Syrup (11 page)

“With no firm.” She shakes her head. “Scat, you need to realize that when the Coke story breaks, there will be no other option. It’s self-employment or nothing.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling a little bleak. “Right.”

“Obviously the soda industry is out. I’m thinking about entertainment. Maybe pop music.”

“You, managing a rock band?” Somehow I find this a little difficult to imagine.

“Packaging
a band,” 6 says. “You buy a good, broke songwriter and match him to a group of sixteen-year-old boys with good skin. If you push them hard enough at the contract stage, the potential profits are enormous.”

“Wow. You’ve got it all worked out.”

“That’s where most of the packagers screw up,” 6 muses. I’m not even sure if she’s talking to me anymore. “They don’t twist the talents’ arms hard enough at the start. If you give the actors a cut of the profits, they start thinking they’re real musicians.”

The waitress arrives with our drinks, dumping them indifferently on the table and heading off to Tennessee.

“Well,” I say, holding up my glass, “to the future, then.”

6 looks up, then nods. “To the future.”

“I guess we’ll need an office,” I say. “And for that we’ll need a bank loan. I don’t know about you, but my credit history isn’t exactly—”

“Scat,” 6 says, looking at me oddly. “This isn’t something we can do together.”

I stare at her. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “You can’t work with me.”

I’m stunned into silence, and when I do manage to speak, my words come out high and whiny. “But why not? I thought—”

“Think about it, Scat. The only way to survive this catastrophe is to distance ourselves from it. And each other.” She sips at her cocktail.

“But—6 ...”

“I’m sorry,” she says again, and this time her voice is harder. “This is the way it has to be.”

I don’t know what to do, so I stare at the table. I feel totally lost. Across the room, the Texans bray laughter. I reach for my scotch with unsteady hands, sip at it, then gulp the rest.

“You’ll be all right,” 6 says. “Even if you have to get out of marketing, you’ll find something.”

And that does it: suddenly I’m furious. I’m as furious as I’ve ever been in my life. Great, thick bubbles of rage burst inside me, spilling out everything I’ve kept pent up for the last week. “Oh. Well, gee thanks, 6. It’s so nice to have your confidence in me, after you’ve destroyed my career. It’s so great to know that after you’ve sucked me dry, you still think I can pick up a job flipping burgers at McDonald’s.”

“Scat,” 6 says, faintly alarmed, “quiet down.”

“Don’t you tell me to quiet down!” I shout. I lurch to my feet, failing to make the best impression because I’m still wedged between the booth’s fixed seat and table. “I’m through with listening to anything you’ve got to say! I can’t even believe I’m here with you now!” I grind my fists against my forehead. “The only reason I asked you out was because Tina wanted me to, and I’m sitting here”—yet another injustice strikes me—“drinking
water
with my scotch because I don’t want to offend you by drinking Coke! And you’re—”

“Have Coke with your scotch,” 6 says. “I don’t care.”

I stare at her, unable to believe she’s really doing this. “I will! I’ll drink all the goddamn Coke I want!” I pull out a fistful of change from my pants pocket and turn to the Coke machine.

A couple of the Texans have stood up to see what’s going on. “You need any help, miss?” one of them asks 6.

White spots blaze before my eyes. “Don’t give her any help!” I yell, shoving coins into the Coke machine’s slot. “Help her and a week later you’ll be wondering what the hell happened to your
life!”
I push the button for a Coke and a can rumbles toward the slot ... then stops.

I bend down and peer into the slot. There is no can. “Oh,
great!”
I scream. I have now completely, utterly lost it. “This is just
perfect!”

“Scat,” 6 says from behind me. “Why don’t you sit down?”

I wrap my arms around the Coke machine and start rocking it back and forth, grimacing with the effort. I’m just getting up some momentum when a strong hand falls on my shoulder. “Hey, buddy,” a Texan says. “Why don’t you leave the machine alone?”

“Yes, Scat, leave it,” 6 says. “Those things are dangerous.”

“You’re
dangerous! I’m getting my can!”

“Scat,” she says, exasperated, “there have been fatalities. Don’t mess with the machine.”

In response, I say something like,
“Rrrrrrrrraaeegh!”
and push the Coke machine as hard as I can. It rocks backward, teeters on the edge of falling over, then swings back.

“Oh, shit,” I say.

I try to get out of the way, but my legs tangle with the Texan’s and the Coke machine crashes down onto us. It feels like catching a train with my spine.

I must black out for a few seconds, because I open my eyes without having any memory of closing them. 6 is standing over me, looking down. She even looks concerned. “Scat? Can you hear me?”

There is something stuck in my throat. “I ...” I croak.

She leans closer. “What?”

“I...”

“Scat, are you all right?”

I abruptly realize what the thing in my throat is. It is the best ad in marketing history. “I ... have an idea.”

So it’s six A.M. Monday morning and we’re pacing back and forth outside Coke.

“He’ll be here any minute,” 6 is muttering. I’m not sure if she’s talking to me. “Always at six.” 6 rose at three this morning and spent about two hours on her hair and makeup. I’m not sure if I’m more impressed by the length of time or the end result. “There,” she says suddenly, and the headlights of a dark blue BMW sweep the lot. When the CEO of the Coca-Cola Company steps out, 6 and I are waiting for him.

“Mr. Jamieson,” 6 says, as if it’s a bit of a surprise to catch him. “Good morning.”

Jamieson is relatively young, or else he has a damn good dermatologist. With his side part and natty glasses, he looks a little like an accountant done good. His dark eyes assess us quickly.

“Morning, 6,” Jamieson says. “Coming to the gym with me?”

“It’s a date,” 6 says.

This is a very important conversation, so I try hard to concentrate. But it’s hard with 6 in Lycra bike shorts and a crop top.

“So,” 6 says, casually pumping what looks like a hundred pounds. “Did you get my voice mail?”

Jamieson takes a pause from the punching bag. There’s a little Pepsi logo drawn on it, which is cute. “I don’t check my own messages anymore. Don’t have the time. Julie takes them down for me.” He thumps the bag, one-two-three. “What was your message? ”

“Oh, you know,” 6 says vaguely. “Just updates.”

“Hi,
Julie,” 6 says. I’m amazed: she sounds really warm and friendly. For a moment I could believe that 6 and Julie are old friends.

“Oh,” Julie says. She smiles warily. “Hello, 6.” So I guess you don’t get to be the CEO’s personal assistant by being gullible.

6 walks around and sits on the corner of Julie’s desk. Back in her business attire, she’s the epitome of professionalism. I just stand in the doorway and try to not look out of place.

Julie looks up at 6.

“I need you,” 6 says.

“I don’t think so,” Julie says.

“Julie—”

“I can’t do that, 6. Mr. Jamieson’s messages are private.”

“I understand that policy, and it exists for a good reason,” 6 says. “But this is a message
I
sent. I just want to retract my own message.”

For a second Julie appears to be lost in 6’s dark eyes. Then she blinks. “I’m sorry, but no. I can tell Mr. Jamieson that you wish to retract the message if you like, but I still have to show him—”

“Julie, the message is my resignation. If Mr. Jamieson gets that message, I’m through.”

Julie is silent for a long moment. 6’s eyes never leave her.

“Nevertheless,” Julie begins.

“Stupid
bitch,”
6 snarls, stalking through the corridors like a wildcat. “Goddamned bureaucratic
idiot.”

I am prudently silent.

“It doesn’t matter,” 6 says brusquely. “I’ll tell Jamieson I was drunk.” She opens the door to her office, which, incidentally, I haven’t seen before. It’s huge. You could raise a family in here. There’s a forest of indoor fernery, neatly offsetting the solid oak desk and dark patent leather chairs. 6’s personal coffee machine sits on its own table underneath a massive framed Coke ad from 1962. One wall is completely glass, which, since this is the fourteenth floor, is a little scary. But most impressive is the flanking poster of Elle Macpherson, who is smiling brightly and very, very naked.

I take a chair, trying not to look at the Elle. That really is a nude picture. “So—”

“So,” 6 says, “we go ahead and present your idea this afternoon.”

“The presentation,” I say. “Right.”

We spent the whole weekend preparing for this, but I still feel nervous and unprepared. It’s Fukk all over again.

It’s even the same room, with the same giant wooden doors. The only real difference is the audience: we don’t get to present to the board, who only meet once a month, but to the SMT: the senior management team. These are the guys responsible for actually running the company, as opposed to making grand decisions about strategic direction. They’re thinner, too.

There’s a very different atmosphere among these folk than the board, and we enter to uproarious laughter. A short, bald guy is telling a story, surrounded by a dozen colleagues in pants and ties (no jackets, no women). Jamieson is at the back, smiling.

“Then the call girl goes,” the bald man is saying, “‘Wait a minute, wait a minute. Are you
sure
you’re Gary?’ ” The group explodes into laughter again, and 6 takes the opportunity to thread between them.

“Hi, Jim,” she says. “You ready for us?”

“Sure.” He raises his voice as the men begin a half dozen private conversations. “Let’s settle down, fellows.”

They drift into seats around the massive oak table, and I’m amazed at how casual they all are. These men are responsible for the biggest brand in the world, and they’re just ordinary people. I even spot a half-slung tie. I can’t decide if this is really cool or sacrilegious. I think maybe it’s a little of each.

As arranged, I check the overhead projector, then slip a transparency—covered, for now—onto it.

This is my ad.

6 nods at me, then turns to the SMT. “You’re expecting an update on the Classic Coke campaign. You’re expecting a tedious half-hour brief on advertising coverage and reach statistics. Everything you’ve seen before. Right?”

These twelve men must be smart: none of them says anything.

“That’s not what I’m giving you. I’ll explain why. Most of you know that until recently, I was in New Products. And if you know that, you know why I’m not there today.

“But, gentlemen, I’m a creative person. And I’m an ambitious person. I had some trouble confining myself to my new job spec. I’m afraid I went outside it a little.”

6’s eyes rake the room.

“Mr. Scat and I have redesigned the summer Classic Coke campaign.”

Again, I’m impressed by the SMT: almost no one betrays surprise.

Almost. Jim leaps from his seat, spitting outrage. “You
what?
You did
what?”

6 regards him coolly.

“Do you know how much work went into that campaign?” he demands. “How much
money?”

Jamieson interrupts him. He speaks softly, but Jim’s mouth shuts like it’s on springs. “Excuse me ... when you say ‘redesigned,’ you mean—”

“I mean I threw the old one out,” 6 says. “It’s history.”

Jamieson digests this for a second. Finally, he says, “This is unacceptable.”

“It’s
outrageous,”
Jim seconds. “6, if I have to explain to you how important this campaign is to our company’s continued success, you don’t belong here. You can’t
touch
that campaign. We spent six months developing and market testing that thing, and it was
perfect.
”

“It was boring.” 6’s tone is gentle, as if she is presenting an accepted truth that Jim hasn’t quite grasped yet. “It was obvious. It was exactly like last year’s campaign.”

Jim flushes a fairly unattractive red. “Last year’s campaign was a success, in case you’ve forgotten.”

6 tilts her head thoughtfully. “Why do you think that, Jim?”

“We increased sales by six percent,” he says through his teeth. I notice no one else is buying into this debate: they’re waiting to see whether 6 or Jim falls first.

“You know, Jim, I don’t think that’s very much,” 6 says. She pauses, just long enough for Jim to think of a retort but not long enough for him to get it out. “I can get six percent at my bank. I think maybe we should be thinking about increasing sales by fifteen percent. What do you think about that, Jim?”