Читать книгу The Deep Whatsis - Peter Mattei - Страница 11

The eighth floor houses our production department. At any given time, the New York office of Tate Worldwide (New York being the largest of our fifty-six offices around the world) will be in the midst of producing eight or ten commercials for our various clients. The way advertising works is simple: we charge huge companies millions and millions of dollars a year to come up with the big ideas that will help them to grow their businesses, to define for themselves an expandable niche in their market, to give them something to stand on, a mission to purport, a flag to wave. Ad agencies exist for the same reason that mercenaries do. An oil company can’t be in the business of, say, executing the popular leader of a left-wing opposition group in some Central American democracy, that just isn’t a job description that they can put up on their LinkedIn page. So they have to hire a consultant who hires a global risk-management firm who hires a mercenary unit who hires a local criminal gang to get the job done. It’s the same with what we do. XXX Pharmaceuticals wants to believe that it is in the business of making the world a better place, not of convincing people to take overpriced drugs they don’t need (and that can’t be proven to be much more effective than a placebo). So they outsource their lying to us. We then pretend to help them make the world a better place. All we really do is enable their fantasies about themselves by holding their hand through the difficult years-long process of bringing a drug to market. In the course of that, it’s our job to pretend to be coming up with ideas when really all we are doing is taking the ideas that they have already given us in their PowerPoint documents and making them look like they were ours in the first place and therefore worth the many millions they are paying us. It’s useless but in the end what human endeavor isn’t? We have meeting after meeting and write draft after draft of a single fifteen-second commercial, exposing these scripts to real people to get their feedback, in what is known as qualitative or “qual” testing, before gauging the spot’s real-world CPI—Consumer Persuasion Index—in quantitative or “quant” testing, in which each commercial is assigned a numerical value supposedly indicating its true effectiveness, the entire process meant to ultimately determine whether it would be more effective to frighten people into buying a drug because without it their children might die or frightening them into buying a drug because if they don’t their peers will ostracize them for being terrible parents. Once real moms and dads have signed off on our concept, we hand these so-called ideas to a director and a production company and ask them to “add value,” which means, “Can you try to take this mind-numbingly boring piece of machine-made bullshit and force-fit a modicum of humanity into it?” Normally this is done via casting, trying to find human-looking people to stand in front of the camera and smile and give the thumbs-up to life. That usually works. Then when the commercial is finished, we celebrate ourselves and our achievements at an awards banquet from which we take home prizes in categories such as “Best Editing for a Fifteen-Second Unbranded Direct-to-Consumer Web-Based Pharmaceutical Campaign” and so on.

I always get confused on the eighth floor. When you get off the elevators you can go one of two ways: toward the bathrooms or toward the receptionist. Having made that decision you can then go either right or left, ultimately giving you the option of the four compass directions. I can never remember where anyone’s office is and so I always end up just walking around the perimeter of the building until I find who I am looking for. Today I get off the elevators and decide to go toward the receptionist, who is on her break apparently, as there’s a temp sitting in her spot and he looks like a young Paul Rudd with facial hair, obviously an actor who doesn’t have a trust fund; i.e., hopeless. From the receptionist’s desk I randomly choose left, and I walk toward the Twenty-ninth Street side of the building. When I get to the row of offices that rings the floor I randomly choose to turn right and I start walking. Everyone sees me and looks up from their desks and waves or grins; this isn’t something they would do for anyone who walked down the hall, but one of the consequences of creating a dynamic of fear is a high degree of sycophancy resulting in a good deal of performative smiling. Our poor wannabe-actor temp thinks that by sitting there stone-faced and not participating in these corporate rituals he will save his soul; what he doesn’t understand is that all of the phoniness required of his soulless peers takes far more acting skill, courage, and devotion to craft than he will ever see on any not-for-profit stage in his entire life.

If asked I will say I am looking for Tom Bridge, but I happen to know that Tom is in Prague shooting a series of spots for a tire company. I get to the corner of the building and turn right (the only way I can go unless I want to retrace my steps) and then I see Tom’s assistant, a hipster clown named Jake. I call him a clown because he is one; he works on weekends at a children’s hospital in Westchester. Apparently he was a drug addict and then he became a clown as a part of his recovery program; we even honored him with our Actually Good Person We Mean It of the Month Award.

Jake the Clown sees me walking toward him and says, “Are you looking for Tom?” I don’t know if I should lie and say yes since that is the ostensible reason I’ve come to this floor in the first place or if I should lie and say no since that’s the truth but it means I must have another reason for being here and that one I don’t want to divulge.

“Isn’t he in Prague?” I say, splitting the difference.

“He was supposed to leave last night but his flight got canceled can you believe that it was a nightmare he’s leaving in an hour do you want to see him I can maybe squeeze you in just kidding.” I’m staring at Clown, who’s in full ’80s mode today, parachute pants and one of those Palestinian scarves and a Members Only warm-up jacket, and I’m wondering what his getup is, does he put on a big pink wig and a red nose and paint his face white, or does he know he already looks enough like a clown to make a sick child laugh? Just then Tom’s voice is heard from inside his office.

“Eric!” he is yelling. “Eric you douchebag come in here don’t go away I need to talk to you before my car comes!” I go into Tom’s office. He is sitting amid a pile of DVD reels that is almost as large as he is, which is considerable.

“Yo, asshole,” I greet him, closing the door, “why aren’t you getting your knob sucked by a Czech hooker right now?” This is how Tom and I talk to each other; the day I learned that I would have to terminate him in Q2 of the next fiscal I considered not being so buddy-buddy with him, then I changed my mind. “Close the door,” he says, even though I already have. He tosses a DVD of work from an animation company called Phawg into the trash basket and takes his earphones off. “Did you say something?”

“No,” I say. The sounds of a live Rush concert are coming from his iPhone. Rush is Tom’s favorite band; he turns off the trollish sounds and looks up at me.

“I can’t believe you fucked her,” he says.

“Fucked who, your wife?” I say. “Ha ha just kidding, in case you were wondering.”

“Funny,” he says. “I’m talking about that very hot girl we just hired.”

“First of all, she may be funny and smart and all but she’s insane,” I inform him, “so you might want to stay away from her entirely, or find a way to fire her before I do. And second of all, I didn’t have sex with her.”

“Which is not what she’s telling everyone.”

“Oh bullshit she’s a drug addict,” I say.

“So are you,” he says.

“Have a nice trip, dickhead,” I say to him as I open the door and head out, turning back to ask him what he’s doing with the DVD cases. He says he doesn’t know he just felt like saving them.

“See you in lala,” he is saying as I leave.

“What?”

“I’m flying directly from Prague to LA for the FreshIt thing. I’ll be there for callbacks.”

“Cool,” I say, “that’s awesome, but I’m not going to that shoot.”

“No?” he says. “I thought you were.”

“Why would I waste my time with that shit?” I say.

“Because the account is in trouble.”

“Not my problem,” I say. Then as I am closing his door he says, “By the way, she’s uploading some spots to the FTP, I’d try the dub room. I mean, assuming you want to find her.”

“I don’t, actually,” I lie. “I want her out of here by EOD.”

“Right,” he says. “Will do.”

I walk out of his office and down the hall I hadn’t walked down before, hoping for a random encounter rather than having to actually set foot in the dub room which would be too obvious. I end up circling the floor two times but I don’t see her. I probably would have kept doing it all afternoon except my phone rings and it’s Seth Krallman, my old friend whom I hate.

“What up, gangsta?” I say into my phone as I head toward the elevator. “Why’d you stand me up the other night, dog?” One of the reasons I hate Seth Krallman is because he talks like he’s from the ghetto when actually he is from Greenwich, Connecticut, and I tend to talk that way when I’m with him just to mask the fact I dislike him so intensely. I’ve hated Seth Krallman ever since he got clean and became a yoga teacher and changed his name to Hanuman or Ganesh or something. No, the truth is I always hated him; we shared a big house together at Brown and he thinks this means we have some kind of Special Bond. He’s a pretentious idiot, a so-called avant garde playwright who had twelve or thirteen seconds of notoriety in the East Village in the late ’90s when he chained himself to the stage of a tiny theater for a month as some kind of protest slash performance, peeing in a crystal bowl and mixing it with champagne and drinking it every night at precisely midnight, while reciting some poetry. I avoided him for years but he friended me recently and keeps wanting us to hang out, I’m pretty sure that he’s gearing up to ask me for a job. He comes from a rich family, as I alluded, but his father invested badly and lost most everything in ’08 so Seth’s monthly automatic deposit has dwindled away—he has to work now to pay his rent and his medical bills, because he is bipolar, and without his meds and his therapy the man is useless. So he wants to invite me to this really cool opening and after-party in the ’wick and maybe, I’m guessing, that’s when he’ll ask me if I can help him get into advertising. I have nothing to do tonight and need to take my mind off myself and maybe talk to people so I say yes. Then I immediately regret it but he doesn’t know that yet. So he starts to ask me how work is going and I pretend that the elevator is killing my reception even though I am not in the elevator.