Truth in Advertising (42 page)

I laughed, more out of embarrassment than anything else. Then I turned and saw Eddie's face, saw how disappointed he was, staring at the closed sign.

“That's okay,” I said.

He mumbled, “Christ, Finny. I should have called. Dumb ass.”

We got out of the car and stood there, Eddie looking around.

“C'mon,” he said.

We walked toward a shack up the road, near the beach. A fish market with a takeout window on the side. There was no way in hell it would be open. But it was. And it was like Christmas morning to Eddie.

“Look at this, will ya?” he said, all grins.

We ordered fried clams and french fries and Eddie got a beer and I got a Coke and we found a spot beside the shack, out of the wind, in the sun. I don't know what we talked about. I just remember how good it felt being there with him. I felt safe. That was the thing about being around Eddie when I was young. I always felt safe.

We walked outside the Starbucks and stood at the corner looking for a taxi, Eddie's arm up like an out-of-towner, waving to the off-duty cabs. He put his arm down and stared at the traffic.

I said, “Do you think about her much?”

He was still looking at the traffic. Cars were honking as a fire truck made its way through a block away. It passed.

He said, “Every day.”

“Me, too.”

He looked around, like he was searching for a landmark, a familiar corner. Anywhere but at me.

Eddie said, “I thought it would get better. As I got older. I thought it would get easier.”

“Yeah.”

He looked down and said something to the sidewalk. I couldn't hear him. He looked at me.

“What?” I said.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

It was rush hour. Throngs of people on the sidewalk, traffic, horns.

He said, “I just . . . I'm so sorry.”

His eyes were red rimmed and he looked tired and he was blinking quickly. His voice, though. The old Eddie. My best friend.

How many times could I have called or written a letter, taken the train to Boston? How many times could I have made an effort but didn't?

I said, “I'm sorry, too.”

I reached out my hand and he took it and we were in an awkward handshake, except we weren't shaking hands, we were just holding hands in a handshake position, which is not what I'd meant to do.

Eddie said, “It wasn't supposed to be like this, the four of us.”

I nodded and reached my left hand out and held his forearm. Also not what I'd meant to do.

“I was supposed to take care of everyone. I mean . . . it's not like I don't worry about you guys.”

Boston Irish:
I miss you. I care about you. I love you
. You just have to listen.

He said, “It's just been a lousy . . . twenty years.”

A taxi pulled up and a woman got out. Eddie tossed his bag into the backseat and held the door. He took a deep breath. I thought of
that moment at my mother's wake when I almost reached out for my father but didn't.

“Anyway,” he said.

I moved before I realized I was going to, wrapped my arms around him, felt him go slack, heard his sobs into my jacket, the painful lump in my throat.

“Fuck,” he mumbled.

I said, “You're a good man, Eddie Dolan. Don't forget that.”

He got into the cab and in the moment before it pulled away, he turned and gave me a little head nod, a half smile, the smallest wave. And I waved, too.

I'd put it in a commercial, but no one would believe it.

This is my second first novel. The previous first novel was, to my (and I'm confident to your) great good fortune, not published. If this novel is good, it is in no small part due to a handful of people who believed in me.

David Kuhn, my agent, was not looking for a new, unpublished, first-time novelist. But he took a chance and his nimble hands are all over these pages. As are Billy Kingsland's, David's right hand at Kuhn Projects. Special thanks to Maree Hamilton and Grant Ginder as well.

Sally Kim, my editor at Touchstone. She bought something imperfect and in need of help. She guided me, pushed me, helped me find the story. I don't have words to express how I feel about her. But if I did, they would probably be the wrong words and she would then be able to help me find the right ones.

Stacy Creamer, David Falk, Marcia Burch, Wendy Sheanin, Michael Croy, and everyone else at Touchstone. Passionate readers and champions of the unknown writer.

Susan Morrison and David Remnick at
The New Yorker
have been running my Shouts & Murmurs pieces since 1999.

At
The New York Times
, Scott Shane, Nora Krug, Michael Newman, Carmel McCoubrey, and David Shipley. At the
Los Angeles Times
, Nick Goldberg and Susan Brennenman.

Rick Knief, unparalleled friend and godfather to my daughter, read draft after draft. His relentless optimism and honesty buoyed me at many turns.

Deidre Dolan added many insightful comments and encouragement.

Richard Syvanen, screenwriter extraordinaire, dear friend since college, who died at age thirty-five and who, upon reading my first screenplay, urged me to pursue novel writing.

My father, Charles Kenney, and my brothers, Charlie, Michael, Tom, Patrick, and Tim. Good men all. And to the memory of my mother, Anne Barry.

I have no intention of thanking the people at the MacArthur Foundation, as I found their note on my returned application for a genius grant (“HA-HA!”) not very funny.

I wrote half of this book in the main reading room of the New York Public Library. I was surrounded each day by scores of people writing what I can only imagine were books, poems, dissertations, job applications, screenplays, wills, and that one guy who just kept writing swear words over and over. It is an awe-inspiring thing to sit among people trying to create something day after day. It's a quiet extended family who respects silence and devotion and one another's belongings during bathroom breaks. So thank you to my fellow writers and to the city of New York and its benefactors for making that space possible.

The other half I wrote at a coffee shop on Sullivan Street in SoHo called Once Upon a Tart. Jerome Audureau, the owner, kindly let me sit all day over one or two coffees, taking up a table, using his electrical outlets. Some of the people who work there—Josie Canseco, Cleo Rivera, Samina Naz, and Anna Marcell—took care of me, fed me, had a smile ready.

My daughter and son, Lulu and Hewitt, who came along and showed me what mattered.

And finally, my wife, Lissa. Our daughter was three months old when I came home one day and said, “I just got laid off. And they're canceling our health insurance tomorrow. I was thinking I might try novel writing.” Throughout this long, confidence-sapping process, Lissa guided me, believed in me, encouraged me. She listened in the evenings as I read the day's work. She corrected the falseness, the overwriting, the bad dialogue. She taught me, and continues to teach me, what it means to love and be loved.

TRUTH IN ADVERTISING by John Kenney

Reading Group Guide

Despite escaping his blue-collar Boston upbringing to carve out a mildly successful career at a Madison Avenue ad agency, Finbar Dolan is a bit of a mess and closing in on forty. He's recently called off a wedding. Now, a few days before Christmas, he's forced to cancel a long-postponed vacation in order to write, produce, and edit in record time a Superbowl commercial for his diaper account.

When he learns that his long-estranged and once-abusive father has fallen ill, and that neither of his brothers or his sister intends to visit, Fin is forced to reevaluate the choices he's made, admit that he's falling for his coworker Phoebe, question the importance of diapers in his life, and finally tell the truth about his past.

Truth in Advertising
is first-time novelist John Kenney's wickedly funny, honest, at times sardonic, and ultimately moving story about the absurdity of corporate life, the complications of love, and the meaning of family.

Topics and Questions for Discussion

1) 
Truth in Advertising
pokes fun at the advertising industry, yet often makes a case for it being an underappreciated art form. Do you think there is artistic value in advertising? Can you think of an example of an ad campaign or commercial that might be considered aesthetically important?

2) Fin's relationship with his father was volatile and complicated. Is it always necessary, or possible, to forgive those who have done us so much damage in the past? Is there ever an excuse for cutting ties with a parent?

3) At different points throughout the novel, Fin has imaginary interviews with Terry Gross, Barbara Walters, and Oprah. What function does this device serve? Do you think it's effective?

4) Why do you think the author waits so long to reveal that Fin was present when his mother died? What does this revelation teach the reader about Fin? Do you think he was right to keep this secret to himself for so many years?

5) In today's media-saturated culture, individuals are often encouraged to “brand” themselves using Facebook, Twitter, and other social media networks. How would you define the difference between a person's “brand” and their personality? What
is
Fin's brand?

6) Of all the Dolan children, why do you think Fin is the only one who agrees to scatter their father's ashes? Is this act merely symbolic? Or do you really think it helps him resolve some of his anger toward his father?

7) Fin notes that both Phoebe and Pam are friends who
“understand what you mean, not what you say”
Why is this important to Fin?

8) Oftentimes tragedies bring families closer together. In the Dolans' case, their father's death initially just serves as a reminder of their troubled childhood and how far apart they've grown. What makes them incapable of finding solace in each other, and how do you think this has changed by the end of the novel?

9) Fin frequently complains about being dissatisfied with his job, yet he remains unable to leave. What aspects of the advertising industry does he find so compelling even as he struggles to justify staying in it? He talks about advertising being based on mythology and lies. What are some societal myths about happiness and success that Fin buys into and why do you think these are ultimately unable to satisfy him?

10) Phoebe and Fin play a game where they point out one beautiful thing they see each day. How does Fin's relationship with Phoebe and the game they play affect the way he deals with his own anger and pain? Do you think there is beauty even in tragedy?

Q&A with author John Kenney and comedian Andy Borowitz

Andy: You spent many years working in advertising. What made you decide to set your first novel in that world? Is the real world of advertising both as funny—and sad—as your fictional version?

John: It's a cliché but they say write about what you know. So for me it was write about advertising or the
inside world of being a busboy. Advertising, certainly in the post-
Mad Men
era, seems to have an allure. People find it exciting and fast-paced. It certainly can be. But day to day it's far more boring, certainly for creative people, whose days are spent sitting in an office trying to think of ideas, most of which aren't that great (in my experience, anyway). I don't think it's a sad business at all but it can test one's resolve. There are times when it's easy to step outside of the project at hand and say, “Do we really need to be this serious about the new sodium-free ketchup spot?” That said, I liked it better than being a busboy.

Andy: What's the biggest misconception about advertising, and why does that interest you as a novelist?

John: I think it's how cool/sexy/exciting advertising is supposed to be. It certainly can be if you're working on a big account like Nike or Apple or Coke. But most creatives—the copywriters and art directors who think up the ideas—work on far smaller accounts, with far smaller budgets. These people are just as committed and just as smart, and, frankly, doing a really great ad for Oreos is damned hard. Or diapers, as is the case for Fin, the main character in the book. He's not a superstar. But successful characters don't really interest me I like strugglers. I like confused people, damaged people. Strivers. Of course, that has nothing to do with my own experience as a decidedly non-superstar copywriter...

Andy: That brings me to the question most novelists hate to be asked: Who is the narrator Fin, and are there parts of you in his character?

John: Fin is like a lot of guys I knew in advertising. Smart, charming, funny. Guys you wanted to hang around with, have a beer with. He's a lot smarter than I am and certainly more lost than I ever was, though God knows I had my confused days as a single guy in New York. To me the similarity—if there is one—isn't merely the advertising connection, it's the loss. My mother died when I was young. That was a defining event for me. And it's only much later in my life that I realized how defining, how it colored everything for me. Fin shares that. But I think a lot of us carry around hidden traumas, those lasting pains. My editor sent me a quote from a letter that Ted Hughes wrote to his son.
At every moment, behind the most efficient seeming adult exterior, the whole world of the person's childhood is being carefully held like a glass of water bulging above the brim
. That's Fin.

Andy: In the book, you write that we are the stories we tell ourselves. What is it that pushes Fin to finally tell himself the truth?

John: I think ultimately it's his father's death. Fin holds onto this anger and pain for so long, and I think it
surprises him how sad his father's death makes him, what a terrible waste it all was. It's so hard to see your parents as people. We expect so much from them. I think he's finally able to see his father for a flawed and traumatized man, to forgive him, to grieve for the life they never had together. He sees where not dealing with trauma and pain leads. And he doesn't want that. I think he sees his own mortality. And it terrifies him. It makes him want to live.