Truth in Advertising Read Online Free PDF Page B

found himself a particularly vicious divorce attorney, left her with very little, and certainly without pride.
    Powerful Ron and curvy Fee (her preferred name, the irony simply too rich) wed on a beach somewhere. Friends from the city, from advertising. Great sums of money were spent. Small, fancy hotels. They’d called the island’s only helicopter service late one night because they wanted a tour under the full moon.
    But that little black card does not come cheap. And so it was that one day a few years ago, in the agency’s main conference room, Ron stood up in a meeting and began removing his clothes, not saying a word, not changing an iota, one witness said, the smile on his face. I’m told he continued presenting the idea (I believe it was for batteries). Later, when the police arrived, he refused to get dressed and was led out of the building and into a waiting police car on Sixth Avenue wearing around his buttocks and manhood his secretary’s canary-yellow cardigan, the one she kept on the back of her chair for summer days when the building’s air conditioning was too cold. She urged him to keep it.
    Now, one hears stories of Ron and Fee’s rocky marriage, of her forward ways on television commercial shoots with young men who are rising in the agency, while her formerly powerful husband is at home, surrounded by specially made soft gardening implements, where he tends to their tomato plants and, on good days, is allowed to walk the dog. In the afternoons he is given cookies.
    Since Martin’s arrival I have tried to show my worth by enacting what I like to call The Finbar Dolan Campaign for Creative Director, Long-Term Success, and Renewed Self-Esteem. (A long and not particularly interesting title, to be sure, especially from someone who’s supposed to be good at writing exactly these kinds of things.) How have I enacted The Plan? I have done this by getting in at 9:30-but-closer-to-10 and leaving around six, with a midday pause for a long lunch. Also by acting as a respected mentor to the other creatives in my group, which is not technically my group, nor do they really see me as a mentor or even listen to me. My great hope (as I believe is reflected in the clever titling of my plan) is to be promoted this year to creative director. It is an important milestone in one’s advertising career. You go from merely creating ads—concepting, writing, art directing—to overseeing, critiquing,criticizing, and most often shooting them down. It is something I feel I could be good at. It would also be a bump in salary. It would mean the respect of others at the agency. Which is not to say I don’t have enormously high self-esteem or that I rely on the opinion of others. (I don’t and I do.)
    I say, “Martin.”
    â€œFin.”
    â€œMartin.”
    Martin says, “How goes it on the coast?”
    â€œWe’re in Queens, actually. Which is certainly a coast, but not the one you were thinking of.”
    Martin says, “And Gwyneth, Fin? Stunning?”
    â€œStunning,” I say.
    Martin says, “Met her once. She might remember me.”
    â€œI mentioned you to her,” I lie. “She remembered.”
    Martin cackles. “I knew it. Did she say where that was?”
    â€œShe didn’t. You sound strange, Martin.”
    â€œYoga, Fin. Standing on my head at the moment. Secret to life. Releases tension. Have you tried it?”
    â€œNo, but I masturbate a lot. Does wonders.”
    Martin says, without a hint of a laugh, “Humor. Very good. Hearing reports of black babies, Fin, of unhappy clients.”
    How does he know these things?
    â€œJust rumors, Martin,” I say. “We had some issues earlier but things are better now.”
    â€œGood to hear. Creative directors take care of these things. Bull by the horns.”
    Creative directors.
    Martin says, “I have some excellent news of my own, Fin. Big oil.”
    I say,