Opening Belle by Maureen Sherry Read Free Book Online Page B

seventy people away, so shouting is the way to be certain everyone knows what’s up.
    All morning long, most of us have been thinking about Barbie. A few of the women have said things like, “Anything yet?” I’ve been shaking my head and, deep down, filing Barbie into my cabinet of disposable resentment. But since King has announced the time to deal with Barbie is now, a good portion of the floor perks up. They are ready for the show to start.
    I point to my headset, indicating to King that he should dial my extension. I want to stay on my own turf but no, he wants me with the Dicks. He shakes his head firmly that he is on the phone and his business is far more important. I stand and march directly toward him, emitting a confidence I’m not really feeling at all.
    â€œI’ve got Bob on the line,” King says loudly.
    This confuses me. I think he means Bob, a trader who sits near me. I turn back toward our row to see Bob clearly off the phone. Wrong Bob. The Dicks are perky, and all conveniently off their lines. They have their headsets on and are staring straight ahead, but I see the telephone boards in front of them and instead of the twinkling lights of a busy trading floor, nothing is illuminated. They are all listening to King.
    â€œWhat’s up?” I say as if I have no time for him.
    â€œBelle, I have Bob Eckert on the line,” he says. “What in hell kind of doll head was that last night?”
    Bob Eckert, as in the CEO of Mattel, as in the manufacturer of everything fantastic and pink and Barbie. He’s on the phone with the rainmaking and debonair King McPherson, a guy aching to connect and make Feagin Dixon Mattel’s investment bank for whatever stocks or bonds Eckert chooses to sell in the future. King is using my Barbie head as an excuse to tell Bob the story of the wild-tempered, sleep-deprived working mother who nearly throttled some upstart for destroying her kid’s Christmas present. Male bonding over women being ridiculous is the perfect way to forge a banking relationship in the Fortune 500, where 12 CEOs are women and 487 are men. That’s why the Dicks are listening. It’s a ballsy call to make. And because he has managed to knock my cool off-kilter I mumble.
    â€œHaircut Barbie.”
    â€œBob, ever hear of Haircut Barbie?” he says, and the Dicks snicker.
    King stands now, running his hand from his hip to his hair, his hip to his hair, like a 70s disco dancer. He continues to speak into his headset, while never once slowing his dance moves.
    â€œHottest toy of the season?” he booms. “Feagin bankers really do have good taste.”
    I can’t believe Eckert has the patience to listen to this. I start to wonder if he’s even really on the phone when King says to me, “How many do you need?”
    And for no reason I can fathom, I mumble, “Two.”
    I turn, rather than listen to the rest of the conversation, and head back to my seat where Amy’s bright-red face is messing with her no-hair-out-of-place persona.
    â€œCan you believe this shit?” she says.
    â€œWho called you in the ten seconds it took me to get back to my desk?” I ask, wondering how she got the details so fast.
    â€œCall? King had the hoot on. Everyone on the floor heard.”
    The hoot ’n’ holler box is a floor-wide intercom. People use it to yell out merchandise, or blocks of stock that Feagin has in inventory, looking for a buyer like a Bluelight special at Kmart. It’s also used for breaking corporate news that affects how a stock trades and is a great distribution device for jokes, flatulence noise, and playground-worthy stunts. To be able to talk to the entire floor at once was too tempting this time. King leaving the hoot on during our little conversation showed everyone how to suck up for business from a powerful CEO. It also showed how to crush a woman who acted up last night.
    I just shrug at Amy.