Chapter 1: Summer of His Discontent

Bill heard his secretary’s voice over the intercom. “A rep. on the phone, Mr. Pierce.”

“Put him through, Denise.” July of ‘76 was slightly less crazy than July of the two previous years had been, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t crazy.

“He’s not here, Mr. Pierce.” He didn’t recognize the voice.

“Who’s ‘he’? Who, for that matter, are you?” It must have been one of the new hires. He could identify most of the old hands by their voices, and nobody got to be an old hand without learning proper telephone technique.

“Dr. Ginsberg’s not here. Nobody’s here. I’m Greg Williams, a new representative.” He remembered the name, could almost remember the face.

“Is the office closed?” Bill asked. “Is his name on the door? What’s the address?” The last was critical. There probably was more than one doctor on their list named ‘Ginsberg.’ The office was closed. There was no notice that he would be back, let alone when. He took down the address.

“It’s simple. You go to the next name on your list. For God’s sake, man, you’re there to show him some pills; you’re not looking for him to suture up a knife wound. If his patients can survive without him, you can too. How long have you worked for Andalusia?”

Willian Williams said, “Two weeks of training. They sent me off yesterday to buy a car. This is my third call.”

“Well, the training should have included telephone technique. When you call your supervisor, you always identify yourself. And you should call your supervisor, not me.”

“Yes sir, but he’s on vacation. You told me to call you if there were any problem.” He sounded like an English major.

“Well, call me if there are any problems you can’t solve.” He hung up the phone, hoping that little Gregory had gotten his hint.

He gave Denise Davis the name and address. She would look him up in the phone book and call his office. With any luck, the recording would include the vacation schedule. Still, fewer and fewer reps, including three who were green as grass, were visiting doctors -- too many of whom were on vacation. Summers were always a problem, but he was especially antsy this summer.

The President was going to be 70 in October, and he would retire then. Watkins, the VP of marketing, was a possibility for that job. If Watkin’s’ slot became vacant, Bill was a contender to move up. As sales manager for the central region, he already had an office in national HQ. His region was not only the largest, its share had grown under his leadership. He would look even better if its share increased this quarter; sales in every region would dip slightly in the summer, but if the central region’s sales dipped less, it would be one more plus for him.

On the other hand, there were several other regional sales managers who were older and had held that position longer. Pete Carlson, who was in charge of national over-the-counter sales, was also a contender. He, too, worked in the national HQ, and the company was putting a little more emphasis on OTC medicines recently.

The polite fiction, of course, was that there was no competition at all. They would go to the birthday-farewell party for the president because they were fond of the guy and were sorry to see him go. If Watkins got the job, they would congratulate him and tell him that the board had picked well. Whoever got the VP slot would be a friend. Andalusia wasn’t the mafia where your subordinates went gunning for my subordinates. The mafia was much more honest about competition.

And, now, Carolyn wanted him to ask for a week’s vacation on short notice. She wanted to present a paper to a conference. He’d got vacation days for the second week in August, but he’d had to ask Mr. Watkins for them. If Watkins became president, the board would ask his recommendation for his replacement. Would he remember that Bill had asked at an inconvenient time for vacation days during a period when he would be very likely to be needed? Would that influence his recommendation? Bill didn’t know, but it worried him.

Greg Williams’s call hadn’t been the first crisis of the day, not even the first crisis of the afternoon. It turned out, however, to be the last. 5:00 came. He looked up at the picture on his wall before heading out into the muggy street. Carolyn and the twins all smiled down at him. Well, while Carolyn would smile for the photographer, he could remember how many takes had been required to get both boys smiling at the same time. This year, he considered himself lucky to get one of the three to smile.

The EL platform was hot with only the breeze for relief. The train was hot without a breeze. The windows didn’t open because the car was supposed to be air conditioned, but the air conditioning wasn’t noticeable in the crowded car. He removed his coat when he got to the platform at Central. His car was now in the shade but like an oven inside. He turned the key in the ignition and got the windows down before getting in. He left the air on these days, but it didn’t work when the ignition was off. The seat was hot against his back as he drove home. He left the windows open until he was parked, but the breeze didn’t cool him. It just blew dirt and fumes into his face.

Carolyn didn’t offer to kiss him when he walked into the apartment, and it was just as well. He walked over to the air conditioner and turned one of the vents upwards. He turned around in the stream of cool air, trying to get all of him cooled off while he removed his tie and draped it over his coat on the chair.

Soon enough, the boys lost their interest in the TV and came over for a roughhouse. Johnny climbed on his back while he pinned Paul. Paul pulled his shoelace free while he pinned Johnny. When the boys worked in concert, they won. He could carry both boys at once, one in each arm. In these games, though, working together always succeeded. Someday, they might learn that lesson. Bill wasn’t holding his breath.

“Okay,” Carolyn said, “let Daddy up. He has to wash his hands before he eats.” Her tone communicated to him -- and maybe to them -- her displeasure at the game.

Did she think he didn’t want to cuddle them? The point was that when either boy wanted to be cuddled, he wanted to be cuddled by his mother. And, even when one of them wanted that, he often struggled against his desire and hers. Bill could hold them, and they would hold him, but only if it was a big-boy, masculine holding like spinning them around or holding them down in a fight.

He got the boys into the bathroom. He pissed into the toilet while Paul used the potty seat. Then he emptied it and rinsed it out. After Johnny used it and he rinsed it out again, they all washed their hands.

Since the 14th was an even day, he got Johnny. Johnny ate his meatloaf but played with his potatoes and gravy. When he wanted more meatloaf, Bill told him that he had to finish the rest of the meal first. Carolyn, whatever her other faults as a mother, however much she tried to raise their boys as girls, put less on their plates than would feed them. Instead of having to persuade the kids to eat, they permitted the kids to have seconds -- but only after they had finished everything in the first serving.

The kids had been inside all day. All right, outside had been beastly hot and humid. All right, Barb was only one person, and one person couldn’t really ride herd on two boys in the park. Still, the boys were going stir-crazy without knowing what to call it. It was too late to take them out, even if Carolyn would come along. Instead, he got them a little exercise, and him too much exercise, inside.

By 7:30, they had worked off a little of their accumulated energy. He flipped a coin. It landed on his palm heads for the third night in a row. While he slapped it onto the back of his hand, he reversed the coin. That prestidigitation was simple.

“Heads,” he said and showed them the coin. “Johnny.” He took him to the bathroom. Johnny used the potty seat again, washed his hands, and brushed his teeth. Bill took him into the boy’s’ room and supervised while he removed his clothes. He diapered him and got him into his jammies. With Johnny in bed, he went back to empty out the potty seat for Paul’s use. He heard the motion before he was out of the door. He hoped Johnny wasn’t going to hide under Paul’s bed again. That always led to a screaming match. No. He could hear the closet door.

Paul went through the same regimen. When Paul was in bed, Bill took notice that Johnny’s bed was empty. Carefully, he looked under Paul’s bed, under Johnny’s bed, and -- only then -- in the closet. Johnny was not only not under Paul’s bed; he wasn’t even on Paul’s side of the closet. Bill sat on Johnny’s bed, turned him over his knee, and gave him a swat. The plastic which surrounded the diaper held enough air to make a satisfying pop when his hand landed. He doubted that Johnny felt anything at all.

When both boys were in bed, he read them a couple of stories. The books were mostly pictures, which weren’t of much use when two boys were in different beds. He turned the overhead light off as he went out.

“Daddy. I need a drink.” “I do, too.” So he got them drinks of water. Carolyn came in and kissed them good night. They left together, grateful that there were no more demands.

“Did you get the vacation days?” Carolyn asked as soon as they got into the living room. That she’d waited ‘til now showed that she knew that this was a fighting topic. Other new parents waited until the kids were asleep to get a little make-out time. The two of them waited until the kids were asleep to have a fight. Fighting with Carolyn, or making up with Carolyn at least, used to be more fun.

“I got them. I’m senior enough to get the days I want on a month’s notice. The problem is that the reason that I’m senior is that they need me to run things, and I’m needed more in August than in any other month. But I got the week.” And getting the week might just mean that he wouldn’t get the promotion. And he was at a level where promotions were only possible when the situation called for it. If Watkins moved up and he didn’t, he might never make VP.

“Do you think we could give Barb that week off? She’s entitled to two weeks off a year.” Now that was ridiculous! Barb not only took care of the kids; she took care of the apartment so Carolyn could run around doing economic research. Barb cooked lunch and dinner. Bill couldn’t cook, and the boys either wouldn’t like his taste in delivered meals or would get addicted to them and revolt against the meals that Barb cooked the next week. Besides, he wanted to take the kids out of the house. That really required two adults.

“Well, she can have them when you’re here to take up the slack. I get three weeks of vacation, total, and I worked years to get up to that. You get three months. I’d think you could use some of those months to actually be with your kids instead of using them to shuttle off to a vacation resort away from our family responsibilities.” And, of course, most of what she did there was ‘networking.’ This was a fancy name for socializing. So, he was supposed to frazzle his nerves keeping Johnny and Paul from killing each other instead of giving them quality time with two adults capable of taking them out in public. Meanwhile, she would spend the time socializing with other economists. And other economists just happened to be almost all male.

He’d had an affair with Carolyn, an affair which she gleefully told him wasn’t her first. He’d wanted to extend that affair into marriage because she was so damned hot. She had agreed, after a little thought and some concessions on his part. She had never expressed the desire to be faithful to him for life. Only when the church had put those words into her mouth had she even mentioned that. Okay, you could have hot or you could have faithful; you probably couldn’t have both. He, when you really got down to it, preferred hot.

But, in Boulder, she was going to get some rest. She would work hard for her presentation. She would listen to several others. But even the after-talk socializing couldn’t wear her down the way her regular schedule did. Some faceless professor was going to get what Bill hadn’t had for two years, a rested Carolyn.

“Look, Boulder is a college campus. I didn’t choose the spot, you know. What I’m going to do is present a paper and meet some colleagues. And as for your generous estimate of my vacation time, that’s when I don’t have to teach. That’s when I do economics. They hire me to teach, but they hire me because I’m a researcher. And I do damn little economics in that plenteous free time because I’m looking after those two monsters day in and day out. You moan and groan over one week’s doing what I do after a hard day’s research or a hard day’s teaching, but that’s all you’ll be doing. If you so much as take them to the zoo, you’ll have Barb along.” Damn straight, he’d have Barb along. And he would take them to the zoo again. This year would be much better than last. They’d know what the animals were; they could last loads longer before they needed their strollers. Other days, he’d take them -- and Barb -- to the park.

Yet she was making so much of her -- very brief -- time with them alone. For that matter, she had almost no time with them totally alone: less than an hour in the morning and less than two -- closer to an hour and a half -- in the evening. He got them while she was at Choir practice on Thursdays, and they shared responsibility the rest of the evenings and weekends.

“And that play is part of the problem,” She continued. “They’ve become violent kids, and that’s because you’re violent with them.” That was fucking-well bull shit! They weren’t all that violent for two-year-olds. Her problem was that they were boys. Her picture of kids was girls, older girls, playing nice with their dolls. Anyway, their actual violence, which they would have to be taught was wrong, wasn’t his fault. They hadn’t learned it from him because he hadn’t done it. Johnny and Paul knew the difference between wrestling and fighting. How come Carolyn hadn’t learned?

“Violent? Have I ever bitten Paul? Have I ever kicked Johnny? No. So how come their habits of kicking and biting are all my fault.? Hell! You used to complain about their kicking before I’d ever met them.” And back then, he’d sympathized. Maybe he shouldn’t have. They’d been simply moving around in her.

“Well, you’re rough with them, and they’re rough with each other -- and with anyone else within reach. And you spank them. That’s the sort of example you set.” Hell! Now she was talking about giving Johnny one swat he hadn’t felt. She was looking for some reason to blame the boys’ kicking and biting on him, but he was the one who gave them a reason to change. He didn’t really give them a reason to stop hiding; it was a game they all enjoyed.

“Hell! They hide from me when they know I’m going to find them and spank them. The spanking can’t be that traumatic. If it was, they’d stop hiding.”

“It’s just that they live in a culture of violence. Is it any wonder that they’re violent themselves?” Carolyn said. She wanted girls. Well, she didn’t have girls, although he was far from certain that two-year-old girls were all that quiescent. Kids were born able to cuddle, cry, piss, and shit. Anything else you wanted them to do, you had to teach them. He could teach them some things, but he’d be damned if he would teach them to be pansies.

“They’re two years old. Is it any wonder that they’re violent? A little roughhouse, a roughhouse when they’re not mad at anybody, is just the exercise they need.” She was so insistent that her theoretical training trumped his experience in economics. But she pretended to be the expert in child psychology, too, and she had never had a course in it. She just thought she knew more than he did, period.