AD-versaries

AD-versaries

By
Jake Ainsworth

Copyright © 2013 Blue Ribbon Books

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

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1

            The boardroom was completely silent.  No one dared talk during the presentation.  Even if they wanted to, words could not be found. Such was the charismatic presence of the speaker.  Eleven men and two women sat in the Italian leather executive chairs that surrounded the lacquered mahogany table.  All eyes were at the front of the room. 

            Neville Pearson was the only person standing.  He was tall, but not too tall; strong, but not in the way of body builders.  His Versace suit fit him as if it was sown directly onto his body.  Not a single hair left its designated place as he paced the front of the room, passionately engaging everyone assembled in the boardroom.  He pointed at the projector screen where the words ‘General Appliances’ graced the header of every page.  Neville slowly, yet not too slowly, breezed through each page of his presentation, explaining in great detail how each and every strategy that PMZ would employ to promote General Appliances would increase their revenue on an exponential level.

            PMZ (or Pearson, Montgomery, and Zeibold) was one of the largest advertising agencies in New York.  Neville’s father, Stanley Pearson, was the senior partner of the firm.  He, along with a sizeable inheritance, built PMZ from the ground up, and he had no problem reminding Neville on a daily basis that his legacy rest squarely on Neville’s shoulders.  But Neville was up to the task.  Having been schooled by his father from a very young age, Neville knew everything there was to know about the world of advertising.  He cared for people much more passionately than his father did, but he could nevertheless close a deal with the confidence and demeanor of the most ruthless and cutthroat ad exec out there. 

            And it was this overwhelming sense of confidence that hooked potential clients and held them dangling from the end of his line, helpless to resist his charm and poise.  This same confidence oozed from him and flooded the boardroom where the executives of General Appliances couldn’t get their pens ready fast enough to sign on the dotted line.

            Leaving the boardroom in the capable hands of someone’s assistant, Neville left the with his head held high and a million dollar smile on his face, and began his traditional victory lap around the office.  The staff knew the drill by now.  Cubicle after cubicle, desk after desk, office after office, people rose to pay their respects to the greatest ad exec of all time, extending their hands for the obligatory high five that was sure to come their way.  Nobody really hated Neville, there wasn’t much to hate.  He was good looking, suave, and dapper.  But no one would really cry if ever he should take a tumble from his pedestal, his overinflated head leading the way as he plummeted down to the depths of disgrace.  But still, enjoying their jobs and not wanting to upset the boss’s son, they indulged him and continued to blow a little more ego into his head, inflating it just that much more.

            The parade of one ended at outside of a frosted glass door.  He took a moment to shine away and grime that may have formed over his nameplate since the last time he shined it, about two days ago.  His smile couldn’t get much bigger, but he tried anyway and walked into his office.

            His carpet was not the standard dingy, gray of traditional office carpeting.  He required something a bit more delicate for his Armani suede wingtip Oxfords.  His plush carpeting had the proper amount of gentleness so as not to scuff his six hundred dollar shoes.  The claw-foot desk stood majestically in the center of the room.  Not a single paper was out of place on the polished finish.  The other items on the desk reflected off of the sheen of the mahogany wood, creating an interesting pattern on the desk that only accentuated it majesty.  Behind the desk was his Lazy Boy office chair with built-in massager, where he sat himself and began treating himself to his post-close massage.  It was his favorite part of closing a deal. 

            A knock on the door temporarily interrupted his bliss, but when Sammy walked in, he quickly relaxed and gave himself over to the mechanized fingers of his chair. 

            “Congratulations, Neville.  Another day, another three and a half million dollars.”

            Sammy Jordaine was made for the world of advertising.  To say he was eccentric would be like saying that the Grand Canyon was a little hole in the ground.  He wanted to succeed and would stop at nothing to get the chance to move ahead.  The problem was that he was just a little too extreme for most of the ad agencies in New York.  The days of scheming and cutthroat marketing were in the past.  But scheming was where Sammy excelled.  Nevertheless, there was something in Sammy that made Neville like him enough to give him his first real break in the world of advertising.  Although Neville hired him as his assistant, he always knew that if Sammy got the chance, he would slit Neville’s throat and assume his rightful place at the top of the advertising world before Neville even had a chance to bleed out.  Still, he like the guy and was always happy to see him.

            “Thanks, Sammy.”

            Sammy sat down opposite Neville with the eagerness of a puppy staring down a ribeye. 

            “So…”

            “So what?”

            “So…What are we going to do to celebrate tonight?”

            Celebrating a sale was Neville’s second favorite post-close ritual, right after his massage chair.  He could never turn down an opportunity to get together with a bunch of people who were there only to celebrate him and his momentous achievements. 

            Neville thought hard, but his answer was always the same. 

            “Let’s go down to O’Shea’s.”

            “O’Shea’s?  Don’t you ever get tired of going there?  There’s not much to do there, just drink and try not to get into fights with drunken Irish people.”

            “And that’s not fun to you, Sammy?”

            Sammy laughed in spite of himself.  It was usually he, in moments of sever eccentricities, that would pick a fight with the meanest looking guy in the bar. 

            “Ok.  O’Shea’s it is.  I’ll pass the word around.  Say seven-ish?”

            “Sounds good to me, pal.”

            Sammy left and Neville closed his eyes.  There were a few things he enjoyed in life more than making money.  And if he kept closing sales at the rate he was, he would make partner in no time and carry on the Pearson reputation as the greatest admen in the history of the business.

2

            “I don’t know.  It seems like a lot of money.”

            Yida was sitting at a small desk in a modern-looking room.  There wasn’t much filling up the space, just the desk she was sitting at and another small desk close to the door on the lower level, which was actually only six stairs below the loft where she was now seated.  Across from her sat Victoria Gaccion.  Victoria was the epitome of professional.  Her JC Penny brand pant suit was neatly pressed and her hair was tucked tightly into a bun.  She stood for a moment, politely excusing herself, and walked across the black and white checked floor which was probably more suited to a Mercedes Benz showroom than an office. 

            That was indeed what the offices, or office, of ATA (All Things Advertising) was.  The owner, Mr. Richter had purchased it from a failing car dealership and created his dream ad agency.  ATA was anything but successful.  Bills were almost never paid on time and Victoria said a little prayer of thanks every time her check showed up in the mail.

            Still, Victoria was working her dream job.  She loved advertising, but more than that, she loved people and wanted nothing more than for her efforts to help others succeed.  It was this passion that kept ATA afloat.  She had never landed a high-dollar client, but she was convinced that if she kept working diligently, that the opportunity would soon present itself and she could finally have her big break in advertising.

            Picking up a file from the young lady at the lower desk, Victoria made her way back across the expansive checkerboard, back to the waiting Yida.

            “You’re right, Yida.  Advertising is not the cheapest thing you could be doing with your money.  But it is the smartest.”  She refilled her seat across from the aging woman and allowed herself to show her passion and love for people along with the reports in the file that she now opened, fanning the contents onto the desk. 

            “I know that you have so many things to worry about.  Between paying your bills and paying your employees, I honestly don’t know how you keep it all together.  I respect and admire how hard you’ve worked to build the Shawarma Palace from the ground up.  And it’s that same respect and admiration that prompts me to make a promise to you.” 

            Victoria leaned in to the desk to emphasize her commitment.  Completely mesmerized, Yida followed the gesture and leaned in as well, until both faces were mere inches apart from each other. 

            “I promise, that if you entrust your business to me, I will work tirelessly to promote you on every medium possible, until the entire state of New York knows that the best Mediterranean food available is at the Shawarma Palace.”

            Yida looked amazed.  Without another word, she took her pen and signed the contract. 

            “You won’t regret this, Yida.  I promise.”

            Yida stood and Victoria escorted her across the showroom floor and out the door.  Once she was gone, Victoria came back inside the office and plopped exhaustedly into the empty chair at the lower desk, across from Sarah. 

            “Great job, Vic.  I didn’t think you were going to be able to close that one.  She seemed seriously reluctant.”

            “She had every reason to be.  She can barely make payroll.  I just hope we can help drive some business her way.”

            “I have complete faith in you, Vic.  You always come through for your clients.”

            Sarah Petri was beautiful and plain all at the same time, a walking antonym.  She had striking red hair that perfectly framed her freckled face.  She was small for her age, for any age really.  At only five feet tall, she didn’t weigh more than your average ten year old boy.  Her thin features gave her a mousy look, but not in an unattractive way.  Her primary source of beauty, however, came from within.  Her hazel eyes were always alive with joy, so much so that in the proper light, they seemed to dance from the perpetual happiness the exuded. 

            Victoria could not have asked for a better assistant.  It often seemed like she was alone in her job.  Mr. Richter almost never came out of his office.  Many times Victoria checked in on him just to make sure that he was still breathing.  With someone his age, it was always wise to make sure they didn’t keel over sometime between lunch and closing time. 

            But Sarah was always there when Victoria needed her to be.  It wasn’t that Sarah lacked ambition or drive, she just really loved being an assistant, and she dedicated herself to being the best assistant she could be.  Still, sometimes Victoria thought her to be a little too naïve, always trying to see the positive, forcefully extracting every silver lining, whether it wanted to present itself or not. 

            “I don’t know, Sarah.  The Shawarma Palace is such a small account that I don’t know if it was worth fighting so hard for.”

            “Every little bit helps.”

            “Does it?  Or does every little bit pile up and eventually cause someone to have a nervous breakdown?  I bet each piece of straw was just a little bit to the camel.  And we all know what happened to him.”

            “I know, but…”

            “His back broke, Sarah.  The camel’s back broke.”

            Sarah couldn’t help but look at her friend with pity.  Victoria tried so hard, but never seemed to get ahead.

            “I know what will cheer you up.”

            “A Ferrari?”

            “Nah.  You’d just sell it and give the money away anyways.  We need to go out and celebrate tonight.”

            “Thanks, but I’m not really in the mood.  I think I’ll just go home and sulk over my rocky road ice cream.”

            “Nonsense! What kind friend would I be if I couldn’t even help you see the joy in the smallest of victories.  We’re going.  I’ll pick you up at seven.”