Chapter Three

G.O.D. was officially a number of levels above me on the company organizational chart, but there seemed to be a dotted line relationship that ran directly to me on matters that my superiors considered to be "out of their lines of expertise," or for something that was personal, trivial, and most of all difficult to accomplish.

"Let Jayne do it," seemed to be the general consensus, like the time G.O.D. needed someone to infiltrate the luncheon ranks to discover why cafeteria revenues were off.  The answer was, of course, that the food was lousy and the portions were skimpy.  To G.O.D.'s credit, he did hire a new cafeteria to address the problem that I dutifully reported to him.

I sighed as Addie's booming voice zinged over the line to my ear.

"Jayne, Mr. Dawson requires you in his office, NOW!"

For a moment, I considered pretending to be Dena, our clerical support person, as I often did whenever cagey vendors caught me unaware answering my own phone.  But I knew that Addie's ear was too keen to be fooled. "Right there," I answered.

I took a quick glance at my reflection in the glass of the framed company slogan of the year, hanging on my wall.  This year's slogan was rendered in putrid shades of plum and puce and was intended to symbolize the subtle blending of tradition and high tech - at least that's how the agency who had come up with the gem "POTTS LABS PURSUES EXCELLENCE IN TRADITION AND TECHNOLOGY - 100 YEARS OF PRESTIGIOUS PRODUCTS" explained it.

I squinted my eyes to better see my face.  The frost job was OK, but I definitely needed a trim to keep my chin length style under control. My gray eyes stared back at me with steely resolve.  I smoothed the prerequisite wool blazer over the carefully fitted skirt and fluffed the ruffle on the perfect little silk blouse and mentally prepared myself.

If only, I thought, one could afford to dress in the manner that indicated that one had really arrived, before one could actually afford to do so, since once one really had arrived, one no longer cared what anyone else thought, anyway.  I shook my head.  Thinking like that did nothing to chase away the raw edges of my headache, still clinging like low-hanging fog.  I gathered up my Franklin-type planner and my faux Monte Blanc pen, and I was off.

Rounding the corner, I prepared to tiptoe past the office of Mick Daniels, resident playboy of the Midwestern world.  His curtains were partially drawn across his office window, and I figured I was safe.  But I made the mistake of glancing that way just as I passed by.

Bingo, eye contact.

I quickly turned my head and pretended to miss his frantic hand signals.  I didn't have time to stop and listen to his latest tales of conquest.   Even if his love life was half as exciting as he made it sound, it by contrast made mine appear dead boring. 

I proceeded down the corridor and approached Addie's desk which blocked access to the horseshoe area where the real executives held court.   There was a not-so-subtle change in the depth of the carpet beneath one's feet, and all the walls matched.

"Go right in, Jayne," Addie breathed and turned back to her keyboard.

The reflection from her color monitor layered mauve highlights through her thick glasses like little purple bags beneath her eyes, and I marveled at how well she matched her surroundings.  The executive area had been redecorated at the beginning of the year to match the chosen plums and puces of this year's slogan.  I wondered whether they would redecorate again next year, or if this area, too, would bear the hallmark of the year that plum was "in."

Company redecorating seemed to run in cycles, depending upon what colors the carpet and chair and paint companies were pushing that year, which reminded me of going into someone's kitchen and dating the year they had redone it by the color of the refrigerator.  Like for instance, I noticed that most everyone now had an almond or white one, while mine was still Coppertone.  Sigh.

G.O.D.'s door was closed, and I knocked softly.

"Come in, Jayne," spoke the carefully modulated voice from inside.

I was awed for a moment at his foresight, but then realized that in his strictly ordered life, there were no surprises.  I entered and approached the huge carved desk. I found that I was more intimidated by the desk than by the man.  It appeared to be more like an intricately carved confessional than an office desk. Somehow, I wanted to kneel at the very sight of it.

But G.O.D. was smiling.  His European-cut, double-breasted suit contrasted sharply with his apple pie American looks.  His brown hair was styled with precision, and his hazel eyes revealed the studied intelligence behind his gaze.  His hands arched in a steeple of complete confidence. He motioned for me to sit down on an overstuffed and ruffled puce chair.

"And how are things in your section," he began the conversation in a chatty tone.

I was wary.  "Going well, Sir," I replied.

"Jayne, Jayne, please," he clucked.   "I'm Gerry to you.  That is, when we are in my office," he amended.   "Coffee?" he asked, indicating a coffee maker, cups and some little cookies on his sideboard.

The condemned woman thought about a hearty meal, and declined.  "No thanks," I said.

G.O.D's hands returned to their perennial steepling of assurance.  "Well, all right then," he said, smiling.  "Let's just get down to the point.  An opportunity has arisen that I believe you would be just the person to handle for us.  You recall the test market launch last year? For our new retro product, Spritzie, the sparkling vitamin refresher drink?"

How could I forget, I thought to myself, as I nodded in agreement.  Retro, indeed.  They'd dusted off this old sleeper from Dr. Potts' archives of losers, and reintroduced it as a heritage brand for today's marketplace.   We'd had that previous fall, a test launch meeting in a miserable little airport hotel in Indianapolis in the pouring rain.  The foil that was supposed to keep the fizz in the tablets had been filled with tiny pinholes that nobody had noticed.

After we'd hauled a ton of it to dripping Indy for the introductory meeting and an in-store blitz, we had one soggy mess.  I had tucked three dozen packages of samples in my own overnight case, because Tater had forgotten to put them in the truck shipment to the meeting site.  I was still scraping orange-flavored goo off the inside of that bag.

Then I tuned back into G.O.D.'s rambling discourse.

"Sales in the initial test market are phenomenal," G.O.D. was exclaiming. "Now that we've got our packaging problems ironed out, and distribution into the pipeline, the Indy test market sales are 300% above forecast."

I looked up with some interest.  "You mean that product's actually moving through to the consumer?" I asked.

"The stores can't seem to keep it in stock," he replied.  He consulted a memo on his desk.  "At this rate, the initial production run for that market will be exhausted in a few more weeks, while we had expected it to last at least another six months."  His carefully manicured nails led my eyes to the bottom line.

Although I am well aware that facts can lie whenever necessary, this data appeared to be documented by actual store movement.  If the trend was substantiated in other test markets, we could have a real winner -  the very thing that Potts Labs. needed, a new sales leader rather than our stable of mature brands meagerly shored up by a dreary line of me-too flankers.

Additional sales coming from an entirely new line would be a real boost, and would surely affect our promised year-end profits which our struggling sales force labored to diligently deliver by the last day of every year's fourth quarter.

G.O.D. was verbally forging ahead.   "Unfortunately, our second test market in Cleveland is reporting nearly the opposite results.  The Spritzie product there is languishing on the shelves.   Although initial trail is nearly as strong as Indy, repurchase just doesn't come anywhere near the Indy rates.  Batch one released to Indy is a real winner.   Batch two sold in Cleveland is a flop."

He looked over at me carefully.  "With our upcoming 100th Anniversary celebration, we need positive news to release.  We've got to find out why there is such a strong difference between the product in the two markets."

"Surely the market research department can..." I began, but G.O.D. interrupted me.

"This isn't something that can be solved that easily," he insisted.

My mind went into its normal pattern of attempting to turn G.O.D.speak into real English.  He wanted ME to do something that would be the equivalent of turning water into wine, or pulling off the virgin birth with Madonna, the ex-Mrs. Penn, rather than the original.

"I'm concerned that there has been a breakdown of discipline here at Potts," he continued.  "You may not be aware of it, but there will be an announcement later this week about some disciplinary actions in the lab."  He got that really earnest look on his face.  "Jayne,  I need to find out what made that first batch such a success, and the second, a failure.   I need someone to be my eyes and ears in places where I would be too conspicuous.   I haven't forgotten the fine things you've accomplished for me in the past and that I can always count on you to be thorough and discrete."

"But," I began.

"I know I can count on you now.  As a cover story, we'll announce that we're tying in a national introduction of Spritzie here at the home office next month to kick off the 100th Anniversary celebration.  Since your section is coordinating the event, it's only natural that you'll need to get involved in helping to assure that we have adequate production for that reason.  I'll expect your report, say," he paused an consulted his calendar.  "Next Wednesday, a week from tomorrow.  That'll give you time to get things moving."

He stood up.  "One more thing, Jayne.  Not a word to anyone.  We don't know who might be involved.  This is just between you - and me."

Head reeling, I stood up.

G.O.D. was beaming.  "Next week then, ten sharp."

I was dismissed.

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