Page 45 of The Comeback Summer

He turns up Lakeshore Drive and I gaze out the window at Lake Michigan, dotted with white sailboats. The evening sun has turned the clouds cotton-candy pink, the blush reflected in the glistening water.

“How about we head to the lake path?” I ask after a pause. “I always run north of downtown, so it’d be fun to check out the south end.”

He gives me a grateful smile. “I’d really like that.”

And off we go.

Seventeen

LIBBY

The next week, our office is buzzing with new energy, thanks to the dozen people who are renting desk space. I knew coworking was popular, but I was surprised by all the interest. And it’s a win-win: our renters are paying a nominal fee while making the office feel like a thriving business instead of a fledgling one.

Hannah and I are sitting in the conference room, halfway through a quarterly account review with the owners of Bagelville, one of our few remaining clients. For all the time we spend trying to make them happy—an impossible task—you’d think we’d have a high retainer. But no. GiGi signed them as a favor to a friend, and they balk every time we suggest upping their scope. At least they give us a discount on their bagels.

“What I don’t understand,” Mr.Schwartz is saying, “is why theReaderhasn’t covered us once this month!”

“Not even once,” his son, the junior Schwartz, echoes. He’s fifty-something to his father’s seventy-something, and the two men look like they could be caricatures of old Jewish men, one with gray hair and the other with none.

“I don’t even know what we’re paying you for,” the elder Mr.Schwartz says.

I cross my legs and shift in my seat, trying to ignore the fact that my bladder is about to explode from all the water Hannah has me drinking. I don’t understand the benefit of drinking a gallon a day when every ounce goes straight through me.

“Well?” the senior Mr.Schwartz says, getting more impatient by the second.

Hannah looks at me; usually I’m the one who talks clients down when they get irrational, but it’s taking every ounce of concentration not to pee my pants. I’m still trying to think of what to say when Hannah jumps in.

“If you want to guarantee coverage in theReader,” she says in a calmer voice than I would have been able to muster, “then you’ll have to pay for an ad.”

“Yes,” I pipe in. “You know what they say, advertising is what you pay for; publicity is what you pray for!”

The Mr.Schwartzes and Hannah look at me like I’ve lost my marbles. Oh, fuck it. I’ve got to go.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, trying to get up from my seat without causing further distraction—or pain. Hannah says the muscle aches will ease as I get stronger, but so far, all this exercise has been a literal pain in my ass. And my side. And my quads.

“Gentlemen,” Hannah says, calling their attention back to her. “While you weren’t in theReaderthis month, you did get coverage in other outlets. Let’s look at your social media stats for the quarter.”

As I waddle to the bathroom, I think about all the work we put into this client for barely any money—and zero appreciation. I don’t know how GiGi did it for all those years. Probably because she loved public relations on a soul-deep level.

While there are parts of this job that I love—the creativity and interaction with people; the satisfaction of raising awareness for issues and products I care about; getting people to think about things in new and different ways—hawking bagels isn’t one of them. And the business side of things is just so stressful. It’s hard to find joy in the things you do love when you have to worry about keeping the lights on. Literally.

Hannah was up past midnight last night, trying to finagle the Bagelville analytics from this past quarter into something more impressive, but there are only so many ways to spin a story about Chicago bagels that rival their more famous New York cousins.

I felt guilty I couldn’t be more help to my sister, but I stayed up with her in solidarity, using the time to work on a competitive deck, gathering information about services provided by other PR firms in Chicago. I was hoping to find something that we’re missing, to give a practical—and fixable—reason that we can’t seem to attract a single new client.

Of all the three dozen prospective clients we’ve reached out to over the past few weeks, only two agreed to meet with us, and both left our offices seemingly unimpressed. Which is why we can’t afford to lose the bagel business. Even if they’re only paying us pennies, they’re pennies we need.

By the time I make my way back to the conference room, where the Mr.Schwartzes are still sitting with identical disgruntled expressions, Hannah is only on her second page of stats, sharing the reach of the few articles we managed to get placed in the last three months.

I’m nodding at something smart she said when my phone buzzes. I look down to see a message from Adam. Thank god; something to get me through the next ten slides.

ADAMR:Having a good day?

HANNAHF:I would give it a 5 out of 10

The rating scale is something new. I’m trying to infuse more Hannah into our conversations. This is as mathy as I get, and it’s been fun rating things with Adam. So far, we’ve decided that Fox News gets a 3 out of 10, NPR gets an 8 out of 10, and vanilla lattes get a 9 out of 10.

Nothing has gotten a perfect 10 yet. After much discussion, we agreed that honor should be reserved for the most transcendent things. The kind of things that stop time because they are just that good or beautiful or delicious.

---