Ad Nomad

by Eric Jay Sonnenschein

  To cut the morbid tension, Dane glanced around the office. His eyes stopped on a pair of brown shoes perched between statuettes and folders on a shelf. Dane asked Bubis about the shoes.

  The stiff muscles of Bubis’s face trembled for a second.

  “Those are the bowling shoes of my client’s late father. When his father died, he said, ‘I want you to have them.’”

  “Do you bowl?” Dane asked.

  “No,” Bubis snapped. “That’s not the point. My client and I are so close that he would give me his only father’s bowling shoes. I treasure them more than all of my awards…You’re new in this business. How can you understand?”

  In the post-interview debrief, Griffin told Dane that he and Bubis were not a good fit, but he phoned with a new opportunity—writing about asthma. Dane gasped with excitement. He would finally graduate from the gastrointestinal and urinary tracts to the loftier lungs. The interview was scheduled for late morning. To clear this time with his colleagues at Green, Dane called in sick and promised to come in late. The moment he arrived at Green, he skulked to the men’s room and repeatedly rammed his forefinger down his throat so he would be heard gagging and retching to pay off his “sick story.” Another employee was puking in the next stall, so Dane’s self-induced gagging harmonized nicely. No one suspected his exit strategy; on the contrary, his colleagues believed that by vomiting in the men’s room, Dane had finally become one of them.

  Case 2-E

  THE GUINEA PIG & THE WHISTLE BLOWER

  29. PLEASE DON’T EAT THE DRUG SAMPLES!

  One afternoon Dane returned from a particularly tasty falafel lunch to find an email, subject-line: URGENT, on top of his inbox. He had just returned from an interview and thought the email was for him alone—his job search had been found out and he would be fired.

  He finally had the courage to open it.

  It has come to our attention that drug samples are missing. Clients provide these to assist in package design and copy. These drugs are not recreational and have no pleasurable side effects. They can, however, be harmful…If you have taken these drugs for your own use or resale, please realize that you are violating Green Advertising rules and state and federal law. If you know anything about these thefts please respond to this email.

  The lack of pleasurable side-effects made the theft of these drugs peculiar. Even if an employee pilfered them for treatment, was it possible that one person had osteoporosis, diabetes type 2, arthritis, and heart-worm—or knew individuals and dogs with all of these diseases? And if such an employee existed, he surely knew no sample dose could effectively treat these illnesses.

  To diffuse an embarrassing matter, management investigated under cover, but their efforts were unavailing.

  Dane was at the office late one evening when he found Austin Weebler in the men’s room, gripping the sides of a sink. He was shaking badly. Dane asked him if he was all right. “Yeah, I’m okay,” Austin replied. “It’s just a bug.”

  Later that week Austin had an incident with a client. He was presenting a clinical piece when the client challenged his use of data. Weebler tried to explain but the client taunted, “Do the math!” Austin bowed his head and chuckled. “I know the math. And here’s something else I know…biofeedback! My fist hits your mouth and there’s an improvement.” He lunged at the client and swung his fist many times in the area of his head, shouting, “Let’s see if your drug can manage this!”

  At that point, Weebler collapsed into a twitching, unconscious heap.

  Such behavior called for summary termination but Weebler’s unconscious twitching saved his job. Witnesses ascribed his violent act to a neurological event. It was believed that he had discontinued his anti-depressant, resulting in panic and rage. Colleagues forgave Austin in a company-signed get-well card. They believed he was a fine, young writer whose mind could not be wasted. Even the pummeled client welcomed Austin back on the account when his condition improved.

  Weebler confirmed the agency’s story. He claimed that his antidepressant had interacted with his athlete’s foot powder.

  Hospital toxology tests, however, contradicted Weebler’s account. Significant traces of drugs Austin wrote about were in his tissue: osteoporosis, diabetes type 2, arthritis and heartworm medications mingled in his cells. It was clear that Weebler had been on the sample-stealing crime spree.

  Management’s fervent support for Weebler initially puzzled Dane but their clemency toward young Austin soon made strategic sense. He was a walking side effect of drugs in which he had expertise. Agency and clients defended him to protect their interests.

  Unclear was the star junior copywriter’s motive for taking the toxic cocktail. Why did a young man with a promising career abuse drugs for overeating couch potatoes, people with brittle bones or aching joints, and parasite-infested dogs?

  Some speculated that Weebler’s depression turned suicidal when his new friends, The Boys, derided him for never crafting a clever headline or concept. They had also made insensitive remarks about Austin’s mother, how she caused Austin’s depression by feeding him gourmet kibble, and obtained his job for him by performing unmentionable acts with Landon.

  Dane was out of the gossip stream that circulated at Green as reliably as recycled air. These popular rumors never reached his ears. He believed he triggered Weebler’s drug binge by confronting him for his door locking prank.

  “This is what happens when you make a big deal about things!” Dane berated himself.

  30. GUILT COUNSELING

  Dane was in a funk about Weebler’s condition. He initiated lively discussions about the drug-binger’s motives in the kitchenette, elevator bank, lavatories, status meetings and any other common space where Green people congregated. Such public expressions of conscience disturbed his colleagues and disrupted the office.

  Landon called Dane in for a chat on one of the rare days he was in.

  “You’ve been here a year, haven’t you?” The Savior asked.

  “Yes.” Dane froze inside. “Is he going to fire me—now?”

  “You know what I like most about this job besides the money, travel, profit sharing and extensive vacation time?” Landon asked Dane. “Learning about my people. You’ve surprised me, Dane. I never imagined how much you care about others. You’ve grown as a writer and as a human being.”

  “That’s weird because I feel like a slime ball,” Dane replied.

  “It could be a chemical imbalance. There must be something to take for that!”

  “I’m not ill, Landon. I feel guilty,” Dane said. “I worked with Austin Weebler. I accused him of locking me out of my office. We had words. I think I may have contributed to his collapse.”

  “That’s nonsense! No one is at fault for Austin,” Landon said. “Least of all Austin. Hypochondria is an occupational hazard for medical writers. Every employee contract should come with a warning: ‘This job may be psychosomatic.’ When you write about diseases, it’s natural to think you have one.”

  “So you’re saying Austin overdosed on the meds he wrote about because he believed he had osteoporosis, diabetes, and heartworm?” Dane asked in disbelief.

  “Yes. Along with yeast infections and endometriosis. But mostly, Austin was guilt-ridden for writing about other peoples’ misery and death.”

  “Then why don’t all copywriters take drugs they write about?”

  “Lack of access, courage, or interest, I suppose,” Landon explained. “Austin is unusual. He’s a hypochondriac who loves chemistry. Most writers imagine symptoms but they’re afraid to take drugs they write about. Austin sees drugs as molecules and he is unafraid.”

  Dane nodded as if head shaking would distribute Landon’s story throughout his brain.

  “I’ve been reading about people who self-treat for imaginary diseases,” Dane said. “Munchausen’s by Proxy Syndrome seems to fit.”

  Landon nodded energetically. “It works for me.”

  31. A LAB RAT’S TWISTED MOTIVES

/>   Advertising must give its audience a reason to believe and Dane had one or two. Austin Weebler suffered from imaginary illness and delusional self-treatment.

  Though Dane sought lasting relief from guilt, Landon’s interpretation did not persuade him. One Friday after work, Dane visited Weebler at the hospital.

  When Dane walked into his room, Austin’s eyes widened and a smile crossed his pasty face.

  “Hey, puppy man! Getting into your office okay?”

  “Of course, you’re not around!” Dane cracked. “Why did you do this?”

  Weebler looked away. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Was it because of me?” Dane blurted.

  Weebler grinned at Dane. “You don’t have kyphosis.”

  “I know I don’t have dowager’s hump. That’s not the point,” Dane replied impatiently.

  “But it is the point! I did it for women who do! And for people who wheeze. And for dogs with heartworm.”

  “How could poisoning yourself help these diverse populations?”

  “See, it’s like this, Puppy Man. Some people don’t respect you, but I do. You know why? Because you come to work each day to write the best ad campaign ever written. That’s integrity. For me, integrity means knowing what I write is true. Drugs aren’t always effective, but they should be safe. If I write that it’s safe, I have to know it’s safe.”

  “So you used yourself as a guinea pig.”

  “I’m a walking, talking side-effect,” Weebler croaked. He could barely speak. The osteoporosis medication had affected his vocal cords.

  “But why would you use yourself to prove this?”

  “My mom could get osteoporosis. Can I tell my mom that a drug will help her when it’s going to make her sick and die?”

  He wagged his finger to entreat Dane to come closer.

  “That drug you work on sells itself,” Weebler whispered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look who’s buying it. And why.”

  Weebler drew Dane closer so he could whisper in his ear.

  “The purple folder. It’s in Landon’s office.”

  Dane nodded vaguely. As he turned to leave he detected a weak tugging on his shirt cuff.

  “Don’t turn your back—,” Weebler whispered hoarsely, and took a long time trying to swallow, “—on the truth.” Then Weebler’s eyes closed.

  32. THE PURPLE FOLDER

  Although Austin Weebler was apparently raving, Dane believed him. He left the hospital committed to finding the purple folder.

  He sneaked into Landon’s office, closed the door and turned on the lamp over Landon’s desk. The Savior had been gone for weeks. He was in the East Asian office, teaching Indonesian copywriters how to write about medicated diapers for pediatricians.

  Among coded folders on the hard drive, Dane found one titled “purple.” Landon’s aversion to computers, passwords, and user names made the “purple folder” easy to access. Dane glossed over a list of emails and documents. Finally he came to one titled “Pentimento” and opened it.

  “K-rations: source of protein and GERD. $2 billion k-ration initiative.”

  Dane stared at the screen, stunned by the magnitude of a conspiracy. The holding company that launched Refluxidyl also marketed pork and beans, canned sausages, microwaveable scrambled eggs and sausage containers, as well as breath mints, all of which were, Dane knew, risk factors for immediate and prolonged acid reflux. For this reason, one government document urged the prompt launch of Refluxydyl as “crucial to national security.”

  The implications were appalling. Brave soldiers, lured to military service by patriotism, glory or a college education they could not otherwise afford, faced hostile fire from the enemy and esophagusscorching friendly fire from their grateful nation. Depraved criminals received a nutritious last meal before execution, yet our fighting forces ate fast food that triggered acid reflux, bloating, constipation and headaches.

  Dane looked up. The traffic manager, Sylvia Bittman, observed his transgression with rapacious curiosity.

  “Hi,” Dane said with a meek grin on his flushed face.

  “Did Landon ask you to use his computer?” Sylvia inquired.

  “Yes, in fact. He needed information which I’m finding for him.”

  “When did Landon contact you?” Sylvia asked.

  “This afternoon,” Dane said.

  “He must have been up in the middle of the night because he’s eighteen hours away,” Sylvia countered suspiciously.

  “Yes, in fact, he complained he was tired after being out with clients. You know how Asian businessmen like to party,” Dane replied.

  “I have no experience with Asian party animals,” Sylvia Bittman said curtly as if this were one more deprivation in her long list. “Be sure to shut it down before you leave.”

  Sylvia despised Dane, yet now he that he gave her all she needed to have him terminated, she lost interest in prosecuting his lying, trespassing self. Did she actually believe him or was she letting him believe she did before she returned to her office to report him? Either way, Dane had already been caught in the act, so he completed his treachery in progress and downloaded the purple folder onto his flash drive as leverage if Green Advertising acted against him.

  33. TO BLOW THE WHISTLE OR TO SWALLOW IT

  As Dane rode the subway home, he felt the memory stick dangling at the end of a string against his bare chest, like a protective amulet. It contained the power of information.

  He pondered his next move. What he could he do with this information to inflame public opinion, make public officials blush, stammer and resign, and bring a duplicitous government into crisis?

  He had signed a confidentiality agreement pledging never to share business information with anyone. Given the sensitive legal and political nature of this disclosure, the contents of the purple folder could only be dispatched to an entity sufficiently powerful to ensure his and his family’s safety. The Justice Department was his first resort, but could the government be trusted to investigate a conspiracy at its highest level?

  As the crushing complexity and danger of his situation became clear, so did the futility of whistle-blowing. Dane’s whistle was like a toy in a child’s party favors. It would issue a shrill little sound. His fear started to talk. It asked Dane if loose cannon disclosures were the right response to a matter of national security. He considered the problem from another angle. While facing dismemberment, death and government rations, soldiers might need strong acid reflux relief. Was it ethical to put Americans in the field with acid reflux only to deny the most effective relief and damn the cost?

  Dane phoned a major newspaper. He believed he had a front page story but he was put through to the health section. The reporter who interviewed him was more interested in writing an article on whether proton pump inhibitors really worked. She and her husband both suffered from acid reflux, resulting from a career’s worth of vending machines. She told Dane she would talk to her editor and get back to him.

  Dane was dissatisfied with the response of the serious journalist at a reputable paper, so he phoned a tabloid. There, he spoke with a reporter working on a feature about barbecues, with a sidebar on associated health risks.

  “So, would you say acid reflex is a major risk for people?” the reporter asked. “Yes? On a scale of one to ten, how much risk is there of dying from acid reflex if you eat barbecue every night?”

  “I’m not talking about barbecue!” Dane pleaded. “I’m telling you about a government conspiracy in which our fighting men and women are being given acid reflux deliberately to enrich the makers of GERD medications! Doesn’t corruption of that magnitude mean a thing to you?”

  Dane’s query prompted a long silence. Dane hoped he had finally gotten through to this reporter.

  “Would you say taking a Refluxydyl pill before the barbecue would provide protection from acid reflex…you know, like the pill?” the reporter asked.

  Dane slammed the phone. He w
as putting his career and his life at risk to expose acid reflux and its treatment as part of a government conspiracy to enrich a drug company, but for the fourth estate, severe heart burn was no more than a lifestyle story.

  He finally resorted to contacting a national tabloid magazine. Surely, these masters of sensationalism and scandal would feast on the sordid implications of the purple folder.

  It was a bull’s eye. While Dane was on hold with an editor, enthusiastically considering a feature with the headline, ‘Government belly bomb plot exposed!” Landon appeared in the doorway.

  “Dane,” Landon said. “Mon ami, we have to talk.”

  “But I thought you were in Guam,” Dane stammered, shocked and guilty to see his boss standing there.

  “No, no,” Landon said. “I'm here. So, I know what you know.”

  “But I don’t…”

  Landon cut him off with a “Tut, Tut” and flashed his puckish smile. “Ce n’est pas grave. Everybody knows it. Relax. Nothing will happen. All is forgiven. I told you, I’ll protect you.”

  “But it is serious,” Dane said. He was impervious to Landon’s French expressions and promises of security now.

  “Death is serious. Heartburn is not serious,” The Savior replied in his wise and mellow tone.

  “It’s all a big lie!” Dane shouted to penetrate his mentor’s laissezfaire attitude.

  “Are you fighting for truth and justice in the pharmaceutical industry? How can you fight for something that never was?” The Savior asked with his worldly smile.

  “Men are…are getting acid reflux needlessly—”

  “—And cured. We sell the drugs. Don’t be shocked, mon vieux. If we have a plan that makes some people ill to make them better, it’s only smart marketing. Where’s the harm?”

  LeSeuer’s eyes expressed a far-off laughter. He was an old soul whose sole conviction was that the Refluxidyl affair was nothing more than a burp in cosmic indigestion.