Jonathan Unleashed

by Meg Rosoff

  He knew better than to share his vision.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said. And without waiting for anyone’s assent, he pushed his chair back and left with the dogs. Julie barely seemed to notice but Lorenza shook her head, causing the straight black of her hair to swing like a curtain.

  He felt a great rush of relief as he burst out of the door. Had they pumped all the air out of that meeting room? He was drenched with sweat, unable to breathe. The neon sign announcing one of New York’s oldest bars winked at him from diagonally across the street. It was nearly empty except for a few hardcore boozers and when he walked in with the dogs no one commented.

  ‘A double brandy please,’ he said, shaking his head no to ice. He’d never ordered brandy before but knew it was supposed to be restorative. A double brandy, surely, would be doubly restorative. It arrived looking larger than he’d imagined and he drank it down, tapping the bar for another. He couldn’t remember if he’d had anything to eat today and his thoughts strayed to a beautiful croissant made by Clémence. A tear escaped one eye. He drank the second brandy, ordered a third, drank it, paid and stood up to go, swaying like a hula dancer. The dogs, recognizing an emergency, surrounded him protectively. In this relatively stable three-point formation, they lurched back to work.

  Perhaps he could spend the night at the office curled up in the corner of the conference room. Perhaps the dogs would share their comfy beds with him. Being this drunk clarified his mind, made him realize how thoroughly off-track he was. It was almost funny how quickly everything seemed to be getting away from him. Why couldn’t he have a job that didn’t make him crave lethal injection? Why couldn’t he be marrying someone like Clémence? Why was Clémence married to someone else? Why wasn’t Julie?

  ‘Greeley? Greeley!’ If ever he’d needed spiritual guidance it was now. He’d seen Greeley practising Qigong meditation while sorting Eduardo’s expenses. He’d noticed Greeley consuming macrobiotic vegetables while expertly managing the office diary. Greeley seemed to have some sort of key to better living and Jonathan was sorely in need of a key. Not just a key. A guide. A guidebook. A guru. But Greeley was nowhere to be found. Not even in the supply cupboard, where Jonathan spent longer than planned, having mislaid the door handle.

  He crawled on hands and knees to Eduardo’s office, poked his head around the door at knee level and found the boss sitting alone at his massive Stalinesque desk, watching porn.

  ‘Hello, Jonathan,’ he said pleasantly. ‘What are you doing here? It’s late.’

  ‘But not too late?’ A great wave of panic joined the spinning, swooping sensation behind his eyeballs. ‘I need so much help I don’t know where to start. I’m doing the wrong thing in every realm of life. I need Greeley. Unless you know another supremely wise person I could sign up with? I’m desperate, Ed. And I’m so tired. I think I might be having a nervous breakdown. I’m still getting married, by the way. Do you want your raise back?’

  ‘What raise?’ Eduardo looked pained. ‘I think it’s only fair to tell you that you’re screwing up big time, Jonathan. I went out on a limb to hire you because Max said you’d be fine. But you’re not fine. You’re fucked up. I’m afraid you’re going to have to do a lot of back-pedalling to regain my trust.’ In the background the computer was groaning, Ungh . . . ungh . . . ungh . . .

  Exhausted and addled with brandy, Jonathan lay down and closed his eyes. The spinning room picked up speed and he held on to the floor for fear of hurtling into the abyss. ‘I want your trust back, I do, Ed. But I really don’t think I can do any pedalling just now.’ He liked the feel of the Berber carpet against his cheek. ‘Forgive me.’

  Eduardo had switched his attention back to the computer screen. ‘Sure.’

  ‘I want to win your trust. But I hate it here. I hate you. I hate Broadway Depot. I quit.’

  Thanks to the miracle of drunkenness, the single most honest declaration of his life came out garbled beyond comprehension.

  Eduardo looked down at the employee at his feet and was about to make a pronouncement of his own when Dante came to the rescue, nudging at Jonathan to get moving before he made the current situation worse by heaving on the executive carpet.

  Jonathan hauled himself up on to his knees and crawled slowly out the door, Dante at his side.

  ‘See you,’ he said, which came out as ‘Phoo’.

  Sissy, meanwhile, had her head in Eduardo’s lap, having opted for her most endearing huge-eyed baby-animal look, and Must make a note to fire that asshole seamlessly segued into Aw, what a totally cute dog.

  With the guidance of his loyal pets, Jonathan made his way to a taxi, arrived home and fell into bed fully clothed. Julie texted to say it would be another publication-day all-nighter.

  Julie? It took him a minute to focus.

  Oh yes. That Julie.

  He passed out.

  20

  At Le Grand Pain the next day, Clémence was still married to Luc.

  ‘Can’t you see how much I love you?’ Jonathan’s head ached and he suspected he might still be drunk from the night before.

  Clémence frowned at him. ‘You have a girlfriend. But I can give you coffee, which you need far more than you need love right now.’

  ‘Not true,’ he said. ‘If you loved me you’d sponge my brow with cool water, murmur endearments and make coffee I wouldn’t have to pay for.’

  Clémence laughed and raised both eyebrows.

  ‘You wouldn’t?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Jonathan felt very sick and a bit desperate.

  ‘Very sure. Why are you whispering?’

  ‘Isn’t Jean-Pierre here?’

  ‘Luc is in Paris.’

  ‘Paris? Couldn’t you kiss me in that case? He won’t see.’

  She placed a coffee in his hand and guided him to the door. ‘Goodbye, cheri. Don’t drink so much next time.’

  ‘But what about our children? Celeste and Raoul? And baby Alouette? How can you reject your own children?’

  Clémence disappeared into the back.

  Jonathan’s funeral was less than a month away. He’d dredged up a modest list of invitees, including the members of his immediate family – Mom, Dad, James – a few leftover friends from college and Max and Greeley from work. That was about it. The rest of the cheering squad came from Julie, who – in addition to having more friends and family than Jonathan – had invited the entire staff of Bridal-360, whose job on the day would be to look young, carefree and photogenic for the magazine spreads. James emailed to say he’d booked his flight, was getting to the end of his contract in Dubai and couldn’t wait to reclaim his dogs.

  Reclaim his dogs? His dogs? Jonathan had more or less forgotten that the dogs belonged to James. In moments of gloom, he thought perhaps they should be with a different owner altogether, someone who could take them deep into the woods each day to track rodents and dig holes in the earth, but he couldn’t help noticing that they seemed relatively OK with their life on the third floor. The thought that his brother might take them back filled him with despair.

  But what if they greeted James with an outpouring of love and relief, whispering in his ear the minute Jonathan was out of the room that their surrogate owner was a loser and the previous months had been hell? It made him want to cry. He’d grown accustomed to their furry scheming faces and could no longer imagine life without them. But he’d read The Incredible Journey. Perhaps they were just waiting for a chance to escape and begin the 6,837-mile journey back to their master. He had a terrible vision of them dragging themselves to Dubai, limp and emaciated, arriving at last at a 400-storey apartment building and being turned away by the doorman for not being borzois.

  Tears slipped down his face; The Loyalty of the Dog struck him with unbearable poignancy.

  His parents, meanwhile, having plenty of time to contemplate his upcoming nuptials, became increasingly anxious.

  ‘Julie’s pregnant, isn’t she?’ his mother asked, lowering her vo
ice so that who? God? the CIA? wouldn’t hear.

  ‘No, she’s not pregnant, Ma. Why does everyone think she’s pregnant? Like I told you – it’s all part of a magazine promotion. We’re going to be live-streamed on the internet in front of thousands of people.’ But she’d already passed him over to his father, who said, ‘Well, Jonathan, Julie of all people. I certainly hope you know what you’re doing. Not that you’ve ever given us much reason to suspect that you do.’ He hung up, leaving Jonathan staring at the phone, his face squinched up in irritation.

  A venue had been chosen without requiring his input; the spring-colour-themed wedding was to be held at the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, in the Palm House. The bar menu was planned, the caterers booked. In some hot, drought-ridden country in Africa, North American wildflowers were growing at unnatural speeds, ready to be flown halfway across the world to a magazine-sponsored wedding of dread.

  Jonathan stopped off at a nondescript coffee place (it didn’t take dogs but generously allowed them to huddle at tables outside) and ordered a much-needed second coffee and a breakfast special, which he fed piece by piece to Dante and Sissy. ‘We’ve got to do something, guys,’ he said, realizing that his life was slipping away into the hands of a digital PR team.

  The dogs’ expressions were intent as they considered his fate. Or was it the empty plate?

  ‘I know it looks bad,’ he told them, ‘but maybe I should just get through the wedding then sort everything out afterwards. I’ll get a promotion and a proper raise and Julie and I will live happily ever after.’ He sighed, deeply. ‘If only you could break your vow of non-communication with humans, or whatever they make you swear, and tell me how to sort everything out.’ Sissy placed her paw on his knee and looked at him encouragingly. He sighed again.

  ‘Come on, then. Off to work.’ He walked the rest of the way with steady precision, placing one foot in front of the other evenly, so as not to disturb his relationship with gravity.

  The first thing he saw at Comrade was a Norwegian sweater with silver buttons paired with a kilt. Greeley’s face came into focus last.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, fine, fine. Never better.’ Jonathan stood for a moment trying to perfect his balance and uncross his eyes. At last he whispered, ‘I like your outfit. And actually, as you ask, I’m not OK. I hate my job. I hate my whole life.’

  Greeley looked at him thoughtfully.

  Perhaps he’d said too much. Jonathan bludgeoned his features into a sort of smile. ‘Never mind. Everything’s great. I’ll get to work.’ Pursing his lips on the way to his desk, he visualized the seven dwarfs whistling while they worked, shovels jauntily laid across their shoulders. For some reason this helped.

  At his desk, he found a group email from Wes to the whole team, announcing that the Broadway Depot management had called their annual account review for 2pm the following Friday. Each month they scheduled an annual review designed to produce new and more strategic advertising, which led to the agency clocking up hundreds of unbillable hours as they created new campaigns and commissioned ever-more comprehensive market research on the subject of ring binders and box files. Each month, Broadway Depot announced how pleased they were with the amount of thought that had gone into their useless miserable account before rejecting every single iota of new thinking in favour of ‘Pens: 3 for 2!’

  An email from Louise Crimple followed the one from Wes. ‘Can’t wait to see what you and the team imaginate this time, Johnny. Paperclip your dreams to a star (feel free to use that line!).’

  Jonathan pressed delete and laid his head on his desk. He had a vision of Eduardo resting that slimy boneless arm on his shoulders, saying, ‘Still searching for your feet in marketing, boyo?’ In his New York Inferno, Jonathan placed Eduardo down in the tenth circle of hell, up to his nostrils in tar, one hand waving in furious futility while a crowd of cheerful onlookers sipped Night Train cut with formaldehyde.

  Jonathan sat up and rubbed his face with his hands, hoping to press it back into a shape that was recognizably human. He supposed he could take the brief seriously. That would be new and different. He could ignore the past months of rejection and start afresh as if Broadway Depot were a brand-new account desperate for new ideas and new thinking rather than a dusty cage full of middle-management monkey robots led by the bizarre and nervous-making Crimplemeister. What would happen (he asked himself ), what would happen if, instead of accepting the inevitable, he poured all of his intelligence, his creativity, all the power of his heart and brain and soul, into producing something of value for his nemesis?

  He knew exactly what would happen. What would happen would be accompanied by the sound of a toilet flushing. Negative nothing.

  In a spasm of unlikely optimism, he began to write.

  By lunchtime his headache had gone and he’d drawn the beginnings of an office murder-mystery comic with office supplies for props. Dick was found dead with a gel pen sticking out of his back (3 for 2 on all gel pens, this week only!) while Letitia’s swivel chair (20% off all branded office chairs!) swivelled out of range just as Benedict tried to garrotte her with a New! Universal Charger (only $89.95) for cheating on him with Sybil. Alex lurked in corners downloading blackmail material that he laminated (Office laminator, one week only, $259!) while Otis and Salena had torrid sex on the copier (Plastic copier cover, protects from dust and dirt, $39.95).

  He drew page after page of comics, weaving paperclips and letterheads into one plot, computer keyboards and metal in-boxes into another.

  And gradually, over the course of an afternoon, Broadway Depot developed a personality. From a crappy low-cost purveyor of crappy low-cost office crap, it became an office full of heroes and villains wielding intriguing, desirable props as evidence for the coroner’s court (Reporters’ notebooks, one-day sale, five for $12).

  Jonathan’s spirit soared. He’d draw it himself. It wouldn’t be any more expensive than their current campaign but could run with high visibility in small advertising spaces online, as pop-ups, banners, on billboards, local papers, anywhere. Overnight it would make Broadway Depot a household name; people would look for it, anxiously await the outcome of the next attempted murder and frustrated romance. The BD house-brand gel pen would become iconic as Dick’s murder weapon. Everyone would want one.

  All through the weekend he worked, writing, drawing, scanning and mounting his creations on boards until he’d constructed a significant pile of noirishly strange and compelling Broadway Depot dramas.

  Each night, Jonathan went home and fell into bed. He barely saw Julie, whose considerable energies were taken up by the most important day of her life, hurtling towards them at the speed of an ICBM. Sometimes he woke in the morning to find her beside him, unconscious, warm and dreaming of bespoke cocktails.

  On Wednesday, he showed his ideas to Wes, who studied the boards while he explained his rationale. Wes listened, read through the comics, nodded slowly, then clapped him on the back, declaring him a man of rare creative ability and insight. Sissy doubled the speed of her tail-wagging and even Dante forgot to glare.

  Wes ran the boards by Eduardo but took his approval for a technicality, emerging ten minutes later with a thumbs-up and a grin for Jonathan, who felt his exhausted heart leap with pride. He was a young man on the rise, his talents front and centre, ready to be recognized and rewarded! He’d show everyone that he was a force, an innovator for the future. He felt grateful that the wedding would take place two weeks after the Broadway Depot presentation, otherwise he might not have been able to attend.

  As Patterson, the account man, and Dora, head of research, crunched the numbers and honed the marketing angle for the presentation, Jonathan allowed his imagination to wander. A promotion, a large raise, his own account, a senior position at the agency, maybe even his name on the door. Comrade Trefoil. Trefoil & Comrades. Trefoil and Sons.

  Although he hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in days, he found he had more energy than ever. Each word out of hi
s mouth was sharp and clear, he no longer felt hunger or thirst, his body seemed to be running on pure high-octane adrenalin.

  Clémence frowned at him. ‘You look terrible,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not. I’m better than I’ve ever been. Sharp as a Jedi sword. Whoosh whoosh.’

  ‘Whoosh whoosh? OK.’ She shrugged and made his coffee.

  He bought thirty croissants and gave them out to everyone in the office. Dante swallowed his thoughtfully and Max sent Jonathan an email.

  FROM: max@comrade.com

  TO: jonathan@comrade.com

  SUBJECT: Whatever drugs you’re on

  They’re awesome.

  Jonathan didn’t answer. There was nothing else for him to do on the campaign and Wes suggested a day off.

  ‘You’re looking a bit jittery,’ Wes said. ‘Get some sleep. We need you fresh for the presentation on Friday.’

  Bathed in approbation, he stopped at a manland boutique and bought four overpriced T-shirts in lime, piña colada, pink fizz and greige, along with a China-blue linen jacket and selvedge-edge organic raw jeans imported from Japan at a price that made his eyes water. Remember, the salesman said, no washing for a year at least.

  That night he sent out for pizza with goat’s cheese, artichoke and kale (Julie’s favourite) feeling certain that this campaign would make Julie realize what an amazing partner she was marrying, what a virile, go-getting kind of guy he really was.

  In the apartment, his eyes met hers. I’m a real man, he telepathed her. I excel at my job, and I’m so virile we might have sex right now on the table.

  This was a step too far for Julie, who telepathed back that such a thing was only going to happen when hell sold Eskimo Pies.

  He gabbled happily about their future over dinner. Julie seemed put out by something but wasn’t saying what. Her mouth turned down at the corners and his stories stuttered towards aborted conclusions. She waited till he finally fell silent.