Truth in Advertising Page 0,124
Keita.
Inside the box is a Rolex Submariner watch.
• • •
The office is quiet. I grab my bag and leave. I step off the elevator and walk through the lobby. Martin is on his cell phone. He ends the call and looks at me for what feels like a long time.
He says, “There are four hours every lunar cycle when I am not an egotistical, heartless jackass. You happen to be catching me on the last hour. So I’m going to ask you this once, and only once, and, no matter what your answer, I’m then going to walk out of this building, get into a new Jaguar XJ, drive to Per Se, have dinner with a twenty-eight-year-old woman of mind-altering beauty, and, by my second sake, forget you exist. Do you want this job?”
Yes. No. I don’t know. I don’t know the answer. I do know I wish I’d studied harder in college. I wish I had a calling. I wish I was remarkably good at one thing. Just one thing that I could point to and say, “I am superb at this. I know this.” Badminton. The violin. Carpentry. Organic farming. Litigation. Geology. Animal husbandry. The Hula-Hoop. Something. But I am not good at anything. And the little voice reminds me of that every chance he gets. “Hey, Gary. Gary? You suck.” And always, for so long, I have believed him. It’s habit. It’s easier. There are times in my life when I look for experiences I can be proud of, things that might define me: the winning goal senior year, the acceptance letter from Harvard, the big account win, the wedding, the house, the first-born, the good father, the good husband, the good brother, volunteering at the hospice, jumping onto the tracks to rescue the fainting victim as the subway car pulls in. The stories of a life well lived. Little monuments we all need to sustain us during those long stretches where nothing quite so memorable occurs, when life simply passes by. I scan my memory for something to hold on to. I can find almost nothing. And then I think of the ashes. Hey, little voice. Fuck you. I did that.
I say, “Is it enough? What we do?”
Martin stares for a time. “No. It’s not enough. Relative to a trauma surgeon or special ed teacher or UN AIDS worker in Uganda, no. It’s not nearly enough. But I’m not any of those things. And I’m okay with that. I like what I do. I think what we do has value. Good companies matter to people. Their products matter to people. Do they make a difference in their lives? Probably not. But it does matter. By the way, in the time I’ve been here, this agency has worked on campaigns to get teenagers to stop smoking, bring inner-city children to camp for the summer, a battered women’s shelter in Queens, and the New York chapter of the American Red Cross. For free. And we’ve changed people’s lives as a result. I think that’s a pretty good way to make a living.”
I’m waiting for him to fire me, waiting to be humiliated because I do not understand basic things sometimes.
“Do you know how many portfolios we receive each day? Copywriters, art directors, people who want to make their living here? And yet here I stand with you, a person who wants to throw a good job away. I mean, if I could show you a photo of the woman I’m dining with . . . and yet here I stand. Why? It’s rhetorical, so don’t try to answer. I stand here because although I have thought about firing you many times with great relish, I don’t. I don’t because I think you could be good. But you have to want it. People like you, Fin. That’s not a small thing in this business. You want to hug me now, I know. I have that effect on people.”
Then he says, “I’m sorry about your father. And although it’s none of my business, I was very sorry to hear what happened to your mother. I know it was a long time ago but . . .”
I feel myself color, feel instantly uncomfortable.
Martin says, “I had an older brother. A god to me. He died twenty-four years ago, November seventh. Drunk driver. Not a day goes by that . . . well . . . you know.”
He looks beyond me, out the windows onto the street. I assume he’s seen someone