by Max Barry
This is depressing.
Fortunately, Sneaky Pete arrives home.
sneaky pete
Sneaky Pete is the coolest person I’ve ever met. This is partially due to his amazingly snappy fashion sense, but mainly because he rarely says anything, which allows him to preserve a slightly mysterious air of smooth confidence. I met Sneaky Pete at a marketing function during my last semester at Cal State and we became friends—surprisingly easily, considering his lack of conversation. So it was logical that we should pool our resources to find an LA apartment, especially since Sneaky Pete’s resources are much larger than mine.
If you happen to meet Sneaky Pete, maybe at some beach-house party, you’ll be told he’s from Tokyo, Japan. You won’t be told by Sneaky Pete, of course, because he is far too cool to hold forth about his international travels, but it’s a sure bet you’ll find out from someone. They’ll tell you in slightly awestruck tones that in Tokyo, Sneaky Pete was the wild child of marketing; that he moved from company to company and revived brand after brand; that in the end he had to come to America because the Japanese haven’t learned the same absolute respect for marketing that we have and as such find it difficult to justify marketing salaries of more than a million dollars a year.
You will raise your eyebrows and look over at Sneaky Pete, and he’ll be standing there with his deep shades and stunning cheek-bones, and you will believe. If you are brazen or addled enough to ask “Why is he called Sneaky Pete?” you will receive a short, alarmed roll of the eyes. A roll that suggests you don’t really want to know, and if you do, you should know you can’t ask in public.
I have a lot of respect for Sneaky Pete, not least because he is actually a fresh marketing graduate from Singapore who has never worked in his life. His real name is Yuong Ang (I saw it on his passport), his most valuable possession is a crumpled little book called Through American Eyes: The Asian Stereotype, and he attended Guandong Technical School, where he managed bare passing grades.
sneaky pete helps
“Sneaky Pete!” I say, leaping up. “Man, I’m glad to see you.” He may be pleased by this, or maybe not: it’s kind of hard to tell through his shades. “I have a huge idea and I need your help.”
He cocks a chiseled eyebrow at me, then pulls up a chair at our tacky kitchen table. I tell him all about my idea and he listens solemnly, nodding. I’m pretty relieved he doesn’t shoot me down, because even though you need to back your own judgment on stuff like this, it’s good to have other people believe in you, too.
“My problem, though,” I say, “is that I don’t know what to do now. I mean, I can’t launch a cola product by myself. I’m stuck.”
Sneaky Pete leans back in his chair, smirking.
“What?” I say. “I’m not stuck?”
He shakes his head.
“Hmm ... hey, no! You mean I should sell this to one of the majors?”
Sneaky Pete’s lips stretch into a grin.
“Okay.” I think about this. “That would be good if I knew someone in the industry. But I don’t. If I just walked in there, they’d chew me over and take my idea. I need a contact.” I sigh. “I guess I need the name and number of the New Products Marketing Manager at Coke.”
I snigger at this little fantasy. But Sneaky Pete doesn’t share my joviality. He leans forward, and he’s not smiling anymore. Sneaky Pete looks very serious.
“No,” I say. “No way.”
Then Sneaky Pete speaks. This is always a little thrill, both because it’s so rare and because of his accent, which is strangely addictive.
“Yes way,” Sneaky Pete says.
omen
It turns out that Sneaky Pete met this girl at a Malibu nightclub who has just been appointed New Products Marketing Manager at Coca-Cola. I am continually amazed by how many people Sneaky Pete manages to meet, given that as a general rule he doesn’t talk.
I don’t quite catch the girl’s name, but Sneaky Pete waves his hand in a way that tells me he’ll take care of everything. He pulls out his cellphone and goes into his room, and when he comes out he hands me a scrap of paper with a time—two hours from now—and an address.
“Sneaky Pete,” I say earnestly, “thank you. I’ll remember you when I’m rich and famous.”
welcome to coca-cola
I am the only person in Los Angeles who doesn’t own a car, so I catch the bus to Coca-Cola’s downtown tower (they’re technically based in Atlanta but have obviously realized they can’t really operate out of anywhere but California). It’s twenty minutes away from our East LA apartment, but the building is so mammoth that I spend another five gaping at it. It’s huge, black and so much like a big glass of Coke it had to be accidental.
I take a deep breath, then stroll into reception, pausing only to dutifully admire the smattering of ancient Coke memorabilia. I note that as in all large corporations that loudly subscribe to equal opportunity and employment based solely on skill, the receptionist is young, female and gorgeous.
“Scat,” I tell her. “To see the New Products Marketing Manager.”
The receptionist fields this without looking up. Just when I’m about to introduce myself again, only louder, she says, “She’ll be a few minutes, Mr. Scat. May I show you to a meeting room?”
“Yes you may,” I say generously. She slides a VISITOR badge across the counter and leads me to a well-lit room with a mahogany desk, big red chairs and carpet thick enough to lose small children in. I throw my briefcase on the table and sink into a chair. “Thanks.”
The receptionist sends me a truly insulting smile—only half her mouth even makes the effort—but I just put that down to her being gorgeous.
a spiel about gorgeous
Gorgeous women really annoy me.
Not all gorgeous women. Some gorgeous women I like a lot. Gorgeous women who like me, for example, I can’t help but find attractive. Gorgeous smart women I like a lot. But the rest, I can’t stand.
The problem, as I see it, is that a sad percentage of gorgeous women just settle for being gorgeous. They get to sixteen, go, “Well, I’m gorgeous, people like me, that’s it,” and just stop. I mean, they’ve got nothing on the girls who struggle onward with zits and bad dates, the girls who fight life every step of the way so by the time they’re twenty they’re funny and smart and cynical and utterly, utterly desirable.
That’s what I like.
Which makes what happens next really ironic.
scat meets 6
The New Products Marketing Manager enters the room and I am stunned. I am flabbergasted. I want to grab her, fling her across the table and make love to her. For whole seconds I can do nothing but stare.
She’s about my age, but she walks like an experienced nut-cracker. Her hair is shoulder-length, jet-black and sheer enough to deflect bullets. Her legs pop out of her heels and proudly strut their stuff all the way up to her miniskirt. Her eyebrows could cut steel. Her face is exquisitely cruel, and I can immediately tell she has never smiled in her whole life.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Scat,” she says briskly, seating herself across from me. She is carrying a slim folder and she slips it onto the table. I am not watching the folder. “My name is 6.”
A response is called for here. I realize this far too late.
“Mr. Scat,” she says sternly, “for your information, I fuck girls. So take your eyes elsewhere.”
“Sorry.” To avoid embarrassing myself further by asking her to repeat her name, which sounded suspiciously like her dress size, I push a business card across to her. She returns the favor and I study her card. It confirms that her name is 6. I am impressed. I bet her real surname begins with Z and she got sick of always being last in line.
“Mr. Scat,” she says. I am already in love with her lips. “Are you aware of how many unsolicited approaches our company receives from people like yourself?”
I consider taking a punt, but decide against it. “No.”
“Actually, not that many,” she says
. “But the point is they’re all crap. Without exception. We’ve never bought one.” She leans forward. “I tell you this now so you don’t become too disappointed at the rejection.”
(Part of the problem with selling ideas to marketers is jealousy. Marketers are supposed to come up with their own ideas.)
“Thank you for setting my expectations,” I say.
“You’re welcome.” She looks at her watch. It is expensive. “You have thirty seconds.”
At this, I lose my cool a little. “Thirty seconds? I have an idea that could make your company millions and you want to hear it in thirty seconds?”
6 blinks. She seems genuinely surprised. “Mr. Scat, we have thirty seconds to sell our ideas to our customers. It’s called advertising.” She even looks a little hurt, and her pouting lips make me want. to ravish her even more.
“You’re right,” I say, humbled. “Let me apologize.” My eyes narrow cunningly. “Over dinner.”
6 sighs deeply. “On my office wall, Mr. Scat, is a large, nude picture of Elle Macpherson. I have this picture to remind people such as yourself that my ideal lover is one without a penis.”
“Fine,” I say, as if this doesn’t faze me in the slightest. In truth I am completely fazed. I’m so fazed I’ve forgotten what I’m here for.
“You have seven seconds left,” 6 says.
“That’s not fair,” I protest.
“Four,” she says, and she’s actually looking at her watch.
I spill it. “New cola product. Black can. Called Fukk.”
6 looks at me for a long time, expressionless. I am beginning to wonder if she has granted me bonus time and I should be expanding my description, when she says, “Mr. Scat, I would be pleased to have dinner with you tonight. The Saville, seven o‘clock.”
but your honor
In self-defense, I would like to say that I wasn’t taken in by her looks. I mean, sure, she was the type that would make shallow men in cars yell out things like, “Hey, baby! Woo!” but not me. I’m not like that.
What I’m trying to say is that, really, I was interested in her mind.
No, really.
peer to peer
See, you just have to respect someone who really markets themselves well.
Some of us change our names to something crazy, zany and/or wacky. Some favor crazy zany wacky fashion, like 1930s hats or purple baggy pants. Some use particular sayings over and over, creating their own bylines. Some just go off the edge and don’t do anything at all.
When you go to all that effort, and you see other people making a lot of effort for pretty pathetic results, you have to admire someone who really pulls it off.
So you see, when you strip it down, what I really felt for 6 was professional respect for a colleague.
Plus, okay, a deep desire to get naked with her.
cars
The Saville at seven is very much a Porsche occasion. It’s disappointing, therefore, that I don’t have a Porsche.
But this is no obstacle. The first thing I do when I get home is call a Porsche dealership. I tell them I’ve just arrived from Australia and am leaving tomorrow for England, but while I’m here I’d like to purchase a car for my father’s birthday. Would it be at all possible for them to extend their hours for me? The man tells me, with the tone of someone who has just stumbled across a surprise commission on fifty thousand, that the dealership never closes for its valued clients. I commend them for their customer-friendly policy and tell them to expect me around six.
Then I find a nearby Mercedes-Benz dealership and deliver the same spiel. Then a SAAB dealer. Then finally a Ford dealer.
The thing is, you can’t just rock up on foot and ask to take an expensive car like a Porsche for a spin. But you can test drive a Porsche if you turn up in a Mercedes, and you can test drive a Mercedes if you turn up in a SAAB, and you can test drive a SAAB if you turn up in a late-model Ford. I’m pretty sure I can sucker the Ford guys on foot.
My calls complete, I ask Sneaky Pete for wardrobe assistance. “Occasion?” he asks quietly.
“Seduction. Beautiful girl hiding her desire for me beneath a charade of lesbianism.”
Sneaky Pete absorbs this silently. He stares into my closet, then rips out a jacket, a tie, pants and a shirt. I’m impressed, but he’s just getting started. He wanders over to my desk and studies my accessories. Sadly, nothing there appears to take his fancy, and he disappears into his own room. When he returns, he is carrying a Rolex, sunglasses and a thin chain I’m not sure if I’m supposed to put on my wrist, my waist or around my neck.
“Thanks,” I say gratefully. Sneaky Pete nods and silently withdraws.
When I’m showered, shaved and dressed, I catch a bus to the Ford dealership. It’s no problem to talk my way into a Ford, and from here the process goes smoothly all the way up, so when I slide my current-year Mercedes into the Porsche dealership, there is a small man with bright eyes helping me out of the car. The Porsche people are a little more strict about letting people take test drives on their own, but this doesn’t slow me down for long, either. I drive around with the dealer in tow, admiring the car, and when we get back I pretend to call my father on my cellphone.
“Hey, Dad,” I say loudly. I am trying very hard to let everyone hear me while appearing to be concerned that no one hears me. “Where are you, at the studio? ... How’s Geena? ... And Uma? ... Fantastic.” I act so badly I make myself sick.
“So, Dad.” The dealer is pretending to arrange a potted plant. He turns it left, surveys it critically, turns it back. His acting is far . worse than mine. “I’ve got a surprise. No, just be out the front of One in twenty minutes. Okay? ... Great. Love to you. Okay. Okay.”
I turn to the dealer. “It’s a done deal. Gimme the car.”
He breaks out in smiles. I give him a big greasy helping of my own. We are both happy, smiling people. “You take American Express, right?”
“Of course,” he says, mortally offended.
Inside, of course, I am astounded to discover that my American Express Gold Card is missing. I rifle through my wallet, spilling three hundred dollars in cash (my entire savings), my bogus American Film Institute card and my driver’s license across the desk. “I can’t believe this.” The dealer proffers great sympathy. “Hey,” I say, “you know who I am, right? You don’t mind me fixing you up tomorrow?”
The dealer, who of course has never heard of me in his life, picks up my driver’s license. I can see him considering whether he should know me or not.
“Look, tell you what,” I say. “I’ll leave that with you. As securiry. ”
He’s doubtful, but it’s amazing how flexible people can be when they think there’s a commission in it. He calls someone to check that I exist, and apparently I do. So I get the car.
Porsche’s success is largely due to excellent marketing, but it’s still a fuck of a good car. I put the foot down and eat up most of Los Angeles in twenty minutes.
mktg case study #2: mktg cola
NEVER, NEVER DISCUSS TASTE. TASTE IS 90 PERCENT PSYCHOLOGICAL AND IT DOESN’T SELL COLA; IT’S ROUGHLY A TENTH AS IMPORTANT AS IMAGE. THERE HAVE BEEN STUDIES.
an epic dinner with 6
The Saville is amazingly classy. I doubt I’d even be let inside a place like this unless I drove a Porsche, sunglasses or not.
By some beautiful stroke of fate, 6 is already inside and seated just behind the glass, so she sees me drive up. This is great luck, because it frees me from having to slip the Porsche into conversation somewhere. I grin to her as I toss the keys to the valet and she raises one killer eyebrow in return. She is so sexy I am in pain.
When I arrive at the table, I see that she’s wearing a white dress, which is clinging to her so tightly I doubt she can breathe. Against her midnight hair, the effect is a little dizzying. “6,” I say. “You look ravishing.”
“Mr. Scat.” She hesitates.
“Please,” I say, sitting. “Just Scat.”
“Sca
t.” She presses long, elegant fingers together. Pianist fingers. Brain surgeon fingers. Except for the nails, which are half an inch long and painted black. “Let me jump right in.”
“Please do,” I say with real feeling.
“This Fukk Cola ... it’s intriguing. I think it may have potential.”
“Thank you,” I say, beginning to fiddle with my napkin. On some level I realize this is a giveaway of my nervousness at having a power dinner at the Saville, but I can’t help myself. I try to twirl the napkin every so often to appear kind of bored and cool rather than manic-obsessive.
6 ignores my napkin performance to pick up a short stick of celery and slip it between her lips. “You were thinking, of course,” she says, gently masticating the celery, “of the gwwfnnnfss hggnnyupp dmmnngffn.”
6 is looking at me and I abruptly realize that I should quit concentrating so much on the way she slips food between her lips and start concentrating on what she is saying. “Pardon me?”
She frowns. “I asked if you were thinking of the gen-X, high-end yup demographic.”
“Oh, of course,” I say, recovering. “It’ll be the drink of cynics.”
6 is nodding her head wisely.
“Forgive my asking,” I say, feeling abruptly bold. Perhaps it’s the soft reassurance of the napkin. “But you seem pretty young to be a marketing manager in such a big company.”
“I’m twenty-one,” 6 says.
“No you’re not,” I say.
“Ah, no,” she says. “I am.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, “but you can’t be twenty-one.”
