After all these years of being “herself,” despite opportunities to be someone else, Alexandra knew that when she became too accommodating and waxed too positive to the point of parody, shit was about to hit the fan. That would be when she’d tell herself to be wise, to leave the scene before she exploded and burned imaginary bridges. Since moving to the "South," she had never understood why she kept succeeding at jobs where she had to be nice to clients she secretly despised. She DID understand why she’d lost some of those jobs in the early years. These days, she only “lost” a job by landing a better one.
Superficially, Alexandra was a mid-life career charmer. Attractive, lively, good at small talk. She could also muster up enthusiasm for a product or service that she hadn’t even heard of until the day before. She liked to be the one to bring the goods, to improve the situation, to startle people with practical solutions. But she couldn’t keep it up for an entire day. Hit, throw flowers, and run. Now she was stuck at a fake “tea” with a bunch of “ladies of quality” when she’d merely wanted to sell the local art museum quality printing services.
The Constant Comment-and-crumpets bevy had explained that the museum was already committed to using a long-established but out-of-touch printing company whose founder had been one of these ladies’ ancestors (well, grandfather, to be exact). This particular lady, Mrs. Anderson, wasn’t even profiting, except socially, from this heritage. She’d married into some other laudable enterprise while her uncle kept up the printing company.
“What does the museum staff have to say about this?” Alexandra had asked. Of course Alexandra planned another visit to the museum curator and event coordinator as soon as she could get out of this party. Even though the curator and the event coordinator had been the ones who’d suggested she attend.
“The staff?!” Mrs. Anderson laughed. Mrs. Delacourt smiled and said, “They do the professional work required, but we decide how the money is spent. It’s our money, after all.”
“There has been some talk of going digital,” Mrs. Anderson explained. “But we feel that traditional offset printing is best.”
“Digital can certainly save money,” Alexandra said. “It makes it easier on the designer, too. It’s so much faster, and proofs can be had almost immediately. Fewer mistakes that way. Has Mr. Boswell’s company considered adding digital capacity?”
“We wouldn’t want to tell him how to run his business,” Mrs. Delacourt said, and pressed her lips together.
“Well, maybe I could!” Alexandra was starting to feel irritated now. It had taken nearly two hours to get to the point in this meandering, multi-person conversation, and it was as if she were still speaking to women who were surrounded by a glass wall. She wasn’t sure if they had doubts about anything, or any needs, as a group. Then came the question.
“Who are YOUR people, dear?” a Mrs. Fahey asked Alexandra in a gentle, intimate tone. Mrs. Fahey was relatively young, possibly not yet 50. Her dark hair was cut short and sassy; she wore a Jackie-like summer suit in turquoise and black, with ballet-style black flats. She was sipping a glass of white wine rather than tea, and her coral lipstick had imprinted its rim.
“I’m not from here,” Alexandra said with an almost evil grin, knowing that phrase might be the kiss of death for her enterprise, but by now she didn’t care. “My ‘people’ are from Ohio, Pennsylvania, Canada, and South America. Would you like the whole story?”
“You know something? I would,” said Mrs. Fahey. Oh! Alexandra had just noticed that the name tag read “Caroline Fahey.” She had assumed all these ladies were “Mrs. So-and-so” because most of them presented themselves as such. “We should have lunch sometime,” Caroline went on. “I know our group can be a little bit hard to infiltrate.”
“I’d like that,” Alexandra said, despite 'herself.' “Here’s my card.” Nonplussed and worried about what to say next now that part of the glass wall had seemed to melt right in front of her, Alexandra hightailed it out of there, waving gracefully at a few of the ladies. Was Caroline’s friendliness a warning sign? Only time would tell.
— Macoff
Superficially, Alexandra was a mid-life career charmer. Attractive, lively, good at small talk. She could also muster up enthusiasm for a product or service that she hadn’t even heard of until the day before. She liked to be the one to bring the goods, to improve the situation, to startle people with practical solutions. But she couldn’t keep it up for an entire day. Hit, throw flowers, and run. Now she was stuck at a fake “tea” with a bunch of “ladies of quality” when she’d merely wanted to sell the local art museum quality printing services.
The Constant Comment-and-crumpets bevy had explained that the museum was already committed to using a long-established but out-of-touch printing company whose founder had been one of these ladies’ ancestors (well, grandfather, to be exact). This particular lady, Mrs. Anderson, wasn’t even profiting, except socially, from this heritage. She’d married into some other laudable enterprise while her uncle kept up the printing company.
“What does the museum staff have to say about this?” Alexandra had asked. Of course Alexandra planned another visit to the museum curator and event coordinator as soon as she could get out of this party. Even though the curator and the event coordinator had been the ones who’d suggested she attend.
“The staff?!” Mrs. Anderson laughed. Mrs. Delacourt smiled and said, “They do the professional work required, but we decide how the money is spent. It’s our money, after all.”
“There has been some talk of going digital,” Mrs. Anderson explained. “But we feel that traditional offset printing is best.”
“Digital can certainly save money,” Alexandra said. “It makes it easier on the designer, too. It’s so much faster, and proofs can be had almost immediately. Fewer mistakes that way. Has Mr. Boswell’s company considered adding digital capacity?”
“We wouldn’t want to tell him how to run his business,” Mrs. Delacourt said, and pressed her lips together.
“Well, maybe I could!” Alexandra was starting to feel irritated now. It had taken nearly two hours to get to the point in this meandering, multi-person conversation, and it was as if she were still speaking to women who were surrounded by a glass wall. She wasn’t sure if they had doubts about anything, or any needs, as a group. Then came the question.
“Who are YOUR people, dear?” a Mrs. Fahey asked Alexandra in a gentle, intimate tone. Mrs. Fahey was relatively young, possibly not yet 50. Her dark hair was cut short and sassy; she wore a Jackie-like summer suit in turquoise and black, with ballet-style black flats. She was sipping a glass of white wine rather than tea, and her coral lipstick had imprinted its rim.
“I’m not from here,” Alexandra said with an almost evil grin, knowing that phrase might be the kiss of death for her enterprise, but by now she didn’t care. “My ‘people’ are from Ohio, Pennsylvania, Canada, and South America. Would you like the whole story?”
“You know something? I would,” said Mrs. Fahey. Oh! Alexandra had just noticed that the name tag read “Caroline Fahey.” She had assumed all these ladies were “Mrs. So-and-so” because most of them presented themselves as such. “We should have lunch sometime,” Caroline went on. “I know our group can be a little bit hard to infiltrate.”
“I’d like that,” Alexandra said, despite 'herself.' “Here’s my card.” Nonplussed and worried about what to say next now that part of the glass wall had seemed to melt right in front of her, Alexandra hightailed it out of there, waving gracefully at a few of the ladies. Was Caroline’s friendliness a warning sign? Only time would tell.
— Macoff
I can really identify with this. I have lived in the same house in a small Southern town for 36 years but I will never be one of the 'first families "
ReplyDeleteSuch a clear confining picture you create in this piece.
ReplyDelete