A Change of Plans
A Change of Plans
It’s early December. Tomorrow Ruth, Elliot, Seymour Rosenberg and a handful of others will head to New York for Mattel’s end of the year stockholder’s meeting. Ruth is somewhat out of sorts. That morning she learned that Barbara is getting divorced, which is not surprising but still upsetting. At least divorce is not the stigma it once was, not like when Charlotte got divorced. Times have changed and Barbara will be better off in the long run. But for now, her daughter is broken, and Ruth feels vindicated for her decision to have discontinued the Allan doll three years ago. Even then, she knew the marriage wouldn’t last.
Ruth is in her office early that day, putting the finishing touches on her speech for the stockholders. She plans to gloss over the Talking Barbie disaster and play up the company’s growth: We have now surpassed $100 million in sales in over sixty countries…Achieved dominance over a $2 billion toy industry…New plants opening in Taiwan and Great Britain…
She’s still working on this when Rosenberg pokes his head into her office and asks Ruth to join him for lunch. Elliot is coming, too. She assumes it’s to regroup before they leave for New York, but no. It’s over pricey chef salads that Rosenberg clobbers them with a change of plans.
“I’ll cut to the chase,” he says. “Ruth, you’re not going to New York.”
“What?”
“You won’t be delivering the year-end review.”
“What? What are you talking about? I do it every year. I’ve already got my speech written.”
“As do I,” says Rosenberg, an open hand placed upon his chest.
“Is this some kind of joke?” asks Elliot. “ You’re going to give the end of the year report?”
“That’s right. I’ve already discussed it with the board of directors.”
Rosenberg’s been talking to the board? Without Elliot? He’s been doing this behind both our backs? Ruth feels like she’s been stabbed in the heart. Elliot does, too.
Rosenberg wipes his mouth with his napkin. “There’s no easy way to say this. And Ruth, God knows everyone appreciates all that you’ve done, but going forward, you just”—he shakes his head—“you can’t be the face of Mattel.”
“What? Are you out of your fucking mind? I built Mattel. Mattel is nothing without me.”
“Trust me, Ruth”—Rosenberg offers a half-hearted shrug—“Wall Street will eat you alive.”
She laughs bitterly. “If you think that, then you don’t know me very well.”
“Fine,” says Rosenberg. “I’ll just come right out and say it. You’re not the right person to take Mattel into the future.”
“Why the hell not?” asks Elliot.
“Give me one good reason,” says Ruth.
“I’ll give you three.” Rosenberg starts counting off on his stubby fingers: “First, you’re a woman. Second, you’re Jewish—”
“Excuse me,” she flares, “ you’re Jewish.”
“Third,” he says, not acknowledging her point, “you don’t have the right temperament. You talk like a drunken sailor. You’re too rough around the edges. No one knows how to deal with you. They’re more comfortable dealing with a man—even a Jewish man—who knows his way around Wall Street.”
“You sonofabitch.” She tosses her napkin on the table and bolts out of her chair. “Go fuck yourself.”
Elliot rushes after her, leaving Rosenberg at the table.
Before they get to the car, Ruth says, “I’m gonna fire that piece of shit. I swear to God, I am.”
Elliot quietly, gently informs her that she can’t do that.
“What do you mean I can’t? Because of him, I’m president of this company. I can do whatever the hell I want.”
“Ruthie, think about it. You can’t fire Rosenberg. Wall Street loves him—right or wrong, they do. You saw what bringing him on board did to our stock. If we turn around and fire him, people will lose confidence in the company. It makes us look like we don’t know what we’re doing.”
“But you heard what he said to me in there. That cocksucker owes me an apology.”
Elliot is nodding. “And I plan to talk to him about that. I’ll get him to apologize. But Ruthie, I’m afraid that won’t change the outcome. He’s already met with the board, and right now, they’re the ones making the decisions, not us.”
After Ruth and Elliot get back to Mattel, she walks out to the main floor. They’ve recently invested half a million dollars for another 35,000-square-foot addition to the building. They’ve rearranged departments and moved desks and workstations closer together to accommodate all the new hires, some of whom she hasn’t even met because Rosenberg brought them on board. There are new engineers, new research teams. They have a new general counsel who has been beefing up their legal department. Ruth’s heard the girls buzzing about Simon something or other.
She’s feeling almost as nostalgic as she is raw, remembering the good old days when she knew everyone’s name, the names of their wives and husbands, their children, too. She remembers the times Barbara and Ken came to the office, delighted to play with all the new toys. Now Ruth’s standing in the middle of what used to be the model makers, section, which is now the customer service department, or maybe it’s human resources—she can’t remember. She feels disoriented. Where’s Charlotte? Where are the designers? Nothing and no one is where they should be. Her chest feels a squeeze; she’s perspiring and queasy. For a moment she worries that she’s having a heart attack, but it’s just that she knows she’s losing control of her company. She’s sold out Mattel to Wall Street.