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team players

“What are your thoughts?” Bob asked the intern; the poor intern whose uncle worked in middle

management.

“I’m sorry - bit over my pay grade,” the intern said. At the start of the summer, the rest of them

noticed she wasn’t good at hierarchy, or had not heard of it.

Dee Dee’s Diet Soda peaked in the early 1990’s, around the time when women described food

by points and downed fat free Devil’s food cookie cakes. That’s when Dee Dee’s was all the

rage. Orange cream, ginger ale, root beer. They shipped across four continents. There was a

jingle most kids could hum. Back then, the tiny town of Bridgman was bursting with pride and

cash, thanks to Dee Dee’s headquarters on the river. After the hospital, it was the biggest

employer in town, with over 1,000 workers from factory to trucking to management.

That’s how Sandra got started. She was a trucker, then an instructor, and then middle

management. Now, she was Chief Marketing Officer, sitting in a humid room listening to a

dimwitted intern half her age being too honest for the circumstances. She felt herself pining for

the days when she took to the interstate alone and get cozy in the sleeper cab, under the glow of a

gas station. No slide decks, no pitches, no late night calls with the C-suite when she had

promised the kids she would watch a movie with them. They’re off in the world now.

We all sacrifice, she thought.

But now, bankruptcy was looming. The women didn’t want diet soda anymore; they craved

water. Imagine that. Millions of marketing dollars into colorful cans and skinny mascots, and

they lose out to molecules. For the past ten years since her promotion, Sandra saw it coming.

Bob meant well, but he didn’t have the ability to foresee what women wanted from Dee Dee’s.

No secret initiative with a codename lifted from the military could change the fact that the

patriarchy had built the company’s product, and the patriarchy would take it down.

Two seats from Sandra, Sheila was doodling in her notebook. She was the union representative

and Sandra’s friend since elementary school. Sandra felt a Press On Nail itch her back, and a

folded note tumbled across her cleavage and into her lap. Sandra unfolded it.

Drinks at Kenny’s after this? To discuss mission critical strategy?

Sandra smiled and folded it back up. They kept their inside jokes under lock and key. Otherwise, the rank and file would misinterpret them as bitter female leaders. They insisted to

one another that they were team players; they just had an issue with the rest of the team. She

crossed her right arm behind her back and gave her old friend a thumbs up. Sometime later, the

meeting adjourned, with action items that would go on to live through another brainstorming

session.

‑‑

“So what the frick do you think the Board will do?” Sheila asked while waving the

bartender down.

Sandra studied Kenny’s tap handles, searching for something light. “Who knows. Is IPA

heavier than a pale ale?”

“Oh Jesus … the intern’s here!” Sheila said. She waved at her, too. Sheila was the least

self conscious person Sandra had ever met.

“Hey! Hey! I know you!” Sheila yelled.

The intern turned, looked behind her, and shot a confused stare in their direction.

Like a baby deer, Sandra thought. She looked to be about Katie’s age.

“Me?” the intern said.

“Yes, you!” Sheila said. “Don’t you recognize us?”

“No,” the intern said.

Again with the honesty, Sandra thought.

“We were in the same meeting, like one hour ago! What’s your name?” Sheila said.

“Cassie Clarkson.”

“Cassie Clarkson! That’s a good name, Cass! Well done.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Cassie Clarkson said.

Sandra glanced in Sheila’s direction. “Let it go,” Sandra whispered.

“Cass,” Sheila said. “If you could redo your answer to Bob Samuel’s question today, the

one about saving the company, what would you say?”

Cassie straightened her posture and cleared her throat in a way that almost suggested

respect.

“I don’t know. I mean, I would say that young people want more out of a company than a

marketing campaign. We want a mission.”

Now Sandra got involved. “Do you really think a new mission statement would increase

demand for diet soda?” she asked.

“If you went about it the right way, it would. It’s all about going viral on socials, right?”

They nodded as if they understood.

“Let me ask you, what do people your age care about?” Sheila asked.

“Who.”

“What’s that?”

“Who do people care about,” Cassie said.

“OK, sure, who?” Sheila asked.

“The workers. Companies that aren’t just about profit.” Cassie looked away and said,

“Ah, that’s my friend.”

They watched Cassie walk straight into a corner, settling in shoulder to shoulder with a

jukebox shadowed by boxes of inventory.

“Sandra!” Sheila said.

“Sheila!” Sandra replied.

“What if Local 7089 goes on strike …”

“For what?” Sandra asked. “We’ve never –”

“For terms that management can live with, that’s what.”

“And?” Sandra said.

“And we go viral for compromising. It’s just not done these days.”

Sandra thought about thin women and fat men and missing Katie’s 5th grade play for

both. Talk about compromise, she thought. But instead, she said, “We’ll look bad.”

“Bad beats bankrupt, right?” Sheila said.

“Sandra lowered her voice to a whisper. “Come on, now. A strike for clicks?”

“How’s that different from any other strike?” Sheila replied. “Publicity creates pressure.

Plus, you know we could use a couple benefits that certain folks will never use. We’ll get

attention for making them human. We’ll help the younger versions of ourselves.”

Sandra could hear the old clock above the bar ticking seconds off. She wished she had a

clock that loud when her kids were growing up.

“Well?” Sheila said.

“I don’t think we’re talking much these days, Sheila.” Sandra replied.

Sheila smiled.

“No, I suppose not.”