Truth in Advertising (32 page)

I said, “How long do you hold on to this?”

“Till I die.”

Then he hung up.

I called Pam, who was already in L.A. with Ian.

“I need to ship something,” I said. “Out to L.A. To the hotel. Can you give me the FedEx number?”

“Don't tell me it's your luggage, Dolan. Creatives who do that drive me nuts. We're on a tight budget on this one and I can't do shit like that.”

“It's not my luggage . . .”

“Because if it is . . .”

“Pam, it's not my fucking luggage.”

I don't talk like this to her.

I said, “I'm sorry. I just . . . I've got a situation here and I just need the FedEx number, please.”

I told her the basics. She asked for Eddie's address. She said she'd take care of everything, that the ashes would be waiting for me at the hotel. If you are lucky you have a friend or two who understand what you mean, not what you say.

Now, here in L.A., I want to run from the room. I feel wildly alone. Then the thought comes so fast and so clear it's startling.
Without her I am lost.

Standing here with Jan, I find myself still nodding. I'm nodding only because Jan is nodding. She's nodding gravely. She's making a serious point that I am agreeing with, though I have no idea what the point is as I haven't heard a thing she's said for the past several minutes. The volume returns and Jan says, “I've just returned from Diaper World.” She says this with the gravitas of someone who's just returned from a life-altering trip to Machu Picchu or Angkor Wat.

“Wow,” I say. “How was it?”

Diaper World, despite its name, is not a theme park with rides on giant diapers. It's an annual diaper convention for the industry to
show off its latest offerings. I have been to two Diaper World conventions, one in Cincinnati and one in Phoenix. The one in Phoenix I attended not one moment of, sitting instead by the pool, where I read, drank beer, and sustained a savage sunburn.

Jan says, “Fin, it was inspiring. A diaper convention, right? But I mean, amazing things are happening in diapers right now”—to my mind an unfortunate sentence construction.

She plows ahead. “It was in Montevideo, Uruguay. Have you been? Of course not. No one has. Amazing city. Who knew, right?” (Well, the Montevideans, certainly.)

I see Ian and Pam talking with a man, late fifties/early sixties, with a wispy gray ponytail and a kaffiyeh around his neck.

“Are you excited about the spot?” I ask.

“Excited? I think it's interesting. I worry that it's too serious and maybe not serious enough. Does that make sense?”

No.

“Absolutely,” I say, a nodding, sycophantic jackass. Three loud sneezes.

“Bless you,” she says. “I want to strike the right tone with this. I want to be serious, of course. We're a serious brand, it's a serious product. But I want to communicate
revolutionary
. Revolutionary meets breakthrough. Meets intense. But funny. We're a funny brand, Fin. As you well know. Funny but not laugh-out-loud funny. That's not what we're about. Light. I think that's the right word. A wink. The kind of thing that makes you smile more than laugh. Like many of your ideas. I want people watching to turn and elbow each other . . .”

She elbows me to prove her point and I spill club soda from my cup. Jan remains oblivious.

“. . . and say, ‘
That
was amazing. I want to buy those. And even if I don't have children and I don't
actually
want to buy those, I admire that company and see it at the
fore
front of eco-think. Like Apple or Google or GE. Or DuPont, post-Bhopal.' You got the e-mail about removing
non-toxic
and
biodegradable
?”

“What? No.”

“Might have just been to the account team. We'll talk about it.”

Ian, Pam, and Ponytail are making their way toward us.

Pam says, “I'm sorry to interrupt. Jan, I wanted to introduce our director, Flonz Kemp.”

Jan extends her hand but Flonz embraces her like a former girlfriend you bump into in a bar, both of you single, and think,
You look good
.

Jan lets out an involuntary, “Ohh.”

Flonz lets go and looks Jan up and down. Jan is suddenly a flummoxed teenager in the presence of a star.

Jan says, “Okay. I just have to say I loved
Scrambled Eggs at Midnight.
”

Flonz says, “It was very good, wasn't it? You're an attractive woman, Jane.”

“Jan.”

Flonz laughs like a character from an episode of
Barnaby Jones.
“What is the actual product we're shooting tomorrow?”

Jan laughs. Pam doesn't, as she knows he's serious.

Flonz is tying and retying his kaffiyeh. “I just got back from six months in Morocco. Any of you speak Arabic? Because I do.”

Flonz Kemp was a legend, at one time the most famous commercial director in the United States. He shot most every great spot, won every big award. During his runaway success, when agencies would beg him to shoot their work, he had, one hears, great disdain for the business. He threw fits on the set, screamed at agency people, at clients. Yet they continued to hire him. He made vast sums, threw it around on fancy cars, houses in Europe. But what he was really looking for was validation, proof that he was better than commercials. He wanted to direct movies, take Hollywood by storm. He got his chance when he co-wrote a comic thriller about a night watchman (Flonz's job before he became a director) who wants to direct movies who foils a real jewelry heist by filming it all as if it were a thriller. He catches the thieves, sells the movie, and moves to Hollywood, where he takes a part-time job as a night watchman. For his “lunch” each night he ate scrambled eggs.
Scrambled Eggs at Midnight.
The film was a summer hit. Flonz was hailed as the next Spielberg. He was given huge money for his next film, for which he insisted upon rewriting the script, much to the annoyance of the Academy Award–winning screenwriter, who quit after Flonz began
tinkering. It was a comedy about people during the ice age. Flonz didn't see it entirely as a comedy and felt adamant about shooting in the Swiss Alps in winter. And also about having the actors sing their lines. Conditions for cast and crew were apparently horrendous, shooting at times nearly impossible. He came in a year late and wildly over budget. The film was laughed out of theaters, and not in a good way. “Flonz Flop,” they called him. He tried to get back into commercials but he'd made too many enemies in the ad world. He was our sixth choice.

People find a seat at the large table. Pam leans over and says to me, “We need to talk about the package.”

Jan says, “Why don't we get started.”

Talk? About what? About the possibility of FedEx losing my dead father? Did Eddie not drop the ashes off at the FedEx office in Boston?

Alan says a few words, welcomes everyone. Jill sits next to him, nodding vigorously at everything he says.

Pam takes charge. She is eloquent but all business. She makes special mention of Keita, as I have asked her to.

Pam says, “We are honored that Keita Nagori, special assistant to the chief operating officer of Lauderbeck, Kline & Vanderhosen's parent company, Tomo, Japan's largest shipping company and third largest in the world, has joined us today.”

We go around the room and introduce ourselves, say what we do.

I text Pam, who sits two seats away.
Package lost?

Pam texts back,
Not now!

Ian texts,
What's the problem?

I text him back,
Ashes. Might be lost.

Ian texts back,
OMG
.

Pam walks everyone through the pre-pro book, talks about locations, wardrobe, casting. None of it is news to anyone in the room. We've all seen the location pictures, the casting, the wardrobe. At some point on each page Pam politely turns to Flonz in the hope that this person our client is paying $25,000 a day will have directorial input. He smiles vacantly, like the weird uncle at Thanksgiving dinner. It is unlikely he's looked at the locations, casting, or wardrobe. All of which bodes well for a great shoot.

Slow nodding along the way. All good. Until we come to the casting of the hero. Who will play the role of the woman from the original spot, who was young, lithe, blond? Pam has, as always, found a broad range of choices. Our recommendation is someone yoga-fit and gorgeous. It's advertising, not a Michael Moore documentary.

Jan turns to one of her people. “Karen. You had some concerns here, yes?” Which means Jan had concerns but will voice them through Karen.

“I do, Jan. Thanks.” Karen's voice, wardrobe, and demeanor suggest she might have been a local cable anchor in Tulsa.

Karen says, “Your recommendations don't fit the psycho-graphic.”

Flonz is laughing. “What the hell is that? Is that even a word?”

Karen is taken aback. “Well, that's a pretty important litmus test for us at the brand level.”

Flonz is making a face like Karen has started speaking Hebrew.

Karen continues. “We feel some of your gals are a bit thin. We'd like someone who represents our mommies a bit better.” She sorts through some of the casting headshots on the table and produces a photo of a woman who is easily a size sixteen.

Eyebrows raise. Even Flonz is too politically correct to say anything.

Ian says, “I wonder if, considering the running part of the spot, we look at someone who, while representing the demographic, might also represent the aspirational nature of the demographic.”

Jan trusts Ian. She's looking at the headshot and the additional shots of the actress we've chosen; now in shorts, now in a bathing suit, now bulging out of yoga clothes.

Jan says, “Who else do we have?”

Pam is ready for this and puts out two other, noticeably svelter choices.

“I like her,” Flonz says, pointing at one of the headshots. “Interesting face. Let's go with her.”

Jan thinks on it a moment and nods.

Karen (herself a woman you might describe as on the large side) seems annoyed.

Pam says, “Good. That leaves the script and I believe we're locked on that.”

The clients look at one another.

Jan says, “Not quite.”

Ian looks at me. News to both of us. We look to Jill and Alan, for whom it is clearly
not
news.

The script (if you can call it that) is the exact line from the Apple 1984 spot, except for the name and date change.
On January 27th, Snugglies will introduce Planet Changers. The first non-toxic, one-hundred-percent biodegradable flushable diaper. And you'll see why 2010 won't be like
2010
.

Granted, this doesn't make any sense, as 2010 wasn't expected to
be
anything, unlike 1984, Big Brother, blah blah blah. My great hope was that no one would notice that it doesn't make sense. And that it's a joke. Granted, not a funny joke, but I was pressed for time.

A client, I don't know her name, says, “We're concerned that the 2010 part doesn't make any sense.”

I'm ready for this. I'm nodding, smiling. “It's meant as a joke.”

She says, “I'm not sure I get it.”

Nor I. Sneeze. Pam tosses a packet of Kleenex at me. I use them as I formulate my response.

I say, “Well, ya know. 2010 won't be like . . . 2010.”

Heads tilt, eyes squint. Even Flonz.

Flonz chuckles. “I know Ridley. He's a prick. So wait. What do you mean, 2010? Have people been talking about 2010 being bad?”

Ian says, “I think we mean that it's a just spoof of the 1984 spot. No one's saying anything about 2010 per se.”

Jill, eager to be part of the conversation and help, adds, “I don't think the words are meant to be taken literally.”

Jan says, “But that's what the script says.”

One of the clients says, “Could we change the year?”

Karen says, “So it would say, ‘And you'll see why 2010 won't be like the future'”?

Someone says, “No. It would say, ‘You'll see why the future won't be like the future.'”

Flonz says, “That makes no sense.”

Jan says, “I'm not sure that's the answer.”

Someone says, “Why couldn't it say, ‘And you'll see why the future won't be so scary'?”

Ian looks at me with a face that suggests he's being strangled.

Someone says, “Is there a year people talk about like 1984?”

Someone else says, “There's talk in the Bible of 2012 being the end of the world.”

Ian says, “I think you're thinking of the Mayan calendar.”

Karen says, “That strikes me as very negative, the end of the world. Do we want to be associated with that?”

Jill says, “That's not part of the brand at all.”

Client heads turn toward one another.
No, definitely not. Right?

I write down
Could mark the beginning of a new world
on a piece of paper and slide it to Ian. He nods. I say, “How about this: ‘And you'll see why 2010 will mark the beginning of a new world.'”

Heads nod. Flonz says, “That's not bad. At least it makes sense.”

Jan says, “Say it again, please, Fin.”

I say it again, in my best voice-over voice. Imagine if people actually spoke like a voice-over. You'd never stop slapping them.

Karen says, “New world? How about a
better
world?'

I say, “How about a
cleaner
world?”

Jan says, “I like
cleaner
.” Others nod aggressively.

I'm tempted to say that the average adult will weigh about six pounds after cremation and that on average, for every pound the person weighed when alive, they'll produce about one cubic inch of ash after cremation. Do we want to be associated with that?