Truth in Advertising Page 0,10

curvy Fee (her preferred name, the irony simply too rich) wed on a beach somewhere. Friends from the city, from advertising. Great sums of money were spent. Small, fancy hotels. They’d called the island’s only helicopter service late one night because they wanted a tour under the full moon.

But that little black card does not come cheap. And so it was that one day a few years ago, in the agency’s main conference room, Ron stood up in a meeting and began removing his clothes, not saying a word, not changing an iota, one witness said, the smile on his face. I’m told he continued presenting the idea (I believe it was for batteries). Later, when the police arrived, he refused to get dressed and was led out of the building and into a waiting police car on Sixth Avenue wearing around his buttocks and manhood his secretary’s canary-yellow cardigan, the one she kept on the back of her chair for summer days when the building’s air conditioning was too cold. She urged him to keep it.

Now, one hears stories of Ron and Fee’s rocky marriage, of her forward ways on television commercial shoots with young men who are rising in the agency, while her formerly powerful husband is at home, surrounded by specially made soft gardening implements, where he tends to their tomato plants and, on good days, is allowed to walk the dog. In the afternoons he is given cookies.

Since Martin’s arrival I have tried to show my worth by enacting what I like to call The Finbar Dolan Campaign for Creative Director, Long-Term Success, and Renewed Self-Esteem. (A long and not particularly interesting title, to be sure, especially from someone who’s supposed to be good at writing exactly these kinds of things.) How have I enacted The Plan? I have done this by getting in at 9:30-but-closer-to-10 and leaving around six, with a midday pause for a long lunch. Also by acting as a respected mentor to the other creatives in my group, which is not technically my group, nor do they really see me as a mentor or even listen to me. My great hope (as I believe is reflected in the clever titling of my plan) is to be promoted this year to creative director. It is an important milestone in one’s advertising career. You go from merely creating ads—concepting, writing, art directing—to overseeing, critiquing, criticizing, and most often shooting them down. It is something I feel I could be good at. It would also be a bump in salary. It would mean the respect of others at the agency. Which is not to say I don’t have enormously high self-esteem or that I rely on the opinion of others. (I don’t and I do.)

I say, “Martin.”

“Fin.”

“Martin.”

Martin says, “How goes it on the coast?”

“We’re in Queens, actually. Which is certainly a coast, but not the one you were thinking of.”

Martin says, “And Gwyneth, Fin? Stunning?”

“Stunning,” I say.

Martin says, “Met her once. She might remember me.”

“I mentioned you to her,” I lie. “She remembered.”

Martin cackles. “I knew it. Did she say where that was?”

“She didn’t. You sound strange, Martin.”

“Yoga, Fin. Standing on my head at the moment. Secret to life. Releases tension. Have you tried it?”

“No, but I masturbate a lot. Does wonders.”

Martin says, without a hint of a laugh, “Humor. Very good. Hearing reports of black babies, Fin, of unhappy clients.”

How does he know these things?

“Just rumors, Martin,” I say. “We had some issues earlier but things are better now.”

“Good to hear. Creative directors take care of these things. Bull by the horns.”

Creative directors.

Martin says, “I have some excellent news of my own, Fin. Big oil.”

I say, “That’s great. Except I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Petroleon, Fin. Head man’s an old chum—we were at Eton together. Not happy with their current agency. Want to avoid a formal pitch. Meet and greet, see if the chemistry’s there. Oh, Christ.”

I hear a thud and then moaning.

“Martin?” I say.

Muffled, somewhat at a distance, I hear, “These bastard walls!”

I hear a hand grabbing the phone, rubbing the mouthpiece.

“Martin?” I say again. “You okay?”

“I don’t feel pain, Fin. Anyway. He’s only in town a short time. I’d like to bring in one of our top creatives.”

This is turning out better than I had hoped.

Martin says, “Except none of them will be around Thursday because of the holiday.”

“Oh,” I reply cleverly.

“I’m joking, Fin. I think you could be the man for this. Might be a nice change from diapers.”

“You said