Everything I'm Not

"Ohhh! Who's that?"

My companion, an older woman and co-worker, glanced over at me and grinned.

"Down girl! That's one who will never be interested in you."

I glanced at the mirror behind the small bar. Tall at five-nine, I liked to wear heels, three inches, at the lowest. It made me as tall or taller than most men, which sometimes helps in my job. Long blonde hair elegantly styled, cool blues eyes that could smolder and tease while looking cool and distant at the same time. Thirty-six D breasts that would still defy gravity for a few more years, a narrow waist leading to an ass men walked into walls looking at, and a great set of legs to hold it all up. My business skirt was an inch higher than proper, and my neckline lower. I was a walking wet dream, and I knew it.

"Betty, they're all interested in me."

"Not this one. Leave him alone. If you were to ask him everything he didn't want in a woman, he would describe you in detail."

My interest was really piqued now. "And what would those attributes be?"

"Tall, blonde, beautiful, a banker, and a Yankee. Top it off with your last name as a bonus. That man is your cousin's ex-husband."

I was surprised and shocked at the same time. "THAT'S the redneck?"

Bad for me, I was a little loud and said it just as the conversation lulled. He and everyone else at the table looked up. I saw his smile fade and a look I hope I never see again crossed his face, before it cleared up and he looked more closely at me.

His look changed and a little half-smile played over his lips. Then he went back to his conversation and ignored me. Nobody ignored me!

I wasn't really a banker, my degree and job were in public relations. I had gotten my position right out of college, lucky to get it in these hard times. I won't deny my family connections got me the job. I think they were secretly concerned I might go to work for a competitor.

I was a Johnson, of the same family that founded the bank that became the megabank that everyone hated, dubbed "Superbank." Our recent handling of foreclosures and ever-increasing fee rates were driving customers away. It was my job to make people feel all warm and fuzzy about us even as we plotted to extract even more of their hard-earned money into our coffers. Good thing I had a creative mind.

My branch of the family didn't share in any of the wealth. We were the poor relations, down here in the South you would call us shirttail kin, hanging on for the crumbs that fall off the big table.

My erstwhile cousin had married a local who was downsized out of a middle management position. He looked around, assessed his options, and took up farming. She didn't like the change in status, decided a coworker would make a better mate, and tried to rape him in a divorce.

Her plans fell apart, as it seems he was related to or close friends to a lot of people in high and low places. When it was over, she had to pay him support for three years, he got the house, and a nice settlement from the bank, who didn't want the scandal to compound their current woes. The cake got iced when three of their biggest corporate customers moved to a credit union in protest of the way one of their own was treated. I highly suspect they were going anyway, this just gave them a visible reason.

In retaliation, my great uncle, principal shareholder and Chairman of the Board, had them transferred to a small town in northern Alaska. The branch was so small they were the only employees, having to handle all the business. He let it be known if she didn't like it she could quit, but if she did his will might be altered slightly. It had been two years and they were still there.

*****

He had the broadest shoulders I had ever seen; that suit had to be custom tailored. Gray pinstripe, the jacket was draped across his chair. He wore a blindingly white shirt and a vest with an old-fashioned chain and pocket watch.

His bald head seemed to glow under the fluorescent lights, his white teeth gleaming when he smiled. He looked like a handsome version of Mr. Clean on steroids.

Betty brought me over for introductions. Bankers from our competitors, lawyers, businessmen, three chefs, one doctor, and him. He was there to represent the farmers.

I shook hands all around. I got to him last. I had on four-inch heels and I hoped to tower over him. Even in my four-inch heels, I was at least two inches shorter. Wow.

He shook my hand, smiling. "Ah, another one of the famed Johnson girls. Your family is noted for two things, Miss Johnson. Their ability to make money and the beauty of their women. Glad to see you uphold the family tradition."

I wasn't sure if that was a compliment, but I replied in kind. "After seeing you, Mr. Summers, I think I've found a flaw in us. Our ability to see must be impaired. If you're an example of 'a dirty redneck,' to quote my cousin, I'd like to see more of them. Apparently, they clean up really well."

I knew I had said the right thing because of the chuckles that went around the boardroom.

"Nicely said, Miss Johnson. I may have to revise my opinion of the Johnson girls slightly. Now, would you like something to drink before we start?"

I was about to ask for a white wine when I noticed everyone else was drinking coffee or soft drinks. I declined and we got down to business.

He seated me opposite him. We were there to plan an event, Feast In The Field, a charity dinner using as many local foods and products as possible. All the proceeds went to feed the homeless. It was a big deal, the mayor, state politicians, even a U.S. senator or two were known to appear if they were in town. It was a top-flight event, limited to five hundred people at five hundred dollars a plate. It was always sold out.

The exposure was priceless, and sponsors were prominently recognized and praised. There was usually a donation from these corporations, announced at the meal. Last year it funded two soup kitchens and a shelter for the entire year. Tickets, even at that price, were at a premium.

The organizers went all out. It was held in a meadow owned by one of the participating farmers.

Two local brewers, one distiller (vodka made from sweet potatoes), and three local vintners handled the alcohol supply. Four farmers supplied the vegetables. One donated beef, and another chicken and pork. One farmer had a gourmet food truck, and she volunteered it as an overflow kitchen. The actual cooking and food prep were done in a specially designed tent. Another small tent held the bar, and the main tent was enormous, capable of holding the five hundred comfortably. The tables would sparkle under the chandeliers, reflecting off the crystal and silverware atop the pristine linen. Fully trained waitstaff, dressed in formal attire, were both discreet and efficient.

I was there to make sure the bank logo was prominently displayed. I couldn't afford to go myself, that was reserved for the elite of our branch. We were the nerve center of the operation, despite not being based in New York.

The first meeting I attended was held in July, for an event scheduled to take place in early April.

That gave me plenty of time to assure good press.

*****

After business was taken care of, there was a social hour. Betty introduced me around, and most of the men, married and single, sought me out for conversation. I was used to it and none of them held my interest. I kept looking around for Eric and saw him across the room talking to Betty. I extracted myself from the attention of the good doctor as soon as possible, but by the time I got there, he was gone. I joined the conversation and scanned the room to see where he might be. Betty noticed right away and grinned.

"Stop straining your neck, darlin'. He left."

I tried to blow it off but she just laughed.

On the way back to the bank, I tried to subtly pump her for information, but she was still laughing at me.

"Stop dancing around and ask."

I conceded and asked her about him. "Has he found a little belle to get over my cousin yet?"

She frowned. "No. It's not polite to talk out of turn, but your cousin really did a number on him. She must have formed her opinion of Southerners from watching reruns of Dukes Of Hazzard and those goofy reality shows. I don't think she ever respected him. I can't understand what he saw in her past her physical beauty. She pretty much soured him on the ladies.

"The funny thing is her leaving him for a so-called better life. He was a little shaky that first year, but now he nets three times or better his old salary. She should have held on."

I was surprised, who knew grubbing in the dirt paid so well?

She looked me in the eyes when she dropped me off. "Leave him alone, Susan. He was so shaken up by seeing you and the memories it brought up he left as soon as it was polite. Every time he looks at you it dredges up bad memories."

She was probably right, but he was the first man I had found interesting since I had arrived six months ago. Oh, I dated, and once bedded a guy, a combination of alcohol and physical need. I cried after he left and hadn't dated since.

*****

The operations manager called me in for a quick consult the next day. "How did it go?"

"Pretty good, I think. I didn't encounter any outsized egos, except for the chefs. Everyone seemed focused on the project."

He sat back and grinned. "How did you like Eric?"

I looked back. My boss was known for his off-kilter sense of humor. "You could have warned me. I almost embarrassed myself badly."

He waved his hand grinning. "And where would the fun in that have been? Betty told me about the redneck crack. Good thing you're a spin doctor by trade. She said you made a nice recovery. One thing you may have already realized, but I need to reaffirm; despite being the largest city in the state and having all kinds of delusions of being a grand metropolis, at heart we're still just a small Southern town, with all its pettiness and infighting. Tread lightly, Susan."

I had my work cut out for me. There had been a groundswell of resentment over the recent handling of foreclosures. Seemed the department handling the due diligence in reviewing each case became overwhelmed and ended up rubber-stamping everything that came across their desks. It came apart when one man hired a sharp lawyer who found all kinds of holes in the foreclosure process. We even tried to foreclose on one house that had been paid for almost a year, because of an inverted address number.

The number of suits was climbing at an alarming rate, heading towards class action. The federal government was starting to take an interest, not a good thing for bankers, especially in the current economic condition. At the suggestion of the department, laid-off workers were called back to review almost every home in foreclosure to make sure there were no more mistakes. Some homeowners who had been evicted were allowed to move back in with payments deferred until they could be reviewed, a process that was taking three to six months on average.

I pushed for the deferred payments. It made us look good in the community, and kept the houses occupied. Nothing declines as fast as an empty house, not to mention it often kept the properties from becoming vandalized.

The homeowners changed their attitudes a lot when they were given the reprieve. Some managed to get new jobs or were called back to their old ones and caught up on arrears. It was a media gold mine.

It was still a bit of a fight. "We're not making anything if we let them live there free," grumbled one of the foreclosure managers.

"As opposed to what we're making now? At least the houses are being kept in repair, yards mowed, that sort of thing, instead of sitting empty and possibly being vandalized or requiring we pay to have them maintained. It makes us look good, and we need that right now. Besides, some of them will eventually rebound, and if they can't catch up, we can always balloon it at the end, a little bit of something is still better than a hundred percent of nothing."

Eventually, they agreed, and it went a long way towards getting the government off our ass. My bosses were well pleased. I was given the Feast In The Field assignment as a reward.

We met twice monthly. The only real clashes came from the chefs, a temperamental group at best, unbearably egotistical at worse. Hoping to get him to spend time with me, I offered to buy him lunch the next day. He declined.

"Sorry, I have a long-standing commitment that I have to keep. I go the Y over on Oak Street. You don't think I got these muscles pulling carrots, do you? I started going when the bi...ex-wife left, to relieve a little stress. I'm afraid I've become addicted. I don't use steroids or muscle enhancers, but I feel out of sorts if I don't go at least four times a week."

He flexed, and I thought his shirt buttons would pop right off. He grinned and walked off.

I had a membership the next day and signed up for a noon Zumba class. I needed it. Really. I was getting a little soft.

The next week I pretended to be surprised when we met in the lobby. He just grinned. It made him look so cute. I made it a point to walk by the weight room in my new yoga pants and sports bra. I had to walk around the drool spots, even from the trainers.

I glanced in and froze. He had on a tight pair of shorts, lifting and grunting, while the sweat created a sheen over his body. His head gleamed, and judging by what I saw in the shorts, he was proportioned really well. Really, really well.

He looked up and smiled. I turned red as a schoolgirl and rushed into my class.

I wasn't looking my best when I came out. It had been too long, and I really was badly out of shape. When we met in the hall, he had showered and dressed, in tight jeans and a tighter tee shirt. I wanted to eat him up. Literally.

I was sweating and my perfume had long faded, right behind my deodorant.

"Enjoy your workout?" he said, with that half-smile that I loved and hated equally.

Ever the spin doctor, I tried to come up with something witty. "No, I think the instructor hates Yankees in general, and me in particular. But hopefully, it'll get better. I'm not really a bad person, you know."

I switched subjects. "Look, I'm here, you're here. Let me get showered and buy you lunch so I can pitch some ideas about how to handle the chefs."

He frowned. Not a good sign. "Don't you think we should wait and let you present it to the board?"

"Look, Eric, I may be a Yankee, and I may be a blond and related to your ex, but unlike her, I'm not an idiot. Every suggestion that gets made, everyone looks to you. Every spat that happens, they wait for you to clear the air. You're the force behind this project, and everybody knows it. Just give me a chance. Please."

He smiled, finally. "Very well, Miss Johnson. I'll wait here for you to get showered and changed. And I insist on buying lunch."

I stuck out my hand. "Deal. Give me twenty minutes, and please, call me Susan. My good friends call me Suz."

He shook my hand. "Deal, Susan."

All right, baby steps, but they were still steps in the right direction.

Why did I want to know him better? First, he offended my vision of myself as a walking goddess by ignoring me. Plus, he was hot. And I was lonely. And he was hot. Sorry, I already said that, didn't I? Still true.

It took me thirty minutes, and I apologized. He waved it off. "Compared to your cousin, you've set a speed record. I didn't expect you for another twenty minutes."

We walked to lunch, at a place he knew just a few blocks away. Was it an intimate little place, romantic, elegant?

No, it was a food truck. A bright orange truck, with a crowd of people lined up. Friends of his owned it, and the food was excellent, top restaurant quality. He ordered for me, a sampler of sorts. I was embarrassed at how fast I consumed it.

He laughed, and when the rush was over both operators came out in turn to talk. They looked me over pretty hard. I could see it in their eyes, I was being compared to THE BITCH, as I had started calling my cousin.

They were charming, and surprisingly, one was from Vermont, and the other from upper New York state.

"The ten-year rule applies, honey. We're Southerners now."

They could see my confusion.

"Doesn't matter where you're from. Live down here ten years and you can never go back. I was raised right outside of Rome, you know, famous for the apple tree? I didn't go home for six years. We took a two-week vacation and came back after six days. I don't ever remember such rude people."

I paused, thinking. "Don't get me wrong, Southerners can be downright unpleasant on occasion, too."

"I think it was F. Scott Fitzgerald who said, 'Southerners will remain polite right up until the moment they become angry enough to kill you.' He was right. It usually takes a lot, but you really, really don't want them angry at you."

I leaned in and whispered while Eric threw our containers away. "And you especially don't want to piss off Eric. That's a grizzly under that teddy bear exterior. Ask your cousin's new husband."

I sat up and smiled brightly as he returned. "She's not too bad for a Yankee, and a Johnson."

I didn't know if that was a compliment or not.

We sat in the park to talk after we left there, but not before we stopped at a bakery you would walk right past if you didn't know it was there. He bought two really strong, rich coffees, and pastries that added an inch to my waistline from just looking at them. I ate two.

"It must be nice being local. How do you know all these people?"

"Well, as you said, being a local helped. I met Mike, the baker, at the farmer's market when he was looking for fresh fruit. Sandy and Glory moved down here after looking at a small farm.

"Sandy is a butcher by trade, and Glory is a chef, top quality. They raise an heirloom breed of pig and chickens. The meal you ate? It was meat they raised and slaughtered. The lettuce and onions, and the mixed greens came from my farm. So did the carrots and potatoes. Mike, the baker you just met, makes their buns and bread.

"We met through a seminar the extension service was hosting. They had just gotten married in Boston, right after they started allowing same-sex marriages. They'll be celebrating their fifth anniversary next month, and still act like newlyweds. The food truck was Sandy's idea, and it's been very profitable. It will be the overflow kitchen at the event if they need to use it.

"Enough about that. Give me your ideas about how to handle our divas."

I had thought about this a lot. Chefs love public displays of attention almost as much as they love a profit. "We get Andre to do a dish on the morning newscast of the ABC affiliate, Gaston to do one on CBS the next day, and Emily goes last on NBC, each talking about the event. Each gets to shine on a separate day and we get free publicity on all three stations."

He stroked his chin, thinking. "Very good, Susan, but what about the Fox station?"

This was the icing on the cake. "Fox is the only one with a local midday talk show. We get all three on at the same time, doing a mini cook-off. They'll all bring their A-game, trying to outdo each other. People will love it."

He was grinning. "I like it. Stroking their egos while at the same time making them at least appear to be team players. Make sure you bring it up at the meeting. I have to go now, but I want to thank you. I really enjoyed lunch. Maybe my ex was the rotten apple in the Johnson girl barrel. See you at the meeting."

I smiled, watching that tight butt as it disappeared around the corner.

*****

The first October meeting was pleasant. My suggestion was met with praise, and everybody was a little more receptive to me.

I approached Eric and Betty as they were in deep discussion. "So, are you gonna go?"