Truth in Advertising Page 0,35
company?’ No. We’re an energy company. Even though technically ninety-one percent of our profits are derived from oil. Oil is an exceptionally dirty word, as focus group testing both quantitatively and qualitatively proves out in spades. Energy is clean. We’re the good guys. Try the Danish. They’re insane.”
There seemed to be very few humans in the halls—blond wood, glass, steel, plush carpeting—except for the receptionist and two armed guards. One is escorted everywhere at Petroleon—keycards, punched numbers, heavy steel doors. A humorless woman named Claire acted as our guide and took us to the conference room we’re in now, asking that we sit anywhere, as long as it wasn’t in the center of the table, north side, since that’s where Mr. Cameron, Petroleon’s CEO, sits.
Directly underneath the table at that seat, Claire said, is a panic button. Previous privileged guests to Petroleon, she tells us, not having had the advantage of Claire’s direction, have sat in that seat and silently kneed the button. To their great surprise, approximately eighteen seconds later, an insistent knock had come at the door. The conferees did not answer correctly (a one-word password from Mr. Cameron to let the guards know he’s not in a hostage situation) and six extremely serious men (three former SAS, two former Mossad, one former Navy SEAL) burst into the room, fingers on the triggers of short-barreled Heckler & Koch assault rifles. One of the conferees that day, a Stanford geologist giving a presentation on the composition of subocean mafic rock, wet himself. Claire tells this story in a quiet voice, a slim, knowing smile. “One can’t be too careful these days. Certain constituencies have taken offense to the work of Petroleon. You can’t please everyone, can you?” Certainly not the indigenous people of Honduras, Liberia, and northern Brazil, where Petroleon has decimated groundwater supplies, been linked to absurdly high cancer rates, spilled millions of gallons of heavy crude, and, according to human rights organizations, hired mercenaries to murder protestors. You certainly can’t please everyone, Claire. Especially if you’re trying to kill them.
“It’s an honor and a privilege to be in this room with you today,” Frank says with the gravity of an archbishop. In the car on the way over, Martin had coached Frank on his opening remarks.
“These are serious people,” Martin had said, mostly for Frank’s benefit. Frank was focused on a grilled cheese sandwich at the time. “They don’t muck about. This isn’t soda and it’s not toothpaste. To do what they do they spend a billion dollars a month. Also, let’s be very careful not to mention the spill of a few months ago.”
Martin says this because Frank has a bad habit of not being able to stop speaking when he doesn’t know what he’s talking about or is lying, two things he does often. He is a nervous speaker. This is due in part to severe self-esteem issues, causing him to both love and loathe himself in alternating moments. He can’t believe he has the job he does, the money, the stuff. He feels he deserves it and, in the same moment, feels like a fraud. It makes for interesting meetings. He pops Xanax like Tic Tacs.
Frank says, “What spill?” He has a blob of cheese on his chin.
Martin says, “Third largest oil spill in U.S. history. Destroyed eight hundred miles of Alaskan coastline. Fishing, polar bear habitats, seal, otter, sea lion. They’ve offered money. But these things happen in a world hungry for oil, don’t they?”
Frank says, “Should I mention that?”
Martin says, “No, Frank!”
Frank’s job is simply the setup. “It’s the day before Christmas and all over this city agencies are closed, employees are gone, but we’re here. Christ himself couldn’t get us to Bethlehem to miss this opportunity to meet with you today.” He feigns a laugh. No one else so much as grins. Mostly they drop their heads out of embarrassment, pretend to make a note or check their BlackBerry.
Frank continues. “Your company is a towering monument to what is good about this country. We love you. We don’t want to leave. We never want to leave.”
I catch Martin making a small head motion to the senior client, a “not-to-worry-we-will-leave-the-building-at-some-point” motion.
Frank hands it over to Martin, who deftly walks through the agency’s credentials, showing a PowerPoint slide with the logos of our many internationally known brands—diapers, packaged goods, candy, fast food, soda . . . oil? Martin talks about our “remarkable growth” during the “nightmarish global recession,” but does not get around