Fire in the Firefly (2 page)

Only women count.

The Collected Sayings of Julius Roebuck

R
oebuck savours the room, savours the phrase and repeats it.

His words smoulder with certainty, crackle with conviction, indisputably—with passion. No one at the table can doubt for a moment that Roebuck is unshakably, omnifically, committed to the truth of his creation. But that's what they're looking for, passion unzipped with conviction. “Look,” he tells them, “you want to grow your brand, not shrink it, so why would you even think about marketing to men? Men don't make the decisions, they don't spend the money. They're just not
relevant.
”

He'll pause here, most pitches, and smile at one of the women.

“Eighty percent of all consumer purchases,” he says, “are made by women.” He's ready to prove the point with a fat deck of references and tables, but clients know this part already. What they want from Roebuck is the understanding
behind
the understanding. If he thinks they can absorb it, he'll go so far as to tell them that this is the closest any of them will ever come to the ultimate creative brief, the Platonic ideal of a creative brief: the brief of which all other briefs are but dim and pale reflections. Packaged goods people tend to prepackaged thinking, though this account is definitely toward the outer edge. The girl in the white silk blouse holds his eye, unsmiling.

“Maleness,” he says, spreading his arms like the marketing magus he makes it his business to be, “is, both literally and figuratively, petering out. We saw it on the news the other day: scientists are predicting that sometime up the road the Y chromosome itself will go extinct. Seriously folks, if you want to aim your brand toward the future, you want to aim it at women.”

Now she's smiling. Almost. Not so much a smile as a twitch of lower lip, a crinkle at the eyes. Her blouse is opened perhaps a button more than is traditional for clients in this category. Roebuck glances at his notes which are not notes—when Roebuck speaks, he speaks from the heart—but a list of who's who in the room: Zhanna Lamb, product manager.

Everyone will be familiar with the Ripreeler story; it's passed into legend. But Roebuck is prepared to run through it anyway, because there's no better narrative to get to where he's driving. Also he thinks it fits with the girl in the blouse. So he smiles at the CEO, a
middle-aged
man with a shaven head who is already frowning at his Rolex, smiles at the VP of Brand Development whose shoes have been carved from the hide of some equatorial reptile, looks deep into each and every set of eyes around the table, and pictures Zhanna Lamb, product manager, naked with a Ripreeler Diving Minnow dangling from one pink and tender lobe, eagerly absorbing each and every word he is emitting.

“Only women count,” he says again and launches his recital of how, ten years ago, he won that mighty piece of business.

But the CEO is having is having none of it.

Well before Roebuck gets to the part about the
super-models
, before he can invoke the famous Oprah segment and the fashion craze that started, before he even begins to outline the stratospheric shift in market share his client enjoys
to this very day
, Roebuck is asked to stop talking.

“Right,” says the
bullet-headed
CEO, now distinctly pissed. “Skip the foreplay. We know all that
ground-breaking
work you've done for Ripreeler. That's why we're here. Tell us what you'll do for Artemis.”

“Did I say how much I like that name?” Roebuck elects, just here, to stoke that other kind of branding. “Some of us wondered at the wisdom of naming your product after a goddess of virginity. Counterintuitive, if you don't mind me saying so. But she's also the goddess of the hunt. Which is
exactly
where we want to go. And such an elegant antithesis to all that other Greek material your competitors go out with. Artemis.
Brilliant. Whoever came up with that was right on the money.”

He knows, of course, that whoever came up with it is almost certainly here in this room. But little freebies never hurt, at least at the outset. Altogether there are eight of them; four men, four women; split right down the middle. Interesting too. The CEO is twirling his finger for Roebuck to move it along. All right then.

Roebuck spins his BlackBerry. “And you're quite correct, time ticks. Let's turn things over to Daniel. Daniel, as you know, has just joined the agency as art director. You are about to see why we're all so pleased to have him.”

A younger man rises and takes over the floor. He's a little taller than Roebuck, though not quite so good looking—not, at least, as good looking as Roebuck was when he was that age. Daniel Greenwood nods politely, ambles to the front, and quietly begins placing foamboards on a shelf that runs along the wall. For the first few moments, his body blocks the view, but by the time he's got his third board set, the messages are visible to everyone.

The first one reads:

When excuses Peter out.

The next says:

For all those rinky-dink excuses.

Greenwood himself isn't talking. Good, thinks Roebuck. Okay.

Peter
Paul
Mary.

His bun. Your oven.

Don't let the pricks get you down.

“That one,” Roebuck says, “might step over the line. Still, worth a try.”

What's the difference between a sperm and a virus? Right.

He says he wants to take the long view. But you know it's only Tunnel Vision.

Tunnel Vision: His vision, your tunnel.

Someone snorts. Roebuck decides that now's the time to make the jump. “What you're seeing is the essence of a teaser campaign. Curious. Cryptic. Confrontational. Designed to pique interest. Think of this as the
anticipation
stage.”

Greenwood has placed the last of his boards at the far end of the room:

Like what socks are to your sock drawer.

Yes, Virginia, there
is
a proper place for everything.

“They're transit ads,” Roebuck tells them. “We'll show you dozens, but you get the picture. Snappy little
one-liners
. They're not just unbranded; they don't even name the product. People seeing them won't have a clue what it means. But they're curious. We'll blitz these above the seats in subway trains and buses. Then they'll disappear …”

While Roebuck has been talking, Greenwood has worked his way back down the line, smoothly turning each board front to back. The
reverse-sides
show the same
one-liners
, but now the word
ARTEMIS
appears in
eye-popping
scarlet. Roebuck slows the pace. “These come next, right after the first collection vanishes. More mystery. Now our audience has the brand name, but they still don't know what Artemis
is
. Roebuck nods toward a board at Greenwood's left.

Long or short. Comic or Epic.

For whatever arc your story takes.

ARTEMIS

“Daniel thinks that one's too literary. We'll see.”

The tricky thing, in a pitch, is deciding what to explain and what to let speak for itself. Roebuck is convinced, and in turn has convinced Greenwood—whose job it is to make Roebuck's convictions visible—that it's best to do as little talking here as possible.

Greenwood now silently displays a very different image.

It's a party scene, frozen in still life. A group of women stand in the foreground, drinks in hand, laughing and talking. They're obviously having a good time; relaxed; social. In the background, all the men are propped like mannequins against a wall. It takes a few seconds to realize that every man in the picture is encased in a giant
see-through
condom. Greenwood has drawn the reservoirs to look like silly hats perched above each dimly leering face. Some of the men are
clean-cut
, others bearded; some tall, others short; some fat, others thin. All are smiling idiotically. They look indescribably ridiculous. Below, the caption reads:

Too bad it won't fit over the rest of him.
ARTEMIS

“Oh my God” says the girl in the white silk blouse. “I
love
the expressions!” She claps her hands with pleasure. “Such dorks!”

Roebuck has been reading the room. The women aren't his problem. “Daniel,” he says, “why don't we go straight to the platform piece?” If Greenwood is startled, he doesn't show it. Greenwood crosses the floor and taps a keyboard. A giant screen lights up:

182 names …

Adolf, Ankle Spanker,
Baby-arm
, Beaver Basher, Babymaker, Beef Whistle, Boomstick, Burrito, Bishop, Bratwurst, Braciole, Candle, Choad, Chopper, Cranny Axe, Cum Gun, Custard Launcher, Dagger,
Deep-V
-Diver, Dick, Dickie,
Ding Dong McDork
,
Dirk, Dingus Disco Stick, Dog Head, Drum Stick, Dong, Donger, Dork, Dude Piston, Dragon, Eggroll, Easy Rider, Excalibur, Fang, Ferret, Flesh Flute,
Flesh Tower
,
Foto, Fire Hose, Frodo, Fudgesicle, Fun Stick, Great Scott, Groin Ferret, Giggle Stick, Goofy Goober, Hairy the Hotdog,
Heat-Seeking
Moisture Missile,
Helmet Head
,
Hose, Hog, Jackhammer, Jimmy, John, Johnson, John Thomas, Joystick, Kickstand, King Kong, King Sebastian, Knob, Lap Rocket, Lingam, Little Alex, Little Bob, Little Elvis, Lizard, Longfellow, Love Muscle, Love Rod, Love Stick, Love Whistle, Luigi, Manhood, Man Umbrella, Meat Popsicle, Meat Stick, Meat Sword, Meat Injection, Member,
Meter-Long-King-Kong-Dong
,
Microphone, Middle Stump, Mushroom Head, Mutton, Netherrod, Old Boy, Old Fellow, Old Man, Old Buddy,
One-Eyed
Anaconda,
One-Eyed
Trouser-Snake
,
One-Eyed
Monster,
One-Eyed Wonder Weasel
,
One-Eyed
Yogurt Slinger, Pecker, Pedro, Percy, Peter, Pete, Pied Piper, Pigskin Bus, Pink Oboe, Pink Torpedo, Pink Weasel, Piston, Plug, Pinot, Poinswatter, Pork Sword, Prick, Prince, Price Hal, Prince Harry, Private Eye, Private Part,
Purple-Helmeted
Warrior of Love,
Purple-Headed
Yogurt Flinger, Quiver Bone, Rod,
Rod of Pleasure
, Rod of Doom, Roundhead, Sausage, Sebastianic Sword, Schlong, Schlong Dongadoodle, Schmuck, Shmuck, Schnitzel, Schwanz, Schwarz, Sea Monster, Shaft, Short Arm, Shotgun, Skin Flute, Soldier,
Spawn Hammer
,
Stick Shift, Sub, Surfboard, Tallywhacker, Tan Bannana, Tassle, Third Leg, Thumper, Thunderbird, Thundersword, Tinker, Tod, Todger, Tonk, Tool, Trouser Snake, Tubesteak, Twig (& Berries), Twinkie,
Uncle Dick
,
Vein, Wand, Wang, Wang Doodle, Wanger, Whoopie Stick, Wiener, Wiener Schnitzel, Wick, Willy, Wing Dang Doodle, Winkie, Yingyang, Yogurt Gun, Zorro.

… and every one accounted for.
ARTEMIS

A longish silence.

“Adolf?” someone asks.

“Fudgesicle?”

Another snort. Roebuck wonders if it's the girl in the blouse, but he isn't looking. He's watching the CEO.

“
Meter-Long
-
King-Kong
-Dong?” A ripple passes through the room.

“Rod of Pleasure! Jesus, who came up with these? One-Eyed Wonder Weasel?”

Outright laughter now.

“I dated a guy who called his Clyde,” remarks the
VP Brand Development
with the
lizard-hide
pumps. She looks over at Greenwood, arching eyebrows. I don't see
Clyde
on your list.”

Greenwood doesn't miss a beat. “We'll add it. That'll make it
one-eighty
-three.” The women titter. “Note, however, Pedro, Percy, Peter, and Pete …”

“And Quiver Bone! God help us, Quiver Bone!”

Greenwood clears his throat. “This larger image is designed for bus shelters and subway platforms. It could go outdoors, of course, as well. Anywhere, really, that offers time and opportunity for our audience to take it in.” The women seem to find this idea funny too. Roebuck is still concentrating on the CEO.
The other three men present—brand stewards of various strains—have gone so quiet they're invisible. Roebuck gets out of his chair, leans in, and grips the CEO's shoulder. “You are not enjoying this, are you?”

“What the …!” The man gapes and shakes him off. He is taken so off guard, he's speechless. But he recovers, furiously. “What are you running here, a fucking Tupperware party?” The women have stopped laughing.