Truth in Advertising Page 0,29
“Do the thing, guys. Talk like them.”
Glen talks as if he were the doll. “What up, yo?”
Babs says, “No, the other thing. The funny thing.”
Glen says, “Blast is so right, yo. Fresh.” Blast is the fizzy orange drink.
Babs squeals with delight.
Barry says, “I find it quite refreshing.” He says this in a posh English accent.
Martin sits, hands in a contemplative tent over his nose, a deep thinker, a man listening to a new idea for peace in the Middle East.
Martin says, “So they’re two puppets who talk.”
Glen and Barry nod.
Babs says, “I think that’s right, Martin. I think that’s exactly right.”
Martin says, “Aren’t they similar to what Nike did some time ago with Lil Penny?”
Nike used Chris Rock as the voice for an inanimate little doll that was former NBA great Penny Hardaway’s alter ego. It was funny, in no small part because it was Chris Rock and not Glen and Barry.
Babs says, “They most certainly did, Martin. But we feel this idea is very different.”
Martin says, “How is it different?”
Glen says, “We have two, not one.”
Babs says, “I think that’s a crucial difference. Also one’s white.”
Martin says, “Why is one English?”
Barry says, “It’s just funny.”
Martin says, “Is it?”
Babs says, “It’s certainly not classically funny, Martin. Not laugh loud funny. It’s a chuckle. A smile. A half grin.” Babs makes a half-grin face.
Martin turns to Glen and Barry. “Did you do two because you’re twins and they’re twins?”
Glen says, “That was part of it.”
Babs jumps in with the intensity of a hostage negotiator. “Martin, the target is African-American teens, thirteen to seventeen, hip-hop culture, NBA-focused, single-parent homes, at-risk kids who consume on average two to three bottles of our product a day. Our projections want that closer to seven to ten bottles a day. We think the doll will reach them, and the client is putting major money behind it. NBA playoffs, MTV Music Awards, and Bling Thing.”
Martin says, “Bling Thing?”
Babs doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s the inner-city anti-violence initiative sponsored by Iced La-Táy, the rap star who was shot two weeks ago.”
Martin says, “Interesting. Part of me thinks it’s funny. Part of me thinks it’s one of the dumbest things I’ve ever seen.”
Babs says, “That was the brief exactly. It almost makes you wish you were African-American. Not literally African-American, of course, but you know what I mean.”
Barry says, “It’s stupid, right? That’s what I love about it. It’s just so stupid.”
Martin says, “I love their pants. They’re very baggy.”
Babs says, “Should they have little belts?”
Glen says, “That wouldn’t be true to street.”
A junior account guy says, “That’s true. I’ve seen them. Always pulling up their pants.”
It dawns on me that everyone in the room is white.
Martin says, “When’s the meeting?”
Babs says, “Thursday in Atlanta.”
Martin says, “Knock ’em dead. If you don’t come back having sold it, kill yourself.”
Babs laughs, but she’s not entirely sure Martin is joking.
“Fin!” Babs says as she walks out of Martin’s office smiling, her lips disappearing. I heard a rumor that her husband left her recently. Three children.
“Hey, Babs. How are you?”
Babs begins crying for no reason I can discern.
I say, “Are you okay?”
And just as quickly she stops crying. Eyes wide, lunatic smile. “Sure am, Fin.” Machine-gun laugh out of nowhere, then gone.
Babs says, “Did you hear we’re trying to get the Dalai Lama for Crest White Strips?”
“Wow. Does he do advertising?”
“Who the fuck knows?!” she says, a giant smile still plastered on her face. I feel like she might explode.
“Sounds like a great meeting in there.”
Babs says, “A great meeting. A great meeting. Leaving for Atlanta in about an hour. Hotlanta, they call it down there. More like Shitlanta. What a dump. Need to talk with you first thing after the New Year about the Doodles thing.” Her cell phone is ringing and she’s readjusting the folio she is holding to her birdlike chest in order to answer it.
“Barbara Moss,” she says into the phone, nodding to me, smiling.
I nod and smile.
Merry Christmas, she mouths, and she’s off, a trauma surgeon heading toward the ER.
“Good luck,” I shout, and see her bony arm come up and wave as she disappears down the hallway. God love her.
“Fin,” Martin says, from inside his office.
There’s a Christmas morning atmosphere in Martin’s office. Boughs with white lights adorn his window with a view to Bryant Park and the skating rink below. Gifts from clients, vendors, editorial companies, music companies, production companies. New Patagonia jackets here, an engraved bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label there. This is