henrietta continued.  “I’m planning to join a health spa in my area and talk to everyone in there about LotsaCoups.  Also I’m including a LotsaCoups pitch in the Sunday school lesson I teach at the church.”  Abe opened his eyes and we glanced at each other.  We would get to this delicious fodder later.  To some, Henrietta was a hard-working, innovative sales genius.  To others, she was a lying, scheming, account-stealing bitch.  Guess which group I was in?

     Soon it was my turn.  I told everyone my plan.

     “I’m trying out for The Sound of Music. ”

     “On Broadway?”

     “Of course not. The Worcester Spotlighters.”

     “What’s that?”

     “Community theatre.  I’ll get tons of business from it.”  I was in no way convinced this was true, but I figured a little confidence couldn’t hurt.  Maybe that’s what my dream had prepared me for.

     I could tell people were impressed by the way they all reached for donuts at the same time. Incisive questions followed.

     “Is Julie Andrews dead?”

     “Don’t they wear lederhosen?”

     “No, curtains. The kids wear curtains.”

     “What’s lederhosen?”

     “Stockings, I think.  Or shorts.  I don’t really know.”

      Each of the reps stood and pledged to join book clubs, Elks lodges, bridge tournaments, and PTA committees.  Even Abe said he was going to join some lame cocktail hour.  Dan instructed us to send out a memo once a week to keep the sales force updated and nearly everyone suppressed a groan. When it turns into memo time, the project is usually headed for the toilet.

     “All right then,” Dan said to all of us.  “I’ll let you go.”  This was code for get on the road right now.

     “I just have to look up some files,” Abe said.  This was code for I’ll go when I feel like it.  Dan was entirely too genial to be successful as a sales manager.  The first thing you have to do is inspire fear in the reps and Dan was trying to be our friend.  It was painful.  Abe and I chatted for a few minutes and agreed to meet for our customary medicinal My Tai the next day at Cheng Du. Soon I was back in my vehicle.

     “Your door is ajar.”

     “Shut up or I’ll kill you.”