Chapter Two
SunBurst, Inc. occupies the first floor of a small, circa 1970 office building on the Mariner’s Mile, a short distance from Newport Boulevard. Mike Tattersall purchased the bay-side building at a bargain price when he was a young investor in the mid-eighties. He was working with his father’s real estate company at the time. Shortly thereafter, he met Spence Eastman, a financial whiz from the MBA program at Stanford who had recently returned to the Southland, and was looking for a start-up opportunity. A month later, the two of them began a management consulting business: The SunBurst Company. They located their offices in the building Mike already owned since a small suite happened to be vacant at the time.
SunBurst’s first few business engagements went extremely well, and within a year, Spence and Mike agreed to incorporate the firm. Rather fortuitously, the building was able to accommodate the company’s growth over the ensuing years when leases on two other office suites expired, and the tenants elected not to renew at higher rents. So, with Mike as landlord, SunBurst, Inc. has remained comfortably in place between the Pacific Coast Highway and the Lido Channel for over a decade.
And there was one more reason why Spence and Mike have not been anxious to move — the parking has always been free.
This morning, however, Julie’s usual spot in the parking lot remained empty. She had walked to work from her house, a distance of slightly under a mile-and-a-half, along the only direct route — over the Boulevard bridge and down the heavily traveled Pacific Coast Highway where the air reeked of exhaust and sand blew into her eyes and mouth. It wasn’t a route designed for pedestrians. But after twenty-five years in the Detroit suburbs where she could go nowhere without an automobile, Julie vowed that she would walk whenever possible, wherever possible.
The azure bay sparkled this morning underneath an unusually cloudless sky, putting her into an extraordinary mood. Pleasure craft bobbed peacefully at their moorings in the marina. Now and then, a biker or another pedestrian passed her by, smiling and waving. Such moments were precious to Julie. She had lived too long without them.
It bewildered her to meet people here who exhibited a total lack of appreciation for the coastal climate and its prevailing temperate weather conditions. But apparently, there were many such California natives, completely unacquainted with the experience of a Great Lakes’ winter or some other equally disdainful and agonizingly long stretch of freezing temperatures and gray days, interrupted regularly by wind-driven snow squalls that pile up tons of white powder of the shoveling variety, force cars into ditches, trees and each other, and virtually stop everything in the city but the beating of your heart. She felt truly sorry for such people; they took so much for granted. And, considering all the fears of natural disasters (anxieties which justifiably loom large in the hearts and minds of most Californians), whether shaped through personal loss or inspired by the folklore — if all these concerns were added together, they’d still fail to equal the depressing power of one Detroit winter. Julie Baker Predmore knew this from experience.
She left such thoughts behind though as she opened SunBurst’s heavy, weather-beaten, wooden door. Once inside, she removed her sunglasses and smoothed her windblown hair. At her work area she sat down and took off her athletic shoes, replacing them with a pair of dress sandals, then stowing her Nike’s underneath her desk and out of sight.
Her desk was a picture of organization. She never allowed paperwork to pile up. Years ago she learned the “touch it once” theory: either work on it, file it, or throw it away before proceeding to the next document. But, because real work was often much more complex than the theory might otherwise suggest, Julie also put a “work in process” tray along with “in” and “out” bins on a filing credenza behind her. This way she could keep her main desktop clean of everything but a phone and whatever she was working on at the time. Such discipline has made her the object of occasional, harmless ridicule from other SunBurst staff members, especially the sales reps who could best be identified by the overabundance of clutter adorning their own desks. Julie always sloughed off the chiding from her coworkers though, convinced that she possessed the higher-order system, a product of her well-developed, and probably superior, left brain.
Julie’s workspace was perhaps the least private area in the building. Her job put her at the nexus of information and communications of interest to Spence Eastman, the company chairman. Therefore, she had to be visible and accessible. Meanwhile, Spence generally remained sequestered in his posh sixteen-by-twenty-foot executive office, only occasionally emerging for coffee or a walk to the washroom. Oversight of the staff was generally done by Spence’s alter ego, Mike Tattersall, a devotee of the MBWA theory, meaning management by walking around. On days when Mike wasn’t out making sales calls, he practiced it regularly.
This morning Mike was in the office unusually early. At 8:35 he stopped by Julie’s workstation and began some friendly badinage. “Good morning, Ms. Predmore. You’re looking very lovely today, as usual.”
She smiled back at him, shaking her head. “Oh, please. You better have your eyes checked, Mike. I’m a windblown bag of bones.”
“You underestimate your charm, Julie. Or are you just overly modest?”
Mike Tattersall could only be described as handsome with a well-set jaw and dark, monochromatic black hair that he gelled and combed straight back to emphasize his high forehead and bright, periwinkle eyes. Julie has always suspected him of visiting his private washroom each day after lunch to eliminate any mid-day growth of his beard in order to keep it hidden below the surface of his smooth, tanned face. Today, he was wearing khaki pants and a black, collarless shirt, buttoned to the neck. He smiled while imposing his six-foot frame over Julie’s desk, awaiting her response.
“You obviously don’t know me very well,” Julie said. “Modesty is not one of my better qualities.” She fidgeted slightly, betraying her discomfiture with the present conversation. Then she switched on her PC and grabbed a folder from her IN box.
“Funny you should mention that,” Mike said. “There is something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Maybe you could drop by my office some time this morning, so we can talk. Whenever you have a spare minute. I should be around all morning.”
Julie was immediately suspicious. Speculation over Mike’s private life has kept the office rumor mill working overtime; his supposed exploits were legion. She knew, however, that she could hardly refuse to do this one simple thing he’d asked of her, especially since he’s been nothing but a gentleman toward her from her first day on the job, a year ago last October. Still, she didn’t want his open-ended request to hang within the veil of her subconscious as she went about her morning business, so she set the folder back in its place and stood up, pushing back her chair. “Let’s do it now. I’m not buried in anything just yet.”
“Great,” Mike said. “That’s one of the things I like best about you, Julie. You always do the most productive thing possible.”
They began the short walk down the hall to Mike’s office.
“I don’t know how Spence ever got anything done before you came along.”
Mike was laying it on a little thick. Julie knew there were thousands of women in the Southland who could probably outperform her, most of them younger and prettier. Plus, she couldn’t think of a single quality or ability that might make her stand out in a crowd, except that she worked hard everyday and wouldn’t take time off unless she was deathly sick.
They entered Mike’s office suite, and he swung the door to within an inch of being shut. What is he up to? she wondered.
Julie knew Mike was the consummate formula guy. Image and substance were synonymous to him. He was both familiar and experienced with every technique that management gurus have dreamed up over the past twenty years.
“Please make yourself comfortable,” Mike suggested, pointing to a well-padded leather chair from which one had a breathtaking unobstructed view of the channel, the marina, and Lido Isle. Owning the building has its particular advantages, like the view and the private washroom.
Mike seated himself in a second, similarly styled chair that completed the conversation area. “Isn’t it beautiful out there today?”
“Oh yes, so bright and clear for a morning on the coast. I couldn’t resist the temptation to walk to work this morning.”
“So that’s how you stay in such good shape, then,” Mike presumed aloud, undoubtedly meaning it as a compliment.
“Not really, no.” Julie quickly contradicted him, hoping to develop some power of her own in this dialogue which had already begun to go down the path she feared. “I’m a runner, twenty miles a week at least.”
“I should have known that,” Mike said, somewhat apologetically. “Sorry.”
“No problem. It’s a private thing, my own personal discipline, nothing more. I wouldn’t expect you to know about it.” I should not have offered that, she realized, but it was already too late. She hung on the edge of her chair wishing he’d get to whatever business he had in mind, hoping it to be something innocuous, something which wouldn’t pry any deeper into her personal life and embarrass her further.
“Quite the contrary, Julie. I make it my business to know the details of people’s lives. It’s a habit I developed over the years in this business. Knowing such things is what has helped SunBurst succeed where our competitors fail. It’s my edge.”
It occurred to Julie that everyone in the office viewed Mike as a man with an overdeveloped ego, though he generally managed to keep it in check. “I see,” she said, but didn’t. “What exactly is it you need done, Mike?”
“Nothing I need, actually.” He lifted an eyebrow but remained otherwise motionless. “Rather, it’s something I hope you will consider.” He paused.
“Well...what?” she said, her anxiety a little too obvious.
“Would you consider joining me for dinner tomorrow evening? I have a reservation at Amelia’s on Balboa. We can discuss the Williams Industries project. Both Spence and I think it’s time you take on a larger role in the development of our presentations. Williams is a good one for you to start with.”
She felt herself flush. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mike. I have other plans for tomorrow night. Besides, I have a policy not to date the men I work with.”
“Don’t look at it as a date, Julie. It’s like I said; this is a golden opportunity for you to move into marketing.”
Though not exactly coercive, nor unquestionably innocent, Mike’s offer was nevertheless tempting. She looked at him without making eye contact. “Well, I appreciate the opportunity to get involved in marketing, Mike; I really do. But I can’t let my friend Tracy down. We’ve had this Friday evening planned since Christmas.”
“I can certainly understand that, Julie. Loyalty is another one of your valuable traits.” He slid forward in his chair and continued, imposingly, “How about Saturday evening then? Or are you so heavily booked that Saturday is also spoken for?”
“Not exactly. But I did plan to study for my classes at school.”
“You’ll need to eat, won’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, but...”
“Well, okay then. Dinner will be on me. And I promise not to keep you out late. Surely, you can spare an hour or two away from your schoolwork this early in the semester.”
He had her hemmed in. There was only one way out — to acquiesce, to buy what Mike Tattersall, the master salesman, was selling. She’d hold him to his word, however. “Okay, but it’s not a date, and I’ll meet you at the restaurant. Where will it be?”
“Great. You won’t regret it. I promise.” Mike smiled, showing nearly all of his bleached white teeth. “I’ll make a reservation and let you know.”
“May I return to work now?” Julie asked, feeling herself perspire unnaturally. “I’ve got a deadline on some research.”
“Certainly,” he said.
She stood and walked toward the door. But before she could exit, Mike’s deep baritone arrested her once more. “Oh, Julie...”
“Yes?” she asked, turning back to face him.
“Thanks for your time. I know how valuable it is. If you need help getting that research done, let me know. I’ll get Margaret to give you a hand.”
“Thanks anyway, Mike, but it probably won’t be necessary.”
“Have a super day,” he said.
“Yeah, you too.”
She left.
The Alberta Clipper blew through metro-Detroit leaving five-to-six inches of fine, powdery snow and a bright blue canopy of sub-zero atmosphere in its wake. From Danny’s sixth floor office window, it looked as though a layer of bakery-white frosting had been spread across the frigid landscape by the craft of nature’s hand, sculpted over open areas and cars and rooftops, fashioning them as ornaments in a giant, decorated cake. Here and there, evergreen trees were splattered with dollops of cream, and houses sprinkled with sugary dust. Crystalline bits sparkled in the sunshine, and long shadows of trees and buildings poured like chocolate over the pristine surface to garnish the winter treat.
Unfortunately, Danny could only perceive this beautiful nature scene as another winter headache.
He left his office and exited the building as the sun was setting to the southwest, and found the north side parking lot already shrouded in gloomy dusk. Bitter wind stung his face making him shiver, but he couldn’t depart for home just yet. His car windows needed scraping. A hard crust of ice had formed on the glass, probably due to whatever warmth was left inside when he parked this morning. He opened the door, reached in to start the engine, and switched the rear window defrost to ON. After pulling the seat forward, he retrieved his ice scraper from the rear floor mat.
While scraping the glass he heard the dreaded sound of an engine trying to crank over, but lacking sufficient power to start. Then, three more desperate attempts: Rrrrr, Rrrr, Rrr — each more futile than the last. A young woman emerged from the disabled vehicle, slammed the door, and began walking hurriedly back toward the building.
He called to her, “Need some help there?”
“I left my parking lights on this morning.”
“I’ve got some cables. Just give me a minute to clean my windshield. I’ll pull over and give you a boost.”
“Okay, great.” She managed a smile in the lip-splitting cold.
Danny finished in a hurry, not bothering with his side windows. He maneuvered his car, face-to-face with hers, a late-model Cavalier.
“Pop the hood for me, will you?” he asked, before disappearing behind his open trunk lid. Quickly he returned with a set of bright-yellow jumper cables. He lifted the hood to the Cavalier and attached them to the battery terminals. Then he completed the circuit connections on his car before and looked up to see her standing in the cold, awaiting further instructions. She was bundled heavily with a hooded parka and a neck-cinching scarf. Danny could see some wisps of brown, curly hair sticking out of her fur-trimmed hood. Her face told her age; she was young.
“Go ahead, give her a try,” he suggested. She scurried back inside her car, and turned the key.
The Cavalier immediately responded, and Danny moved to disconnect the wires. He shut both hoods and returned the cables to the trunk. The girl climbed out and stood by her car once again.
“Thanks a million,” she said, shivering and straining to be heard over the car engines with their husky, cold-weather wails. “You really saved my life tonight. My dad would have been upset if I called him for help on a night like this.”
“No problem,” Danny said. “It’s what us guys are for.”
He could see her more clearly now with the headlights illuminating the scene. She was a pretty girl, reminding him of Julie when they were first married. For a moment Danny considered exchanging introductions, maybe asking her to meet him for lunch one day. But she’s so young, and she’ll probably think I’m an old man. And her father would probably kill me if I tried to date her.
“Well, I really appreciate the help. Thanks for being there.”
“No problem. Here, let me clean the ice off your windshield for you. Why don’t you get inside and try to stay warm?”
She did so. Then, after he finished the job, she lowered the window and thanked him.
“Drive carefully now. I’ll see you around.”
“Okay, thanks again,” she said before driving off into the night.
Danny dropped behind the GS’ steering wheel, pulled the door shut, and felt the warmth of the car heater. Man, she was just like Julie. But who knows if I’ll ever see her again. Shouldn’t have let her get away like that; I didn’t even ask her name. There’s no way I could date someone that young, though. And the last thing I need is another Julie. It’s really too bad she couldn’t have stayed the way she was when she was young — happy and innocent and fun. Aw, forget it. There’s no use living in the past. Better get going, or I’ll be late for hockey.
Danny released the parking brake, shifted into drive, and headed for Big Beaver Road and the freeway north. He shook off every nostalgic thought about Julie and her youth, at least for the moment, so that the only thing looking back as he merged with traffic was the bumper sticker on his car which displayed a large red cross and read: GIVE BLOOD + PL.A.Y HOCKEY.
“You are one sorry piece of humanity, Dan-boy. About nineteen years old, you said. Are you sure she’s out of high school?” Bobby was enjoying this. Any chance to rub Danny’s nose in his own wasted opportunity was both fair game and good fun.
Danny had to defend himself. “I said I thought about asking her out. I didn’t actually do it. Maybe you should turn up your hearing aid.” He finished tying the laces on one skate and then squeezed into the other.
His closest friend since elementary school, Bobby Brooks, was six months Danny’s senior. He was dressed already for the ice and leaning against a row of lockers. “What’s the matter with you; you got a loose screw or something? What about Michele? If I were single, I’d be with her tonight, not here with a pathetic bunch of middle age guys who need an excuse to get out of the house.”
“You think it’s easy, Bob?” Danny grimaced, pulling the laces until his ankle throbbed. “Well, it’s not. And the last thing I need is another relationship where I’m locked in for life like the rest of you guys — like I was before the divorce.”
“So you’re not going to risk anything with Michele because you’re afraid you’ll be stuck with her — is that what you’re saying?”
Danny stood up while getting into his hockey jersey with the huge number 34 on the back. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying I wish it was easier, like when we were teenagers, when girls didn’t lay heavy trips on you or expect a marriage proposal after a couple of dates.”
“Is Michele hinting around for an engagement ring already?”
“No. There’s just too many complications with Michele, that’s all.”
“Like what?”
Danny stowed his bag under the locker room bench, grabbed his hockey sticks, and started walking on his blades toward the rink. “Like her kid, for instance. You ever tried adopting a fifteen-year-old? It’s like inheriting the wind.”
Following him out the door, Bobby took another shot. “Well, if you weren’t such a wimp, a little gust of wind wouldn’t blow you over. Why don’t you just date her a while and see what develops?”
“I’m trying,” Danny replied. “I just don’t have a good feeling about it.”
“But you do have a good feeling about the high school girl you met in the parking lot, tonight — right?”
“Screw you.”
“In your dreams.”
Properly fired up and prepared to engage in some serious body checking, Danny Predmore and Bobby Brooks hit the ice to begin their warm-up, joining the other ten members of their team — the Bald Mountain Blizzard. They skated around, making passes and taking shots, occasionally stealing a look at their challengers across the mid line. When the puck gets dropped at eight o’clock these guys will be ready, and they’ll be tough — at least for a bunch of slightly overweight forty-year-olds. Some of them will even have a thing or two to prove.
“Why do people do the things they do? Are we acting out of some underlying motivation? Are we exhibiting some habit of behavior? Are we performing according to some societal pattern or cultural expectation? These are questions that psychologists attempt to answer, as I’m sure you all know. But sociologists are also engaged in studying, among other things, the patterns of human behavior, especially since these patterns can tell us valuable things about the society as a whole.”
Marilyn Powers, Associate Professor of Sociology at Cal State, Fullerton, slowly circulated the amphitheater, walking up and down the aisles as she initiated her “Intro to Sociology” class. Marilyn, black and fifty-ish, was dressed in a long, colorful print dress with a suspended pair of glasses in the place of a necklace. Carrying more weight than she should on her five-and-a-half-foot frame, she spoke with a clear, powerful voice that needed no amplification, though the hall was large and over two hundred students were present.
“We call all behavior which can be studied, measured, and analyzed: Social Action. Let me illustrate for you. If I were to walk back down to my lectern like this…” She did so, rather briskly for a large woman. “…And stand here, and begin a lecture on the material for our class tonight, you would probably recognize that my behavior conforms to a familiar pattern. You don’t need to see the results of a study or survey to know that I am behaving normally, or according to a norm. Instructors generally lecture from their lecterns. It is, in fact, why we have lecterns in each classroom.
“Likewise, all of you have also behaved predictably by coming in here tonight and finding a seat in the room. But imagine how surprised I would have been had I found all of you standing down here by the lectern when I arrived.” Marilyn paused as if she expected a laugh or two at this point, but none was heard; the students remained deadpan.
She then continued with her lecture, “The key to determining if behavior can be classified as social action is the question of intent. Clearly I had intent in walking in as I did earlier, as did all of you in coming here this evening. This behavior could therefore be classified as social action.
“What sociologists do, then, is to identify the patterns or norms of social action and their underlying intent — in other words, their meaning. These social scientists attempt to discover any patterns among the factors motivating behavior, and ultimately they draw conclusions. They study factors like diversity, inequality, wealth, poverty, race, and age; and institutions like family, religion, and schools. Through scientific study and analysis of research data, sociologists are then able to explain why people do what they do and the reasons they behave with consistency.”
Julie wrote feverishly in her notebook, trying to capture the important points in Dr. Powers’ lecture. She has attributed her success at pulling A’s in all of her previous classes to her attention to detail, and also to her secretarial habit of taking copious notes in shorthand. This qualifies as a pattern of social action, she realized. I certainly have a specific intent. That is, to get through this class, get her A, and be that much closer to her degree.
She would not have chosen to take a class in sociology except that she needed four credits in a social science, and Dr. Powers’ class was conveniently scheduled on Thursday nights this semester. Prior to tonight, she could not have come up with a reasonable definition of sociology if her life had depended on it.
Looking over the lecture hall, she did not see a single person she knew. But all her previous classes started out similarly. After a week or two, she figured that she would probably gravitate to one particular female or another in the class, and thereby make another friend. This was how she met Tracy Wendell last semester. They were both unlikely members of a biology class, both there for the required credits. Although different from each other in many ways, they hit it off immediately. Opposites tend to attract, and once Julie and Tracy began studying together, the class became more enjoyable for both of them. They had many laughs over the more interesting aspects of human anatomy.
These evening classes at Cal State Fullerton are generally populated with adult students struggling to keep a full-time job going while steadily, sometimes painfully, marching toward their degrees. Tonight’s first meeting of Intro to Sociology appeared to conform nicely to that pattern.
And there were other patterns — age for example. Though Julie probably wasn’t the oldest student present tonight, casual surveillance of the room indicated that she was definitely not within the norm. Given her forty years, such a discovery was not statistically noteworthy, but to Julie Predmore, it was significant nonetheless, since she has recently become intensely conscious of her age. However, as the night wore on, her advanced years actually worked to her advantage. From what she could tell, the subject seemed at least conceptually familiar to her. She was a step or two ahead of the typical young college student confronting subject matter like this for the first time.
Still, Julie was not going to take anything for granted. All evening long she continued taking notes and focusing on the lecture in spite of the fact that the instructor’s presentation skills were weak. Imagine, a whole semester of this! The thought momentarily paralyzed her.
The night continued to drag on interminably until finally — after another hour or so of mesmerizing drivel on the theories and historical foundations of sociology, through which some of the class members slept blissfully — Dr. Powers came to the homework assignment for the week. “Using your textbook and at least one other source for your research, write an essay of 600-800 words on the quality of life. Specifically, I would like you to contrast two important society types in your paper — the gesellschaft and the gemeinschaft models, as described on page 142 of your textbook. Please stress the different effects that these models have on the individuals within society, as well as the behavioral consequences which can be attributed to each model. Then relate your findings to your topic — the quality of life. There are written instructions here if you need them.
“I wish you all a good week. See you next Thursday.”
Julie folded up her notebook, slipped on her jacket, and headed for the parking lot. For a moment she thought about dropping the class, then realized she was probably just tired. I can handle this, she reasoned. It can’t be more difficult than raising two teenagers while taking care of a husband who never matured past twenty-five. After that, I could probably do just about anything. Besides, maybe I’ll learn a thing or two I can actually use in real life. At least it’s worth a try.
She found her car, a three year old Mitsubishi Mirage, under the light post where she always parked it. There was a note slid under the driver’s side windshield wiper. She snatched it before climbing in. The note read, Saw your car but couldn’t find you. Hope you have a better class than me — South Asian Studies — yuk! Can’t wait till tomorrow night. Love, Trace.
The green numbers of the dashboard clock glowed brightly — 9:52. Julie put the car into gear and headed for home to wash up and immediately climb into bed. It had been a long and mentally stressful day and five-thirty A.M. always comes early.