Truth in Advertising Page 0,109

used dozens of Baggies full of chocolate Jell-O pudding for heft) at the screen. I video the woman running and throwing the diaper with my phone and send it to Phoebe. No answer. Normally she’d text back right away.

I imagine the post-Super Bowl Monday-morning reviews online, in the trade magazines. “Lauderbeck, Kline & Vanderhosen strike out again.” “Pooperbowl losers.” “Derivative. And mind-numbingly stupid. Finbar Dolan should be shot.”

• • •

I have little to do so I walk to video village, check on the team of clients surrounding Jan. We’re in between shots so no one watches the monitors. They’re typing on laptops, tapping on phones, speaking into headsets. There’s a table set up with snacks, coffee, bottles of water. There is a gravitas to their expressions, their tone of voice, their frantic typing and texting. I stand there holding my box. Everyone is working. There can be no stopping in the new world. We take pride in our busy-ness, our relentless workiness. You hear it every day.

I’m swamped. I’m incredibly busy. I’ve never been busier. Work’s insane.

It validates us. Helps us feel important. Helps us feel alive. If we were to stop, stand still, not do anything, we’d burst into flames.

“Dad,” I say to the box. “This is my client, Jan, and her team, whose names I forget, except for Karen, who’s pacing near the snacks table talking into a headset and who last smiled in 1987. This is my job. I come up with ideas, most of which are killed, and once in a great while one is made into a TV commercial and then we stand around and watch as they are filmed. You would think it would be more fun. I’d introduce you but they’re busy and you’re dead.”

No one has noticed my father and me. We turn and walk away.

• • •

Martin asks me to walk with him. He’s spent the morning on calls, occasionally checking in with Flonz and making sure Jan was happy.

He says, “I’m off. You’re back in New York tomorrow, yes?”

“Yes,” I lie.

“I’ll see you at the editor. I told Jan she can come by as well. What’s in the box?” he asks.

I’m tempted to tell him. “Nothing. Candy. It’s a gift. For a friend. Late Christmas gift. Candy and wine. Small bottle. See you in New York.”

• • •

After lunch, Ian and Pam oversee the green screen shots. There’s little for me to do so I walk outside. The sky is still overcast. It feels like rain. Two PAs sit in matching golf carts watching a movie on one of their iPhones, sharing the headset. I ask if I can use one of the golf carts.

Beyond the soundstages, in the backlot, sits a seemingly real world without human beings. Streets you know, houses you’ve seen hundreds of times. There’s the pond where they filmed the close-up shots of Jaws. There’s the street where Leave It to Beaver lived. There’s the Munsters house. There’s a corner of Greenwich Village and Little Italy.

Up and down each street, the all-American homes, the manicured lawns, the driveways, not a soul, not a car, not a sound. I’ve stepped out of our soundstage of make-believe and into a neighborhood of make-believe.

I park and get out of the golf cart, walk to the Cleavers’ front door, peer inside. It is a shell of a home, pure façade. I shout, “June! I’m home! And I’m not wearing pants!” It comes out louder than I thought it would and I am sure Universal security will arrive any minute.

There was a boy on my street growing up, Bobby Sullivan. We went to grade school together. One day, his older brother, Phil, told us a joke. He said, “What was the first dirty joke ever on television?” We had no idea, boys of eight, nine, ten years old. Phil said, “‘Ward, you were awfully rough on The Beaver last night.’” Phil laughed. We laughed. We had no idea what he was talking about.

I sit down on the steps and call Phoebe, desperate for her to answer but surprised when she does.

I say, “Guess where I am.”

“I don’t know.” Her voice is different. Flatter, trying, polite. She means, I don’t care.

“Leave It to Beaver’s house.”

“Tell the Cleavers I said hello. How’s the shoot going?”

“Okay. I hear you have some news.”

“Yeah. I was going to call you.”

“You got my messages?”

“I did. Yes. Thank you.”

Silence.

I say, “So what are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure. I was thinking about maybe going back to school.