The Calling. Kim O'Neill

still a small enterprise, and all of our money was tied up in the business. Just after the divorce, the agency’s financial situation started to nosedive, following the path of our personal relationship. It became almost impossible to handle our small payroll, and soon we found ourselves hurtling toward a frightening crossroads.

      Each new day became a mad, frantic scramble as I tried to handle the copywriting, pitch new business, collect the money owed to us, and negotiate with the angry suppliers hounding us for money, as well as handle the myriad of other tedious administrative responsibilities. Most days I ate lunch at my desk while creatively brainstorming with employees, tackling an avalanche of routine paperwork, or returning necessary phone calls. I was so mentally, emotionally, and physically drained by the end of each work day that I couldn’t see straight.

      There were many times when we had to work all night to complete an important project. I felt numbed, burned out, and trapped—not having the faintest clue of what else I could do professionally. I believed that I had nowhere to turn and there was no one to help me out of this dilemma. And now, after all of that turmoil and hard work, it looked as though we were in the awful position of having to shut our doors because one client refused to pay his bill.

      Suddenly, the little voice inside of me suggested that I call the client’s wife for the money. The idea hit me with such force that I stopped crying. Although Dawn Dugan was a silent partner in the business, I truly had nothing to lose. In better days, Chuck Dugan had given me their home telephone number and told me that I could contact him there if I needed to. My hands were shaking as I dialed their number.

      “Hello,” breezily answered Dawn, his wife.

      “Dawn! It’s Kim O’Neill.”

      “Oh . . . hi, Kim.” She didn’t sound pleased to hear from me.

      I decided to skip the pleasantries and get right down to pleading. “Dawn, I really need the money Hardcover owes us.”

      “Well . . . I don’t know what to tell you because—”

      “Please, Dawn, I’m begging you,” and I began to cry again.

      “But I really don’t make any of the decisions—”

      “Please, don’t do this!” I wailed uncontrollably. “Make out a check and I’ll come pick it up before he gets home from work. I’m begging you!”

      In the long pregnant pause that followed, I aged at least ten years. She finally responded, “I’d better give you cash. That way, he can’t stop payment on the check.”

      I couldn’t believe my ears. “You’ll give it to me in cash?”

      “How soon can you get here?” she asked worriedly.

      “Now!” I answered, drying my tears. “I’ll be right over!”

      “Okay . . . but hurry. He usually gets home about three.”

      I looked at my watch. It was just after two, and they were on the other side of town. “I’ll be there right away! Dawn, I’ll never be able to thank—”

      “Just hurry up! If he comes home early, I won’t be able to give it to you.”

      Racing to their house, I could have broken Indianapolis 500 speed records. I worried about what Chuck Dugan would do if he found me on his doorstep. I got there at 2:45 p.m. I jumped out of my car and ran up the stone steps that flanked the entrance of their palatial home. I tripped, fell, ripped the sleeve of my white silk blouse, and bloodied my knee, but I had so much adrenalin pumping through my veins that I didn’t even feel it. I frantically rang the bell. Ding . . . ding . . . ding . . . ding . . . ding.

      The door quickly swung open and there was Dawn, holding a large Neiman Marcus shopping bag. She was obviously surprised by my tear-stained, disheveled appearance. Worriedly looking up and down the street, she shoved the bag at me, obviously concerned about her husband finding out about what she had done.

      I grabbed the heavy multi-colored bag by the handles, looked inside, and gasped. I had never seen so much money before. Rubber bands held stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills that appeared to have been hurriedly assembled and stacked.

      “I counted it twice,” she assured me. “It’s all there. I’ll just tell him that I ran out of shopping money.”

      I looked at her in astonishment, my eyes wide, mouth open. Shopping money?

      “Well,” she said, reading my mind, “I have to have something to look forward to in this fucking marriage. Now GO!” She quickly shut the front door.

      Limping, I scurried back down the stairs, opened the car door, threw the bag inside, and was on my way. When I got to the four-way stop at the entrance of the affluent subdivision, I saw Chuck Dugan driving past me.

      I rushed to the bank. I wondered about the impression my appearance would make—a woman with red, teary eyes; a bruised and bloodied leg; and a soiled, torn blouse—holding a Neiman Marcus shopping bag loaded with $80,000 in cash. I had never made such a substantial deposit, and I was surprised that the teller didn’t bat an eye—until she presented me with the deposit ticket, and I held it to my heart and began to cry. I felt like someone who had just survived a natural disaster.

      Rush hour slowed my progress, so it was after 4:30 p.m. when I finally reached my office in the congested Galleria area. I didn’t want to take the time to go home and change my clothes because the staff was waiting for me. I called Shirley from the car to let her know that I was minutes away.

      The glass and steel mid-rise office building was a welcome sight as I swung my car into the multi-tiered parking garage. I pulled into my space, turned off the car and stepped out. My leg was now throbbing; I realized that blood had glued the pantyhose to my knee, which by this time also sported a swollen purple bruise. I grabbed my purse and briefcase, hobbled into the building, and got on the elevator. A man who owned an insurance company down the hall joined me just before the doors closed. He regarded my appearance with a startled expression.

      “Typical Monday,” I said.

      The bell finally sounded, the elevator opened, and I limped down the hall toward the office. An ornate gold plaque inscribed Advertising & Design, Inc. hung outside the double glass and mahogany doors. I walked into the agency’s large reception area and found Shirley hard at work behind the circular desk that served as her base of operations. The reception area was appointed with buttery-soft leather furniture and chrome and glass tables. The walls were lined with numerous framed ad campaigns that we had created, and we also showcased all of the design, advertising, and public relations awards that had been presented to us by our peers in the industry. Special lighting produced a soft glow that made the cavernous space appear like a warm, soothing, enveloping cocoon. Instead of feeling pride with what we had accomplished, I felt nothing but knee-buckling, gut-wrenching, mind-numbing stress each time I walked in the front door.

      The moment she saw me, Shirley jumped out of her chair as though she had been shot out of a cannon. In her sixties, she was nurturing, stoic, capable, and able to thrive on stress. She had been with us since we opened our doors.

      “Thank God you’re back!” she exclaimed. “What happened to you?”

      “I’m fine. Where is everybody?”

      “They’re all waiting in the conference room. You have a slew of messages,” she announced, holding up a handful of pink While You Were Out slips with my name on them. “Want them now or later?”

      “Later—we have to get going on the pitch.”

      She bent to examine my knee. “Ouch! I’ll get the Bactine—I have some in my desk.” Shirley was always ready for anything. “You’re gonna need some aspirin, too.”

      “Thanks, Shirley.”

      “Kim, before you go back there, I need to share something. David has someone—”

      “Did