Truth in Advertising Page 0,5

that parents sit up nights trembling about. Fulfilled by your job? Who the fuck cares. Have a job? Then do whatever you can to hang on to it. This is business today. This is America today. A land of fear. Fear of things that cannot be proven with focus-group testing. Fear of layoffs and large mortgages, education costs and penniless retirements, fear of terrorists and planes that fly too low.

• • •

Jan is staring at me, waiting for an answer. As is her team. What was the question?

“How do you mean, Jan?” I say.

Jan says, “Is this the brand?”

I say, “I think it is. I think it’s very much the brand. Ian?”

I write the copy. Ian does the pictures. He’s much smarter than I am and a champion talker.

Ian says, “Emotion. The mother-child bond. Life. This is the DNA of your brand.”

If you can speak like this with a straight face, you can make a very good living in advertising.

Jan says, “Agreed.”

Her colleagues nod. It’s as if they’re wired to Jan. Almost all are texting, talking on wireless headsets, tapping an iPad. Unless you are connected you are not alive. Earlier I heard one of the clients in the toilet on a conference call, his voice strained at times from peristaltic exertion.

Jan says again, “But is this too artsy for our brand?”

I say, “I’m hearing you say you think it might be too artsy.”

Jan says, “I think that’s what I’m saying, yes.”

I say, “How so?”

Jan says, “The camera is moving around quite a bit. I’m not seeing the product.”

I say, “Well, we’re trying to focus on Gwyneth and the baby, but, as we discussed in the pre-production meeting, we wanted hip, cool, and edgy along with the brand attributes of safe, homespun, and conservative.”

Jan says, “Agreed. But Gwyneth and the baby aren’t the product, Fin. The product is a Snugglie, the finest diaper in the world.” You wait for the punch line but it never comes. People speak like this.

I say, “Absolutely. No question. But the baby is wearing the diaper.”

Jan sighs deeply. It is a signal to one of her drones. In this case, Cindy, a bubbly twenty-eight-year-old Jan wannabe. Cindy says, “As infants grow and become more active, our job is to create a diapering experience that fits their lives . . . and the lives of their moms. We aspire to do nothing less than let them be the best babies they can be. Largely dry and free of diaper rash. Though legally we can’t guarantee this.”

Now, as if it’s the final scene of a high school musical, others jump in. Chet, late thirties, also extremely eager. Chet says, “I.e., new Snugglies Diaper Pants. The ultimate in flexibility for babies on the go. Explore. Be free. Be dry. New mommies love this. Focus groups bear this out.”

I say, “Are you fucking crazy talking like that? This is a diaper. C’mon. Let’s all get drunk and get laid.”

Except I don’t say that at all. I nod and say, “Understood.” Because Jan knows, as do Cindy and Chet, that it is 2009 and the agency I work for will do anything to keep the sizable fee that this brand brings in. Jan could say, Fin, I need you to climb up on that rafter, take down your pants, shave your ball sack, and jump into a Dixie cup full of curdled beef fat, and she knows I’d do it.

“One more thing,” Jan says. “Purple.”

Her colleagues nod.

“Purple?” I ask with a smile.

Jan nods. “The liquid in the demo shot rehearsal looked purple to us. We’d like blue. A deep, deep blue. Like the brand.”

Cindy adds helpfully, “According to recent focus group testing, the color purple often connotes homosexuality, and homosexuality, according to our testing, tested poorly.”

Ian can’t resist. “Maybe you’re just giving the wrong kind of test.”

Jan says, “We good, Fin?”

I manage a nod, smiling. “We can fix it in post.” The great go-to line on a shoot. Post being post-production: editing, color correction, audio mixing.

Then I turn and walk away, leaving what’s left of my scrotum on the floor.

We walk back toward the craft services table. On the way we pass dozens of crew, some of whom help to set the shot, position Gwyneth, tend to her hair and makeup, many of whom stand around and check their iPhones.

Ian says, “I thought that went well.”

Pam looks at me and says, “You’re pathetic.”

Ian pours coffees. Pam eats a donut. I rub Purell on my hands.

Ian says, “It was genius on