Let’s Call Her Barbie

Look, Just Look

Look, Just Look

Ruth has officially quit smoking. Today marks three and a half months since she’s had a cigarette. After Elliot begged her to try hypnosis again, she returned to Dr.Mandry, and now, after several weeks of treatments, his techniques have taken hold. This is the longest she’s ever been smoke-free, and to top it off, she hasn’t gained a single pound.

Now whenever Ruth thinks about a cigarette, she closes her eyes and counts backward from ten. She reminds herself, Smoking is a choice. I have free will. I am in control. I do not want a cigarette . And just like that, the urge goes away. She still can’t get over it. She’s been smoking since she was seventeen, and now she’s cured.

She arrives at Mattel and settles in with a cup of coffee and looks at the weekly W Report. She’s pleased to see that Barbie’s Black Magic Ensemble in the 1600 series—inspired by one of her own favorite cocktail dresses—is gaining traction.

At nine o’clock Ruth’s secretary buzzes her office, letting her know that the reporter from Look is here for their interview. The magazine is doing a big feature story on Mattel, and the reporter has already met with Elliot, Rosenberg and Jack. Now it’s her turn. Unlike Jack, Ruth doesn’t like talking to the press. While she recognizes that it’s necessary from a public relations standpoint, she considers it a big distraction.

The reporter is a young man with Brylcreemed hair and a fleck of toilet paper on his chin with a rusty dot of dried blood, the vestige of a shaving nick that morning. He sits opposite Ruth and eagerly begins asking the usual questions: What do you think is the secret of Mattel’s success? Are you surprised by Barbie’s sustained popularity? How has Barbie’s success changed the company? Funny that reporters never ask what it’s like to be a woman running a company the size of Mattel. She’s an anomaly, but that doesn’t interest them.

The reporter flips through his notes, saying, “Oh, there’s something else I wanted to ask you about…” He scans the pages until he finds what he’s looking for. “Can you just clarify something Jack said about his royalty payments—”

“What?” She gives him one of her looks that could stop a train. “Jack talked to you about his royalties?”

“Well, yes…”

Jesus, she doesn’t want Jack’s financial arrangement in the press. “I’m sure you can appreciate that one’s compensation is a private matter,” she says, keeping her voice measured as she tries to dodge the subject, already thinking how they can kill this story.

The reporter keeps asking more questions— What new toys does Mattel have in the works? What do you think is the most exciting toy on the market today? Where do you see Barbie going in the future?… She answers, but it’s a genuine struggle to get through the rest of the interview. The rage is festering inside her head, and she would kill for a cigarette.

When the interview is finally over, Ruth sits at her desk, taking deep breaths, unable to count as she’s been taught, because she can’t believe Jack could be so stupid as to discuss his royalties with a reporter. She remembers their negotiations with Jack when they offered him the job. He had the gall to ask for a starting salary of $25,000.

“C’mon, Jack,” Elliot had said. “We’re a small company. We might be able to get you there in a few years, but now…” He shook his head. “There’s no way.”

Jack nodded, scrubbed a hand across his face. “Tell you what—I like you two. I think we could work well together. Let’s start me off at a modest salary—you decide what you can swing, and in addition, give me a cut of revenues on products I help develop. Let’s say 5 percent.”

Ruth had laughed. “Let’s say 1 percent.”

They eventually agreed on 1.5 percent. Since then, his salary hasn’t increased much, but thanks to Barbie’s success, he’s done just fine for himself.

She tries to move on to some marketing reports, but something about Jack’s royalties keeps tugging at her. When she can’t shake it, she fishes out Jack’s contract. It’s dated February 3, 1955, and is now yellowed around the edges. She assumed he only got royalties on the sale of patented products, but the contract says he’s entitled to a royalty on sales of any products he’s developed. Patented or not? Jesus Christ —that could apply to just about every toy they’ve made. Numbers are flashing through her head as the knots in her gut tighten. She moves on to the bank statements, looking at the checks they’ve cut Jack, dating back to Barbie’s launch and before. Her phone is buzzing but she doesn’t answer it. She’s too engrossed. Too busy punching numbers into the adding machine with a force that nearly breaks her fingernails.

An hour later, she takes a look at the total. Now she wants a cigarette. She wants a cigarette so badly she’s practically twitching. Breathe , she thinks. Count backward from ten. Smoking is a choice. I am in control… She tries all the tricks the hypnotist has given her. She tells herself the urge will pass. It always does. But today it’s not.

Grabbing her pocketbook and car keys, she heads to her Rolls-Royce, parked right next to Elliot’s Rolls-Royce. She glances down at the closed ashtray, wondering if there might be a butt left in there. There isn’t. She pulls out of the parking lot, furious with herself for not staying on top of Jack’s royalties. She used to handle all the payroll herself even though, back then, as a woman she couldn’t sign the paychecks. It was always Elliot’s signature. But they’ve gotten too large. Now there’s a separate payroll department that handles all that. Ruth doesn’t even have time to look at the payroll anymore.

She makes a sharp turn—the car behind her honks as she pulls into a Thrifty on Jefferson Boulevard. Ignoring the alarms going off in her, she briskly walks into the store and buys a package of cigarettes. She has the cellophane wrapper already off before she’s back in the car and pushing the cigarette lighter in, waiting anxiously for it to pop. Those red-hot coils are such a welcome sight as she inhales deeply. God, how can something so terrible for her make her feel so much better? It’s just one cigarette. One cigarette doesn’t mean she’s going back to smoking.

Two cigarettes and twenty minutes later, Ruth returns to Mattel, where she finds Elliot waiting for her in her office. “Where have you been?” he asks.

She doesn’t dare answer and instead reaches for the curling strip of paper she’d torn off the adding machine feed earlier. “Look, just look at this—we have to kill the Look story. Jack was blabbing to that reporter about his royalties.”

“What? Jack wouldn’t—”

“Oh, yes, he would. And just look at what we’ve paid him over the past five years alone.”

Elliot glances at the strip of numbers. He blinks and checks again. “That can’t be right. Are you sure?”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“Jesus.” He brings his hand to his mouth. “Christ, that’s a lot of money.”

“How could we have been so stupid?”

“We weren’t stupid, Ruthie. It seemed like the right move at the time. When we hired Jack, the agreement made sense. How could we have predicted that we’d ever be this successful?”

“We’re paying him over a million dollars a year in royalties and you know damn well that total’s only going to rise. We can’t keep paying him that kind of money. We just can’t.”

He gets up, loosens his necktie and drops down onto the pink sofa. It is a hell of a lot of money, but they have a contract with Jack. They can’t break it. He’ll leave the company. Even worse, they could get sued, and Elliot doesn’t have the stomach for another lawsuit, especially not one with Jack. Elliot and Ruth are making more money than he ever dreamed possible. They own a beautiful home, two Rolls-Royces and they just put an offer in on a beach house in Malibu. They want for nothing. The way Elliot sees it, Jack’s worth every penny they’re paying him. So why not let Jack make his money and he and Ruth make theirs? Besides, whatever Jack makes, they’ll still be making that much more.

But Ruth sees it differently. For her it’s not just the money. It’s the principle of the thing. It’s about her knocking Jack down a peg or two. Ever since his appearance on What’s My Line? , he’s been masquerading as some sort of minor celebrity. He even managed to get himself on The Merv Griffin Show , where he once again bragged about creating Barbie and jabbered on about his disgusting sex parties. Ruth is convinced that Jack—more so than the women’s movement—is going to ruin Barbie’s reputation. “We need to do something about this, Elliot.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Get Rosenberg in here.”

When Rosenberg joins them, Ruth explains what she’s just uncovered and says, “You’re the head of finance now. You gotta get us out of this mess. There’s gotta be something we can do about this.”

“Don’t worry,” Rosenberg assures them both. “We can fix this.”

“But how?” asks Ruth. “We have a contract. What can we do?”

Rosenberg smiles. “We can start phasing him out.”

“What?” Ruth can’t believe the panic this invokes in her.

“We need Jack,” Elliot insists.

“Correction,” says Rosenberg. “You needed Jack. He served you well. Got you from A to B. Now it’s time to move on.”

“But getting rid of Jack doesn’t solve the problem,” says Elliot. “According to his contract, he’s still entitled to royalties on all his patented products.”

“Not if we find ways to work around his patents,” says Rosenberg with a wink. “You think Jack Ryan’s the only engineer out there who can design a doll? A toy gun? Please.” He laughs. “We’ll find someone else who can redesign, reengineer the dolls so you don’t have to go on paying Jack.”

“Is that ethical?” asks Elliot.

“Perfectly ethical. It’s not nice, but it’s done all the time. Trust me.”

After Rosenberg leaves, Elliot says, “Are we sure about doing this? I want to rein Jack in, not get rid of him.”

“But I don’t think we can do one without the other.” Ruth gets up from her desk and joins him on the sofa. “I know it’s hard, but we have to cut the emotion. This is a business decision.”

Elliot looks at her, his eyebrows knitting together as his expression changes to one of alarm.

“What is it?” she asks. “What’s wrong?”

“Have you—Jesus, Ruthie, are you smoking again?”