Take Three

Part 3 - Ruth

[SFX - FM radio station playing quietly in background, announcer mentions that it's late evening, lights up on RUTH, sitting at her desk in a trendy office.  She sighs as she hangs up the phone]

RUTH: Well, so long Bruce.  So long.

I've had to let Bruce go.  It wasn't working out.  We tried, but...  Huh, it's been a while since I made a mistake as big as that, but I should never have hired him in the first place.  Smart guy, though, had a few good ideas, and the clients liked him.  But too soft.  Too sensitive.  You can't make it in advertising if you're a volunteer at the SPCA and spend two nights a week at a men's discussion group.

Sure, there's room for sensitivity in business these days, Christ it's the 21st century isn't it?  But I didn't get to be the biggest shop in town by having wimps working here.

So how did I get to be the biggest shop in town?  Fighting.  Making war, not love.  Sure, you can sleep your way to the top in any business.  But if you do, you'll get to the top and you'll still be getting screwed, so why bother.

Feminist?  Me?  You bet your tight ass I am.  Sure, I shave my legs, I shave my armpits too.  Makes 'em easier to wash and the deodorant gets down to the skin where it'll do some good.

Y'see, it's all down to image.  That's the real issue here.  And I know about images.  I sell 'em every day of the week.  You want to sell beer, cigarettes, cheesecake, or some damn stuffed toy that sings like Bieber.  Ruth can show you how do it.

But business is business.  You play men's games, you gotta play men's rules.  What I mean is you've even gotta look like a man.  Short hair, long pants and absolutely no artistic flair.  Not if you're a woman, and you mean business.  And I mean, mean business. 

Sure, wear all the jewellery you want, so long as it's tight and spiky and looks like it could rip the flesh off a rhino if it got too close to an erogenous zone.  Which, by the way, you're not allowed to have when you're a woman in business.

I once met a lawyer from LA, he wore bluejeans, a GREENPEACE sweatshirt and had hair down to his butt.  Looked like he just blew in from Margaritaville, but he was pulling down over three hundred grand a year.  And his jeans weren't even a designer label, just some old shit he'd picked up at a thrift store.  You believe that!  Three hundred grand a year and he's buying his clothes from Sally Ann.  Some guys!  He knew how to wear 'em though.

Hah.  Then there's that other little geek, Nigel, assistant manager at the bank.  Not making a third of that but spending every red cent of it on clothes, watches and a haircut that makes him look like Mr Spock in a wind tunnel.  And so goddam sensible and fitter-than-thou.  He says he doesn't do any drugs. Probably snorts wholewheat flour.

Clothes.  Last time I went to a nightclub, when was that... anyhow, the women there had spent so much time and money on their clothes they were afraid to dance in case they got sweat marks. 

You see, clothes are the cheapest status symbol you can get, next to a good haircut.  But don't confuse status with style.  Status aint style and never will be.  Some women spend a whole pay cheque on three yards of spandex and end up with about as much style as a bag o'milk.

Personally, even though I help sell the damn stuff, I could care less.  Sure, I've got all the clothes I need, and more.  Huh!

If status is what attracts a suitable mate I'd like to go out on that dance floor wearing nothing but a long, white t-shirt, which says on it, probably in hot pink, "I make over a hundred thousand dollars a year, my condo and my corvette are paid for.  For more information simply tear off this shirt."