Page 7 of Worth the Fall
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“Can I get you anything to drink, ma’am?”
I looked up from my laptop sitting on the flimsy tray table. “Sparkling water, thank you.”
The flight attendant nodded and handed me a blue bottle before moving on to the next row.
The bubbles from the water shook me from my cloudy state and brought me back to the screen in front of me. Mr. Sterling had emailed me everything I could need to know about Agri-Corp.
He was right, they needed our help.
They were the main sponsorfor this rodeo tour, and yet their social media engagement was pitiful. Their posts were probably made by one of the CEO’s daughters in her free time. They were way too colorful, used stock images, and were slightly blurry. The last post, which was put up two days before, hadfourlikes.
Their statistics on the average customer age-group were incredibly high. I understood that these men were loyal farmers in the small towns where rodeos thrived, but marketing was about the rising generation.
I sighed. Mr. Sterling wanted a comprehensive post-tour report, complete with new video assets for social media, case studies—most likely featuring real rodeo cowboys—and ideas for experiential marketing. The enormous budget for the trip was an intense reminder of all that was riding on me.
My mind was racing, thinking of all the ways I could sweet-talk different arenas into scoring a deal for sponsorships.
Brand perception.
The phrase fitnicely in my mind.
That’s all this was,a huge pile of data in a manure-filled pit.
Mr. Sterling had given me the name, a detailed biography, and contact information of a man named Thompson Avery. After reading it three times, I learned all I could about the man who started Agri-Corp.
Thompson was a sixty-seven-year-old third-generation farmer. He ran a four-hundred-acre corn farm in Nebraska on top of the agriculture dealership. He had four houses, seven kids, twenty-five grandkids, and a terrifying reputation.
Thompson knew what he wanted, and it was clear that it was his way or the highway. He had only started using social media a few months back and had an email address with a network that hadn’t been popular in a decade.
The picture of the old man in the coveralls, refusing to smile for the camera, made my hands clammy. But, as I looked through the briefcase of supplies, including an all-access pass to the entire tour, I let my professional confidence take over.
If I focused one hundred percent of my attention on the job, refusing to get distracted or let any of my emotions get the best of me, I knew this would be my greatest project ever.
The promotion was mine.
Harrison was going to propose soon.
My life was going exactly as I had planned.
What could happen?
“You look important.” The woman sitting beside me said confidently.
I glanced at her, gripping a manila folder tightly. Was that supposed to be a compliment or an insult? “Oh, I don’t knowabout that.”
The woman set her champagne glass on her tray table, her third, and we had only been flying for an hour. At this rate, she’d be completely wasted by the time we landed in...
I looked at my itinerary and sighed.
When we landed in Glendale, Arizona.
“I do,” she pressed on, not taking my silent hints that I didn’t want to talk. She stretched out her legs as much as she could. “I haven’t been important in twelve years. That’s what happens when you marry a man for his money.”
I slightly raised an eyebrow, tucking my papers away before she could see them. Her husband was passed out beside her in the aisle seat, having taken an “extra-large sleeping pill” five minutes before takeoff. “Is that right?” I said, unsure if that was rude or what she wanted to hear.
“Yes. I wanted to be a trophy wife, and that’s what I got. Serves me right.” She took a long drink.
