Truth in Advertising Page 0,86

you do nothing for others.”

“No.”

“Do you volunteer?”

“No.”

“Do you give money away?”

“Once in a while but not much.”

“Do you give blood?”

“God, no. Can’t stand needles.” I laugh and turn to the audience, but it’s an entirely different audience of somber, disappointed people who loathe me.

Oprah says, “What do you do for others?”

I say, “What do you mean?”

“Your father was a volunteer during World War Two, saw combat, sat in the pitch black for hours with a dead man on him. Yet you can’t even bring yourself to honor a dying man’s request.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about. He hit my brothers. He left my mother.”

“Your mother had an affair.”

“No.”

“Your mother had sex with someone who wasn’t her husband.”

“Shut your goddamned mouth.”

Oprah says, “It’s your a-ha moment.”

“It’s not true.”

“Why do you lie?”

“Why do you put yourself on the cover of every issue of your magazine?”

“We’re talking about you.”

I say, “I’ve never watched your show.”

“You even lie to yourself. You’re like one of those birds that skim across the water, looking barely below the surface, unable to engage in anything lasting or meaningful.”

I say, “Let’s go to a commercial.”

• • •

Keita is standing at my door.

He says, “Fin. I am so sorry for you.”

It’s begun to rain outside and though it’s still early, dark clouds make it seem like dusk.

“Keita,” I say. “Thank you. And thank you for your very kind message last night.” It’s only then that I notice his expression. “Is something wrong?”

“Fin. Have I offended you?”

“Offended? No. God, no. Why?”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Absolutely not. Why? What happened?”

“My father’s office call me. I must go back. I am told I am impeding business.”

“What? No. There’s very little business that happens here to begin with.”

“I wanted to see the TV commercial. Go to Hollywood.”

The math comes slowly to me, but when it does, it’s clear. Someone called. Frank, Martin, Dodge. Most likely Frank. He’d push a Girl Scout down to win a race. I would prefer that Keita fly home, truth be told. I’m deeply tired and don’t feel like babysitting. But there’s something about his expression, the wounded, childlike look that says he simply wants to belong, that somehow opens a small empathic window. He’s also wearing suede Converse All Stars with his dark suit, a nod to this morning’s party, perhaps. I say, “Then come to the shoot with me. Please. As my guest. Put me on the phone with your father.”

A wide-eyed grin. “You would do this?”

“Absolutely. We’re buds, right?”

I’ve strayed too far into jargon.

I say, “Buddies. Friends.”

He likes this word. “Buddies. Yes. Buddies. Okay.”

He pulls up a chair next to mine and we sit uncomfortably close as Keita dials his Vertu cell phone (base price, $4,000) and speaks Japanese, his personality changing, his voice rising, his tone more severe. He waits, puts his hand over the phone. “One of his three assistants. She does not like me. Fin. Your father. He is better?”

Maybe all conversations should take place from a few inches away, where you are almost touching the other person, where you are looking each other in the eye. Perhaps there would be less lying.

“No,” I say. “He died.”

Keita puts his hand to his head. It’s the hand that’s holding the phone and his forehead hits the speaker button. I know this because I hear someone speaking in Japanese on the other end of the phone.

Keita ignores it. “Buddy,” Keita says to me, putting his other hand on my shoulder. There is something about his pain, the gesture, that moves me to the point where I find a hitch in my throat. The voice speaking Japanese becomes louder, angrier.

Keita whispers, “My father,” and rolls his eyes.

Keita takes the phone off speaker and talks to his father in Japanese. I hear his father respond, watch Keita’s bad-dog expression. I understand it all too well. Anger sweeps over me, a kind of chemical response that surprises me. Keita hands me the phone and I lie my face off to Keita’s father, telling him that we need Keita for the shoot, that he provided valuable input during the early stages of the creative process and during the internal review and that the client met him and asked for him to be there. And that we know he’s needed in Japan but he’s needed here as well. Keita’s round face smiling the entire time. And who knows. It never hurts to have a billionaire around.

• • •

We’re gathered in a massive room in a hotel in midtown Manhattan