Truth in Advertising Page 0,85

it’s late.”

HOW ARE YOU ENJOYING THE PARTY?

There is a plaque above the entrance to our office building, the names Lauderbeck, Kline & Vanderhosen writ large in crisp Futura. There was a time when it thrilled me to see those words, to walk under them and into this place. The year I started, the agency had been voted Agency of the Year by one of the trade publications. Like most institutions when viewed from the outside—other people’s families, other careers—it appeared to be a wonderful place.

Now I am simply part of the crowd that daily streams in through the revolving doors, shows their ID, waits for one of six elevators, quick fake smile, nods, reads the paper, stares at the coffee cup, the feet, sniffles, listens to the iPod, presses the elevator button over and over and over.

The days meld together. Moments of lightness, of meetings, walks down a hallway and nods and smiles to coworkers of five years, eight years. Wasn’t I taking this exact shower at this exact time yesterday morning? Or was it a week ago? What day is it? The subway and the coffee cart and the gym, the copier, the men’s room, the cafeteria, the void of time lost. We settle into a life. Maybe we made this life or maybe it simply happened. People get promoted. They get married. They have children. She’s how old now? Holy cow. Where does the time go? They leave for another company. They come back three years later. They get divorced. They move to a larger home. They take a trip to Africa. They have chemo. They have an affair. They lose a parent. They find their way, are blessed with good fortune, win the club doubles tournament. They travel to Detroit for business. They drive through an intersection, are hit by a drunk driver, live in a nursing home the rest of their days. I don’t know where time goes. This seems like a good tagline for something.

The holiday party starts at 10:00 A.M. and the office is dead, people taking the morning off.

The paper says the war in Iraq is not going well.

The paper says the war in Afghanistan is not going well.

The paper says the man whose ex-wife cut off his penis years ago and threw it out of a car window is in talks with Fox to start his own reality TV show called How Bad Is Your Ex?

I stand and look out the window, watch as two men unload sacks of what looks like flour. Each time one of the bags hits the two-wheeled cart, a puff of white mist comes out of the corner of the bag. The job seems appealing from this distance. They wear work boots and heavy cloth jackets and there is physical labor involved. They’re talking and laughing as they do it. Has one of them told the other a filthy joke, using words like tits or pussy? Is that snobbish of me? How the hell do I know who they really are? Maybe both are trying to get their master’s in writing at Columbia. Maybe one just told the other the story of Sisyphus, of rolling the rock up the hill, only to have it fall down and start again, how it’s a metaphor for life, for work. Are they classical scholars, Larry Darrell–like from W. Somerset Maugham’s The Razor’s Edge? Seekers of truth, of God in the everyday, the every detail? A woman in a formfitting skirt walks by and I see one of them mouth something. The woman turns and gives them the finger. The men laugh.

Smash cut to opening credits of Oprah. Camera dollies in over the heads of applauding audience members. Cut to Oprah, clapping (for herself?).

Oprah says, “Finbar Dolan. My last show and there was only one guest I wanted and that was you.”

“Thank you, Oprah.”

Oprah says, “Wouldn’t commercials be funnier if you were allowed to swear?”

“Absolutely.”

“If every spot were like something on HBO.”

“Volvo. Drive fucking safely.”

The audience laughs.

I say, “And brought to you by McDonald’s. I’m fucking loving it.”

Oprah laughs. “Hahahahaha!”

I laugh and jump up and down like Tom Cruise. The audience is hysterical, applauding. Oprah’s laughing.

Oprah says, “You’re awesome.”

I say, “No, you’re awesome.”

The audience applauds both of us and our awesomeness.

Oprah says, “Why aren’t you more famous, more successful?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what others are missing.”

“Your father was a police officer.”

“Yes.”

“He went into harm’s way to protect people. He stood between us and danger.”

“Yes.”

“And yet you . . .