Truth in Advertising Page 0,65

in anticipation.

I say, “Dick Sargent was a fake name. His Hollywood name. His real name was Richard Cox.”

Keita squints. “I don’t understand.”

I say, “In America, we sometimes call someone named Richard ‘Dick.’ Dick Cox.”

Keita’s drink is airborne, brown liquid flying onto his pants, my pants, the floor of the car that costs more than the average American home.

I say, “Keita, your English is quite good.”

“It is good and it is not so good. The more I drink the better it gets. I attended a British boarding school for three years as a boy. One of the worst experiences of my life.” He laughs. “Do you speak another language, Fin?”

“No.”

“Of course not. You are American. But that is okay because you are super famous!”

“Yes, I am.”

“You have won many awards for your famous work.”

No, I haven’t. “Yes, I have.”

“And someday you will run the agency.”

Not a snowball’s chance in hell. “Absolutely.”

They’d lied to him. They told him I was the agency’s best writer. They told him I’d been the lead on many new business wins. Frank was jiggling change in his pockets (or possibly playing with his balls), staring out the window of Martin’s office. This was after this morning’s meeting.

Frank had said, “He shows up unannounced in the lobby. Thank God I was in New York. A sneak attack. It’s Pearl Harbor all over again.”

Martin said, “Don’t be daft, Frank.”

Martin was in his chair, fingers tented, the jet lag surely kicking in.

“Fin,” Martin said. “Keita has asked to meet our finest writer.”

I said, “And he’s on vacation.”

“The top three are on vacation,” Frank said to the window.

Martin said, “Frank. For Christ’s sake.” To me: “He wants to see how a commercial is made.”

I say, “Tell him to watch an old episode of thirtysomething.”

Martin says, “He owns the company.”

Frank says, “His father owns the company. I run the company.”

Martin, to Frank: “We all know you run the company, Frank. Maybe go have lunch or buy some nice shirts.”

To me, “Show him around. Let him sit with you and Ian. Take him to an edit session. He’ll get bored and go home.”

Frank says, “What exactly is a Rastafarian, anyway?”

Martin and I both look at him.

Frank says, “My daughter says she’s become one. She’s at Dartmouth. Spoiled brat. Fifty grand a year. Every other week, it seems, she’s home on school break. What the hell am I paying for? She used to be so sweet. Now she smokes marijuana in front of her mother.”

Martin says, “A day or two. Tops. You don’t mind being the best writer in the agency for a day or two, right? Nice work today, by the way. There’s a possibility Monday might not be a complete disaster.”

That was eight hours ago.

• • •

There is a bar in the back of the car and Keita is making drinks.

I say, “Do you have any club soda or ginger ale?”

Keita says something in Japanese and the car pulls over and the woman in the front gets out and runs into a deli, returning in record time with a bottle of each. One could get used to this. I gulp down the club soda and check my voice mail messages on my home phone.

Keita says, “We should go for a ride in a helicopter. See Manhattan at night.”

There’s a message from Dr. Wink. “There’s been a change in your father’s condition. You should come here now.”

I say, “I’m not the best copywriter at the agency, Keita.”

“Fin! You are too modest.”

“No. I’m not. Martin and Frank lied to you. They didn’t want to disappoint you. I’m just a guy who writes diaper commercials. I’m not even a creative director. And I’ll never run the agency.”

He looks out the window, sips his drink.

“Fin. Maybe do you know what my title is?” He’s still looking out the window.

“President?”

He turns. “Special Assistant to the Chief Operating Officer of Lauderbeck, Kline & Vanderhosen’s parent company, Tomo, Japan’s largest shipping company and third largest in the world.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. It means I do nothing, am in charge of nothing. I am the only son, only child, and disappointment to my father. And I will never run my father’s company because he thinks I am stupid. He buys the advertising firm to keep me busy. And then they don’t let me do anything.”

I turn to look at him and he turns from the window.

“Fuck them,” I say.

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Whoever told you that you couldn’t do something. Fuck ’em. Course, I myself don’t normally have the balls to