Truth in Advertising Page 0,32

punch line because I’m pretty sure I’m on a reality TV show and there’s a camera filming my face and somewhere, behind the scenes, people are laughing at me. I think, this is one of those rare occasions where I have let the question, “What do I do for a living?” come to the fore, where I question things, which is never a productive exercise for me. I think, my father’s going to die and none of us care. I think, keep going, keep moving, keep smiling.

I say, “Wow.”

Martin nods slowly and says, “Wow indeed. I’m glad you see it that way. Brad said they’ve reconsidered the launch of this. Had planned on the Academy Awards in March but are excited and worried that Procter & Gamble have an identical product. Corporate espionage, Fin. So I think you know what that means.”

My expression suggests that I have no idea what that means. Is he asking me if I know what corporate espionage means?

Martin says, “It means they want to launch on the Super Bowl.”

“Which Super Bowl?”

“The one in six weeks.”

“You’re talking about the famous one. The football one. With the commercials.”

“Yes.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Of course it is,” Martin says. “I told them it is. Which means it is.”

“So, wait. Come up with a Super Bowl–worthy idea. Get it approved. Find a director. Prep it. Shoot it. Edit it. Mix it. Score music to it. Six weeks, with Christmas and New Year’s in between.”

“Exactly.”

I say, “Have I offended you in some way?”

“This is a great opportunity, Fin. I think you’re the right man for the job. Truly.”

“How many other writers did you ask before me?”

“Two.”

“At five I would have been offended. So wait. You’re asking me to cancel another vacation?”

“Absolutely not. How long’s your vacation?”

“Seven days.”

“You should definitely go. Enjoy yourself. Relax. Forget work completely. But only for two days. A long weekend.”

“A regular weekend.”

“Two days. Much deserved. And maybe jot down a few ideas while you’re there and send them to me. Each day. Then hop on a plane, come back, and work the week. What fun. The city’s quiet, so is the office.”

“That’s because everyone’s on vacation.”

Martin says, “We need to show ideas January second, in production first week of January, shooting second week of January. That means working over the break, I’m afraid. Exciting, though, Fin. You and Ian, Stefano and Paulie, Malcolm and Rajit. I chose only the single people. No families.”

“Stefano and Paulie and Rajit are all married,” I say.

“No children, though.”

“Paulie has two children.”

Martin blinks several times. “I wanted to tell you first as I’d like you to lead the charge on this end, as I’ll be away.”

“Where are you going?”

“Vacation. It’s Christmas. Meeting to tell the teams in a bit. More tea?”

The lucky ones have a passion. The other ninety-eight percent of us end up doing something we kind-of, sort-of like-ish. The place where you show up for work each day for five, ten, twenty years is who you are. Isn’t it? And yet, from time to time, there is that small voice that screams, “Leave. Go. This isn’t what you want.” Except that other voice, the one that calls you Gary, whispers, “But where would you go? And what would you do?”

• • •

Two and a half hours later, two days before Christmas, one day before the agency closes until the day after New Year’s, fourteen people sit grim-faced in a conference room ready to be briefed on a revolutionary diaper.

Ian, myself, Malcolm and Raj, Stefano and Paulie, Pam, Jill, Alan, Martin, and four people I’ve never seen before in my life, all of whom appear to be twenty-eight and taking notes, despite the fact that the meeting hasn’t started. All have beautiful hair and sparkling white teeth.

One of the perfect-hair people hands out copies of the assignment, or what we call the “brief.” Despite its name, it is six pages long, single-spaced, twelve-point Futura (the agency’s typeface). Every brief aspires to answer the same questions: background, challenge, marketplace, problem we are solving for.

Alan says, “Okay. Everyone? Let’s get started, please. I know this is not what any of us had in mind for the holidays, but I think you’ll see, after we’ve gone over the brief, that this is a special product and a special chance to make a difference.”

There are groans, almost exclusively from the creatives.

Paulie says, “Like the Peace Corps.”

Everyone laughs. Except Martin.

Martin’s voice is never loud. He has the ability to break through noise and be heard.

Martin says, “The average