Let’s Call Her Barbie

The Glue Factory

The Glue Factory

Ruth still can’t believe how her world is unraveling. Thanks to Rosenberg, that sonofabitch, she’s under suspicion, smack in the center of an investigation by the SEC. She’s sick to her stomach. She can’t eat and has lost all the weight she gained since her surgery and then some. The prosthetic breast Massey made for her no longer fits properly. It slips and shifts; it rubs her skin raw. She needs to go back to him to get another mold made, but she’s too busy trying to keep a hold on her own company.

One morning she goes to meet with Art Spear to discuss a marketing question. His secretary says he’s in a meeting. She goes to Loomis next and is told that he, too, is in a meeting. Turns out everyone of note is in that meeting. Everyone but her. They all see her as useless now—the old mare heading for the glue factory. The message is loud and clear: You’re not wanted anymore . It’s her mother all over again, only this time there’s no Sarah to be handed off to. But she built this company, ran it for years. Her identity has always been defined by Mattel, and now they’re taking away a major part of who she is. Without her work, she is lost.

She returns to her office and tries to find something to busy herself with, but all her responsibilities have been stripped away. She watches the clock tick away, five minutes, ten, fifteen…When she can’t take it anymore, she heads into David’s office.

“This is bullshit,” she says. “Art’s avoiding me. So is Loomis. They’re holding meetings without me. They’re making all kinds of decisions that I’m not privy to. I can’t take this. I’m quitting. I’m turning in my resignation.”

“You can’t do that,” he tells her. “Not while this investigation is going on. I need you to appear as normal as possible. I want you to continue to come into the office every day, try and keep yourself busy. Or look like you’re busy. Try and smile, hold your head up. You can’t afford to let anyone know you’re beat up. You can’t afford to appear guilty.”

“I’m not guilty,” she barks.

David nods but doesn’t say anything to indicate that he believes her. All he says is, “Trust me. For your own good and the good of the company, it’s what you have to do.”

So each morning Ruth gets up, drives to work in her Rolls-Royce and enters through the turnstile. Other than the guard, few people are even willing to make eye contact with her. The walk to her office might as well be a mile long. Her secretary gets her coffee because Ruth can’t bring herself to go in the kitchen, where she’ll have to face people. With her door closed, she sits wondering what to do with herself. She reviews sales forecasts and piles of Barbie hate mail. The only good news she’s received lately is word that the SEC is investigating Rosenberg, too.

Usually by ten o’clock, she’s out of things to do. Some days she leaves, claiming she has an off-site meeting when really, she’s at the country club playing bridge or canasta with friends, which she finds just as boring as sitting in her office. Something else she does to pass her days is go to lunch. She always ate in the cafeteria or at her desk unless she had a business lunch. Now she goes to lunch with Barbara every Tuesday. Her daughter’s cleaning girl comes that day and Barbara needs an excuse to get out of the house.

But today there’s nothing on her calendar and so she sits, reading a magazine. As she flips through the pages of Town she’s shouting right back.

“You’ll never win this suit. You’ll never see a dime,” she warns him. “And I’ll tell you something else: for the last time, you did not invent Barbie—I did.”

“ You invented Barbie.” He laughs. “Tell me how you did that. Are you an engineer? Are you a designer?”

This strikes a nerve, going straight to the tenderest part of her insecurities, the fear that she’ll be overlooked and that all her contributions to Barbie will be dismissed and forgotten.

Jack is still laughing at her, right in her face. “The only thing you know how to do is make people miserable—and you’re quite good at that. You know what you are?” he hammers on. “You’re a greedy huckster—oh yeah, and a felon, too. That contract is still binding. You still owe me for my royalties. The SEC isn’t your only battle. You want a fight? I’ll give you one.”

Calling her a felon and bringing up the SEC is the final straw. She lunges for the phone on his desk.

“Oh, what, you’re calling in Elliot?”

“No, I’m calling security. I want you out of here. For good.” She switches the phone to her other ear. “I need you down here in Jack’s office. Now.”

“Oh, that’s just swell,” says Jack. “Who do you think I am, Rosenberg? I thought I was nuts, but you—you’re out of your goddamn mind.”

“And you’re out of a job.”

By now the guard is in Jack’s office.

“Collect his badge,” she instructs. “Get his keys, too, and get him the hell out of the building.”

“Oh, give me a break.” Jack looks at the guard, whom he’s given boxes of cigars and bottles of scotch to for no reason at all. And he’s also greased him well at Christmas for the past eighteen years.

The guard looks bewildered. Unsure of whom he’s supposed to listen to.

“You heard me,” Ruth says. “Collect his shit and get him off the property.”

“Don’t bother,” says Jack. He yanks the badge off his shirt, reaches into his pocket and throws the keys on his desk. “I’ll show myself out.”