Truth in Advertising (39 page)

I land at JFK in the late afternoon, having lost a day on my twelve-hour flight, with a stop in L.A., and it's already dark. I want to go home and sleep for a day but I ask the cab to take me to the editorial house in SoHo. The driver clips his fingernails as he drives, speaking one of the eight hundred languages of India on a headset. Five thousand miles away, my father floats in peace, at last. The war is over.

W
elcome to Lazy Weasel,” the twenty-five-year-old receptionist says. She may or may not also be a heroin addict from her appearance. Lazy Weasel is not a saloon in Wyoming but rather an editorial company on the sixth floor of an old building that once housed a printer's shop, south of Grand Street.

The receptionist leads me back to a large, dimly lit room.

I checked my messages on the way in from the airport. Four from Martin and three from Emma. None of them sounded like they wanted to give me a raise or a promotion.

Ian and Pam stand and greet me with a hug.

Pam says, “You look like ass. You okay?” Pam-speak for
I care about you
.

“I'm fine, thanks.”

“Good. Settle in, relax, get your bearings. Take your time. You have five seconds.”

“What happened?” I ask.

Ian says, “My advice would have been to stay in Hawaii. Martin's been looking for you. Not in a good way.”

I say, “I'll talk with him.”

Ian says, “You could do worse than tell him the truth.”

Pam and Ian have the pasty, red-eyed, fatigued look that comes from having sat in a darkened editorial room, looking at footage for the past forty-eight hours.

Pam gestures to the man in the chair at the control board. “Biz, say hello to Fin Dolan, Ian's partner.”

Biz is famous. Biz is cool. Biz has guitars in his office. He plays in a band. He has tattoos. Biz edits the famous commercials and also one movie with Brad Pitt. Biz was the top editor at Foolish Braggart in New York (also an editorial company) before parting ways with his business partner (and taking the business partner's wife) and starting Lazy Weasel. He has the laid-back demeanor of a rock star. We were lucky he agreed to do this.

“Fiiiiiiiiiin,” Biz says in a way that suggests that he's stoned or recently ingested five Tylenol PMs. “Heeeeeey, maaaaan,” he says as he hugs me.

Biz's head is shaved and he sports a beard that would give a grizzly bear an inferiority complex.

I say, “Hey, Biz. Thanks so much for doing this.”

“Pleasure, man.”

“How's it looking?”

“Well. Ya know. Work in progress.”

After each shoot day in Los Angeles, the day's film was processed and sent to Biz. He then went through every minute of it, choosing the best takes, building our commercial. Biz's languid speech stands in direct contrast to his editing speed. He already has several cuts to look at. Ian and Pam have been going over the cuts, looking for additional takes. The editing process can be a pleasant experience if the footage is right and enough time is built into the schedule. It can also be a maze of confusion, trying to figure out which minutely different take is better. Much of it is about trying to convince yourself how good it is. At this I excel.

Ian says, “You want the good news or the bad news first?”

“Good.”

Ian says, “Scott and I are going to Paris in the spring.”

“Is that good news for me?”

“No. But it's good news for me.”

“What's the bad news?” I ask.

“Client's coming into the agency tomorrow. They want to see a cut.”

“How is that possible? We're supposed to have three more days.”

Ian says, “Jan said something about the CEO. He wants to see it.”

I say, “I wanted to go home. I wanted to unpack, unwind, bathe, sleep for twelve hours.”

The receptionist brings in a bottle of wine and three wineglasses.

Pam pours and says, “You can do all of it except unpack, unwind, bathe, and sleep. Settle in. It's going to be a long night.”

•   •   •

Throughout the evening we post cuts for Martin. He reviews them and calls in changes.

He asks to speak to me.

“Martin,” I say. “I've been meaning to call you.”

“We need to talk. Tomorrow. After the meeting.”

He hangs up.

•   •   •

Most people have no idea how hard it is to create something good on film. Why would they? Easier to sit in front of your TV or in a movie theater and critique. You imagine it, write, rewrite it, plan it, see it, cast it, shoot it, reshoot it, edit it, re-edit it. You colorize it, find the right music, mix the sound. Months of work under normal circumstances. And yet most times, for most commercials—indeed, most movies—the result is simply . . . okay. But it's not great.

But somehow, something remarkable has happened with our spot. It's certainly not the writing. It's Flonz Kemp and his babies. It's Biz and his pacing: tight cuts, followed by unexpected long shots, followed by super close-ups of the babies looking at the screen, the mom hurling the diaper. He's found the perfect balance between serious and absurd. It's not terrible. In fact, it may be the best thing Ian and I have ever done. The sad thing is we're not quite sure how. We look at one another, Ian, Pam, and I. Perhaps it's the fatigue. But we're surprised that it works. Even Biz gives it his blessing.

“I have to be honest, my dudes. No offense, but when I saw the storyboard for this I thought, ‘Oh, shit. Gotta pass on this job.' But it's awright.”

We post a final cut for Martin a little after 3
A.M.
He responds two minutes later.
Like it. Show this tomorrow. Nicely done
.

We go to shake hands, but Biz is a hugger. We tell him we'll call him tomorrow after the meeting.

•   •   •

Ian and I put Pam in a cab, then walk for a block or two. It's closing in on 4
A.M.
Pent-up energy from sitting. Too tired to sleep just yet. We walk down Grand, right on West Broadway. Past John Varvatos and James Perse, the Hästens store selling $50,000 mattresses, the Maserati dealership, the shops selling artisanal jams, past the adorable bakeries, purveyors of eight-dollar cupcakes. I stop in front of the Ralph Lauren Double RL, not sure I even understand the name of the store. In the window are vintage-looking clothes from the 1940s, a mix of industrial worker and military. Chinos and old boots and rucksacks. There's an attaché case with the seal of the United States Navy and it looks like it might be the real deal and it's $595. There's a Navy Watchman's Cap for $145. I don't know if the cap is vintage or not. I don't know if a sailor in World War II wore it. I don't know if it was taken from his dead head by Ralph's grandfather, who thought,
Now
this
is a cap. With this my son will start the definitive empire of all-American, blue-blood WASP clothing and style, despite the fact that we're Jews from the Bronx named Lifshitz.

Branding. Myth. What would my father make of this? Of a wool hat, made for pennies by the thousands, probably in China by fourteen-year-olds, once worn by nineteen-year-olds who would have done anything
not
to wear it,
not
to be on night watch on a sub or a battleship, freezing their asses off, thinking God-knows-what; now here in SoHo selling for more than he made in a month? Would he be able to wrap his head around it? Would my mother? Why are there no protests in front of this store? Why aren't people smashing the windows and burning the bullshit merchandise that's cashing in on a time of depression and war and sacrifice and poverty and death? Where is the mention, Ralphie boy, of that less fashionable part of the story? Of the sixty million dead from World War II. More than 2.5 percent of the world's population. Almost half a million in this country. Where is the copy on the ad with the beautiful people in the manor house with the horses reminding us that of all U.S. World War II battle casualties, the
Navy lost one in 118, the Army one in 44, the Marines one in 36, but submarines . . . submarines lost one in five.
Dutch Harbor, Attu, Pearl Harbor, Midway, Admiralty Island, Brisbane, Sydney, Biak, Espiritu Santo
. Where is the story of Ralph Thomsen dying in my father's arms, of the effect that had on a seventeen-year-old? Where is the story of what it is like to think you are going to die in the dark in a submarine, deep below the surface, with a dead friend on your lap? Brand that, my fashionable friend. Call it the “One-in-Five” campaign.

Ian says, “What?”

I turn and look at him. He's looking at me strangely. “What?” I ask.

Ian says, “You said ‘one in five.'”

“I did?”

“That's not scary at all.”

“I need to sleep.”

“You okay? The thing. The ashes. It went okay?”

I nod. He looks at me, trying to make sure.

Ian says, “Okay, then. See you in . . . six hours.”

•   •   •

I sleep for a few hours, then shower, shave, pick out a decent shirt, a sports coat. The meeting is a big deal. I stop for coffees for Ian and Pam and myself.

The agency is buzzing, post-holiday work. Phoebe's empty desk throws me. All gone, no photos, nothing. Pam is in Ian's office. She's wearing a black skirt, black boots, white shirt, and black sweater. Ian, of course, looks like he's ready for an Armani shoot.

I hand them the coffees. I say to Pam, “You look pretty.”

Pam says, “Shut up.”

I say, “Ian, you look pretty.”

Ian says, “I feel pretty.”

We walk to the main conference room. Someone has ordered catering, a large breakfast spread. The room's been neatened up, agency stationery and pens at each seat. Pam sets up the computer and brings up the spot on the screen at the front of the room, tests the audio levels.

Jill comes in. “Hi, guys!”

Ian says, “How are you, Jilly?”

She says, “I hear the spot is brilliant.”

I say, “Who told you?”

She says, “Well . . . no one. I was just assuming.”

Ian says, “Where's Alan?”

Jill says, “On a call.”

Paulie and Stefano come in.

Stefano says, “Signore Dolan.
Come sta?”

We shake hands. Stefano says, “We heard there was food.”

Jill says, “You guys, seriously, this is for the meeting. You can't touch it.”

Stefano pours coffee and Paulie makes a bagel.

Paulie says, “They won't even know it's gone, Jill. We were never here.”

Malcolm and Raj come in. Malcolm says, “We heard there was food.”

Jill says, “You guys!”

Pam has the spot cued up. I turn and say to the guys, “Take a look.” Pam hits play.

We watch it play through once. Pam plays it again before anyone says anything.

When it finishes Paulie says, “Nice. Really nice, you guys.”

Stefano says, “I must say I am surprised. It's not terrible.”

Rajit is shaking his head “no” but that's a good sign as he's Indian.

Malcolm says, “Well done.” He pours himself some coffee and makes a bagel.

Jill says, “You're messing up the lox.” Her phone rings. We watch her answer it. We watch her listen and hang up.

She says, “They want us in Martin's.”

•   •   •

Alan is sitting in Martin's office when we arrive. Emma says to go right in. Frank is standing at the window, his back to us, but the sky is a gunmetal gray and with the lights on in the office we can see his reflection and his thumb plumbing for something deep in one nostril.

You can tell by the way they look at us, by their stillness.

Martin says, “Have a seat.”

Alan says, “Hey, guys.”

Martin says, “Bad news, I'm afraid. Spot's dead. Alan's just had a call from Jan, our trusted friend at Snugglies. Alan. Why don't you share her thoughts.”

I look at Ian, he at me. Pam stares straight ahead.

Alan says, “Their legal department is worried about the claims they're making for the diaper. There's new research. It basically doesn't work. So it's dead.”

They keep saying “dead.” But it's not dead. It's just not alive. It's a project for a diaper and diapers don't die, especially Snugglies Planet Changers. My mother is dead. My father is dead. The project just isn't happening anymore. There's a difference. Words matter. A day that will live in world history . . . in infamy.

Alan says, “We were able to unload the media slot, which was $3.2 million. Sold it to Skippy. First time for a peanut butter on the Super Bowl. So that's good.”

They seem to be waiting for one of the three of us to say something. But none of us says anything. Perhaps it's the windowless editing room we've spent the night in, the January darkness, the jet lag, the missed holiday vacations, the waste of time.

And then Frank turns, Cheshire-cat grin, and says, “Tell them the good news.”

Martin says, “We've been . . .”

But Frank cuts him off, school-boy excited. “We've been invited to pitch Petroleon. Just us and Saatchi, and we know they hate Saatchi. Ours for the taking. Massive billings,
Fortune
top ten company. The pitch is next week.”

Jill says, “We're briefing tomorrow.”

Ian says, “Tomorrow's Saturday.”

Frank says, “There are no Saturdays anymore. Every day is Monday.” He laughs, but he's not kidding.

I look at Martin, who's slowly massaging his temples. I look at Jill, who's furiously texting on her BlackBerry. Alan looks like a man waiting for a bus. I'm waiting for someone to say something, to laugh, to scream, to set the room on fire.

Frank says, “There are other teams, of course, not just you. But this could be a career-maker. You could make your mark with this one.”