Truth in Advertising (11 page)

There are bookshelves in Martin's office holding an impressive array of books, some on advertising, some on writing, and several volumes of the OED, which look to be quite old. Also a collection by Philip Larkin and three by Seamus Heaney. Mostly there are awards, dozens and dozens of awards, oddly shaped things, blocks of Lucite, gold-colored pencils, a winged lady, Greek-inspired surely, holding a globe overhead. Clios, Effies, Andys, Chuckies, Chippies. (I made up the last two.) The Clio is the big one. The name comes by way of Greek mythology, which seems right to me, as the essence of what we do is create and foster myth.

Martin is on his iPad. Emma brings in tea.

“Fin. Have a seat. Just finishing something up. Help yourself,” he adds, nodding to the pot of tea. It is a ritual of his, each afternoon
around four. He has a large pot of tea and a tray of scones brought in from Tea & Sympathy in the Village.

It has crossed my mind that I may be here to learn the news of my impending (and much sought after) promotion to creative director. Considering the bloodbath of the past year (three rounds of layoffs) and the continued grim economic news, I can't imagine this chat is about a bonus.

Emma leaves and Martin turns to face me. “Christmas has come early, Fin.”

I smile my fake smile. “Really?”

“Indeed.”

My palms begin to tingle and perspire. I feel my promotion/bonus/life-changing career moment coming, and I believe that I am an exceptional predictor of the future (though empirical data disproves this).

“I've just received a call from Brad,” Martin says.

Brad is the CMO of Snugglies, a division of General Corp., makers of baby diapers, adult diapers, soap, shampoo, cereal, candy, car tires, jet engines, diesel locomotives, and guidance systems for Tomahawk missiles.

Maybe Brad called Martin about me. Brad saw—helped Martin see—my worth, my uniqueness, my way not merely with words (“Does
your
diaper do this?”), but with people, how I inspire them, how, if I died tomorrow, the line for the wake would wrap around the block, the
Times
would publish the obit, I would be remembered. I mattered. Which is when Terry Gross begins to interview me for the many wondrous achievements of my storied career.

TERRY: This is
Fresh Air
. I'm Terry Gross. I'm talking with world-famous copywriter and poet Finbar Dolan. Your first book,
Me, How Wonderful
, a collection of poems and an international bestseller, is being made into a film directed by Ang Lee and starring both Brad Pitt and George Clooney as you at different times in your life. You've been asked to act in it and to write the screenplay. Is it hard to write a screenplay for a book of poems?

FIN: It is, Terry. But I was able to do it in a day.

TERRY: You chose to live in Paris for much of the writing. Why was that?

FIN: It's one of my favorite cities. I bought a home there. And, of course, I speak the language without any trace of an accent.

TERRY: You're the youngest member ever to be elected to
L'Academie française
.

FIN: Oui.

TERRY: That's an incredible accomplishment.

FIN: Thank you, Terry.

TERRY: You once landed a 747 safely after the pilot passed out. How did you know how to do that?

FIN: Luck. And of course a great deal of skill.

TERRY: You're far better looking in person than on your book jacket photo.

FIN: (
embarrassed
) That's very kind.

TERRY: You recently played against Roger Federer in a charity tennis tournament and beat him. Left-handed.

FIN: Roger's a sweet kid.

TERRY: What's the capital of Nevada?

FIN: Carson City.

TERRY: At what temperature are Fahrenheit and Celsius exactly the same?

FIN: Minus forty.

TERRY: Marshal Phillipe Pétain oversaw Vichy France during World War Two. What color were his eyes?

FIN: Blue. A startling blue.

TERRY: This is
Fresh Air
. I'm Terry Gross. If you're just joining us, my guest is Finbar Dolan, copywriter, poet, hero. You mentioned climbing K2 without pants last year.

FIN: I wanted a challenge.

TERRY: What's sex like with Miss France?

FIN: Nice. Really pleasant. We had fun.

TERRY: How tall are you?

FIN: I'm six-five.

TERRY: Are most people happy?

FIN: That's a great question. I don't think so.

TERRY: Why?

FIN: They lack fulfillment in either love or work.

TERRY: You have a lovely speaking voice. How much can you bench-press?

FIN: Ohhh, I'm not sure, really. Two hundred and twenty-five pounds.

TERRY: You broke your former fiancée's heart.

FIN: Excuse me?

TERRY: You broke her heart. You embarrassed her and yourself. You called off a wedding with a month to go.

FIN: I . . .

TERRY: Your mother died.

FIN: Please don't . . .

TERRY: Your mother died when you were young. Tell us about that.

FIN: Please don't do that.

TERRY: Are you close with your father?

FIN: Why are you . . .

TERRY: You have family. You have a sister and two brothers. Are you close? Do you keep in touch?

FIN: No. We, ahh . . . no. We kind of lost touch and . . .

TERRY: Your brother Eddie called you and asked that you call him back. Your brother. And yet you can't pick up the phone to call him. That seems sad and pathetic. You make no effort to keep in touch with these people, your siblings, your flesh and blood. Your family. You're a terrible person. What are your plans for Christmas?

•   •   •

“Fin?” It's Martin. “I said, what are your plans for Christmas?”

I'm blinking quickly. I'm touching the scar on my face. I sip tea and spill some on my shirt.

“I'm going to Mexico.” I smile.

“Right. You mentioned that.” Martin leans forward in his chair, looks toward the door as if he is about to share nuclear codes with me. Quieter voice now.

“What if I told you that Snugglies was in possession of the world's first eco-friendly, one-hundred-percent biodegradable diaper that can be
flushed
down a toilet, not thrown into a landfill?”

His eyes are wide, his shock a mirror, he palpably hopes, of the shock and facial expression I will soon experience. He lets the news sit in the refined air. Then, right elbow on desk, he separates his thumb and forefinger, slowly rotating his wrist, as if carefully imparting a biblical insight: “
Re
defining disposable diapers.” Eyebrows still raised (they look stuck up there at this point), Martin sits back and says, “What d'ya think?”

Here is what I think, in an amount of time that perhaps only NASA could measure.

I think, I love when a hockey team pulls its goalie in the final minute of the game, down a goal. I think, I hate the word
panty
. I think, do I have an average, above average, or below average–sized penis? I think, where's the punch line to what Martin just said, because there has to be a punch line because I'm pretty sure I'm on a reality TV show and there's a camera filming my face and somewhere, behind the scenes, people are laughing at me. I think, this is one of those rare occasions where I have let the question, “What do I do for a living?” come to the fore, where I question things, which is never a productive exercise for me. I think, my father's going to die and none of us care. I think, keep going, keep moving, keep smiling.

I say, “Wow.”

Martin nods slowly and says, “Wow in
deed
. I'm glad you see it that way. Brad said they've reconsidered the launch of this. Had planned on the Academy Awards in March but are excited and worried that Procter & Gamble have an identical product. Corporate espionage, Fin. So I think you know what that means.”

My expression suggests that I have no idea what that means. Is he asking me if I know what corporate espionage means?

Martin says, “It means they want to launch on the Super Bowl.”

“Which Super Bowl?”

“The one in six weeks.”

“You're talking about the famous one. The football one. With the commercials.”

“Yes.”

“That's not possible.”

“Of course it is,” Martin says. “I told them it is. Which means it is.”

“So, wait. Come up with a Super Bowl–worthy idea. Get it approved. Find a director. Prep it. Shoot it. Edit it. Mix it. Score music to it. Six weeks, with Christmas and New Year's in between.”

“Exactly.”

I say, “Have I offended you in some way?”

“This is a great opportunity, Fin. I think you're the right man for the job. Truly.”

“How many other writers did you ask before me?”

“Two.”

“At five I would have been offended. So wait. You're asking me to cancel another vacation?”

“Absolutely not. How long's your vacation?”

“Seven days.”

“You should definitely go. Enjoy yourself. Relax. Forget work completely. But only for two days. A long weekend.”

“A regular weekend.”

“Two days. Much deserved. And maybe jot down a few ideas while you're there and send them to me. Each day. Then hop on a plane, come back, and work the week. What fun. The city's quiet, so is the office.”

“That's because everyone's on vacation.”

Martin says, “We need to show ideas January second, in production first week of January, shooting second week of January. That means working over the break, I'm afraid. Exciting, though, Fin. You and Ian, Stefano and Paulie, Malcolm and Rajit. I chose only the single people. No families.”

“Stefano and Paulie and Rajit are all married,” I say.

“No children, though.”

“Paulie has two children.”

Martin blinks several times. “I wanted to tell you first as I'd like you to lead the charge on this end, as I'll be away.”

“Where are you going?”

“Vacation. It's Christmas. Meeting to tell the teams in a bit. More tea?”

The lucky ones have a passion. The other ninety-eight percent of us end up doing something we kind-of, sort-of like-ish. The place where you show up for work each day for five, ten, twenty years is who you are. Isn't it? And yet, from time to time, there is that small voice that screams, “Leave. Go. This isn't what you want.” Except that other voice, the one that calls you Gary, whispers, “But where would you go? And what would you do?”

•   •   •

Two and a half hours later, two days before Christmas, one day before the agency closes until the day after New Year's, fourteen people sit grim-faced in a conference room ready to be briefed on a revolutionary diaper.

Ian, myself, Malcolm and Raj, Stefano and Paulie, Pam, Jill, Alan, Martin, and four people I've never seen before in my life, all of whom appear to be twenty-eight and taking notes, despite the fact that the meeting hasn't started. All have beautiful hair and sparkling white teeth.

One of the perfect-hair people hands out copies of the assignment, or what we call the “brief.” Despite its name, it is six pages long, single-spaced, twelve-point Futura (the agency's typeface). Every brief aspires to answer the same questions: background, challenge, marketplace, problem we are solving for.

Alan says, “Okay. Everyone? Let's get started, please. I know this is not what any of us had in mind for the holidays, but I think you'll see, after we've gone over the brief, that this is a special product and a special chance to make a difference.”

There are groans, almost exclusively from the creatives.

Paulie says, “Like the Peace Corps.”

Everyone laughs. Except Martin.

Martin's voice is never loud. He has the ability to break through noise and be heard.

Martin says, “The average baby goes through five thousand diapers before being potty-trained. Because ninety-five percent of these diaper changes are disposable diapers, most of them end up in landfills. Fifty million of them get thrown away each day. Each one takes up to five hundred years to biodegrade.”

Everyone is listening. He is looking around the room, making eye contact. He's talking without notes.

He says, “Disposable diapers are the third largest contributors to landfills in the world and yet only five percent of the population uses them. Diapers in landfills in underdeveloped countries are especially problematic because they often aren't properly disposed, and excrement leaks into the local water supply. No diaper—not even biodegradable ones—can break down in an airtight landfill. How many people in this room have children?” Forty percent of the room raises its hand. “How many of you
plan
to have children?” Another forty percent goes up.

Martin says, “Diapers? Soda? Candy? Toilet paper? Disparage it, make fun of it, call it dull, but never, ever say the products that touch the lives of billions of people every day don't make a difference. And what we're asking of you here today is to speak to the world. There are worse ways to make a living.”

He lets the silence play out and then turns back to Alan. “Alan. You were saying?”

Alan continues. “Okay. What business problem-slash-opportunity is the campaign designed to address?”

He walks through the document, Jill jumping in to help. They read almost word for word what's on the page, skipping parts that are included on every Snugglies brief, such as “Tone and Manner” (fun, informative, positive, upbeat, inspirational, unique, hopeful, anthemic, breakthrough).

Martin's phone rings and he steps out of the room.

Jill says, “The point we're trying to communicate: New Snugglies Planet Changers are the first one-hundred-percent biodegradable, flushable diapers.”

Alan says, “This is nothing short of a revolution in disposable diapers. It is a breakthrough of epic proportions. It could change the
world. And no, we can't use the Beatles song ‘Revolution' because it costs too much and because the mayonnaise group used it last year for their new low-calorie mayo launch.”