Rocks and Hard Places
Theo
“Welcome toBusiness World Weekly.I’m your host, Barry Butler. Today, more trouble for Rojas Rum, as James Prescott has a disastrous interview with Sophia Sato. I’m not sure who on his team thought an interview at this time would be a good idea, but it would seem no one on his staff had the good sense to shut it down. Candy Higgs is here with more on this breaking story. Candy?”
She smiles brightly. “Barry, good morning. It seems the strenuous effort on behalf of the team at Rojas has all been for naught. In the now infamous one-hour interview, Prescott mentioned the brand more than thirty-six times, and each time the word Rojas came out of his mouth, you could almost feel their sales falling further.”
“We have a compilation,” Barry says. “Should we roll the clip?”
Candy nods. “Yes, but I almost feel bad about doing it. Especially the part when he sobs as he talks about how he’ll never forgive himself for letting Markos Rojas down—the best friend he’s ever had.”
I shut the television off and rise from my seat at the head of the boardroom table, not needing to watch that train wreck again. Staring out the tall window at the turquoise sea in the distance, I start to panic. I’ve been at the office all weekend—pacing, researching, allowing myself only quick naps on the couch before getting right back to work, trying desperately to come up with the perfect way to resurrect our brand.
The awful truth is I’ve come up with nothing. Not one viable idea that will help us climb out of this massive hole we’re in. In exactly twelve minutes, I’ll be facing the board of directors—seven angry, old men and two equally angry, old women, all of whom will have seen that interview and will demand that someone’s head roll—likely mine.
My assistant, Jaquell Morales, hurries in. Jaquell was my father’s assistant, and I was incredibly fortunate she agreed to stay on when I took over. No one knows more about this business than her. She’s nearly seventy, but other than her grey hair, you’d never know it to look at her. Her skin has remained smooth over the years, which she’ll tell you is because she’s never in the sun because the Rojas men kept her in the office her entire adult life.
She’s carrying a small mug of what I know to be espresso, as well as a plate of freshly cut fruit and a few slices of toasted French bread. She sets them on the table. “Eat up before they get here.”
“Thank you, but I need to think, not eat.”
“You need to eat, then you’ll be able to think.” She points to the chair.
Sighing, I park myself again and pick up the fork, realizing how exhausted and hungry I am. “Thank you.”
She stands nearby and watches me for a second. “Do you want to know what I think you should do?”
Advice is something she rarely offers, so when she does, I jump at the chance to listen, because she’s always right. I nod, popping a slice of mango into my mouth.
“Sponsor the competition.”
I stop mid-chew, then swallow fruit that suddenly tastes like soap. “Too risky.”
“It would be if you weren’t going to be onsite the entire time to control every detail.” She hands me a folder that was tucked under her arm.
“There’s no way I have time for this. Not when things are in the toilet.” I open the folder.
“If you oversee everything, you’ll be getting the companyoutof the toilet. You’re not going to let it get out of control.”
“It’s an uncontrollable situation.”
“It’s not. They’ve been holding these competitions for years, and nothing has come out about any type of scandal. This is the perfect opportunity to rebrand Rojas, which is what has to be done if this company is to survive. The people who drink Rojas at the moment—or I should sayused to—are older, wealthy people. But they’ve all switched brands. Like it or not, they’re gone. You need to tap a younger crowd. People who don’t care what James Prescott did or didn’t do. People who want to have a party. You think Patrón sold so well by having some old crooner do their ads? No, they got Ludacris, Juelz Santana, Rocky G and NugLife to sell their brand through their music.”
I stifle a laugh at hearing NugLife come out of her mouth.
“What? You think I don’t know rap music because I’m old?”
“You want me to believe you’re a huge Ludacris fan these days?”
“Not really, but I know those songs because it’s our business to know them.”
“As much as I appreciate the effort, Jaquell, I don’t see how a bunch of guys in tank tops and board shorts, flipping bottles, is going to save us.”
“It’s more than that. The people competing are serious about what they do. They’ve been training for years. They’re the best of the best, and if there’s one thing people love, it’s to see the best in the world compete. At anything.” She points at my fork, as if encouraging me to keep eating. “How else do you explain the popularity of all those baking shows? I bake all the time, nobody cares—not even my husband. But watching the most skilled bakers turn flour, eggs, and sugar into something special, well, that’s entirely different.”
I sigh and tear off a piece of the French bread and let the buttery goodness melt on my tongue.
“Trust me on this. I know I’m right.” She glances at her watch. “You have exactly seven minutes to read the report and make a decision.”
