Everything Changes

bring us up to speed on the Nike problem. Maybe we can do some brainstorming.”
    I’m in no mood for Bill. To be fair, I’m never in the mood for Bill, but right now, Bill could put me over the edge. “I’m actually dealing with that as we speak,” I say.
    “Well, I think we should all put our heads together on it,” Bill says. He’s got me on the speakerphone, and in my head I can see all the other account execs staring at the voice box, faces determinedly straight, silently thanking God it’s not them for whom the shit’s creek bell tolls this time. “We have our Tuesday meetings for a reason, Zack, and whether you appreciate that or not, I still expect you to attend and participate.”
    I sigh. “I’ll be right there.”
    There are sixteen account executives in the branded display and packaging division that Bill oversees, and twelve of them are seated around the conference table, shuffling files and doodling on Spandler Corp. pads or pecking away scrupulously at their wireless e-mail devices. I make thirteen; Len Schaktman and Mike Wharton are traveling, and Clay is God knows where, strolling through Central Park, enjoying a novel he’d always meant to read, scanning the classifieds, or sitting at his kitchen table staring at the wall, his hot, home-brewed coffee failing to warm the icy terror growing in his belly as he wonders what the hell comes next. Through the scattered morass of Starbucks cups, diet Cokes, and water bottles, Bill can be spotted at the head of the table, jotting notes onto his legal pad, his gold wire-rimmed glasses slipping precariously toward the tip of his patrician nose. The account execs all look up as one as I enter the room, gazes quickly and not so quickly averted, and you can smell the schadenfreude filling the air like excessive aftershave.
    “Sorry I’m late,” I say, hoping we can leave it at that, but alas, we cannot. Bill won’t let such manifest disregard for his Tuesday Production Meeting go unchallenged.
    “Zack,” Bill says, still looking down at his notepad. “These are your colleagues. They’re all very busy, as busy as you. And yet, they all take time out of their hectic schedules to attend the Tuesday meeting. Because it’s important. And because, as their boss, I demand it. Updating each other, sharing our respective triumphs and challenges, transforms us from a group of disjointed entrepreneurs into a formidable team. Because our separate experiences become a greater whole, a collective memory upon which we can all draw when we go out into the field. Your colleagues have taken time out of their busy schedules to be here for you, and the least you could do, as a member of this team, is to return the favor. I think,” Bill finishes, finally looking up from his pad, which creates the illusion that he’s been reading this little speech, “that you owe us all an apology.”
    “Hence my opening statement ‘Sorry I’m late,’ ” I say.
    Bill frowns. “Very well, Zack. I’m not going to press the point, because I know you’re under some pressure right now. Why don’t you bring us up to speed on the Nike situation.”
    I tell the group about the wrong-colored swooshes, and Hodges’s unwillingness to take the fall for his screwup, leaving out the fact that I’ve been avoiding Hodges’s calls, since the middleman never lets a call go unreturned. There follows a brief question-and-answer session between Bill and me that feels like a skit at one of the Spandler Management Seminars the head office sends us to at Holiday Inns around the country, Crisis Management 101 over complimentary doughnuts and coffee.
    “Who’s the vendor?”
    “Qingdao Target.”
    “What’s our leverage? Anyone else here have major projects going at Qingdao?”
    No one in the room does. I know all this already.
    “What’s our exposure if we make Hodges the hero?”
    “All told, somewhere in the area of fifty grand,” I say, “not including the expedited shipping costs.”
    “Has he projected any orders after this one?”
    I sigh. “It’s a test program.”
    “Damn.” Bill is thoughtful for a moment. “Is Hodges a good guy to have in our corner?” No conversation with Bill is ever safe from the stray sports analogy.
    “Hodges is an asshole.”
    Bill inhales sharply. “Come on, Zack,” he chastises me in a hollow voice that suggests it isn’t outside the realm of possibility that our offices might be bugged by the client, little ladybug-size