by J. J. Murray
The kicker, though, is a hidden camera video on the full screen of Hairy Ads execs talking to someone who sounds exactly like Tom!
Tom’s Voice
This vehicle is overpriced, under-tested, and flat-out dangerous to the public, Mr. Harrison. It failed every crash test, and it barely gets eleven miles to the gallon on the highway. It’s a lemon, Mr. Harrison. This is a lawsuit waiting to happen.
Exec #1
Why do you care, Tom?
Tom’s Voice
Because it’s overpriced, under-tested, and dangerous to the public.
Exec #2
When will you ever understand what we do here at Harrison Hersey and Boulder, Tom? We turn shit like this into gold all the time....
Tom smiles. “Lights please.”
I want to give him a standing ovation! Whoo! My butterflies are freaking gone now. Whoo! Encore! Author! Author!
The silence in that conference room is so loud, that if I screamed, no one would hear me. One of the Hairy Ads men, Mr. Harrison himself, approaches Tom and says something.
Tom doesn’t react. “What was that again, Mr. Harrison?” he asks.
“I said,” Mr. Harrison says loudly, “you are fired, Mr. Sexton.”
Tom exhales and loosens his tie. “Thank you, Mr. Harrison. Nice toupee, by the way. Does your mistress in Milan like it better than your mistress in Paris does? Or are you bald for one and hairy for the other?”
Mr. Harrison’s mouth drops open.
So does mine. Two mistresses and a wife? With that hair? The man needs a body lift, too. Eww, he has hairy ears.
“You ... you will never work in this town again!” Mr. Harrison says.
That tired old cliché? Man, Mr. Harrison is whack. I was hoping for something more original than that from the head of a powerful advertising agency. I mean, he could have said, “You are dismissed, sir!” or “I’m giving you the sack, Jack!” or “You are terminated!”
Tom winks at me. “I don’t plan to work in this town again, Herb.”
That’s right. We’re going on the road, y’all. I’m going to see the world!
Mr. Harrison points at Tom. “You will hear from our lawyers, Mr. Sexton.”
Tom removes his tie and tosses it on the table. “Can’t wait, Herb. Um, now that I’m fired, does that mean the confidentiality clause doesn’t apply? Good Morning America is always looking for whistle-blowers with video to back up their claims. I have twenty hours of meetings for them to use, Mr. Harrison. Might even make a good Dateline, don’t you think?” Tom removes his jacket and throws it onto the table. “Or Sixty Minutes. ”
I wonder how far my man will go. Mmm. The shirt! Take off the shirt!
Mr. Harrison’s mouth drops open again. Eww. Look at all those filled cavities and beige teeth. His mistresses must be blind.
I sense movement near me. Oh, it’s Corrine. She’s staring at me with evil eyes.
“Yes, Miss Ross?” I should have been an actress.
“You’re fired, Shari,” she whispers.
But no one heard that! I want to go out in style, too. “What?” I say as innocently as I know how to.
“I said that you are fired!” Corrine says loudly, the word fired coming out in a kind of screech, like fingernails on a chalkboard.
I push back in my chair and prop up my boots on the table, but I don’t take any clothes off like Tom. I am already properly attired. I look directly at Tom. “Thank you, Cringe. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“You ... you ... bitch!” Corrine yells.
This is a very big conference room. I distinctly hear an echo. I didn’t even know Corrine knew that word. I shrug. I guess you just never truly know people.
Mr. Dunn stands, his mouth open, too, but no drool escaping this time. “Miss Ross, you’re fired.”
This has to be some sort of record. Three firings in about thirty seconds. This will make the front page of Advertising Age for sure.
“It wasn’t my fault!” Corrine shouts. “Shari fed me the wrong information.”
“And it’s your job to double- and triple-check your facts!” Mr. Dunn shouts. He stares me down. “You never would have gotten through the JAE program, Miss Nance. Never. Not in a million years.”
“It’s Mrs. Sexton,” I say. I point at Tom. “I’m married to him. Isn’t he gorgeous?”
Well, at least we know who doesn’t watch YouTube. The HHB nerds look at each other with the most quizzical expressions, all of them bobbing for flies. Mr. Dunn looks as if he’s about to expire.
“And as for your little junior executive program, I know I would have aced it,” I say, “unlike you, Mr. Dunn.”
“What?” he yells.
Geez, all this yelling. You’d think Brooklyn had just broken out in the room. “Didn’t you fail a similar junior executive program. . .” I point across the table at the HHB drones. “With them?” I smile at Mr. Harrison. “I’m right, aren’t I, Herb?”
Mr. Hersey approaches Mr. Peterson. I wouldn’t do that if I were you. That good ol’ Georgia boy is pissed.
“Mr. Peterson, I’m Jim Hersey, and I want you to know that what you saw here today in no way reflects the vision—”
“Y’all can leave now,” Mr. Peterson interrupts.
“Um,” Mr. Boulder says, “I’m Bob Boulder. What we’re trying to say is that this man—”
“I’ve heard enough,” Mr. Peterson interrupts. “Y’all can leave. Now.”
Mr. Harrison strides over to Mr. Peterson. “Look, Tom Sexton is obviously a disgruntled employee who—”
“Who told the damn truth!” Mr. Peterson shouts. “What part of ‘y’all leave’ don’t y’all understand?”
The Hairy Ads fools sweep out first, Dunn and Corrine fussing right behind them. I distinctly hear her say, “But it’s not my fault! It’s hers! How can you fire me for something I didn’t do?”
Lifetime memories. I will never forget these moments. Oh, for a video camera.
Once the doors close, Tom motions to me, and I kick my legs off the table and swing into action. I stand, and my legs feel pretty sturdy.
“Mr. Peterson, Mrs. Peterson,” I say softly, “I know you probably don’t like me very much right now.”
Only Mrs. Peterson smiles. Mr. Peterson’s face is so red! No more rib eyes for you, mister.
“But I have very good reasons for all the foolishness you’ve seen today. The fact is, I love your bicycle.” Wow. I’m about to cry. “Your bicycle brought me the man of my dreams.” I fight the urge to run over and hug Tom. This is business, and I am currently unemployed, so I have to be all business to get some business. Or something like that.
“Y’all are really married?” Mr. Peterson asks.
I show him my ring, and Tom shows him his. “We were married yesterday on the Brooklyn Bridge,” Tom says.
Mr. Peterson starts to speak and stops. Then he squints. “What was that little show you two put on at H and H all about then?”
I move closer to the Peterson’s table. “As you’ve probably already figured out, I, um, I was impersonating my boss, who just got fired and who used to be Tom’s girlfriend, and Tom, strangely, didn’t bust me out at H and H because ...” I turn to Tom.
“Because, Mr. Peterson,” Tom says, “I’ve been in love with Shari for a long time.”
Mr. Peterson looks at Mrs. Peterson. “That was the craziest conversation I think I have ever heard in my life.” He looks at me. “I thought the two of you were out of your minds.”
Mrs. Peterson pats his hand. “They were, dear. They were crazy in love. Go on, Shari.”
I move to the edge of their table. “After meeting you two and touring your plant, Tom and I decided to join forces. Neither of us were happy with the agencies we were working for, and as you’ve seen here today, neither of us really belong, you know?”
Mr. Peterson nods.
“But in order for us to have you take us seriously, we had to put on that sorry littl
e show you just saw.” I almost tongue-tied myself. “I saw how disappointed you were, Mr. Peterson, and it broke my heart. I am so sorry. I know I have no right to ask you for anything. I lied to you. And you gave me a gift, and I returned the favor with this nonsense. But after you see the ad campaign Tom and I have come up with, I guarantee that you’ll be glad you’re not having MultiCorp or Harrison Hersey and Boulder take your hard-earned money. Again, I know I have no right to ask this, but will you give us a chance to prove our worth?”
Mr. Peterson loosens his tie and throws it onto the table. “You promise it won’t be like any of that other shit?”
“Mr. Peterson!” Mrs. Peterson yells. “Language.”
“Well, dear,” Mr. Peterson says, “that’s what it was.”
Mrs. Peterson sighs. “You could say manure.”
Mr. Peterson rolls his eyes. “Sorry, dear.” He looks us over. “Y’all ain’t originally from New York, right?”
“No sir,” Tom says. “I’m from Oregon, and Shari’s from Virginia.”
Mr. Peterson frowns. “And you think I’m gonna like what I’m about to see?”
“Yes sir,” I say.
“Well,” Mr. Peterson says, looking at Mrs. Peterson, “it couldn’t be any worse than the manure we’ve just seen. Show me what you got.”
Yes! Thank You, Lord!
I nod at Tom, Tom nods at the laughing technician, and our commercials begin. The fifteen-second spot gets a nod from Mr. Peterson. The thirty-second spot gets another nod. The radio spot earns two nods and a half smile. During the PowerPoint of all our new friends, Mr. Peterson actually smiles while Mrs. Peterson points at the screen and whispers in his ear. I look under the table and see four feet tapping in tune to “Stand by Me.”
When the music ends, Tom pulls my T-shirts out of his briefcase! Where’d he get them? He hands several to Mr. Peterson. “For your grandkids.”
“How did you get them, Tom?” I had completely forgotten that I had ordered them.
“Our secretary, Tia,” he says. “Remember?”
Duh. Tia will get a lifetime supply of quesadillas for this.
Mr. Peterson holds up a shirt. “I really like this slogan.”
“Shari designed them,” Tom says. “And she came up with just about everything you’ve seen.”
Yeah, buddy. I’m getting me some credit today.
“Get lost in America,” Mr. Peterson says. “No matter where you ride, you’re home.” He starts to smile, the smile becomes a laugh, and the laugh turns into a hand slapping the table. “By God, you two!”
I hold my breath.
Mr. Peterson stands and offers his hand to me. “I knew there was something I liked about you, Miss Ross, or whatever your name is now.”
“I’m Mrs. Sexton now.” I take Mr. Peterson’s hand, and he shakes it once. “Does this mean, um, that we’re, um ...”
Mr. Peterson nods. “You’re hired.”
Although I know it’s completely unprofessional, I jump up onto the table in front of Tom, scoot across, and hug the skin off him.
“How soon can all this run?” Mr. Peterson asks.
Tom turns me around but leaves his hands on my hips. “It will take us most of the day, the night, and part of tomorrow morning, but we can have it all out there by five o’clock tomorrow evening.”
We can? I never even thought how we’d do that. Just leave it to Tom. The man knows his details.
“How much are you asking?” Mr. Peterson asks.
Oh, it’s my turn. “We’re a brand-new company, Mr. Peterson, so we’re only asking for the right to do your campaign. You’ve already paid us with a bicycle and your infinite patience here today.”
Mr. Peterson blinks at us. “You have to be compensated somehow. With commercials like those, I might even start watching TV again. What’d it cost you to produce all that?”
“About five thousand dollars,” I say. “We did all the production ourselves to keep costs down.”
“There’s still airtime and ad placement to pay for, Mr. Peterson,” Tom says. “And that can get pretty expensive.”
“You just get me on the air,” he says. “Five thousand dollars. Amazing.” He confers with Mrs. Peterson. “My secretary here says a hundred grand is fair. What do you say?”
I say my future baby’s room is now furnished! What am I saying? My whole house is now furnished! I may even get a car out of this ... and another pair of boots ...
Tom nods. “It’s more than fair, Mr. Peterson, and it will be our pleasure to grow with your company.”
“Well, what do you call yourselves?” Mr. Peterson asks. “I want to brag on y’all down my way.”
Tom winces. “Um, we’ve been calling our company Methuselah’s Breezy Hiccup.”
Mr. Peterson blinks. “That’s a mouthful.”
Oh no! Not again. We just won! I shouldn’t have to do this! “Excuse me, y’all.” I run out of the room, find a bathroom, and spew again. There can’t be anything left inside me. Why am I falling apart?
“You okay, dear?” Mrs. Peterson asks.
I didn’t even hear her come in. I flush, leave the stall, and stagger to the sink, cupping the water with my hands and taking several gulps. “I don’t know why I keep puking, Mrs. Peterson.”
She smiles. “When did it start?”
I tell her I’m puking and she smiles? “Last night.” I drink some more water. “I got out of bed just in time, and today I can’t keep down anything I’ve eaten for more than maybe an hour.”
“How many times have you puked, Shari?” she asks.
I love southern women. They get right to the point. “Three times today, four total since last night.” I shake my head. “I wish I knew what it was. I am never sick. Never. I thought it was all the excitement, but I may be coming down with something.”
She feels my forehead. “Sounds like morning sickness to me.”
I blink at her. “But we’ve only ... I mean, we’ve just gotten started!” Well, we did make up for a lot of lost time over the weekend.
Oh my goodness!
“You feel perfectly fine after you’ve puked?” she asks.
“Yeah. I do,” I say. “Why is that?”
She hugs me. “I think you’re pregnant, Shari.”
“I can’t be.” Can I?
She steps back and holds my shoulders. “Most women don’t have morning sickness till the fourth month or so if they even have it at all,” she says, “but folks like us are the rare exceptions. I had it real bad just a day or two after conceiving all three of my kids.”
I blink at myself in the mirror.
Wow.
Well.
Hmm.
I suppose I ought to be.
I mean, it’s about time I was ... somebody’s mama.
I start to cry. I turn to her. “I need to tell Tom.”
She nods.
I return to the conference room, wiping at tears that don’t want to stop. “Sorry about that, Mr. Peterson.” I step into Tom and look up.
“Are you all right?” Tom asks.
I nod, letting the tears fall. “Um, Tom, I’ve been rethinking our agency’s name. I think we should just stick to Breezy from now on.”
“Okay,” he says. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I have never been better.” I look into his eyes. “And we’re going to name our daughter Breezy, okay?”
He nods. “I like that name. Breezy Sexton. Very cool.”
He’s still not understanding me. “Um, we’re going to be naming her pretty soon, Tom, like in August.”
Tom’s mouth drops open. He has such nice teeth. Ooh, just look at that tongue!
“And after Breezy,” I continue, “we’ll have a little girl named Bliss.”
Tom closes his mouth, nods, and lifts me high into the air, and his shouting rattles the windows on the fifty-fifth floor of the Millennium Hotel.
I’ll out-yell him later tonight at our house. The neighbors won’t hear
us. The city of Queens might, though.
He sets me down. “Really?”
I nod. “I think so. I’ve been puking all day.”
He shouts again.
Pitiful. He doesn’t use his diaphragm at all. I’ll teach him.
After shaking hands with Mr. Peterson and filling out a contract, Tom and I stand looking out that window at all the lights of Manhattan.
“Ready to go home, Shari?” he asks.
I smile at Tom. “Man, I am already home.”
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2012 by J. J. Murray
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-7813-5
