The First Councel

Simon takes a second to think about it. The longer he’s silent, the more he agrees. “Write it up,” he finally says. “I think you may have someth-”

“Here you go,” I interrupt as I pull a two-page memo from my briefcase. “They’re about to go out with it, so I made it a priority.”

“Thanks,” he says as I pass the memo forward. I nod, and Simon casually turns back to the group. He’s accustomed to overachievers.

When we finish going around the room, Simon moves to new business. Watching him, I’m truly amazed-through it all, he looks and sounds even calmer than when he started. “Not much to report,” he begins in his always steady tone. “They want us to take another look at this thing with the census-”

My hand shoots up first.

“All yours, Michael. They want to revisit the outcome differences between counting noses one by one and doing a statistical analysis.”

“Actually, there was an editorial in the-”

“I saw it,” he interrupts. “That’s why they’re begging for facts. Nothing elaborate, but I want to give them an answer by tomorrow.” Simon takes one last survey of the room. “Any questions?” Not a hand goes up. “Good. I’m available if you need me.” Standing from his seat, Simon adjourns the meeting.

Immediately, half of the associates head for the door, including Pam and me. The other half stay and form a line to talk to Simon. For them, it’s simply the final act in the ego play-their projects are so top secret, they can’t possibly be talked about in front of the rest of us.

As I head for the door, I see Julian staking out a spot in the line. “What’s the matter?” I ask him. “You don’t like sharing with the rest of the class?”

“It’s amazing, Garrick, you always know exactly what’s going on. That’s why he puts you on the big, sexy issues like the census. Oooooh, baby, that sucker’s gold. Actuaries, here I come.”

I pretend to laugh along with his joke. “Y’know, I’ve always had a theory about you, Julian. In fourth grade, when you used to have show-and-tell, you always tried to bring yourself, didn’t you?”

“You think that’s funny, Garrick?”

“Actually, I think it’s real funny.”

“Me too,” Pam says. “Not hysterical, but funny.”

Realizing he’ll never survive a confrontation against the two of us, Julian goes nuclear. “Both of you can eat shit.”

“Sharp comeback.”

“Well done.”

He storms around us to get back in line, and Pam and I head for the door. As we leave, I glance over my shoulder and catch Simon quickly turning away. Was he looking at us? No, don’t read into it. If he knew, I’d know. I’d have to.

Avoiding the line at the elevator, we take the stairs and make our way back to the OEOB. As soon as we’re alone, I see Pam’s mood change. Staring straight down as we walk, she won’t say a word.

“Don’t beat yourself up over this,” I tell her. “Gimbel didn’t disclose it-you couldn’t have known.”

“I don’t care what he told me; it’s my job to know. I’ve got no business being here otherwise. I mean, as it is, I can barely figure out what I’m even doing anymore.”

Here she goes-the yin to her own yang-toughness turned in on itself. Unlike Nora, when Pam’s faced with criticism, her first reaction is to rip herself apart. It’s a classic successful person’s defense mechanism-and the easiest way for her to lower expectations.

“C’mon, Pam, you know you belong here.”

“Not according to Simon.”

“But even Caroline said-”

“Forget the rationalizing. It never works. I want to take some time to be mad at myself. If you want to cheer me up, change the subject.”

Aaaand we’re back-guerrilla honesty. “Okay, how’s about some office gossip: Who do you think leaked the birthday party?”

“No one leaked it,” she says as we return to the sterile hallways of the OEOB. “He just used it to make a point.”

“But the Herald-”

“Open your eyes, boy. It was a party for Lawrence Lamb, First Friend. Once word got out about that, the whole complex came running. No one misses a social function with the President. Or with Nora.”

I stop right in front of Room 170. Our office. “You think that’s why I went?”

“You telling me otherwise?”

“Maybe.”

Pam laughs. “You can’t even lie, can you? Even that’s too much.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your unfailing predisposition to always be the Boy Scout.”

“Oh, and you’re so hyper-cool?”

“Life of a city girl,” she says, proudly brushing some invisible lint from her shoulder.

“Pam, you’re from Ohio.”

“But I lived in-”

“Don’t tell me about New York. That was law school-you spent half the time in your room, and the rest in the library. Besides, three years does not hyper-cool make.”

“It makes sure I’m not a Boy Scout.”

“Will you stop already with that?” Before I can finish, my beeper goes off. I look down at the digital screen, but don’t recognize the phone number. I unclip it from my belt and read the message: “Call me. Nora.”

My eyes show no reaction. My voice is super-smooth. “I have to take this one,” I tell Pam.

“What’s she want?”

I refuse to answer.

She’s laughing again. “Do you sell cookies also, or is that just a Girl Scout thing?”