Truth in Advertising Page 0,88

drink and am not sure what to do with my other hand, so they both hang suspended. This must look strange. He releases me and wipes something off my lapel as he says, “It’s a marvelous party. Promise you’ll save me a dance.”

I say, “I promise.” I turn to Martin. “Fix what?”

Frank says, “How was your evening with Keita? Did he mention me?”

I say, “He did, Frank. He likes you very much. He said his father admires you.”

Frank turns to Dodge. “I told you the old man wasn’t offended by the Lost in Translation joke.”

Martin says, “Excuse us.”

We walk to the bar.

Martin says to the bartender, “Johnnie Walker Blue. Neat. In a glass, not a plastic cup.”

The bartender says, “Bud Light, undrinkable white wine, shitty vodka.”

I say, “Fix what?”

Martin turns to me and says, “The account. Your account. The world’s greatest diaper, my good chap. Not a good meeting yesterday, I’m afraid.” He turns back to the bartender and says, “There is a bag marked MARTIN CARLSON, EXECUTIVE CREATIVE DIRECTOR under the table behind you. Open it.” We watch as the bartender opens the bag and produces a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue.

Martin says to me, “Sent Emma ’round this morning.” To the barman, “Make it two, please.” Martin drops a twenty in the tip cup and we take our drinks, turn and look at the crowd. We see Keita dancing with several women.

“What happened?” I ask.

“They were underwhelmed. My fault. I should have put more resources on it.”

I feel my face flush, an open embarrassment.

He clinks my glass with his. “Cheers.”

We drink. It tastes like ash to me.

“I thought they liked Al Gore. I thought you liked Al Gore.”

“I did. They didn’t.”

I say, “Did they buy anything?”

“1984.”

“You seem disappointed.”

“I am. I think it’s mediocre at best. It’s someone else’s idea. I don’t like doing other people’s ideas. That’s not how I got where I am.” There’s an edge to his voice.

Then he says, “Can you do this? Because if you can’t—and I understand if your head is elsewhere—I need someone else on it.”

He turns and looks at me and I think, I don’t know this guy at all. He’s the kind of person who would fire me now and never think twice about it. In other words, a boss.

I’m tempted to say fuck you. But I don’t. Would never. I’ll rescript this whole conversation later in my mind and I will sound bold and strong and turn and walk away after a biting, insightful comment. Martin will follow me and say how right I am and how he was testing me and I passed and also here’s a raise and a promotion. But here, now, my current feelings are a jumble of fear, embarrassment, and a pathetic need to please. Also, I need the job.

The DJ plays The Isley Brothers’ “Shout.” “Don’t forget to say yeah yeah yeah yeah . . . say you will . . .”

We watch as Keita lays down on the floor and does the worm, clearly a fan of the movie Animal House. He urges others to join him, though no one does.

Martin says, “How’s your father, by the way?”

There are times in life when you can, if you choose, truly connect with another human being. You simply have to tell the truth.

I say, “He’s doing much better. Thank you.”

• • •

“Is it?” asks one of the young creatives.

“Is it what?” I ask.

The party has broken up and cabloads of people have made their way to a dive bar just north of Houston, which, until we arrived, was nearly empty. The Clash song “Train in Vain” keeps playing on the jukebox. It’s not a large place, and we’ve packed dozens of people in. Much drinking. The windows are fogged up. Someone breaks a glass and screams. Others laugh. The bartender doesn’t react. I saw Ian and Phoebe earlier but lost them in the crowd. I stand against the wall of the bar, drinking a stale draft beer, and watch Mike Carroll talk very closely with Karen Simpson. He touches her arm to make a point. She nods deeply in agreement. In the next moment they are kissing passionately, comically, the kind of kiss where the woman wraps one of her legs around the man’s leg. They are married. But not to each other. No one seems to notice or care. Two young creatives are talking to me but I’m not listening to what they’re saying. They keep buying me beers, saying I’m “awesome” and