Fish Heads and Duck Skin Read online

  “You said you wanted to see if I had openings for both haircut and highlight on Tuesday afternoon, which I do.”

  “Did I say Tuesday? That’s crazy! Tuesday has become a cosmic joke, Melanie. Can we do it Sunday instead, like early early Sunday?”

  “I don’t work Sundays.”

  “Of course you don’t! But what if I said I could make it worth your while?”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning I’ll pay you double.”

  “Double? Seriously?”

  “Yes.” I glanced at my reflection in the mirrored wall facing the escalator. “Oh geez.”

  “What? Is Sunday bad now? Because I’m suddenly wide open.”

  “No, no, Sunday works, but if you can also get someone there to organize my eyebrows so I look less like a blonde Frieda Kahlo, I’ll also pay that person double. And, if you know someone who can legally perform a Pap smear, the numbers will really start to get obscene.”

  “But our salon chairs don’t come with stirrups.”

  “Of course they don’t. Forget that part.”

  “How’s 8:00 a.m.?”

  “Six would be better.”

  “Six in the morning?”

  “I promised I’d be better about family time. Please? Pretty beautiful please?”

  “Yes, okay, 6:00 a.m. this Sunday. I’ll see you then.”

  I hung up and looked at my watch—twelve minutes until I called my boss. I would have to call him from my car, which he hated, but oh well. I stepped off the escalator and eyed the carousel with my flight number. Why isn’t this turnstile moving yet? I thought. Someone, anyone, please unleash the baggage!

  I squished myself into the line of fellow rumpled travelers and waited for the luggage to rotate in my direction. I waited and waited and waited. It felt like the arrival of the bags on the pleated steel oval in front of me was taking as long as the flight from Dallas to San Diego had.

  I let my head fall onto the back of my neck and exhaled loudly. “Seriously?” I said to no one. I stormed over to a man wearing blue coveralls who was whistling and swinging his legs while sitting on the wall next to the conveyor belt where the bags were not appearing. This guy apparently had all the time in the world.

  “Excuse me, sir, do you know what’s taking so long?”

  “I do not,” he said, still kicking his legs like a little kid even though his temples were gray.

  “Is there someone you can call to make sure our bags are on their way?”

  “The bags are coming. They have nowhere else to be.”

  “Maybe the plane took off back to Dallas without having the bags unloaded.”

  “That wouldn’t happen.”

  “Uh, I believe the bags from two flights that arrived after ours are already spinning on turnstile number two.”

  He craned his neck to see behind me. “I believe you’re right.”

  “Thing is, I’m in a rush. I have to call my boss in,” I looked at my watch, “two minutes, and I should’ve been—”

  “Well, you can go make that call and come back later if you want, but I wouldn’t suggest it, because the guy who checks tags at the exit didn’t show up for work today.”

  I tapped my toes in annoyance. “Is there a customer support desk?”

  “Yes.” He pointed to a cluttered desk in an unlit glass cube manned by a guy with a Justin Bieber haircut and adolescent acne. The line to speak to him curled around the corner, ending near a cluster of new restaurants, all serving a variation of fried bar food.

  His eyes followed mine. “You could go get a snack,” he offered.

  “I appreciate the suggestion, but I’m in a hurry.”

  “Why’d you check your bag then?”

  I threw up my hands. “Because I was awarded a massive trophy at an awards banquet last night—an outlandish piece of metallic abstract art. And while it’s very nice, and I’m sure it was quite expensive, it apparently resembles a weapon of mass destruction. But I didn’t know that until I got to the security line, and by then it was too late to ship the trophy and still make my flight.”

  “Congratulations on your award.” He smiled at me.

  “What? Oh. Thank you.” I looked at him like he’d been sent from outer space. He was far too friendly to be from this area. Maybe he was on drugs. Or a serial killer.

  “You know, sometimes in life we must wait,” he said.

  I raised my eyebrows and shook my head, chuckling. “That’s not what they said when they upgraded my mileage rewards status.”

  “He that can have patience can have what he will.” He smiled and stretched his arms over his head.

  “That is very enlightened of you, but I should tell you that I’m in sales, and in sales we have this thing called a quota. The more we sell, the higher our quota is. If I hit my quota, they give me a bigger one. And if I blow my quota out of the water, like I did last year? I get a sizable bonus, a metallic weapon, a President’s Circle trip to the Dominican Republic, and triple the quota the following year. There’s never a moment to rest and celebrate, not even in Casa de Frigging Campo! Every day I must inch closer to closing business if I’m to reach the almighty quota.”

  “I see.” He nodded, looking faintly amused.

  “Which is why quotas and patience cannot coexist.”

  “Patience is not the ability to wait but the ability to keep a good attitude while waiting,” he said.

  “Why, thank you, Aristotle.” I looked away and put down my briefcase.

  “With time and patience, the mulberry leaf becomes a silk gown. That one’s a Chinese proverb.”

  I smiled, then inhaled sharply. “Oh crap, I’m late for my call!”

  I hustled to the far end of the shoeshine stand and wedged my phone between my ear and shoulder.

  “Tina, you’re late.”

  “I’m really sorry, Chuck, I—”

  “No excuses right now, Brian just quit! Took his bonus and went to sell heart valves. We’re in a world of hurt. He had the second-largest quota on the team after you, and now we’ve got no one to cover Ohio. We can’t have his deals fall out of the pipeline! Ohio alone could affect our stock price. He has a huge meeting in Cleveland next week, so you’ll need to be there.”

  “But I have my own territory.”

  “And it just grew. Congratulations.”

  “I’m taking over Ohio?”

  “Of course not, that would be crazy. You’ll only manage Ohio temporarily, until we find the right candidate to take it over permanently.”

  “But wouldn’t it make more sense geographically for Brenda to manage Ohio?”

  “Brenda isn’t you. Plus, she’s a single mom.”

  “But I’m a mom too, just not single. Not yet, anyway.”

  “I can’t believe you’re not jumping on this—it’s an amazing career opportunity! If you close half of what he started, you’ll hit a massive bonus. You know that exotic Asian holiday you’ve been talking about for the last few years? This will get you there. President’s Club next year is in Bali! Please, Tina, pretty please. I need you.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I sighed and turned back to the turnstile. It was finally moving. The philosopher in blue was humming loudly and maneuvering bags into some sort of unclear order. “Look, I need some time. Why don’t you send me the new numbers in writing, and I’ll talk to Daniel.”

  “I wish I could give you time, Tina, but there’s no time to give. Think it over tonight, but I need your answer by tomorrow morning, first thing.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes! My forecast is due to our CFO tomorrow night. There’s a lot riding on this territory.”

  “I got that. Look, my suitcase just appeared. Send me the numbers and a list of what Brian was working on. When’s the meeting in Cleveland?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “Tuesday? Of course it is. Excuse me,” I said to the woman in front of me as I wiggled past h
er to fetch my bag. “Tuesday is not good for me, Bill.”

  “Make it good. I promise, it’ll be worth your while. You’ll see.”

  3.

  “Why is there a gargantuan pink structure on my side of the garage?” I whined in every shade of grumpy. I was excited to be home with the people I loved, but I could feel a wave of exhaustion rolling towards me like a tsunami. My eyes stung and my arms felt physically heavy, as though the sleeves of my maroon suit jacket were weighted. My head was sweating, but the rest of me felt cold. I slouched in the entrance to the living room, still clutching my briefcase and the handle of my silver rolling suitcase.

  Daniel sat on the couch, watching SportsCenter. “Oh, you mean the fairy house?” he asked, shooting me a quick smile in the reflection of the TV.

  I slid my suitcase against the wall and set my briefcase next to it. “I don’t know if that’s what I mean.”

  “Mommy!” Piper ran in, squealing, and wrapped herself around one of my legs. She was wearing her favorite cheetah costume; her thick hair straggled down her back. Her bangs, self-cut five months earlier, still had a solid six weeks before the longest parts would touch her eyebrows. “While you were in Dallas, Daddy built me a fairy house! I love it so much!”

  “I think it’s great that your dad built you a fairy house, but I didn’t expect it to be in my parking space, and I almost crashed into it.” I frowned at Daniel. “Why can’t the fairies live in the backyard next to the swing set?”

  “Because fairies don’t like rain,” Piper said, matching my frown and jamming her hands on her hips.

  “Neither do I, so it’s great we live in San Diego!”

  “No, the fairies don’t like even a drop of rain,” she insisted. “They turn into beetles if they are hit by one drop of rain.”

  “But I turn into a beetle if my car gets dirty. See?” I hitched up my maroon skirt, dropped onto my hands and knees and looked up at her, curling my lip.

  “Beetles don’t make faces like that,” she said.

  “The fairy house isn’t staying in the garage,” Daniel said. “I’m going to move it to the backyard later.”

  “‘Later’ as in today,” I interrupted from my beetle position on the carpet, “or ‘later’ as in a year from now?”

  Daniel looked at me with a quizzical expression. “Sheesh, what’s with you today? I’m going to move it to the backyard as soon as the paint’s dry. Is that okay? Or should I go blow on it right now so I can move it in a time more in line with your self-imposed schedule?”

  I sighed. “I’m sorry.” I stood up slowly and ran my shaking hands through my sweaty hair. Piper squealed and ran down the hall, looking to be chased. I looked after her and sighed. “Can we start again?” I looked back at Daniel. “Rewind the last ten minutes and take a do-over?”

  “Yeah, sure,” he said, looking down.

  “Okay, thanks.” I walked to the couch, leaned down, and kissed him loudly on the cheek. “Hi honey, I’m home!”

  He clicked off the TV and stood up. “Hello, lovely wife.” He hugged me and then ruffled my hair. “How was your sales meeting?”

  I shrugged and pulled away. “It was a typical sales meeting. Up early, out late. I’m not sure if I actually ever slept; it’s already a blur.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you get Salesperson of the Year?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And isn’t that a three-peat?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well if kicking ass makes you sleepy, it’s no wonder.”

  I shrugged. “I guess that’s one way to look at it.” I plunked myself on the couch in the same spot Daniel had just occupied. It was still warm, but I shivered from a chill that ran through my shoulders. I squeezed the bridge of my nose, lessening the pressure building in my temples, then put my hand on my forehead as though I could feel if my own head were hot.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  I looked up at him. “I’m not sure; I feel a little woozy. There was a guy sitting behind me on the plane who must have sneezed fifty times.”

  “I hope they arrested him,” he said. “Turned his ass in to the germ police.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” I dropped my head back and closed my eyes.

  Daniel walked toward the kitchen and called over his shoulder, “Maybe you’re just hungry. Did you eat on the plane?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good, I made tacos. They’ll definitely cure all your maladies.”

  I started to moan and then stopped myself. “Tacos? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I truly, madly, deeply love tacos, but I’ve just had five straight nights of Tex-Mex.”

  “Well you’re in luck then, because I made SoCal tacos—no relation to Tex-Mex.”

  I looked at him and blinked.

  He started chopping something. “Did you sleep on the flight? In between sneezes, that is?”

  “I can’t sleep on planes. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. That sucks.”

  I yawned. “Where’s Lila?”

  “Sleeping. Why don’t you take a nap before dinner?”

  “I can’t, I’m behind on four proposals and I need to look at some numbers. In fact, I need to do that right now.” I scrambled to my feet and walked over to grab my briefcase. “If you need me, I’ll be in the office.”

  He looked at me and sighed. “Okay.”

  I dragged myself up the stairs, arms heavy and head light. At the top of the stairs, I stopped to calculate the total number of hours I’d slept in the last week, then tried to think of the last time I hadn’t felt exhausted. I was too tired to recall.

  I plopped myself into my black leather desk chair. I spun my mouse and the screen came to life, lighting up what looked like the top fifty of tens of thousands of emails. As my inbox screamed, I NEED YOU NOW, I forgot about sleep.

  I clicked on the top email and lost myself in the deluge. In between responses, forwards, and deletes, my mind swirled with questions: How will this proposal impact my quota? Is my time better spent closing business in Ohio? How can I train teams in two places simultaneously? I’ll need to ask for more support. Who do I trust to support me? Who will do the job the way I would do it? How will I tell Daniel about Ohio?

  As I considered the last question, Daniel knocked on the office door jamb. “Hey, Lila’s up and the girls are both ready to eat. Can you come down for dinner now?”

  It’s not a good time to talk about Ohio. It will never be a good time to talk about Ohio.

  “Oh, uh, yeah, let me finish this one thing and I’ll be right down.”

  “Hey.” He sat in his desk chair and pulled it next to mine so our armrests touched, but we didn’t. “Is everything alright? I mean, besides being tired and hungry, are you okay? You seem really tense.”

  “I am tense,” I said, squeezing the bridge of my nose again. “I feel like there’s a steam roller on my chest and a geyser about to burst forth from right here.” I tapped between my eyebrows.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s the beginning of the year and I have a new, ginormous quota and a million things to line up so I start strong.”

  He snorted and looked away.

  “What?”

  “At the end of the year you say you need to ‘end strong,’ and in the middle of the year, you need to ‘keep up the momentum,’ and at the start and end of every quarter …”

  “Well, what do you want me to do? Not care? Not try?” I pushed my chair back. “I could be un-tense and sit around building fairy houses, but someone has to support us.” I rubbed my face with both hands, wishing I could retract that statement and erase the look of pain that had just flashed in his eyes. Still, the resentment gained strength and maintained control. “Someone has to be tense,” I mumbled.

  Daniel took a deep breath. “That’s great, Tina. I can see you’re still mad at me for getting laid off.”

  “I’m not still mad, I’m just wondering why it’s taking so long.”

  “Becau
se an engineering job that fits my specs is really hard to come by right now! You know I’m doing everything I can. This is going to take time and patience on your part.”

  I spun my chair toward him. “Why does everyone think I need to be patient when I’m never afforded the same luxury? No one is concerned with what I want—not you, not the kids, not the job.”

  He stood up. “What exactly do you want, Tina? If I got a job tomorrow, would you be less angry? Would you dislike me less? And would you spend more time with your kids? I don’t think so. Your sole point of focus is your career, and, let’s face it, you’ll never quit that job—you love it too much, and you won’t admit it, but you love to hate it, too.” He walked to the door and turned around. “Maybe it’s a pattern: you love to hate things, and I am one of those things.”

  “But that’s not true!” I cried. “I don’t have a hate pattern. I don’t hate you or anything! Well, maybe a few things, but that’s not it. I’m just stuck. I don’t know who I am anymore, but I can’t make a change because our whole existence depends on me and my work, and I don’t know how to do it half-way. I pay the bills, and I’m proud of my success, but my career does not define me, and this job is not what I was put on this earth to do. I am not Tina, the Seller of Things. I am Tina, the Something Else! But if I tried to pursue the Something Else we’d be screwed!”

  “So you want me to get a job faster—a job that may not even use my engineering degree or my MBA—so you can quit your career and decide what color your parachute is?”

  “I don’t know if that’s what I’m telling you,” I said as I buried my face in my hands. “I don’t know what I want anymore.”

  He was quiet for a moment, and then he said softly, “Maybe you should skip dinner; I think it’s identical to Tex-Mex.”

  When I heard his steps retreating in the hall, I moaned and dropped my head onto my desk. Why can’t I do this right? I thought. Why can’t I do anything right?

  I woke up three hours later with a piercing neck-ache. I stood and walked into the hall. All the lights in the house were off; all creatures fast asleep. I slapped my hand on the banister. I felt hot tears of self-hatred fill my eyes at the thought that I’d missed yet another dinner.