by Dan Tyte
‘That’d be cruel to the poor thing,’ said Jill. Jill had broken the code. She’d shot down my idea in flames. Altruistic ones perhaps, but flames all the same.
‘Well, this is fucking stupid anyway,’ I said. I’d broken the code. I’d called the animal game stupid. We were in the midst of a thought shower (or a brainstorm, if you dug the non-PC). The team was gathered under duress in a room known through internal comms as the ‘Persuasion Station’. It was where the temperamental talents of Morgan & Schwarz would assemble to pick over public relations problems and agree our strategy of attack to engage, convince and conquer. Our own little war room with Miles as Mussolini and the shirt not black but 100 per cent Egyptian cotton. These creative fluxes were, I imagined, akin to the free-form get-togethers of the Beat Poets or the intellectually enlightened riffs shared on the Parisian Left Bank in the 1920s. Except we were mainly talentless and were ‘jamming’ on a campaign to create a buzz around a new range of vitamin-added carbonated soft drinks. To be honest with you, I could have done with a bucket-load of the stuff to nurse me through this morning’s hangover. If nothing else, it was quite revealing; the depths of despair that could be plunged upon discovering that the object of your (subtle) affections likens you to their father. I awoke at 8.27 a.m. with a deep cut on my left knee and the vague suggestion of human faeces in the air. There’d been no time for a shower before work.
‘Thanks for all your input on that one, guys,’ Miles said. It was hard to tell if he was being sarcastic. ‘Now onto the next problem.’ He was off again.
‘Could I be excused for a second?’ I asked. Despite the fact we were roughly the same height and sat on identical chairs, Miles somehow managed to look down at me.
‘For what reason?’
‘The bathroom.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Bill, you don’t have to ask to use the bathroom. I’m not your wet nurse.’
Cunt.
Sniggers broke out around the glass table. He’d pay for that. If anyone was going to make Bill McDare look stupid it would be Bill McDare.
The Morgan & Schwarz bathroom was more can-can than can. Spotlights illuminated rectangular mirrors which hung above freestanding wash basins. Some interior design wit obviously thought we needed to feel like megastars. While the light was harsh, it did provide a perfect ambience for cutting up lines after normal office hours. Those occasional all-nighters on last-ditch pitch documents often needed an extra zing.
Yesterday’s post-work drinking had started with a few calm beers on the terrace of The Accord, a fairly nondescript establishment about three blocks east from the office. The Morgan & Schwarz crowd tended not to gather there, which made it an ideal launch point last night. I caught my reflection in the acute light. The late sun had reddened the skin around my eyes and cheeks, extenuating usually non-apparent wrinkles like white valleys in a scorched landscape. Time was wearing on me, a harsh HB pencil adding lines to my look. I splashed cold water on my face for what seemed like an age, but in reality was probably 30 seconds or less. I was dizzy and losing perspective. There was only one thing for it: I’d stop at my desk for a wee dram on the way back to the brainstorm. The temporary cure to all of life’s ills. And so the wheel turns again.
‘So, who is the audience? Who are we trying to convince here, people?’
Miles was in mid-flow when I returned unacknowledged to the session. I hated him when he was facilitating. From what I could gather over the next few moments thoughts were being showered towards his blank flip-chart for an upcoming beauty parade for a brand of travel insurance called ‘Wanderlust’. Cute. It had befallen the poor souls gathered in the Persuasion Station to preen and plot strategies to make insurance not just sellable, but sexy.
‘Put yourselves in their flip-flops, people,’ Miles commanded. ‘Who goes on holiday?’
Like a pub quiz machine, the questions got progressively harder.
‘Families?’
‘Right…’
‘Couples?’
‘Ahuh…’
‘Singles?’
‘Sure…’
‘Retired people?’
‘Yes…’
‘Rich people?’
‘Yep…’
‘Gays?’
‘Gays…’
This went on and on. We delved deeper; why did people travel? What did people fear? Were we all inherently racist? I still felt sick. Because of the booze, or lack of booze. Because of Christy. Because I was here. Because I wasn’t on holiday, supping a cocktail in the indiscriminate summer sun.
‘Don’t wander lost, wanderlust!’ Pete had interrupted Miles and delivered his slogan a few octaves higher than had been set by the rest of the room’s conversation. It was never a good idea to interrupt Miles.
‘You may have forgotten, Pete, but we’re in Public Relations, not advertising. We don’t hawk, we have conversations. I want ideas, not catchphrases.’ The other thing it was never a good idea to do with Miles was to get him started on advertising. ‘Smarmy, gutless shits,’ he’d generally call them. ‘Overpaid cunts,’ occasionally. Ad men had a skewed vision of reality; people were nice to them, their clients splashed out over the odds for column inches and air time, meaning a day didn’t pass without a good old arse-licking from a happy sales schmuck. Flowers on their birthday, front row tickets to the game, complimentary city breaks. Hell, they got treated like clients. This cosseted existence made them the least qualified people to sell products or services; they got everything for free. The PR man was a cannier operator, a subtler manoeuvrer. We didn’t pay to have our message carried like those flash frauds at ad agencies, we coaxed and cajoled, built relationships, planted seeds that bloomed into oak trees. Miles had lectured us on the idiosyncrasies inherent to the different disciplines of the marketing mix on so many occasions we knew them off pat by now. Jill, sat opposite me across the table, mouthed the words as today’s recitation moved apace. Christ, I needed a drink. And a grilled cheese sandwich. It was only 10.17 a.m. after all; best not to go in on an empty stomach.
‘Who wants to pick the ideas out of the hat…?’
‘It’s a bowl.’
‘…the bowl, and read them out? And who’s taking notes?’
A tall, gaunt boy from the accounts department agreed to scribe, Carol – buoyed by a gin and tonic (ice and a slice) – to relay the ideas to the group. We were sat cross-legged around a sunken table at one of the city’s most try-hard sushi bars. It was Jill’s fortieth birthday party. Miles, in a rare moment of philanthropy, had let us charge the lot to the Morgan & Schwarz account, generally used for sashimi and sake to convince clients over the age of thirty-five we were a hip young agency who could help them relive a youth they never had and with whom they should most definitely commit obscene monthly payments. Who could resist when the nigiri was this good? Miles’ impromptu alms-giving had likely been inspired by the presence in our merry ranks of one Vincent Meinhoff, a short and stolid venture capitalist with a significant stake in Morgan & Schwarz and a social life so subdued (most likely revolving around vigorous squash with an old college roommate and monthly robotic loveless sex with his wife) that his unannounced office visits – timed perfectly for pub o’clock – were becoming increasingly frequent. Miles was intent on illustrating the wiseness of his investment and had relayed a message via all@Morgan&Schwarz.com to be on our best behaviour. Whilst simultaneously putting on a free bar. Uh oh. What was it Anon. said? Know how to be content and you will never be disgraced; practice self-restraint and you will never be in danger. Load of tosh anyway. I was drinking steadily if not yet ambitiously in solidarity with Jill, who was irked that some Germanic banker had stolen the thunder on her big day.
‘In 10 years time, Jill will be married to Antonio Banderas, living in the Hollywood Hills and supplementing her film-star-wife income as a personal trainer to a select group of stars,’ Carol read from a crumpled piece of paper.
Jill snorted hopefully and the rest of the group broke up in
laughter. Despite being out of the office, we were unable to leave behind its rules and rituals, using the classic unmarked ideas in a pot brainstorming technique for some sure-to-be hilarious crystal ball gazing on the future of our own crazed cat lady. It said something about the weak social bond that existed between the employees of Morgan & Schwarz that we needed play time to be propped up by the structure of a creativity generation tool. I took another slug of my beer and shot a smile of faux gratitude at Miles.
‘Next,’ the collective cry came up.
The accounts boy – no more than twenty-one – scribbled furiously to keep up, a nervous sweat on his brow at the prospect of presenting the birthday girl with an incomplete record of the events of her special evening. Carol cleared her throat, much like a field mouse about to give a reading at the wedding of a mouse friend. If field mice could talk and get hitched, that was. She shuffled the papers around the stylised Japanese bowl.
‘In 10 years time, Jill will be in the Guinness Book of Records for keeping the most cats.’ Carol held the paper up to show the group. ‘It says 147 here. The most cats in a one bedroom bedsit flat.’
‘Who brought the fucking cats into this!?’ Jill spat sake fumes perilously close to where Meinhoff was sat. Miles laughed nervously. The German seemed to be paying more attention to popping edamame beans into a dish.
‘Never bring my darlings into this. Never.’ Jill got her Flakberry out to comfort-look at a screensaver of her two precious furballs. Chatter resumed in the ranks. Miles took two fingers of an overpriced under-alcoholed bottle of Japanese lager. Kira would be pleased. Christy was sat next to Meinhoff, just out of polite conversation distance from me. Sitting on the floor kind of killed all possibilities of playing footsie under the table, forgetting the fact that I had more chance of an undead Marilyn Monroe stroking my shin with her heel this evening. I needed to up my game, raise the ante. In keeping with the theme of the evening, Christy looked like some goth geisha, with her trademark smudged black eyeliner and a hair-comb keeping her red locks held tight in a bun on her head. A single strand had slipped out down her temple suggesting she wasn’t all kimono and no dragon. My concentration was broken by Trent, of all people, waving a pack of smokes under my nose. I refused with a sneer.
I had to tell her soon how I felt. When I’d come down so low in her estimation what did I have left to lose?
Bar. Change up to whisky on the rocks. Bill Murray was nursing a glass on a promotional point-of-sale. What a way to make a living.
Back at the table, Carol was rustling around for another dreamed-up destiny for Jill. We’d revert to the usual rules of conversation soon and the night would shuffle inconsequentially to its end.
‘In 10 years time, Jill will be playing pimp from a caravan park to a newly-out and loving it every which way but loose Miles.’
Jill shrieked. Miles shouted something incomprehensible in everything but its profanity. Christy looked into the middle-distance. Trent remained steadfast against sniggers. Carol looked sick at the thought of paid-for anal sex. I returned to the table at just the wrong time holding a half-supped scotch. Accusing eyes turned in my direction. I’d been stitched up. I was a witch at Salem. This was the Dreyfus Affair. Miles readied himself to unleash ten shades of unholy shit my way.
‘Ahh-haaa-haaa-HAA,’ came a low, guttural laugh from across the table. ‘Ahh-HAAA-HAAA.’ Victor Meinhoff was in bits. His pork sausage fingers slapped the sleek surface as he rocked back and forth like a weevil Buddha.
‘Dat ist very very funny! Miles as a gay boy, ya!!’ I’m not sure he even knew what a caravan was. All the nuances were wasted. Miles turned towards him, visibly hyperventilating the anger out of his nose as if to pass a breathalyser test on a country line.
‘Yes, very funny, Victor, we do enjoy a laugh here. Very funny, whoever that was.’ He tried to catch my eye. No chance I was looking his way. Sucker. Seeing Miles cower in front of Meinhoff the money man was sad really, a bit like watching a once-mighty punch-drunk heavyweight champ brought to his knees by a newer, bigger, better opponent, or seeing your dad letting his boss win at rounders on the company family fun day. Not my dad, obviously, we were never invited.
I sank my scotch in victory and bounced to the bogs. It was time to turn things up to eleven. I reached into my inside breast pocket. This situation called for the blue pills. Ups. For now at least. The scotch on top of the beer had me on a cable car to the top of the mountain. It was time to scream if you wanna go faster. I’d drop two now and flatten out with a treat from the inside right pocket (reds) later. Zoom.
Things seemed clearer now.
I was aware of each and every single hair on my head.
The thought of my place in this chaotic universe made my heart beat beat beat.
Mirror.
I was a rugged terrain and the lines on my face swirled like roads to nowhere. Lost highways and aimless journeys. Wild goose chases.
Focus.
Focus.
Focus. I was Bill McDare.
I was 29 years old.
Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been 14 years since my last confession.
Sister Gina has saved me. I’m going nowhere. In oh-so-many ways. But at least I’m not going in a box. Yet. I’ve a new motto for my monitor: Live fast, die old.
I pushed the tap. The water rushed out and I stooped to drink it in. I splashed the water on my face over and over.
Out damned spot.
The water stopped.
Focus.
Back at the table, a juiced-up Jill was showing the neurosis – if not the nose – for being as kosher as Kafka. She had just the right balance of self-hating social awareness to be a walking Woody Allen film, rabbiting on about this and that. To be honest, I was so high right now I’d run all out of context. Not that it stopped me. I tried to overcompensate in only the way an awareness of the ensuing edges of narcotics allows.
‘I think you’re the most Jewish non-Jew in this whole town…’ the pills said out loud. Everyone around the table stopped mid-move. Rice wine half-poured, wasabi and soy part-mixed.
Meinhoff looked aggressively defensive in the way only a guilt-ridden generation twice removed could.
‘How dare you talk about the Jews like that,’ he said, his flabby jowls flapping as he spoke.
I tried to reach for my drink as security but it seemed too distant. My elbow squished in a plate of teriyaki salmon. Trent nudged the glass towards me.
‘Like what?’ I finally replied.
‘Like they are a stereotype.’ The German was reddening. ‘They are a wonderful people.’
‘Not all of them.’
‘How dare you!’
‘Surely it’s your answer that’s stereotyping them. No one race can be all wonderful.’ These pills had turned me into a contrary Sixth-form debating captain.
He really was mad now.
‘The Jews are a talented and varied people!’
‘Well, why did your grandad kill six million of the poor fuckers then?’
Meinhoff was verging on tears now. He didn’t scare me as much as Miles though. He looked really angry. I’d only ever seen his eyes bulge this much when he had blatantly been at the beak that night we won the Walker pitch. But his face looked much happier then.
‘Bill, get the fuck out of here,’ Miles was a Ken doll no more. He was G. I. Joe on anabolic steroids and I was an infidel. Shock and awe.
‘NOW.’
This was a bad trip.
Back to the toilets. Time for the right breast pocket.
There was a knock on the cubicle door.
‘Bill…’
I knew that voice.
‘Bill… are you in there?’
Christy. I swallowed two of the red pills.
‘Bill, open up.’ She was knocking now.
‘Just a minute…’ I popped another for luck and unbolted the door.
‘Bill,’ she repeated my name again, ‘what are you doing?’
&
nbsp; Her eyes were big and round, her tone: disappointed school teacher.
‘Well, I’m not sure I can share what goes on in a male toilet with you. Why are you in a male toilet?’
‘I was worried about you.’
‘You don’t need to worry about me.’
‘If you keep pissing off Miles like that…’
‘Chris…’
‘…not to mention Meinhoff…’
‘Chris…’
‘…they’ll fire you in a second if you keep on like this…’
‘Chris…’ She’d been ignoring me for the past 2 minutes.
‘What, Bill?’
‘I…’
‘Yes…’
‘I…’
‘Yes…’
‘I really really…’
‘Yes…’
‘Really really…’ Like you, say LIKE YOU.
‘Yes…’
‘Huuuu-huuuu-speeeeewwww’
And with that I threw up all over her kimono.
‘Surprise!’
While Christy was cleaning bile off her blouse, back at the table Pete had burst through a Japanese screen door carrying a birthday cake with forty candles. He’d missed the meeting where Jill had barked her invite, and Trent had tricked him into thinking the party was fancy dress. Musical themed. Miles and Meinhoff looked at his army uniform in bewilderment. It wasn’t a good moment to come as Captain Von Trapp.
Chapter 15
It was the sound of the letterbox that stirred me. The mail addressed to number 35 was of the depressing post-email kind: Dine Like a King At The Taj Mahal’s All-You-Can-Eat Banquet; Dear Occupant, Did You Know You’re Entitled To a 10k Loan?; For the Urgent Attention Of: Mr McDare, This Is Your 3rd Reminder, Please Pay Up Immediately. No cheques from emigrated aunts or letters from love-lorn sweethearts stationed on the other side of the country. I had bigger fish to get fried by.
I was lying in a pool of my own urine on the sofa of the front room. My suit trousers were splayed on the floor. I gave myself the benefit of the doubt for now and put the brown stains down as mud. I could see only one shoe. My pubic hair had gathered out of the top of my boxer shorts. It was clumped together with ash, or dandruff. Could you even get pubic dandruff? Hmm. My head felt like it had hosted an illegal rave and someone had forgotten to turn the sound system off. Even the surrounding pizza boxes had turned their crusts up at me. A disapproving post-it note from either Craig or Connie was stuck to the television.
