Body in the Trunk
Chapter 3
I attended an annual multimedia trade show in
New York City at the Convention Center every year. My company M Marketing and
Graphics bought a 10 x 10 booth, and we always seemed to sit across from this
Japanese electronics company where the diminutive Asian sales girls wore
five-inch heels presumably to make up for their lack of height. I marveled at
any woman, short or not, who would dare to wear platform shoes for more than an
hour much less 10 hours on a cement trade-show floor. I, on the other hand, wore
my comfortable, flat Mary Janes to match my slim black skirt and lavender silk
blouse with silver buttons on the two breast pockets that gave it sparkle. I
tucked it in with a wide belt with silver infinity clasps in the center to give
it a modern, chic flair.
I loved trade shows – the energy and meeting
potential clients face-to-face. Most of my life was spent in my home office at
my computer working on graphics and illustrations for marketing campaigns. So
when I came out of my “cave,” it felt wonderful to talk and interact with
interested clients. I also appreciated the time away from my parental duties
and the ever-increasing bland and numb feelings toward Paul. He never made
these trips easy. He complained he would have to take care of the girls, and I
better not stay too long. Although I was expected to earn full-time pay to
contribute to my 50-plus percent of our bills, it never seemed to bother him to
demand I take all the kid duties.
Of course, the now-dual interruptions to pick up the girls meant
that I still needed to work later to make up the difference; however, Paul also
required I end my workday on time to spend time with the family. He complained
nonstop if I worked late. Then I would intentionally go out to eat dinner with
everyone only to find Paul comfortably sitting in front of our 56-inch
flat-screen TV with our kids, watching Power
Puff Girls or Sponge Bob Square Pants. He allowed everyone to
eat in front of the TV even though when I was a child we sat down for dinner
and talked. No talking took place during our dinner routine; but I better
damned well be there to eat with them lest Paul come back and yell at me until
I acquiesced just to get him to stop.
The craziness of those conversations
frustrated me, too.
“You need to eat dinner with us,” he scolded
as he crashed into my office.
“I’ve got a deadline.”
“All you do is whine and nag, you know that?”
“What?”
“Nag, nag, nag, nag.”
“What?”
“Get out there and eat dinner with us.”
“I’m not …”
“Nag, nag, nag, nag!”
“I don’t …”
“Nag, nag, nag.”
I would just get up and try not to look at
him for fear of the last, “Nag!”
My other least-favorite thing about our life
involved perpetual yelling. I knew Paul was home every night when I heard the
front door open followed by a deep baritone voice and ritualistic crying. I
would look up from the computer and sigh. Yes, Paul was home right on time and
on cue with the negativity and raised voice at our girls. The theme typically
revolved around homework. Giselle, my older one who was in the sixth grade, was
a sensitive and sweet girl. Daddy’s screams inevitably led to cries and then
another door slam to her room where she disappeared and buried herself in her
computer games.
Travel to these trade shows also represented
escape from those daily rituals I had come to despise. More importantly it got
me away from Paul and the yelling and comments that came when I appeared in the
room. The remarks ranged from disparaging observations about my blonde hair (he
wanted me to dye it brown) to remarks about my slim figure that he didn’t
appreciate. He commonly told people I was anorexic, which I was not anorexic,
but I had an extraordinary metabolism. I’m not sure if by telling people this
he was justifying his own growing girth, which he added to by heaping so much
food on his plate it overflowed the sides. I tried not to pay attention to
either the weight gain or food consumption. I said little about anything these
days. Between the bland, numb feeling and constant work demand to make more
money to pay what now amounted to more than my 50 percent of the bills and more
like 70 percent of the bills, I was too tired to care.
Just then a blonde, tall man with
bluish-green eyes who wore a perfectly tailored navy-blue jacket, brilliant
purple tie that was a complementary color to the jacket, and jeans with a
leather belt with an “E” for a buckle walked up. He stopped to look at the
graphic designs on display on the royal-blue Velcro walls of my booth. He was
specifically gazing at the logos I had created over the years for various
companies. He had a blonde goo-tee that he ran his fingertips through as he
studied the work. It was one of those goo-tees where he carefully sculpted it
and shaved his cheeks fresh and clean. His skin color was light but rosy and
healthy-looking. I wasn’t really attracted to blondes, and I wasn’t exactly
attracted to him at all until his eyes shifted from the art to me. He gave me
this quiet, contemplative look, which I didn’t take for anything more than a
stare except his eyes sparkled at me. I noticed the glisten in them like
high-quality diamonds. Although even with that thought, I quickly dismissed it.
And then I felt this odd sensation, and I
flashed on this vision: I was a bride
standing on a beach about to approach my groom. White flowers were woven in my
hair and I held a single white lily as a bouquet with a white ribbon tied on
its stem. I tried to make out the groom’s face, but he was too far away.
And then I felt a tug and returned to the present.
“You do branding?”
“Huh?” I replied and shook off the sensation.
“Yes. We’ve done many Fortune 100 companies,” I said as I pointed to a big-name
corporation. “My name is Mia.”
“Hello Mia,” he smiled at me again with that
same gaze of interest. “Name’s Evan. I’m looking for a partner in my design
studio. I need someone who can handle the corporate branding campaigns.”
“Hmm,” I said. “I’ve had partnerships before.
They didn’t go well.”
At that comment, Evan turned to face me. He
seemed to size me up and nodded as he thought about what I said.
“Maybe you didn’t find the right partner … Mia,”
and with my name stated again he put his hand in his pocket and smoothly
flipped out a business card.
“Drinks?”
I took the glossy card and with slick, black
Garamond font letters: Evan Garner, Vice President, Garner Media.
I looked back up at him, “Drinks?”
“Yes, tonight back at my place at the Hotel
Gansevort along Hudson River Park. Meet me in the bar. We’ll talk shop.”
“How funny,” I said.
“What?”
“I’m staying there, too.”
“Yes.”
“Yes?” I frowned at him.
Evan smiled, “Nine work?”
“Um, all right, okay,” I replied and felt
puzzled as I looked at the card again.
When I looked back up I saw his back as he walked smoothly
away toward the front entrance. His gait and air suggested quiet confidence and
certainty, but also casualness with his hands stuffed in his pants pockets. He
almost looked like someone who had too much cavalier bravado – maybe something
else, too. I couldn’t put my finger on it. My cell phone rang in my purse under
the sales counter and called my attention away: it was Paul. I looked at the
name flash on the phone and groaned. I didn’t want to pick up so I hit ignore
and looked back up to find Evan completely gone.
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