by Dan Kennedy
I keep thinking of him as a cross between Mr. Burns from The Simpsons and a giant infant monster running amok in sort of herky-jerky motion against a skyline, like some kind of sixties sci-fi Ray Harryhausen stop-motion animation. I literally have to make an effort to remember he’s a grown man. We’re so clearly doomed. Morale is unbelievably low.
There are these e-mails that have started floating around. Nobody’s getting fired yet, the deal hasn’t even gone through, but the few guys on the twenty-eighth floor are cleaning house and giving some people “the option” to leave. Probably in hopes of making numbers look a little better and saving their own ass when this guy becomes our new stepdad. These sudden dispatches — creepy, strained corporate good-byes/eulogies from people who have suddenly decided that “There is an opportunity to move on and explore other things in life after ten great years . . .” — are showing up almost daily in our in-boxes. They feel as if they’re typed at gunpoint. Like you should be reading them for prearranged, secret phrases or clues that would convey a message of whereabouts or safety. “I’ve decided it’s time to move on.” You bet; makes perfect sense when you think about it. The economy is the weakest it’s been in the last twelve years, unemployment is at a ten-year high, the cost of living in New York has remained staggering and unadjusted to the current recession. It just makes good sense that it’s time to take the leap into opening that home-based salsa and sauces business that your friends said you should start when they tasted your pasta sauce at your dinner party a year ago.
You can only imagine what went on behind closed doors to generate these little flurries of faked and steely optimism laced with supposed midlife desires to open a small business or spend more time on hobbies and travel. And they’re always followed by a note from the two or three guys making millions and still running this show. “There are some changes going on, and I wanted to communicate them to you so that you understand that . . . everything . . . is . . . fine. I repeat: Bob from sales was not harmed. He is very happy to be moving on, and he said that in an e-mail today. Please continue to go about your work. We are a big family. Continue to work. Faaaaammmily.”
THE BENDS
Vallerie has just come into my office crying. Apparently the guys upstairs are hauling people in and giving them the option between a 50 percent salary cut or a severance package. She’s sitting in my office stunned and shaken, not believing twenty years would end this way, when an e-mail from the guys upstairs about how she’s “decided to move on and will be missed” hits my in-box. And the end of the e-mail celebrates Ms. Chocolate Chip being promoted into Vallerie’s position as Senior Vice President of Marketing — head of the marketing department and my direct boss as of about five minutes ago. Look, I know I’m marred with a good old-fashioned alcoholic lust for career suicide, and I know by now you’ve figured out that I’m a pessimist hardwired to fail, just like any other semitalented malcontent burdened by self-absorption, minor chemical imbalance, and the guilt of wasting years, but you have to admit that this is shaping up to look like the end.
I read in the Wall Street Journal this morning that some of our top brass are expected to “exit” as early as this week. They specifically cited Rush Hair as being most likely one of the first to go.
There’s this weird calm and tension around here today. Assistants speak in urgent hushed whispers and dart about from office to office like birds who can sense the storm approaching. They’re trying to make good impressions on everyone — not just the people they assist — because who knows who’ll be left to work for. At first this confuses me and I think every attractive young woman in her early twenties working on this floor has developed a sudden interest in me. Vallerie leaves my office, and for the next half hour it seems like every time I look up from my computer, there’s another assistant sitting in the chair in front of my desk asking to speak with me. I look up once and a young brunette girl that I recognize as an assistant to Aging Suburban Rocker Guy is sitting there.
“I’ve always wanted to just work with music. You know? That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do my whole life, really. You’ve been a big influence on me in this business [?] and I just want to say that I appreciate that.”
“O . . . kay. Hello.”
Cut to another attractive young woman that I recognize from walking by her cubicle every day for the last year and a half.
“No matter what happens around here, I just want to say that it’s been really cool. I grew up so far from all of this. In the country! Out in the sticks! But I love New York. I really do, I love it here. And I love the record business. I like the . . . the . . . marketing? That you’ve done.”
It all feels like a completely inappropriate kind of speed-dating event.
She continues, “If you need help with anything, let me know. I can help you do whatever.”
“Okay, well . . . I like working here. With you. Working here together.”
And then a male assistant.
“Hey, man. I just want to say whatever happens around here with all the changes, you’ve really been an inspiration. I really hope our paths cross in this business again. You’re definitely the kind of guy I’d like to be in this business when I’m your age.”
“Uh, I’m only . . .”
Amy comes into my office and the young man I’ve inspired leaves. She tells me she’s given her notice and is moving into a management position at a magazine across town. Maybe the smartest move anyone in the building has really made in the time I’ve been here.
I still can’t believe the situation with Chocolate Chip; yesterday she was still a video producer; she was still the person to call if you were a pop star demanding a midget in the dream sequence of your music video, or if you’ve figured out that what you need is a high-class hooker pretending to be the stewardess on the rented private jet you’re doing your photo shoot on. But now she’s moving into Vallerie’s corner office as soon as it’s cleared out.
If a scuba diver attempted an ascent as suddenly, it would result in the bends — eyeballs bulging free of ocular cavities, and a lifetime of amnesia and babbling insanity — but this week in our little family, something like this is called good old-fashioned upward mobility.
WELCOME TO THE NEW MARKETING MEETING, BABY
It’s Tuesday morning, and I’m on the uptown 9 train because — as I keep telling myself over and over in a silent mantra — never leaving the apartment and living the rest of my thirties without expectations and in a delightfully aimless trance of cable television and junk food only sounds like a good idea. This is the first Tuesday-morning marketing meeting that Vallerie will have no part in. It is, in fact, in the hands of Ms. Chocolate Chip herself, since she is the new head of the department.
I get off at Rockefeller Center, walk up Sixth Avenue, and enter the revolving doors at 1290 to catch the elevator going up. Off the elevator, past the frosted glass doors, and through the lobby. I see that there’s now a small, lit-up sign hung in the lobby that simply states how many records have been sold by this guy who works on the twenty-third floor and has his own in-house label here. Been here for twenty years, and he’s really the only guy in the building who has consistently signed hit acts and sold massive records in the last few years. The company set him up with his own label, then after another string of hits he sold it to them for anywhere from $12–40 million, depending on whom you talk to. He or one of his employees has invested in a sign that allows you to customize a scrolling message like LV RECORDS. . . . OVER 80 MILLION RECORDS SOLD WORLDWIDE and has hung it in the lobby. I think two things:
1. Genius.
2. He’s made that much money for the company and he’s worried about defending himself in the event of a sale and merger? I’m screwed.
Okay, down the hall, late, damn it, late, Jesus, late, why, late. I speed-walk into my office to gear up: notepad, pen, and also highlighter pen (brilliant), I grab my black plastic binder as well. Dude, what else, a stapler? A three-hole punch? Just get going, you’re la
te. I run out hoping I’m carrying enough responsible-looking office supplies to offset the fact that I am at least fifteen minutes (damn, fine, twenty, twenty, twenty, shut up, just walk — faster) late for this meeting. Down the hall to the conference room. Pause a second so the door isn’t hammered open with a speed-walker shoulder-check. One deep breath, and I open the door.
Look at this, the meeting is in full swing. I walk in. She’s staring right at me. I think. Her head is pointed at me, anyway, but it’s hard to tell if her eyes are focusing on me since she’s . . . sweet moses . . . she’s wearing sunglasses. In the office. It’s not even bright in here. It’s not even bright outside today. She looks up over them to make it clear she has noted my coming in late. I’m trying to see if there’s an open seat somewhere along the conference table, but I keep staring back as I walk. Yes. Sunglasses. Are you sure? Look again. Yes. Sunglasses. Okay, quit it, quit looking. I can’t take my eyes off the situation, though! She’s not talking. Nobody’s talking, really, and I’m not sure if that’s because I’ve entered late or if I’ve come in during a lull. There’s some minor perspiration under my hair from all of my speed-walking, and as I make my way toward an open seat, I am rewarded with a refreshing cool feeling on my scalp, which, to my surprise, makes me smile pleasantly. I’m afraid the blissful smile, coupled with my double take, is making me come off as bemused with the idea of our new leader wearing sunglasses in the marketing meeting. Several of the younger assistants and foot soldiers seated around the table take note of my expression and start grinning themselves. There’s no way now for me to explain to them that I’m simply refreshed by the cooling sensation on my scalp, so I just nod hello to them and sit down. She resumes.
“Okay, well we’ve got a rough cut of Ryan Cabrera’s video in. So, if someone will turn off the lights, we’ll take a look at that. It’s really cool.”
Someone obliges on the lights, rendering our new leader blind, one would have to presume.
The video looks good, I guess. Seems to have the requisite ingredients of a pop video: large vacant lot or open space, lip-synching with feeling, dancing around in the middle of said open space, lots of camera angles and saturated color to keep you interested in watching a person dancing around in an open space. But the big thing our new leader notices is, well . . .
“Awesome, he did something with his hair. I love it.”
The product manager concurs, “Yeah, isn’t it awesome?”
The various foot soldiers and other product managers feel it’s safe to start saying what they think, too.
“Oh, wow! I knew something was different. That’s so much better.”
“Yeah, wow . . .”
“I was about to just point-blank ask him to do something with it.” (Laughter)
“That’s awesome.”
“He looks so much better.”
His hair’s pretty good, I suppose; a sensible short cut that you could kind of wear either disheveled or combed, depending on the situation. The rest of the video drifts by, and so does the meeting. Before we file out and walk back down the halls to all our respective hiding places, some people ask questions about the sale rumors. Ms. Chocolate Chip states each question before answering; a universal sign that things are not going well. She occasionally has a strange lapse in confidence that makes her take the shades off for a minute, but then she slips them right back on.
“So, have we . . . heard anything?” This from an assistant seated against the back wall.
“Have we heard anything. Well, yes, we’ve heard a lot.”
“Is the sale going through?”
“Is the sale going through. Well, we’re just going to have to wait and see right now. There’s still some approval process, and even then, we’re not sure . . . you know, things could change, things could stay the same, so . . .”
Someone from the art department hands Ms. Chocolate Chip some proofs of photos of Ryan.
“I’ll look at these when we’re done and get back to you. Thanks, baby.”
Baby.
Baby!
With shades on!
Indoors!
It’s like backward day; the pop star gets a sensible haircut that makes the marketing team happy, and the executive is wearing shades indoors and calling people “baby.” The meeting wraps up and we all do the slow shuffle down the halls and back to offices and cubicles.
There are a few trade magazines in my mailbox, so I grab them and sit down in my office to read them. The story has moved forward. The grandson of the booze mogul is now making it clear in the press that if the sale is approved, he has plans to cut at least a thousand employees in hopes of finding $250 million in cost savings once the deal is officially closed. He has also made clear his plans to cut a lot of bands from contracts, also to help get that $250 million in savings. Everyone knows it’s going to be a bloodbath. Nicknames for this guy are already floating around the floor, ranging from the obvious franchised antagonists like Dr. Evil to the basic standbys like Whitey and the Man. It’s brought to my attention, by an honorable intern using the Internet to apply due diligence to researching our potential new owner, that he has been something of a lyricist in the past. Love songs — slow jams, it turns out. Holy Christ, it just keeps getting better. Ladies and gentleman, the man who is about to fire me and 999 other employees would like to drop a sexy, heartfelt number on you. He wants to lay it down real nice and slow for you with a ditty about love that he wrote for Celine Dion. It’s called “To Love You More,” and it goes a little something like this . . .
Take me back in the arms I love
Need me like you did before
Touch me once again
And remember when
There was no one that you wanted more
Don’t go you know you will break my heart
He won’t love you like I will
I’m the one who’ll stay
When he walks away
And you know I’ll be standing here still
I’ll be waiting for you
Here inside my heart
I’m the one who wants to love you more
You will see I can give you
Everything you need
Let me be the one to love you more
See me as if you never knew
Hold me so you can’t let go
Just believe in me
I will make you see
All the things that your heart needs to know
I’ll be waiting for you
Here inside my heart
I’m the one who wants to love you more
You will see I can give you
Everything you need
Let me be the one to love you more
And some way all the love that we had can be saved
Whatever it takes we’ll find a way
I’ll be waiting for you
Here inside my heart
I’m the one who wants to love you more
You will see I can give you
Everything you need
Let me be the one to love you more
There’s this part of me that wants to believe everything our new owner is saying to me in his song. I mean, he’s clearly a guy with feelings like any other human being on the planet. It’s a little awkward, but I feel like I would imagine the woman character in this song feels when she hears these words. In other words, I hope he means what he says. I mean, I want to believe him. I want to, as he puts it, “let him be the one to love me more,” as opposed to the guy who’s going to put me and everyone else around here out of a job. God, this must be what women feel like when they’re dating a songwriter. I wonder if this is how Vallerie felt when she was dating a songwriter. I mean, you just, you want to believe all the things he’s saying about love, and his heart, and his ability to be the one to love you more. But the second we buy into it, we’re afraid we’ll get burned. So we keep our guard up and protect our hearts. Don’t we, ladies? Yes. Yes, we do.
NOT A CREATURE STIRRED. NOT EVEN
AN EXECUTIVE DRESSED AS A COP HANDING OUT SPEEDING TICKETS
So, Vallerie is officially packed up and out of the building now, but while she was here all those years, she had an annual tradition that marked the holidays — a party in her office over-looking Rockefeller Center, on the evening of the Rockefeller Center tree lighting. Now that Ms. Chocolate Chip is the new sheriff in town, she’s moved her stuff into Vallerie’s corner office, and is keeping the tradition alive. I walk down the hall and right into her lair. Everything is in full swing and the central focus of the soirée is watching a collection of videos from back in the day. We all take to watching one-hit wonders who have faded and bygone hopefuls who never made it.
A sobering education, this reel of videos; feels like it could be part of a “Scared Straight” outreach program to kids thinking about signing record contracts with major labels. They’re sort of like fashion knock-offs, these bands in the videos, made up to look like what was supposed to be the next big thing at the time. We’ve got young cute female rap trios that aren’t TLC, sultry divas who were born with only one name but aren’t Madonna, a gaggle of toned and chest-hairless boy-men who are not the Backstreet Boys. At the moment there’s a video on the screen that must be twenty-five years old. It’s an act that might as well have been named Also-a-Cute-Female-Rap-Trio-with-Big-Loud-Colorful-Clothing. I can’t recognize them for anything. Jesus, one-hit wonder is one thing, but we are literally watching a no-hit wonder. Maybe even a no-album-was-actually-ever-released-after-we-signed-them wonder.
Everyone in the room is cracking up; we’re all having a big laugh, and the more serious and sexy the girls on screen try to be, the harder it is to keep from laughing. They’re doing some super-sassy, serious-but-playful, sexy dancing around in an alley where eighties fashion-model types are dressed in torn jeans and kind of brightly colored hooker clothes, leaning against the picture-perfect graffiti-stained brick walls and smoking cigarettes. They look on in a sexy, jaded way as the Unrecognizable American Rap-Trio seem to be trying to get their message across even though the TV is on “mute” and the party is drowning them out. They dance and posture around on the perfectly wet-down asphalt that’s reflecting neon lights, they move in and out of the alley cluttered up with new wave hookers, and push their faces up near the camera lens, making it clear they could either make love to you or kill you with their hip-hop prowess.
