Fakebook (26 page)

Instead I focused on what I did know.

I knew that I was standing there in the center of the park with a beautiful girl in endearingly large boots. She brushed her light brown hair behind her ear. Her hair was dusted by freshly fallen snow. My feet were wet. Hers were dry. And the moment was lingering.

So I leaned in and kissed her.

For Fake Dave, things were moving again. It was a lot of fun putting him into a new adventure and having things move at a quicker pace. Nothing like a deadline to get things going.

But he wasn't the only one on the border of where he wanted to go. I was sitting on a leather couch across from a receptionist's desk, mentally rehearsing my portfolio presentation, about to have my first interview in over half a decade.

It's odd…I'd found all of my roommates in New York on Craigslist. I literally gave more than two dozen strangers from all over the world a key to my front door on the sheer faith that some unfiltered message board won't steer me wrong—but it felt weird looking on the website's job board, knowing they had a “hand job” board just one tab over.

But what did I know? Last time I looked for a job, Craigslist wasn't really a thing. Instead I had a New York graphic design directory and started cold-calling individuals, A to Z, looking for internships. I can't say I recommend that approach, either. It was long and grueling, and my calls were usually unwelcomed. So I bit the bullet and applied for this Craigslist posting.

Today, I maybe was a little nervous, but mostly I felt confident. I was hustling. The part of me that had cold-called a hundred art directors was reactivated, and it felt good. After all, judging by the reception area, this looked like a pretty legit operation. Who cared that I'd never heard of LiveWired Products? It was a bustling place, somewhere between cool and crowded. All sorts of people quickly walking around, talking about sales numbers and exchange rates and all sorts of things that you don't hear in the non-physical marketing practice. It felt like a place where real things happen.

“Mr. Cicirelli,” the receptionist said. “Freddy is ready to see you.”

I stood up and followed her to a large conference room overlooking Broadway, with Times Square just visible a few blocks to the north. Freddy was sitting at the large dark wood table. He stood up—he was a short guy, maybe five-foot-four, with his mostly gray hair slightly disheveled.

We shook hands.

“How are you? How are you? Please, take a seat.”

You could tell right away that he was a bit of a character. Maybe a little bit of a hustler himself. I immediately liked him.

“So,” he said. “Show me your work.”

I pulled out my laptop and began to go through my portfolio.

“That's a very nice laptop,” he said. “Is that yours, or does your company own it?”

“It's mine,” I replied. “Yeah, a MacBook Pro, under a year old. I'm still paying it off,” I said with a laugh.

“Very nice,” he said in a serious tone.

He opened a bin and spread its contents out over the table. It was full of electronics and accessories. Computer mice, iPhone cases, brightly colored digital cameras geared for children.

“This is our current product line. Tell me what you think,” he said.

I began looking through it, looking at both the packaging and the products themselves. It was pretty decent. It was not high end, but they seemed willing to try things.

“Be honest,” he said to me. “I don't lie to people, and I don't like being lied to. You can say whatever you feel. If you think they are pieces of shit, say ‘Freddy, these are pieces of shit.' If you think I'm a piece of shit, say ‘Freddy, you're a piece of shit.'”

We both laughed. “I'm serious,” he continued. “I've heard it all. ‘Freddy, you're shit. I hate you. Go to hell.' I can handle it. I'm used to it.”

“I think they're pretty good,” I said. “I do. But there are things I would change…which I guess is why I'm here.”

“Go on,” he said.

“Well, these mice are really great. These metallic, pastel-colored accents really pop against the black body. It's a really nice product.”

“It's our best seller,” he said with pride.

“I believe it,” I said. “But look at the packaging. You have them sitting on a shiny silver backboard. It overpowers the color—it kills the contrast.”

I took a mouse out of its packaging, along with the silver backboard. I placed them both on the black table.

“See,” I said, holding the mouse over the silver insert. “Your eyes are drawn to contrast, so against the silver, you mostly see the black.”

I then removed the silver so the mouse was sitting against the dark wood conference table. “And now, your eyes mostly see the color—and it's these colors that make this product unique.”

“Yeah, I do see,” Freddy said.

I felt really good about what I saw. I could see us making decisions together, rather than throwing my work out to account staff proxies who then sent it to brand managers who then sent it to lawyers I'd never speak to. I could have a say here.

“I think we could use a guy like you,” Freddy said. “We've been outsourcing all of our design work, but we're a growing company. We have products selling like popcorn. We want to build an art department. We're investing in it—spending lots of money.”

My ears perked up a bit.

“We want LiveWired to have a singular vision, from the product to the packaging. All of it. How does that sound?”

“It sounds exciting.”

“Now, I want to be totally honest with you. And you can always trust me. I never lie. But for the short term, you would be the art department. But we're building, and it would be building underneath you.”

“That sounds like an opportunity,” I said.

“Well, I don't want to keep you, but we'll be in touch.”

“Thanks, Freddy. Great meeting you.”

I hopped on the subway and returned to Handler from my “lunch break.” An opportunity to build something, and it would be mine. That was tempting. When I walked back into the Handler PR graphics bullpen, I saw a reminder of how much was possible.

Public relations is a unique place to be a designer. We're not a known quantity the way a studio is in an ad agency, and it's not why a client comes to a PR firm as if it were a proper design firm. But the big mission statement of PR is “get people talking,” and within that is an unrecognized opportunity for design.

I started as an unpaid intern without a desk—landscaping three days a week so I could afford the train ride to the city. I did nothing but trim and file.

Before the summer ended, however, I had a new art director who wanted to push things. Following her lead, we did. Design became part of how Handler did PR. We became a proper studio that won business and won awards. We built portfolios in an industry where it shouldn't have been possible.