Slick (17 page)

“Come on. Why not? It’d be great for both of us. I’d come over after school and on weekends. I’d do all your filing. Answer phones. Office stuff. You wouldn’t even have to pay me. Just teach me.”

As soon as she mentioned school, it finally hit me that her situation wasn’t as dire as I’d been led to believe. Here I was, guarding her like she was about to sprint off to Zurich, when all along she had every intention of going home. I guess she just needed to get away for a bit and torture her mother in the process. Jean called it karma but I didn’t think any non-abusive parent deserved that kind of treatment.

“I don’t think so, Madison. I’m sorry.”

“Why not?”

“Well, first of all, I’m out of the house a lot—”

“So? I’m thirteen. It’s not like I’m going to choke on a toy while you’re gone.”

I laughed. “I don’t have any toys. What I do have are a lot of sensitive documents—”

“I’ll sign any gag agreement you want. You can even give me the one they use for
Survivor
, where I have to pay you like ten million dollars if I open my mouth.”

Yeah, that would work.
Publicist Sues Teenage Girl For Gossip. Demands $10 Million From Deaf Mother.

She wouldn’t relent. “Look, I really want to learn about this stuff. Everywhere I go, I’m hit by all this...I don’t know. I don’t even know what to call it.”

“Corporate conditioning,” I offered.

She snapped her fingers. “Yeah! Exactly! On TV, in movies, in magazines. I can feel it but I can’t see it. And I know there’s like this whole psychological world behind all of it but nobody’s able to tell me anything. But you’re different. You’re like the total insider. I want to learn what they’re doing to me.”

It took a huge effort to hide how impressed I was. It wasn’t every day I came across a thirteen-year-old girl who’d prefer
Utne Reader
over
Tiger Beat
. Gracie would have loved her.

I sat back in my seat. “Are you familiar with the expression ‘Ignorance is bliss’?”

“Yes. I’m also familiar with the fact that bliss is bullshit.”

“That’s pretty cynical, don’t you think?”

She shrugged. “I’m a cynic. I admit it.”

“Don’t be. Cynics make the worst publicists. Skeptics, on the other hand, make the best ones.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Let me put it this way. If I told you that George W. Bush has a 160 IQ, would you believe me?”

“Uh, no.”

“Okay. What if I told you he has an 85 IQ and that the White House has spent millions of dollars keeping that information quiet? Would you believe me?”

“Probably.”

“That’s the difference between a cynic and a skeptic. Cynics blindly accept any information that confirms their lack of faith in humanity. Skeptics question everything, even the bad news. Cynics are easy for the media to control. Skeptics aren’t.”

She leaned forward in wide-eyed wonder. I didn’t want to enjoy this. Really.

“So how do I become a skeptic?” she asked.

“It’s not easy. You’ve got over thirteen years of corporate conditioning in you. The U.S. is only six percent of the world’s population, and yet we consume fifty-seven percent of the world’s advertising. And nobody on earth is peddled to more than the American teenager. By the time I was eighteen, I was practically a nihilist.”

“Well how did you change?”

Drea. “Reading. Watching. Listening. Keeping an open mind. If you want a peek behind the curtain, here. Let me show you something.”

From my bookshelf, I pulled a few recent issues of
Brandweek
. I hunkered down next to her on the couch, flipping through pages.

“This is one of our trade magazines. This is where we get to loosen up and be ourselves. See, behind your back, we don’t call you customers, we call you ‘targets.’ We don’t provide services, we ‘perpetuate campaigns.’ And this is where the media advertises to the advertisers by selling them people. Look at this. ‘The Learning Network: We Have Mothers Coming Out of Our Ears.’ ‘Tripod Delivers Gen-X.’ Oh, here we go. MTV. ‘Buy This 24-Year-Old and Get All His Friends Absolutely Free.’ That’s the practice of targeting audience leaders. In other words, you get the cool kids to follow your orders so the less cool kids will follow theirs. Trickle-down advertising. Tobacco companies do it too.”

She could only gape as I thumbed through ad after ad. “Wow.”

“Oh, it gets better. Here’s one for the Cartoon Network. ‘Today’s kids influence over a hundred and thirty billion of their parents’ spending annually. That makes these little consumers big business.’ Very true. It’s the kids even younger than you who drive the industry now.”

“And this is the kind of stuff you do?”

“No. What I do is worse. Look, here’s a company that sells digital ad space for elevators.”

She closed the magazine. “Hold it. Hold it!”

“I’m sorry. Too much, too fast?”

“Yes. No! I just...” Yup. Too much. Too fast. She fought to put her questions in some kind of order but she was overwhelmed. Giving up, she mimed a pistol to her head, pulled the trigger, and collapsed with her tongue out.

“That’s the problem,” I said. “This is no place for cynics. That’s why our industry, especially mine, has a high burnout rate.’”

“So how do you survive?”

“By keeping perspective. I mean, it’s silly to believe that all the people who work for the Cartoon Network are evil. Or MTV. Or even Philip Morris. Believe me, they don’t run over kittens for fun. They play tennis. And they’re not after your heart or soul. They want your designated spending money, just like the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker. The system’s not perfect. Usually it’s underhanded. But when you’re dealing with people who have eight zillion choices, you have to get clever or you just won’t survive. That’s what a free market is all about. Make sense?”

I was her new god. “Scott, I want to learn this.”

“The thing is, you have to be sure. Because once you get that X-ray vision, you can’t turn it off. You’ll see the business angle behind everything. And I mean
everything
. Not just your TV, movies, and magazines. I’m talking about your news, sports, and weather. That’s my playing field. And once you know what I know, you won’t be able to enjoy any of it the same way ever again. Do you think you’d be able to handle that?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure? Because it’s not too late to take the blue pill.”

“I’m sure!”

“And if you worked for me, I would need absolute secrecy from you.”

“I promise.”

“I’m serious. If you ever betray my trust, I’ll kill your career before it even starts. You’ll spend the rest of your life working at Hot Dog on a Stick.”

“I promise!”

She meant it, too. You couldn’t fake that kind of intensity. I eyed her one last time.

“Okay, then.”

“So I can work for you?”

“I don’t know,” I said, reading
Brandweek
. “Ask your mother when she gets here.”

 

 

Madison’s first lesson under my tutelage: don’t trust anything anyone says, especially about the Japanese stock exchange. Once I clued her in on the gag, her expression chilled so fast, I could practically see her breath.

“I always come back,” she informed me matter-of-factly. “My mom knows that. I don’t know why she freaks out every time.”

“Because she worries about you. It’s not safe out there.”

“It is at the airport.”

“Why do you go to the airport?”

“Because it’s safe. Because it’s always open. Because I like it there.”

“But what do you do there?”

“I watch people. I’m a total people-watcher. Sometimes I talk to them. I always make up different stories. Like this one time, I convinced this old couple that I was flying to Seattle to donate a kidney to my brother. They bought me dinner.”

I grinned, even though I knew I shouldn’t encourage her. “It’s still a bad thing to do to your mother. Don’t do it anymore.”

She shot me a piqued glare. My godlike status had disappeared sometime during the debriefing.

“You know she’s married, right?”

“Yes, I know your mother’s married. What? You think I’m trying to score with her?”

“You wouldn’t be the first.”

I flipped through my newspaper. “Relax. I’m not big on adultery.”

“Just be careful. She has a way of pulling guys in.”

“You two have issues. Leave me out of it.”

“I’m serious. You know how I ruin businesses? Well, she’s the same way with men. She did it to my dad. She’s doing it to my stepfather. I’m just trying to stop you from being next.”

With a sigh, I put down the paper. “Madison, I’ll be honest. You’re starting to give me second thoughts about this whole thing—”

She flipped up her palms. “Wait! Scott. I’m sorry. You’re right. You’re totally right. I was just being stupid.”

“You’re not stupid. I just think you have a lot going on right now—”

“Look, I’m really tired. That’s the last time I’ll bother you with my personal crap ever again. I swear to God. I could have a tumor and you won’t hear about it.”

I fought a grin. “I don’t mind health issues. It’s just your home life I’m trying to avoid.”

“So am I,” she said weakly. “This’ll work out great.”

 

 

At 10:30, Jean reached my door. Reflexively, I moved to the intercom, then caught myself.

“You can just buzz her in,” Madison told me with forced neutrality. “She keeps trying the knob until it opens.”

That made sense, but when it came to all things Jean-related, the girl had no credibility. I played it safe and fetched her myself.

Jean practically bounced in relief. Her text was already written out for me.

 

“It’s all right. She’s fine.”

I led Jean into the apartment. The reunion was not touching. Madison barely looked up from her magazine. Jean’s face turned stern and dark. It didn’t take an interpreter to read her orders. Get. In. The. Car.

Madison held up the magazine. “Can I borrow this?”

“Keep it.”

With demonstrated pomp, she shook my hand. “I look forward to working with you.”

“I told you. That’s up to your mother.”

Catching that, Jean looked at me.
Excuse me?

Once Madison exited, I explained it all, stressing numerous times that it was entirely at Jean’s discretion. She was more amazed than anything else.

 

A fair question. The answer I gave her was that I could use someone to do Web research for me. This was true. Once the shit hit the fan with Hunta, Madison could save me hours by keeping a beat on the Internet news sites, summing up the general tack. She was more than qualified. The more sensitive reason, which I also explained, was that a new outlet for Madison just might be the call of the day. She wasn’t exactly a French-club kind of girl. This could do her some good.

But those were still surface thoughts. The deepest answer, which I didn’t share, was that it felt nice. I tried to avoid vanity at all costs, but it was just so damn nice to be looked at the way Madison and Jean looked at me. These were two people I had a perfect record with. If my life ever got put on trial, I’d now have two character witnesses to counteract all the Deb Ishams who’d line up to testify against me, all the Iras and Mirandas who wouldn’t commit beyond labeling me “a not too terrible guy.” And being a great believer in third-party endorsements, wouldn’t it be nice if Jean shoved her handheld right in Maxina’s face, screaming through all-caps: HEY LADY! YOU GOT HIM ALL WRONG!

As nice as they felt, these feelings worried me. Affirmation was a drug I kicked years ago. I didn’t want to get hooked again. On the other hand, I had the strong hunch I’d need external reinforcement in the very near future, when I’d be pushing an innocent young woman into the fiery mouth of the Great American Bitch.

To anyone who knew her, there were three indisputable truths about Kelly Corwin: the girl was dark, the girl was gorgeous, and sweet Jesus, the girl could
sing
.

Back in 1996, rap was at its peak of profitability, but these were also the golden days for reigning sexy pop divas. At seventeen, Kelly wanted nothing more than to become one of them. She knew she couldn’t do it from the genial suburbs of Richmond, Virginia. Nope. Hollywood was the place she ought to be. So she loaded up her car and moved to Southern Cali. Palms, that is. Crappy area. Not the safest.

But fate was ridiculously kind to her. After one audition, she got a job as the regular chanteuse at a Venice Beach coffeehouse. After two performances, she found representation with a high-powered talent manager. He believed in her so much, he paid out of his own pocket to put her in a high-end recording studio. After three weeks, she had a completed demo tape boasting a fine selection of rhythmic croons, all of which Kelly had composed herself.

Her karma stopped at the front door of the music labels. While being shopped around to every major outfit, she got the same baffling rejection over and over. She’s incredible. She’s original. She’s daring. We love her. But I’m afraid she’s just not for us. Best of luck in the future.

Kelly didn’t get it. She had the face, the body, the pipes, the whole package. And yet she kept hitting the same invisible wall. What the hell was the problem?

Finally, a brave promotions executive just came out and said it: it was the skin. Kelly was simply too black, even for black audiences. Look, a few years ago exotic was in, but now, as far as fuckable singers go, the buying public likes a little cream in their coffee. We didn’t make it that way, but there it is. Best of luck in the future.