Truth in Advertising Page 0,25
but they detest Gooshy Gum, whose name, we learned not long ago, is roughly the equivalent to the Chinese word shit. People here take Doodles very seriously. The company needs a new rip. (A rip is a rip-off of video footage from other TV commercials and sometimes movies that we share with the client at the start of the production process as a guide to the kind of thing you’d like to shoot for them, or sometimes just to make them happy: “Hey, look! We stole these images from an award-winning Nike commercial and from Mission: Impossible III, among many, many others to show you how great your candy is.” We also steal music we could never, ever use. U2, Coldplay, The Rolling Stones. It’s akin to me sharing The Great Gatsby with someone as a guide to my writing.)
Another e-mail—agency-wide—reminds us about the holiday party, which this year is being held . . . next year! In another time, in a far different economy, long, long ago, the company holiday party was a special affair. Not so this year. My admittedly unscientific poll has shown that people have laughed it off but one gets the sense they’re hurt. People work hard. There are many people here for whom a party is a nice thing, a special thing, a thing to get excited about, perhaps an excuse to wear a pretty dress. It shows that the company you work for—that you invest so much of your life in—cares just a little bit. I do not generally think of a Tuesday morning as a great time for a holiday party, but our parent company does. There are several reasons they think this way. One is because the cost of renting a greasy-smelling banquet hall in a Times Square hotel at this time slot is far less. Another is fewer people will drink at a party at 10:00 A.M., limiting any potential liability when, say, a male employee, perhaps after six too many Stoli-and-tonics, “accidentally” pulls his penis out of his pants and runs around screaming, as was the case last year. Less alcohol means less cost (a theme?). And, perhaps most importantly, fewer people calling in sick the next day. The e-mail reminds us that the party begins at 10:00 A.M. with speeches by Frank, Dodge, Martin, and a special keynote by Keita Nagori, the aforementioned son of the agency’s new owner. Brunch and dancing to follow.
• • •
Later in the morning the office fills with the hum of the workday: the R2-D2 of electronic phones, the light tapping of laptop keyboards, the quiet buzz saw of copiers and printers, conversations muted by the carpeting. Light days today and tomorrow, the agency closing at noon on Christmas Eve.
Phoebe comes into my office with two coffees, something she does most days. I am hard at work. I’d begun, but did not complete, my expense report, as I got distracted by a Google search for information about Mexico but somehow find myself reading a long story about Brett Favre’s childhood.
“There’s a new receptionist on nine,” she says.
“This is not a great lead sentence,” I say. “ ‘Call me Ishmael’ is a great lead sentence. ‘Mother died today. Or maybe it was yesterday’ is a great lead sentence. ‘There’s a new receptionist on nine’ needs work.”
“She’s a former Miss Black Deaf America.”
I say, “Much better.”
“I’m serious.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means she’s deaf and beautiful.”
I say, “Would you rather be deaf or beautiful?”
“Neither. Wait. Beautiful.”
“The other four senses of the deaf are far more highly attuned than the average person.”
“Is that true?”
“I have no idea. I hear perfectly well.”
Phoebe asks, “What sense would you lose?”
“Touch.”
“You say that very quickly. You’re sure? Never feel softness, texture?”
“Touch is overrated,” I say.
Phoebe says, “You’d give up touching the curve of a woman’s hip?”
“Okay. I see what you did there. Umm . . . hearing.”
Phoebe says, “No music?”
“I want all my senses, but I also want that thing where your other senses are more highly attuned because you can’t see or hear.”
Phoebe looks at me and says, “Stop.” She says it gently.
I’m touching my scar, the small one along my jawline. I got it when I was a kid. I’m self-conscious of it. Phoebe knows that.
She says, “Did you hear about Tom Pope?”
“Tell me.”
Tom is an associate creative director who sits a few offices away.
“I heard from Jackie who was out with Erica at what’s-it-called across the street that Tom was at the bar with that new