Truth in Advertising (3 page)

Now, as if it's the final scene of a high school musical, others jump in. Chet, late thirties, also extremely eager. Chet says, “I.e., new Snugglies
Diaper Pants. The ultimate in flexibility for babies on the go. Explore. Be free. Be dry. New mommies love this. Focus groups bear this out.”

I say, “Are you fucking crazy talking like that? This is a diaper. C'mon. Let's all get drunk and get laid.”

Except I don't say that at all. I nod and say, “Understood.” Because Jan knows, as do Cindy and Chet, that it is 2009 and the agency I work for will do anything to keep the sizable fee that this brand brings in. Jan could say,
Fin, I need you to climb up on that rafter, take down your pants, shave your ball sack, and jump into a Dixie cup full of curdled beef fat,
and she knows I'd do it.

“One more thing,” Jan says. “Purple.”

Her colleagues nod.

“Purple?” I ask with a smile.

Jan nods. “The liquid in the demo shot rehearsal looked purple to us. We'd like blue. A deep, deep blue. Like the brand.”

Cindy adds helpfully, “According to recent focus group testing, the color purple often connotes homosexuality, and homosexuality, according to our testing, tested poorly.”

Ian can't resist. “Maybe you're just giving the wrong kind of test.”

Jan says, “We good, Fin?”

I manage a nod, smiling. “We can fix it in post.” The great go-to line on a shoot. Post being post-production: editing, color correction, audio mixing.

Then I turn and walk away, leaving what's left of my scrotum on the floor.

We walk back toward the craft services table. On the way we pass dozens of crew, some of whom help to set the shot, position Gwyneth, tend to her hair and makeup, many of whom stand around and check their iPhones.

Ian says, “I thought that went well.”

Pam looks at me and says, “You're pathetic.”

Ian pours coffees. Pam eats a donut. I rub Purell on my hands.

Ian says, “It was genius on paper.”

It's a thing we say on every shoot when we realize the spot isn't going to be any more than average.

Ian asks Pam what she's doing for Christmas.

Pam says, “Family. Pittsburgh. Vodka. Cigarettes. You?”

Ian says, “Dinner for friends. Jews, atheists, fellow homos, the great unwashed. People who have no family or family they don't want to go home to. Tons of food and wine. No store-bought gifts. Everything has to be handmade. Could be music or a video, whatever. It's amazing. We've been doing it for about five years.”

Pam says, “That's so gay.” She looks at me. “You?”

I say, “Mexico.”

“Family?

“Not so much.”

“Friends?”

I say, “Alone. Going alone.”

Pam says, “That's weird.”

“Is it?”

“Weird and sad. No family? Of any kind?”

“We're not that close.”

Pam says, “I hate most of my family. I can understand. But you seem reasonably normal. Why alone? Bring that cute little assistant of yours. Half the men in the agency would divorce their wives for her.”

I say, “Phoebe? Don't be ridiculous.”

Ian raises his eyebrows. Pam does the same.

I say, “We're just friends. We're good friends. She's my assistant.”

Ian says, “She's not
your
assistant. She's the creative department assistant.”

Pam says, “She's your office wife.”

I say, “What does that mean?”

Ian says, “Everyone has an office husband or wife. I have both.”

I say, “Who's your office husband?”

Ian says, “I'll never tell.”

Pam says, “But you have to be careful of the power-struggle thing. They can't report to you. Does Phoebe report to you?”

I say, “No. Why?”

Pam says, “Good. Eliminates the sexual-harassment thing, which I
myself had to deal with when I was screwing a production intern last summer. Poor thing left in tears.”

I say, “You're a romantic.”

Pam says, “At least I'm not going on Christmas vacation alone.”

I say, “It's a last-minute thing. An interim vacation. I'm planning a big trip for after the New Year. February. Possibly March.”

Ian says to Pam, “My dear friend Mr. Dolan has been saying this for a while. He calls it the big trip. That's his name for it. He's a copywriter.”

I say, “The big trip is going to be amazing. Life-changing. I just can't figure out where to go, though. It's complicated.”

Pam says, “What's complicated about it?”

I say, “I have these two tickets to anywhere in the world. Two first-class tickets.”

Ian says, “Very expensive tickets.”

Pam says, “I thought you said Mexico.”

I say, “I did.”

Ian says, “It's complicated.”

Pam says, “You have two first-class tickets to anywhere in the world and you're going to Mexico? No offense to Mexico, but are you high?”

I say, “No. I'm not using them for Mexico. They're for the big trip. After Mexico.”

Pam says, “So, wait. You have two first-class tickets anywhere in the world and instead of using them, you've bought
another
ticket to Mexico.”

I say, “Yes.”

Ian says, “It's complicated.”

Finally I say, “They're the honeymoon tickets.”

Pam says, “The what?”

I nod slowly, waiting for her to do the math.

Pam says, “Shit. The honeymoon tickets.”

I say, “The honeymoon tickets.”

Pam says, “Yikes. Sorry.”

I say, “So it's complicated because I don't just want to use them for a trip to Mexico.”

Pam says, “Do you ever hear from her?”

“Not so much.”

Did I mention I canceled my wedding? I probably should have mentioned that. I was supposed to get married last May. I was engaged to a really wonderful woman. Amy Deacon. But then I got a very bad case of cold feet. More like frostbitten feet, where they turn black and your toes fall off and you think you're going to die. That's the kind of cold feet I had. We canceled six weeks before the wedding was to take place. We were going to go to Italy on our honeymoon. I've been trying to take a vacation ever since then, trying to use the tickets. In the past eight months I've planned three trips, canceling two because of work and one for a reason that escapes me. To be honest I feel that the tickets hold power. The tickets urge me to find the right destination, to figure out where they want me to go. This place will be the place that assures me happiness. It doesn't say this on the tickets, unfortunately. Mostly it just talks about the restrictions. The problem is that the tickets expire in three months. And I can't get the obscene amount of money I paid for them back. So I have these tickets.

My cell phone rings. It's Phoebe, our aforementioned group's assistant.

I say, “Stop bothering me. I'm an important executive.”

Phoebe says, “How's Gwyneth?”

“Gwyneth who?”

Phoebe says, “Tell me!”

“Honestly? She's heavy. Bad skin. She keeps hitting on me.”

“Shut up.”

I say, “What's up?”

“Nothing. I'm bored with you and Ian gone. And Carlson wants you to call him.”

Martin Carlson, my boss, executive creative director of the agency.

I say, “Why can't he call me himself?”

Phoebe says, “He's too important. He said it's urgent. And that he wants you in a new business meeting Thursday.”

“Thursday. As in
this
Thursday? Christmas Eve? Not possible. I'm going on vacation that day. He knows that.”

“I know that.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Did I tell him that he knows you're going on vacation Thursday?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Is this a logic test?”

“I'm not canceling another vacation.”

Phoebe snorts. “You mean unless he asks you to.”

“Exactly.”

Seconds go by. I can tell she's reading an e-mail, looking at her computer. I stare at a key grip's ass crack as he adjusts the base of a lighting stand.

I say, “Do you tweet?”

“Sometimes. I follow some people.”

I say, “Do you have a lot of friends on Facebook?”

“Not really. Not compared to some people I know.”

“I have one hundred and nine, but there're about twenty I've never met.”

Phoebe says, “Oh.”

I say, “What? How many do you have?”

“About twelve hundred, I think. Maybe more.”

I say, “I'm feeling great inadequacy right now.”

Phoebe says, “Run with that.”

The key grip stands and turns to see me staring at his ass crack and gives me a look that suggests he might do physical harm to me.

Phoebe says, “Also your brother Edward called. Is he the one in San Francisco?”

“No,” I say. “That's Kevin. Eddie's in Boston.”

“He left his number.”

I say nothing.

“Fin?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want his number?”

“No. What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Tell him it's about his father.'”

How nice. Hi, Daddy!

One word, one blink, and I am back in the basement of Saint Joseph's Rectory. A winter night. I am in the Cub Scouts. I am eight years old and I wear a dark blue Cub Scout shirt and yellow kerchief and military-style enlistedman's cap. Tonight is the Pinewood Derby, for which they give you a small block of wood and plastic wheels and ask you to carve it into a car. Kids spend weeks with these things, mostly with their fathers. He'll show you how to whittle, say, or paint, or put the wheels on. He'll gently ruffle your hair the way they do in TV shows from the sixties or present-day commercials. An experience you will always remember, that perhaps you will one day share with your own son. Tonight, on a small wooden track, they will have a race for the fastest car. Happy fathers and excited sons. Lots of prizes and trophies. Everyone goes home with something. And then there's my father, who's just screamed at my mother and made her cry, and who stormed out of the house with me in tow, the silent drive to Saint Joe's. I'm holding a Stride-Rite shoebox with my pathetic excuse for a car in it, confused as to whether to be more terrified of my father in one of his moods or of the reaction of my fellow Cub Scouts when they see my car, which my father has not helped me with, and which, as I have no affinity for carpentry, is still largely a block of wood, except for the paint I put on it. I don't want to go. That was what the fight was about. My mother said I didn't have to go. I told her about my lame car. But my father said I had to go, that I was wimping out, that I should have worked harder. I briefly imagined a storybook ending (the budding copywriter), wherein my hideous, misshapen block-like car thing would somehow speed to victory in record time, stunning the crowd of vastly superior Scouts. Reality was crueler. I came in second to last, just besting Tommy Flynn, whose wheels fell off. He burst into tears, his father holding him. And my father? My father said, “Well, that was a waste of time, wasn't it?”

He's dead. He must have died. That's the only reason Eddie would call me about “my” father. And since when did he start calling himself Edward?

Phoebe says, “I hope everything's okay.”

I say, “I'll call him.” But I won't. And maybe Phoebe senses that from my voice.

Phoebe says, “Do you have his number?”

“Yes.”

She says, “You're lying. What is it?”

“There's a seven in it.”

“I'm texting it to you. Call your brother. Also he may be calling you since I gave him your cell. And call Carlson. Can I come to the shoot this afternoon?”

“You'd be bored. It just looks exciting. Like the circus. Or a strip club. So I've heard.”

Phoebe says, “I want to meet Gwyneth. I think we could be friends.”

“I'm hanging up.”

Phoebe says, “Say something nice.”

I say, “You're prettier than she is.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I'm not kidding.”

And she knows from the tone of my voice I mean it.

Three or four long seconds. Never awkward, though. Not with her.

Phoebe says, “Call me later, okay?”

Her text arrives.
Edward's number
.

Did I mention that I have family? Eddie's the oldest and for years acted that way. Maura left a job in finance to raise her kids. They're both up in Boston. At least they were the last time we spoke. Kevin is in San Francisco. If Ian's the gay brother I never had, Kevin would be the gay brother I actually have. Some families grow closer. Others are Irish.

I delete the text.

A twenty-five-ish production assistant jogs up to Ian, Pam, and me.

She says, sternly, “Raphael wants to roll immediately.”

Pam says, “We'll be two minutes.”

The PA says, “Umm, he said to tell you he wants to roll immediately.”

I wince and see Ian do the same.

Pam's face breaks into a big smile. “What's your name?”

The PA says, “Saffron.”

Pam says, “Saffron. Wow. I'm going to guess southern California or, wait, Boulder.”

Saffron says, “Boulder. That's amazing!”

Pam says, “I want you to listen to me, okay? There are two things I know to be true. One is that there's no difference between good flan and bad flan. What movie is that from?”

Saffron stares at Pam, clueless, only now sensing, perhaps, that she's made a terrible mistake.

Pam says, “Disappointed.
Wag the Dog
. Classic Mamet line. Not sure what you're doing in this business if you don't love film. Two, we roll when I say we roll. And if dick-breath has a problem with that you have him come see me because this is my show. Okay?”