The Manny

My phone rang. ‘So sorry. Give me a second … Jamie Whitfield.’

I should never have picked up the receiver.

‘Oh thank God you’re there.’

‘Who is this?’

‘It’s me, Christina.’ Christina Patten. One of the great airheads of our time and the class mom at Gracie’s nursery school class. ‘Christina, I’m in the mid—’

‘Sorry, Jamie, I just have one really really important question. I mean, on the scale of things, I guess it’s not crucial, but it’s just one of those things you have to get right.’

Balancing the receiver between my ear and shoulder, I reached awkwardly into the fridge behind my desk and pulled out two small Evian bottles and handed one to Peter. I’d missed what Christina was saying, but I figured the world would still turn.

‘… I mean, you’re a professional producer, right? So you should know. I’m sure you’re soooo great at organizing. That’s why I’m calling you on this.’

‘Christina, I really hate to rush you, but it’s just not the most convenient …’

‘Here’s the thing. Do you think I should bring the medium-sized dessert paper plates for Grandparents’ Day, or do you think I should bring the larger lunch-size plates?’

Surely she had to be kidding.

‘I mean, do you think the grandparents will be putting fruit salad and mini muffins on their plates? Or do you think it will be fruit salad and mini muffins and a half-bagel? Because if you really think it’s a half-bagel too, then I want to get the big ones. But if not, I don’t want the plate to look empty even though they have kind of filled it with a mini muffin and some fruit.’

‘Christina. It’s not the Normandy invasion. I know you’re really trying to pick the best thing, but just trust your instincts and …’

‘A big plate with just a mini muffin and fruit salad? It wouldn’t work, and I think it would look really sad. That’s what my instincts are telling me.’

‘I agree. That would be sad, Christina. I think they’ll eat a bagel and mini muffin too. Go for the big plates. That’s my expert advice.’

‘Are you sure? Because …’

‘Positive. And I really really have to go now!’

Click.

I looked at Peter. ‘I’m sorry, just domestic nonsense.’ Not the smartest thing I could say at an interview with an overqualified guy to fix the problems in my domestic life.

The digital clock on my desk blinked to the next minute. He was so still in his chair.

He leaned in closer. The leather on the chair squeaked. ‘And what, exactly, do you have in mind?’

I’d been vague on purpose. I’d learned from Goodman that it’s best to use the phone to lure someone into a face-to-face meeting first. Then you hit him or her with what you really want in person. I didn’t want to lose this guy because I’d given him some half-baked manny overview on the phone.

OK, Jamie. Get yourself together. I took a deep breath. ‘Well, it’s like this. I have a kid, actually three kids, like I told you. Dylan is nine, Gracie is five and the baby, Michael, is two. And, well, Dylan’s the one I mentioned to you already.’

‘I remember.’

‘He’s a little out of sorts these days. His father is gone all the time, and though I work three days here, sometimes I have special projects that bleed into the rest of the week. And sometimes I have to travel. And my son needs a male figure to kind of peel him off the floor. That’s the one thing I’m sure of. Little boys worship older guys who pay attention to them.’

‘I know.’

‘And so, he knows a little chess, he loves to read and draw, but the sports thing is not working and …’

‘So you want me to work on the chess with him? You gave me an awfully high figure on the phone. That’s a lot of money for just chess.’

‘It’s really like, come in the afternoon, mostly at pick-up time, which is 3 p.m.

And work with him.’

‘Work with him how?’

‘Well. He’s nine. Not, like, work.’

‘OK, then you mean homework.’

‘Yes. Definitely. But also much more than that. I mean, he needs someone to play with him.’ In my head I was thinking, just make him better, please just get him liking himself again. Suddenly I felt my eyes begin to sting and quickly picked up his résumé to hide my face.

‘I mean, you have a master’s in computer science, and you’ve taught skiing. You worked in this textbook company. That’s a family business?’

At this point in the interview, I learned the following: he was twenty-nine years old, turning thirty in December. He grew up in the suburbs of Denver, studied four years at Boulder before joining the workforce, mostly for his dad in his educational printing operation. He’d gotten his master’s degree in computer science at nights.

When I asked for more details about his Homework Helper idea, I began to see how creative the idea really was. He was so impassioned by it that I honestly got lost halfway through, but I didn’t let on. He’d moved to New York because he’d made headway testing Homework Helper in the New York City public school system. And, like many Internet start-ups discover after the initial excitement, there were some major kinks in the program. He had a few more tenuous months in the red ahead of him. Plus he had graduate school loans to pay off.

I had started to understand why this guy didn’t have a more traditional career in place – he was entrepreneurial, a bit of a risk-taker. What did the long wavy hair signify? Was this a mountain dude ski bum who’d enjoyed the slopes a bit too much after college or was he just someone who didn’t ruthlessly climb career ladders? I couldn’t peg him, though I hung on his every word. As he spoke, I studied his prominent cheekbones and large blue eyes. He looked like someone who would take command of any situation, though there wasn’t a bureaucratic bone in his body. I felt he was responsible and trustworthy right away, if a little bit of a screw-up on the career front.

Then I told him everything I could think of about Dylan, about the basketball meltdown, about how he’d pulled back from some of his friendships at school, and my fear that things would get worse.

‘And what about his father, if you don’t mind me asking? Are they close?’

‘Sure they are.’

‘Does his father play chess with him? What do they do together?’

Phillip hadn’t sat down on the floor with Dylan since he was three years old. ‘Well, on weekends, we all have lunch together, or my husband might take him to a movie. Phillip very much wants him to become a life-long reader, so they lie on the couch and read about airplane engineering or something. You know, Phillip’s a lawyer, he’s gone most of the week. He sees the kids for breakfast and just before bedtime, maybe once or twice a week.’

‘Do they go to the park on weekends or anything?’

Phillip hated playgrounds. And he wasn’t one to stroll around the park and enjoy the nature. ‘Uh, sure, they’ve been to the park together. I mean, it’s not like a regular thing they do.’

‘So you live, like, a block from the park and you have a nine-year-old boy and it isn’t a regular thing?’ He smiled. ‘I mean, I’m not criticizing here, I’m just not getting …’

‘No, Dylan goes to the park with his friends all the time – or, well, he used to.’

‘OK, but not with …’

‘No. Not with his father. Like ever.’ I wondered if he’d ever come into contact with a Grid lawyer before. I tried to imagine the loop going on in his head at that moment – something about spoiled kids and how much parents like me and Phillip were messing them up.

I needed a break. ‘And where are you living, Peter, if that isn’t too personal?’