major Tech World multipage insert that was essentially in the bag (until Ivan missed four straight meetings). But I successfully plea-bargained his case with Chuck, then forced Ivan to see a grief counselor and started feeding him some easy accounts to gently ease him back into selling mode. And, within the past couple of months, he had started to deliver the goods again-to the point where I’d trusted him to land a big GBS spread. But the guy still needed nonstop TLC. And he had developed this unfortunate habit of talking your ear off whenever he phoned-a straightforward business call turning into a twenty-minute monologue. Which is why I wasn’t up for phoning him tonight. So, heading over to my desktop computer (which we keep in a little home-office alcove adjacent to our kitchen), I banged out a fast e-mail, short and sedate.
Ivan:
No need to lose sleep over small potatoes. I’m not. Because nothing-repeat, nothing-sinister is in the air. Break a leg with GBS tomorrow. And do yourself a favor: Chill.
Ned I reread the message and thought: God, how I’d love to believe my own bullshit. Then I hit the “Send Now” button and went to bed.
Lizzie was already curled up in her corner of the bed, reading a copy of Vanity Fair. She put the magazine down and looked at me.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Chuck Zanussi’s trip to Chicago?” she asked.
“Never got around to it, that’s all,” I said.
“Something big going on?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then why was Ivan calling here, sounding like he was in need of Prozac?”
“Because he is in need of Prozac, all the time.”
“You would tell me “
“What?”
“If something was up at work.”
No, frankly, I wouldn’t. Because I was educated in the idea that fear or anxiety was something you didn’t share with those nearest and dearest to you. As my dad used to tell me: Never let anyone know if you’re about to shit in your pants. The fact that you’re scared will spook your family and please the hell out of your enemies.
Instead, you were supposed to internalize fear. Keep it out of sight… and, in the process, out of mind. Or, at least, that was my dad’s theory-and one which I’d tried to follow over the years-much to the profound exasperation of my wife, who, during very occasional moments of hostility, has accused me of refusing to admit that I might just have a vulnerable bone or two in my body.
“Of course I’d tell you,” I said.
“Bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit. It’s just…”
“You don’t want to worry me.”
“Exactly.”
“Which means there’s something to worry about.”
“There is nothing to worry about. Chuck got called to a meeting in Chicago, that’s all.”
“An important meeting?”
“I’m not worried.”
“So something is going on.”
“At this point, all I know is it-^vas just a meeting. And over breakfast tomorrow-” “Oh, boy….”
“Lizzie …”
“Chuck’s hauling you in for breakfast?”
“We have breakfast together a lot.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Okay, you’re right. It’s the first time in, I don’t know…”
“Try ever. Chuck hates ‘doing’ breakfast.”
“How’d you know that?”
“You told me.”
“I guess I did. But hey, it’s just a breakfast, right?”
“I really wish you weren’t so damn secretive.”
“I’m not secretive. Just coy.”
“You are impossible, you know that?” I slid into bed next to her.
“But you love me all the same,” I said.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
I pulled her toward me. Immediately, she began to move away.
“Ned… no,” she said. An awkward silence.
“It’s been almost three weeks,” I said quietly.
“I know,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
“But the doctor said it could take up to twenty-one days before …”
“Whatever. I’m not trying to push you …”
“I know you’re not. And I do, will want to again soon. But just right now not…
“Fine, fine,” I said, stroking
Ivan:
No need to lose sleep over small potatoes. I’m not. Because nothing-repeat, nothing-sinister is in the air. Break a leg with GBS tomorrow. And do yourself a favor: Chill.
Ned I reread the message and thought: God, how I’d love to believe my own bullshit. Then I hit the “Send Now” button and went to bed.
Lizzie was already curled up in her corner of the bed, reading a copy of Vanity Fair. She put the magazine down and looked at me.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Chuck Zanussi’s trip to Chicago?” she asked.
“Never got around to it, that’s all,” I said.
“Something big going on?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then why was Ivan calling here, sounding like he was in need of Prozac?”
“Because he is in need of Prozac, all the time.”
“You would tell me “
“What?”
“If something was up at work.”
No, frankly, I wouldn’t. Because I was educated in the idea that fear or anxiety was something you didn’t share with those nearest and dearest to you. As my dad used to tell me: Never let anyone know if you’re about to shit in your pants. The fact that you’re scared will spook your family and please the hell out of your enemies.
Instead, you were supposed to internalize fear. Keep it out of sight… and, in the process, out of mind. Or, at least, that was my dad’s theory-and one which I’d tried to follow over the years-much to the profound exasperation of my wife, who, during very occasional moments of hostility, has accused me of refusing to admit that I might just have a vulnerable bone or two in my body.
“Of course I’d tell you,” I said.
“Bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit. It’s just…”
“You don’t want to worry me.”
“Exactly.”
“Which means there’s something to worry about.”
“There is nothing to worry about. Chuck got called to a meeting in Chicago, that’s all.”
“An important meeting?”
“I’m not worried.”
“So something is going on.”
“At this point, all I know is it-^vas just a meeting. And over breakfast tomorrow-” “Oh, boy….”
“Lizzie …”
“Chuck’s hauling you in for breakfast?”
“We have breakfast together a lot.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Okay, you’re right. It’s the first time in, I don’t know…”
“Try ever. Chuck hates ‘doing’ breakfast.”
“How’d you know that?”
“You told me.”
“I guess I did. But hey, it’s just a breakfast, right?”
“I really wish you weren’t so damn secretive.”
“I’m not secretive. Just coy.”
“You are impossible, you know that?” I slid into bed next to her.
“But you love me all the same,” I said.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
I pulled her toward me. Immediately, she began to move away.
“Ned… no,” she said. An awkward silence.
“It’s been almost three weeks,” I said quietly.
“I know,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
“But the doctor said it could take up to twenty-one days before …”
“Whatever. I’m not trying to push you …”
“I know you’re not. And I do, will want to again soon. But just right now not…
“Fine, fine,” I said, stroking
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