14
3:40 p.m.
I found my creative team waiting in my office. In the excitement of the announcement, I had nearly forgotten about the meeting I had scheduled earlier.
Three women and a young man who looked like a high school senior sat around my glass top table. Matt Riggs, Manny Rodriguez and a forty-ish man wearing a cowboy hat, boots and jeans occupied the chairs in front of my desk. From the personnel files, I guessed the man in cowboy garb as Bob Roy Pickard, a legendary copywriter from the Lone Star State.
"Sorry I'm late," I said. “This get-acquainted meeting's going to be short. Our four-o'clock get together with Cunningham and Higgins doesn't leave much time, so let’s get started.
"First, my name is Darcy James." Glancing around the room, my eyes stopped at two of the women seated at the table: Ginny Stankowski, an extremely talented art director and M. J. Curtis, an equally gifted copywriter. “Hi, M. J., hello Ginny. You guys haven't changed a bit in five years...please say I haven't either."
A ripple of nervous laughter. The group had been affected by the news they heard downstairs. Who wouldn’t be? I echoed Cunningham's final words in the lobby, telling the group that I shared his faith in their ability to create a campaign that would keep the account at Adams & Benson.
"Now let's get the introductions out of the way. I met Matt and Manny this morning, and I’ve read your personnel files. Help me match names with faces."
"Sure," said the attractive African-American woman sitting with M.J. and Ginny. “Gloria Johnson. Been here about three years. Came from Campbell-Ewald...I was senior art director on Chevy mid-size."
"Liked your work there, Gloria," I said. "Especially that Chevy 'Malibu at Malibu' ad."
"Aw, call her Glo-Jo," drawled the man in the cowboy hat. “Everybody else does.”
Pickard and Glo-Jo Johnson were one of the company’s premier writer-art director teams, and by far the most unlikely. He was a slim, blonde Texan with a slow drawl, she an outgoing black woman who had grown up on Detroit's west side. They had experienced a love-hate relationship from the start: Bob Roy loved Glo-Jo with all his heart; she wanted nothing to do with him.
But it soon became obvious that their relationship, while not made in heaven, just might have been conceived in the advertising hall of fame. Alone, both had been solid creative talents. Together, much to Glo-Jo's chagrin, they were dynamite, their work copping awards in virtually every major advertising competition.
“By the way," said the man in the cowboy hat, "I'm Bob Roy Pickard. I was driving cars before I could write about 'em."
"Some people would say that's still true," said Glo-Jo.
I looked over at the young man at the table with the three women, the one who looked like he still attended high school.
"Will Parkins," the kid said quickly, sitting up straight. "Graduated from the school of art at Columbia in June. And... and I hope to be here a lot longer."
"You will be, Will. Just give us the best you have, and we'll all be fine.
“It's nearly time to meet with Cunningham and Higgins. Let's get to the eighth floor conference room and find out what the hell this is all about."
15
Now
We drove into Gaylord’s small downtown, its Main Street lined with brightly painted shops and restaurants. The day was warm and sunny, people walked the sidewalks in shorts and short-sleeved shirts. I found it puzzling to see a number of men walking in groups of four, until Higgins pointed out the popularity of the area with golfers. A dozen courses lay within a short putt of downtown Gaylord.
Higgins parked the Avatar AVX on a side street and we did our shopping quickly, picking up clothes and food. No one seemed to recognize our faces; something I feared would change once Detroit papers hit the Northern Michigan newsstands. The killing of the policeman and our “escape” would rate front-page coverage, complete with photos of Sean and me.
I kept thinking about the people back at Adams & Benson: co-workers like Matt Carter, Will Parkins, M.J., Glo-Jo and Bob Roy. And Manny...poor Manny. Would they trust we were innocent of murdering that policeman, or would they believe Bacalla’s story? I remembered what Paul Chapman had said about Bacalla at lunch that day, how he hardly knew the man even after working with him for months, and hoped our co-workers were all giving us the benefit of the doubt.
We left downtown with enough food for ten days if we ate sparingly, a week if we didn’t. We could stay out of sight that long at Higgins’ cottage.
But what then?
16
Monday, Oct. 11 – 3:59 p.m.
Baron Nichols and his group were already in the conference room, all eight along one side of the long oak conference table. We took seats on the opposite side. Cunningham and Higgins hadn’t yet arrived.
The scene reminded me of a seventh grade dance where the girls huddled together on one side of the room, the boys on the other. Normally, there would have been conversation, a bit of light-hearted bantering, but the news of Cato’s death and the announcement in the lobby created a tension that reached into the pits of our stomachs. Each person gazed nervously about the room, trying to avoid the eyes of others.
I didn’t mind the silence. Nichols’ actions at lunch still galled me. If our groups had to compete, bring it on.
I found myself daydreaming, gazing out the expansive floor-to-ceiling window with its view of the downtown skyline. I pictured King Kong on top of the Penobscot Building, F-16 fighters circling the building. Instead of Fay Wray or Jessica Lange, the big ape had Baron Nichols clenched in one gigantic fist.
The vision kept getting better; Mr. Kong was about to discover how high Nichols would bounce off Woodward Avenue when Ken Cunningham entered with a well-groomed, sandy-haired man in his mid-thirties I knew must be Sean Higgins, and an assistant account executive whose name I learned was Lyle Windemere.
I chalked off Windemere immediately as the typical young, butt-kissing account assistant. As for Higgins, my first impression was that he looked a little too carefully groomed -- an Armani suit that cost two grand if it cost a dime, a crisply starched white shirt and a hand-made Countess Mara necktie. Probably the type who visited a barber twice a week.
After introducing me to both men, Cunningham began. "I see everyone’s here. Let me say that Darren Cato’s death has certainly come as a shock. He was a fine producer.
“But I’m afraid we have to look beyond his passing for the moment. Because together, we face a crisis that threatens not only us, but dozens of our friends. We must create advertising that will win the business and keep the AVC account at Adams & Benson.
"Darcy, Baron. I've invited both of your groups to participate because we need to explore as many options as we can. You'll work independently and, in the end, just one of your campaigns will be presented."
"That's fine with us, Ken," Nichols said. "We welcome the competition.”
Kiss my ass, Nichols. His flaming red hair had gotten him the nickname “Red Baron,” but “Flaming Ass” seemed more like it.
Cunningham continued. “We’ve all read about the industry's attempts to perfect an electric vehicle that's acceptable to the American driving public.
"Until now the big hurdle has been range. The American consumer won't accept a car that can't travel farther than eighty or a hundred miles without recharging.
"Today we learned that, through one of its subsidiaries, American Vehicle has scored a major breakthrough...a fuel cell that gives their electric car a range of more than five hundred miles on a single charge.”
That news bought a round of murmurs from both creative groups. Cunningham went on. "AVC's engineers say the car will perform like a conventionally-powered vehicle. Zero to sixty in the eight to nine second range."
"Why hasn't the press gotten wind of it?" Carter asked.
"AVC has gone to great lengths to keep this quiet. Not even their people know much about the new vehicle. We do know the vehicle is a small car. Seats four, max. Bu
t AVC isn't concerned with size...they see the market as singles and young marrieds without children.
“They want to stress the car’s range, with quiet performance and inexpensive operation a close second and third.
“The first production models won't roll off the line for a month, but they want to break out the advertising campaign as soon as possible. They know the competition is close to developing their own long range vehicles, and they want the Ampere announced first."
"The Ampere?" This time it was Baron Nichols asking the question.
Before Cunningham could answer, Windemere jumped in. "That's the name their marketing people came up with, Baron," he said. "It did well in focus panels.”
Cunningham shot Windemere a sideways glance. "Our mission," he continued, "is to develop a full-blown advertising campaign. I want to show our client comprehensive layouts, with copy and visuals just as they'll appear in newspapers and magazines. And I want to present a mocked-up TV commercial on DVD disc, complete with actor and announcer voices."
Higgins had been leaning back in his chair watching the reactions of the two creative groups. Now he turned to Cunningham. "You don't think they can visualize the commercial from story board images?"
"Those guys are engineers and numbers crunchers. They couldn't visualize a fart after three helpings of baked beans. I want to hit them right between the eyes.
"But there's another reason. Time is critical. The quicker we get them on the air, the better our chances of getting the business.
"The first prototype Ampere won’t be available for filming for three weeks. That means the other two agencies probably won't plan to put them on air for at least a month and a half. But if we keep our TV ideas simple enough to produce with computer animation, we can be on air before that. We've just invested two million in the latest computer animation equipment. Let's make the most of it."
A few murmurs and groans sounded. The creative people on both teams were convinced their hands had been tied. While the writers, art directors and producers at the other two agencies would have free reign, they were being limited to what could be generated on computer.
"Look, I know you can do it," Cunningham said, trotting out the charm that endeared him to A & B clients. "No cast of thousands. No spectacular panoramic shots. Just the kind of bright ideas you folks have come up with time and time again.”
"When do you present to AVC?" Nichols asked.
"Four weeks from today. Sean Higgins will be in charge of the project, assisted by Lyle Windemere.” Windemere beamed at the sound of his name and I suspected he’d be wagging his tail if he had one.
“We'll be giving you more details on the car itself,” Cunningham said. “All I can add are my wishes for your success in creating the campaign that will keep the business here at A & B.
"Any other questions?"
"Just the obvious," I said. "When do you and Higgins want to see our ideas in an internal presentation?”
“Yesterday.”
17
5:43 p.m.
Work on the Ampere campaign began immediately. With the prospect of a long evening ahead, I decided to have supper for the group delivered to my office.
The team voted for Chow Ling's Chinese, but when the eight white paper bags arrived they might as well have contained Puppy Chow. Slumped in leather chairs and seated around the glass top table, the group picked at their meals like fussy third graders.
They were feeling the weight of a responsibility none had asked for. Hundreds of A & B employees and their families depended on the advertising we would create over the next few weeks.
That cloud might have hung over the group all evening if it hadn’t been for Lyle Windemere. I hadn’t known Windemere for more than a few hours, but I had him pretty well pegged: a self-important junior account executive whose duties consisted primarily of running errands for Sean Higgins. Red haired, freckled and fresh out of graduate school, he gave no outward indication of the slightest ability to rally the troops. In fact, it seemed a safe bet he couldn’t inspire a group of weight watching dropouts with a pastry cart packed with cannoli.
Nonetheless suddenly there he stood, ramrod straight, clearing his throat as if about to deliver the State-of-the-Union address before Congress.
“First of all,” he began, “let me thank each of you in advance for your fine efforts. I know you’ll come up with something Ken, Sean and I will be proud of.”
I heard a soft groan and saw Bob Roy Pickard’s eyes roll back in his head. If Windemere noticed he gave no sign.
“I was putting in a little O.T. myself,” he said, “and decided to drop by and see what you’ve come up with.”
What we’d come up with? Was he joking? We’d had the assignment less than four hours. The man clearly had no perception of the creative process or the people involved in it.
My group, on the other hand, knew exactly what to think of a stuffed shirt who walked around the agency as if he had a stick up his rear end. I sat back and watched as Matt Carter pulled Windemere’s chain.
“You got here right on time,” Carter said. “We were just finishing up the campaign.”
“You were?”
“Sure. We even decided on a name for the car.”
“Ridiculous. If you’d listened to Ken Cunningham’s briefing, you’d know they already have a name. Ampere.”
“That’s what I mean,” Carter said. “AVC blew it.”
Windemere stood with his arms folded. “I suppose you have a better name for an electric car?”
“Sure,” Carter said. “Volts-wagon.”
The humor flew over Windemere’s head like an F-16. “Volkswagen? You can’t be serious. That name’s already taken.”
Bob Roy Pickard jumped in. “Lyle, I want your opinion on a headline.”
“Hit me with it.”
“We want to convince people to take their electric vehicles back to an AVC dealer when they need service.”
“Yes?”
“How about ‘Let us look into your shorts’?”
“Very funny. Don’t you creatives ever get serious?”
“I tried it once,” Pickard said. “My ads all sounded like they were written by account executives.”
More smiles, perhaps a chuckle or two. The mood of the group lifted. Observing these writers and art directors trading insults with Windemere was like watching a cat playing with a chipmunk it was about to devour. I decided to save Windemere from digging himself in any deeper.
“We appreciate your interest, Lyle,” I said, smothering a laugh, “but the Ampere is a unique vehicle. Creating a campaign that does it justice is going to take a lot more time than we’ve had so far.”
Windemere left in a huff, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched around his ears, completely clueless to the positive contribution his appearance had produced.
18
10:28 p.m.
As I drove to the two-story house in Detroit’s Indian Village area the agency had provided as temporary quarters, my thoughts washed back over the evening.
I pictured Will, Ginny, Glo-Jo, Matt Carter and the others, and remembered how nervous they seemed at first over the challenge facing them. I remembered how that fear had disappeared, replaced by a determination to meet the challenge, to create a campaign that would win the AVC business and save not only their jobs, but the careers of their friends.
What about me? I thought. What about Jeff Luden? He offered me a job, with a pay raise of twenty grand.
Until this moment, I hadn’t made time to consider the offer. Maybe it sounds crazy, but if we weren’t in such a horrible mess the decision would have been a whole lot easier. A twenty thousand dollar pay raise was something even Ken Cunningham and Sid Goldman would understand if I decided to bail after one day on the job.
I hadn’t asked for this situation: caught in an uphill fight with three agencies in a battle only one would win.
But I could choose what I would do about it.
The clock on the instrument panel read ten-thirty; nine-thirty in Chicago, early enough to call Jeff Luden.
To tell him I intended to stay and fight.
19
11:18 p.m.
Hello?
Hi, Dad.
Dad? Who’s that calling me Dad? Do I have a daughter?
Sorry I haven’t called till now, Dad. What with moving all my belongings and then finally starting work, the pace here has been absolutely unreal.
So you haven’t forgotten us?
I’ve been running from the time I got to Detroit. And now we’re crashing on a top-secret project I can’t talk about. Today lasted 14 hours.
Can’t talk about it, huh? Must be important.
Maybe too important. We have to re-pitch one of A & B’s oldest accounts. If we lose the business, the agency’s going to lose jobs.
That doesn’t sound fair.
You taught me a long time ago that life isn’t fair.
I read in the paper that a man was killed... a video editor. Did you know him?
I didn’t, but some of the people I work with did. And later today we heard that one of our producers here at A & B was found dead.
Are you sure you’re okay? I worry about you, Kitten.
I’ll be fine, Dad. I’m all grown up now.
Watch your step. Anything can happen in a big city.
I’ll be careful.
Have you seen Ken Cunningham?
Seen him? He’s all over the place. He sends his regards, by the way.
Tell him I said hello. And get some sleep Kit. You sound tired.
I am Dad. I love you. And give my love to Melanie. I’ll call soon.
I love you Kit. Goodnight.
20
Tuesday, Oct. 12 8:45 a.m.
I arrived at Adams & Benson surprised to find my former husband in the parking lot. Between the non-descript brown suit he wore and the non-descript blue Ford Taurus he emerged from, you’d have him pegged him as a cop from across the River. He saw me and nodded.
Freeze Frame Page 4
