Truth in Advertising (29 page)

•   •   •

We're gathered in a massive room in a hotel in midtown Manhattan with stained carpeting. There are no decorations, nothing to suggest Christmas. The feeling is less festive and more of a mandatory conference on ethics in the workplace. I stand at the back, having arrived late. The anxiety pit in my stomach has returned. I feel as if I've not done the homework and am trying not to be called upon. Also, I want a clear line of sight to the men's room. I'm still having digestive issues.

At present Frank is speaking. He has been speaking for some time. Dodge stands at his side. “When you take away the bricks and mortar, the computers, the copiers, the faxes, and phones, all the paper and the soda and stuff, you, our people, are our most important resource. I love you guys. And no, I don't mean in that way. Although some of you, I'd be open to it.” He laughs, though no one joins him. People make disgusted faces. Someone says, a little too loud, “Asshole,” and causes a small commotion. Frank seems unfazed.

Later, promotions are announced. New partners, awards. Outstanding Employee. Best Attitude. Person Who Makes the Workplace Better. Outstanding Account Service Person, Outstanding Copywriter, Art Director. The magic of the AV Department flashing a giant photo on the huge screen at the front. To look around in these moments is to see something rich. When a name is announced for a promotion or partnership or an award, I see, in the faces of my coworkers, the happiness they feel for this person, hear the genuine applause as the embarrassed recipient returns to his or her seat, red-faced, swarmed by their seatmates. The older women in accounting—from Brooklyn and Queens and the Bronx—have changed from their work clothes into pretty dresses, nicer shoes. People look around in their chairs, wave to friends, a kind of instant regression to high school. The women giggle. The men push one another on the shoulder. We look for something deeper than merely a paycheck.

After the buffet and polite chat, the mixing and socializing, the music is turned up and the lights are dimmed and the line at the open bars set up around the perimeter of the enormous, hideous, curious-smelling room begins to grow. People react with lunatic delight when a Kool and the Gang song is played. “Cellllllll-e-brate good times, come on . . . da-da-da-dut-dut-dut-da-da . . . waa-who!”

The music gets louder, the dance floor gets more crowded, women remove those pretty party shoes as they pit out with sweat and take large gulps off of their sixteen-ounce plastic cup of Bud Light (regular Bud was the only other choice). Odd pairings, both on the dance floor and in the room itself. People begin to touch one another when explaining a point. Or hug one another for no reason. “You're the best!” God was bored with the humans, so he invented alcohol.

It is one-thirty in the afternoon.

I see some of the young copywriters and art directors talking with some of the young account and media girls.
Will you remember this day, any of you, years from now?
I see Ian talking with two older, heavy-set women who work in human resources and for some reason it breaks my heart. He is a person who cares about other people, wants them to feel welcome, as if he, himself, is throwing the party.

“Helen,” he'll say. “Are you having a good time? You look gorgeous in that dress. Why don't you wear your hair like that more often?”

I see Phoebe in a cluster of people across the room. She smiles, but something's different. I've made a horrible mistake.

I see Martin talking with Frank and Dodge. He sees me, motions me over.

Frank says, “Fin. You can fix this, right? You can make your mark with this one. Merry Christmas, by the way. Even though it's January.” It's something Frank says.
Make your mark.
Every assignment, every ad, every spot could be the thing that will vault you to . . . what? Fame, I guess. I'm not really sure what he's talking about.

Before I can respond Dodge puts his arms around me and holds me. “Of course he can fix it. This is the prince of diapers. And what a handsome prince he is. What an opportunity. The Super Bowl. And yes, Merry Christmas in a com
plete
ly nondenominational way,”
he says. “And
I
can say that because I'm a Dutch Jew, okay?” Forced laugh. The hug goes on several seconds too long. Boozy breath. I'm holding my drink and am not sure what to do with my other hand, so they both hang suspended. This must look strange. He releases me and wipes something off my lapel as he says, “It's a marvelous party. Promise you'll save me a dance.”

I say, “I promise.” I turn to Martin. “Fix what?”

Frank says, “How was your evening with Keita? Did he mention me?”

I say, “He did, Frank. He likes you very much. He said his father admires you.”

Frank turns to Dodge. “I told you the old man wasn't offended by the
Lost in Translation
joke.”

Martin says, “Excuse us.”

We walk to the bar.

Martin says to the bartender, “Johnnie Walker Blue. Neat. In a glass, not a plastic cup.”

The bartender says, “Bud Light, undrinkable white wine, shitty vodka.”

I say, “Fix what?”

Martin turns to me and says, “The account. Your account. The world's greatest diaper, my good chap. Not a good meeting yesterday, I'm afraid.” He turns back to the bartender and says, “There is a bag marked
MARTIN CARLSON, EXECUTIVE CREATIVE DIRECTOR
under the table behind you. Open it.” We watch as the bartender opens the bag and produces a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue.

Martin says to me, “Sent Emma 'round this morning.” To the barman, “Make it two, please.” Martin drops a twenty in the tip cup and we take our drinks, turn and look at the crowd. We see Keita dancing with several women.

“What happened?” I ask.

“They were underwhelmed. My fault. I should have put more resources on it.”

I feel my face flush, an open embarrassment.

He clinks my glass with his. “Cheers.”

We drink. It tastes like ash to me.

“I thought they liked Al Gore. I thought you liked Al Gore.”

“I did. They didn't.”

I say, “Did they buy anything?”

“1984.”

“You seem disappointed.”

“I am. I think it's mediocre at best. It's someone else's idea. I don't like doing other people's ideas. That's not how I got where I am.” There's an edge to his voice.

Then he says, “Can you do this? Because if you can't—and I understand if your head is elsewhere—I need someone else on it.”

He turns and looks at me and I think,
I don't know this guy at all
. He's the kind of person who would fire me now and never think twice about it. In other words, a boss.

I'm tempted to say
fuck you
. But I don't. Would never. I'll rescript this whole conversation later in my mind and I will sound bold and strong and turn and walk away after a biting, insightful comment. Martin will follow me and say how right I am and how he was testing me and I passed and also here's a raise and a promotion. But here, now, my current feelings are a jumble of fear, embarrassment, and a pathetic need to please. Also, I need the job.

The DJ plays The Isley Brothers' “Shout.” “Don't forget to say yeah yeah yeah yeah . . . say you will . . .”

We watch as Keita lays down on the floor and does the worm, clearly a fan of the movie
Animal House
. He urges others to join him, though no one does.

Martin says, “How's your father, by the way?”

There are times in life when you can, if you choose, truly connect with another human being. You simply have to tell the truth.

I say, “He's doing much better. Thank you.”

•   •   •

“Is it?” asks one of the young creatives.

“Is it what?” I ask.

The party has broken up and cabloads of people have made their
way to a dive bar just north of Houston, which, until we arrived, was nearly empty. The Clash song “Train in Vain” keeps playing on the jukebox. It's not a large place, and we've packed dozens of people in. Much drinking. The windows are fogged up. Someone breaks a glass and screams. Others laugh. The bartender doesn't react. I saw Ian and Phoebe earlier but lost them in the crowd. I stand against the wall of the bar, drinking a stale draft beer, and watch Mike Carroll talk very closely with Karen Simpson. He touches her arm to make a point. She nods deeply in agreement. In the next moment they are kissing passionately, comically, the kind of kiss where the woman wraps one of her legs around the man's leg. They are married. But not to each other. No one seems to notice or care. Two young creatives are talking to me but I'm not listening to what they're saying. They keep buying me beers, saying I'm “awesome” and that it must be “awesome” to go on big shoots and work with A-list directors like Raphael and huge stars like Gwyneth Paltrow. I make out the occasional word in what they're saying, here and there, like I do if someone's speaking French to me very, very slowly. I see Phoebe's profile. She's talking with two other guys from the creative department. She's laughing.

“Awesome,” he says, a big innocent smile on his unlined face. “Is it awesome?”

I've read that for an average-size adult, cremation takes from two to three hours at a normal operating temperature between 1,500 and 2,000 degrees Fahrenheit. And that afterwards any remaining bone fragments are processed in a machine to a consistent size and placed into an urn selected by the family. Awesome? Depends on the day, the hour, the moment. Yes. No. It depends on what you want from a job. Although international business class on a new British Airways 747 upper deck is pretty great.

I say, “It
is
awesome. It's completely awesome.”

They look at each other and high five.

“Awesome,” one of them says.

I shake hands with the two young creatives and make my way to the men's room, wash my hands, throw cold water on my face. I look
tired. I should go home. I should go home and take a hot shower, read a book. I'm breathing heavily. I lean against the dirty basin, look at my face, turn and look at my scar, run my finger over it.

We had a great assignment. A Super Bowl spot. And we blew it.

To the bar, smiling, nodding, pointing. At the bar I order another beer.

“Signore,” I hear next to me.

“Stefano. What's new?”

“Not bad.”

His English gets confused, especially when he's been drinking.

Stefano says, “I heard that Tom Pope vomited in public.”

“I heard something about that.”

My beer arrives. His scotch. We clink glasses, sip, look around the room at our life.

“You look tired, Fin.”

“I am tired,” I say.

He smiles. “Do you know what you need?” he asks, the hint of mischief on his face. “You need a woman. Not a girl,” he says, frowning comically, drawing out the word
girl
as if it were somehow below his European sensibilities.

“These little, these little
minxes
here, the, the Jennifers and the Kims and the Jills and the Courtneys and the Alexandras. My God. These little Botticellis running around with their lovely round bottoms. But so clueless. Fun, of course. Yes. Why not. But a woman. A good woman. This is a different thing.”

One of the young creatives has his arm around Phoebe's shoulder. She has on a black cashmere sweater with buttons up the front. A long skirt. Boots. No makeup. Her lips are glossy. She's talking and her teeth are very white.

“Fin. I would like to say a name to you and ask if you know who it is, please.”

“Okay.”

“Mr. Roger Bannister,” he says, nodding slowly, a slight grin on his stubbled face.

“Roger Bannister,” I say. “Did he break the four-minute mile?”

“That is exactly correct.” He says this with great pride, as if Bannister were his father.

Stefano says, “May I tell you about that day?”

“Please do.”

“It was a windy day in Oxford, Fin. We are talking about May 5, 1954. England. He almost called the attempt off, you see, because of the wind.” Stefano is looking off into the distance, telling the story as if he was there that day, as if he'd reported upon it for the BBC.

“He was a medical doctor, Mr. Roger Bannister was. Imagine that. It is late afternoon, by the way. Five o'clock when this takes place. The wind had died down.”

He turns to look at me now, suddenly. “He almost canceled the attempt, Fin.” A look of dismay on his face.

“Because of the wind,” I say.

“Exactly right. Because of the wind.”

He turns back to the movie that is playing in his mind. He nods slowly.

“But he did not cancel, Fin. No. On this day, he ran. He ran like no man had run before. On this day he became immortal. The first man to run a mile in under four minutes. Three fifty-nine point four. He was twenty-five years old that day. My God, what a thing.”

He sips his drink.

“He would go on, of course, to a very successful career in medicine. Neurology.” He turns to say this last word to me, a secret between men.

“He married, raised a family. Fin, he was knighted by the Queen of England in 1975. This once meant something, to be knighted. Not like now, where they knight the Spice Girls or George Michael.”

He says, “Do you know what Roger Bannister wrote of that day? He said, ‘I felt at that moment that it was my chance to do one thing supremely well.'”

Stefano raises his glass to mine, gently taps it against the lip, the quietest click amid the conversations and music, and takes a slow sip off the old-farm-table-colored scotch.

“Fin, I turn forty soon. This is a milestone. Most surely the end of
any hint of youth. This is a sobering thought for a man. One's erection will never quite be the same. I read this in a magazine. Tragic to me, this is. Of course, as an Italian I am very different.” He winks. “Fin, would it surprise you to learn that I intend to break the four-minute mile on my birthday?”