Fire in the Firefly (9 page)

“That only you count.”

“Men, you mean?” Roebuck laughs. “That's so
last-century
.
Three-quarters
of the people losing their jobs in this recession are male. We're in a
post-industrial
economy, and those jobs aren't coming back. For the first time ever, women outnumber men in the workforce. Way, way more women graduate from college than men, and every year the discrepancy gets bigger. Men are falling behind. Did you know that parents who choose the sex of their children are choosing to have girls more often than boys now? That's another first in human history. The new economy is female.”

Zhanna waits him out. “I read your deck, remember? It's not men, plural, I'm asking about. I'm asking about one who's doing all the talking.”

“Me? Me in particular? Well, of course it's true in
my
case!”

“And don't you think the same applies to other men?”

“Funny, my wife just asked the same question.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That I don't speak for other men. Men are not my interest. My sole preoccupation is with women.”

Zhanna brings her hands together in picturesque applause. “I'm sure that went over well.”

“It's my job.”

“And you think she believed
that
?”

“But it's true!”

“We were just talking about how conveniently one truth disguises another …”

“Fair enough. So what am I disguising?”

“That your interest in women is not a function of your job. It's the other way around.”

There's a snarl of traffic up ahead, and Roebuck is glad of it. “Here's what I think.” They've come to a full stop, bumper to bumper; he powers down the window. “You're right. Absolutely. But I believe the same is true for all men. I think the grand truth we're disguising is that
everything
men do, we do for women. I think we're
hard-wired
to value nothing on earth more than we value women. All of us. I also think we spend enormous social energy trying to convince ourselves this isn't true, which is bullshit, in my opinion, and why I don't like to think about men. I prefer to do what I'm programmed to do, which is focus on women.”

“Intently, by all accounts.”

“Listen, you and I know as marketers that we're living in a culture that sanctifies everything female. Little girls go to school dressed in outfits hookers wouldn't have dared wear in their mothers' time. The rules for male comportment, meanwhile, have never been tighter. The only thing absolutely guaranteed to end a politician's career is to be caught cheating on his wife. They can embezzle, they can steal, they can lie; they can go to prison and still get themselves
re-elected
. But God help them if they're ever caught unzipped with an admin assistant.”

“I'm guessing that's why you decided not to go into politics.”

“It's not just politics! It's religious leaders, marquee athletes, movie stars; never mind the Bill Clintons, it's any guy at the top of his game. The interesting thing about them is all the editorializing that goes out afterwards. ‘He worked so hard, he sacrificed so much to get to the top, and then he threw it all away!' It all so misses the point. The point of being an alpha male is that alpha males get females. There
is
no other point. We don't gather riches and power and fame in order to gather riches and power and fame. Only psychopaths are into power for power's sake. We work our asses off to get all that stuff because that stuff gets us women. The prize is always women. There's no game worth playing if the prize isn't women. That's why politicians are always so pathetic—the male ones, I mean—they have to be geldings to do their job, but politics is no game for geldings.”

“Then why are most of them still men?”

“Ah. Now we're back to my area of expertise. Good. I'll tell you why. Because politics—contemporary politics, at least—doesn't give women what they want. So most women sensibly avoid it.”

“I'm afraid to ask. What do women want?”

Roebuck hesitates and then ploughs ahead. “Stuff. Goods. Hard assets. Securities. That, and the validation that they
deserve
the things they get. Which is, by the way, the central premise of the advertising industry. But you know that part already.”

“For a second, there, I was thinking you had a romantic streak.”

“I'm in advertising. Of course I'm a romantic. It's you guys on the client side who take the darker view.” He falters, but rallies again. “Want to know the real deal between the sexes?
It's this. Throughout human history men have used stuff to get women, and women have used men to get stuff. That's the deal. That's the human equation. That's what's been the basis of our relationship since we climbed down from the trees. Since before we climbed down from the trees.
What's new, though—and for the first time in history—is that
human females don't need males to get stuff anymore. Now they can get it all on their own and—more importantly—spend it, which is where my professional interest comes into play. Yours too.”

The brake lights on the car in front blink off, and traffic starts to move. Roebuck veers into the other lane to get a better view, but there is nothing to be seen. A little while goes by in silence. Too bad.

She reaches into her handbag, opens up her phone, stares, and puts it back. “I was class president, you know, in high school.”

“Doesn't surprise me. Funny, my wife ran the council at her school too. She's a great debater.”

“Also at university, I was into student politics. In those days I gave some serious thought to a career in politics. Tell me then, why didn't I?”

“Because your beauty and intelligence combined to inform you that you could do better. Please don't take that as a compliment.” He wants to reach up and tilt the rearview mirror so he can meet her, eye to eye. “It's a statement of pure objective truth,” he says. “Men go into politics because they're
hard-wired
to believe that power and authority will also bring them women. That's why their careers flame out so often once they get what they want. Women are motivated differently. Power and celebrity—without the
stuff
that supposed to come with it—doesn't cut it. Believe me when I tell that the world would be a better place if women ran it. Honestly. But there are just too many better ways for a woman to get what she wants than through politics. Most women aren't interested. They're far better off as MBAs like you.”

“Or ad execs, like you?”

“Except that we males are programmed by a billion years of evolution to do whatever it takes to attract the attention of women. We have a natural advantage in the field of advertising.”

“So Daniel's been telling me. Antlers on the elk, fire in the firefly, et cetera.”

“Full marks to Greenwood.”

She is quiet for a spell. “I'll concede some truth is possible in what you say, but you're wrong about the bigger picture. Maybe someday I
will
run for office.”

“When I was a kid, I wanted to be a novelist. Maybe someday I'll go back to unpaid scribbling. Meantime, what do you plan to do with yourself, now you've given up peddling safes?”

“Peddle something else, I guess. That's what I do. But first I think I'll travel for a while. I've never seen India. Maybe Nepal …”

“Food for the soul.”

“You know I can't decide if you're a genuine cynic or just another asshole romantic in hiding.”

“All cynics are romantics at heart, so either way you've nailed me.”

“You see yourself as a romantic?”

“I spent
my
university years trying to define that term. Never did. Closest I can come, I think, is to say that a romantic is someone who understands the value of beauty. There are stricter definitions, sure. But that one works for me.”

“This should be interesting. How does Julius Roebuck define beauty?”

He turns his head and holds her eyes for as long as the road permits. “You,” he says. “That really should be obvious.”

They pass a police car parked on the shoulder, lights flashing. A man in a turban sits in the cab of a dump truck, massaging his dastar. “You wouldn't think,” says Roebuck, “that that would be enough to stop traffic.” The towers of the city rise and shimmer in the heat ahead. They've worked back up to speed again.

“Don't take it personally. I mean that. It's not you individually. It's just that there's nothing in the world more beautiful than a beautiful woman. I'll tell you a story.”

“I'm told you have a story for everything.”

“There
is
a story for everything. But this one's about me so it's especially apt.”

They have reached the outskirts of the city proper, entering the canyon of new condominiums. Construction cranes are working everywhere, pulling towers of glass up through the rubble of yesterday's mortar and brick. Every surface here is clad in mirror. She has told him that she's planning to go shopping. Roebuck has agreed to drop her at an intersection not far from his office.

“When I was young and travelling,” he says, “the focus was still Europe. Nowadays people head to the East, but in my day it was Paris and London and Rome. So picture me in the Vatican, Sistine Chapel, to be precise, taking in the splendours. Except there's this girl …” Their exit is coming up; Roebuck interrupts himself to execute a lane change. “She's Scandinavian, I think, though she could have been from Winnipeg, for all I know. I never heard her speak. The key was that she's beautiful. Not
one-in
-
a-million
beautiful, just ordinary everyday beautiful. Beautiful enough, though, to be more interesting than anything painted on plaster or carved into marble. So there's our
twenty-something
Julius, telling himself to pay attention to
The Creation of Adam
and
The Last Judgement
, and all those amazing Botticellis, but who keeps looking at this girl—this ordinary girl—who is still more beautiful and fascinating that anything Michelangelo ever made, or could, or anybody else. That was my lesson, that day, that there is nothing on earth more beautiful than women.”

“You never outgrew it?”

He barks a laugh. “Fact is, everything I've learned since then has reinforced it. I
have
seen the Himalayas. I've watched the sun go down over the Serengeti, and the moon on the canals of Venice, et cetera, et cetera. All that good stuff. All those things that are supposed to be beautiful. They
are
beautiful. They are. But there's no painting, no sculpture, no glorious sunset or pristine mountain that's as beautiful as a beautiful woman.”

“And you can't fuck a mountain, after all.”

For the second time that day, Roebuck misses his exit. It takes him several moments to come to terms with the depth of his appreciation. “That,” he says, reorienting, “was the best thing … that was … perfect.” He cranes his neck, changes lanes, and shoots down the next ramp. They will have to work their way back now from the opposite direction. He's still chuckling, still shaking his head when they reach their intersection. Roebuck pulls the car into an empty taxi stand. “If I ever write my memoir,” he says, “that'll be the title.
You Can't Fuck a Mountain
. Zhanna, you're amazing.”

“Thanks.” She pulls her cellphone from her bag and checks the time. “Plans for lunch?”

For a moment, for a nanosecond there, he thinks about proposing
Alison's
. But Roebuck is a man of principle. “Regrettably,” he says, “I have another appointment.”

“Daniel! Daniel! Dan?”

Roebuck is striding down the hall toward his office, calling as he goes, then remembers that Greenwood is still at the intake meeting out at Artemis. He goes back to his desk, opens up the intranet and checks relevant schedules. There's an hour block that works tomorrow afternoon. Roebuck books Greenwood and his creative team for a meeting in his office. “SHOE ACCOUNT???” he taps into the subject line. “IDEATION …”