“So, ça va? Tout va bien? We’re cool?” Landon asked, “Because we have to be cool.”
“Sure, we’re cool,” Dane conceded. Since whistle-blowing had not worked out for him, he was relieved to resume as a medical copywriter.
34. CHOPPED LIVER
Nevertheless, Dane felt that he had failed to redeem Weebler’s brave sacrifice. Dane experienced guilt and disorientation for hours.
“You weak and venal dog!” he taunted himself in the men’s room mirror as Carl, the bibulous art director, walked in. “You won’t get any argument from me,” Carl said as he planted himself at a urinal and discharged his three lunch hour beers.
Soon Dane’s self-accusations ceded to doubts. Was the purple folder real? Weebler was rumored to be comatose, even brain dead. Some claimed he was in line for an experimental esophageal transplant—if the procedure even existed—while others claimed his esophagus was irreparably damaged by the osteoporosis medications he ingested. Dane wondered if anyone so sick and delusional, so physically scarred and professionally compromised, was coherent. He convinced himself that he hallucinated Austin’s testimony. It must have been another distorted daydream—his frustrated creativity pushing to the surface.
However, Dane’s orgy of guilt, rationalization and moral ambivalence came to a full stop later that day, when an email slapped him out of his self-flagellation. It announced that two junior copywriters who were office assistants when Dane arrived at Green were promoted to copywriters. They had reached the same level in three months that he occupied after a year.
Exclusion and degradation were staples of Dane’s day. Yet, he felt lucky to be at Green Healthcare Advertising. He enjoyed yoga classes, pulse and blood pressure readings, as well as other wellness initiatives, which management instituted to make employees feel at home so they would work longer. He was proud of his position, but now he viewed his title as trash and himself as a sap. How did this happen and what could he do?
He remained obtuse in office politics, yet he knew instinctively that storming into Landon’s office to demand a promotion hours after being exonerated for flagrantly violating agency policies would be poorly timed. He was a trespasser, a classified documents thief, a would-be whistle-blower and an insubordinate liar, so he was not a prime candidate for promotion and a raise.
This moment was especially bitter for Dane since he had no one to share it with. If Bushkin had not been terminated they might have sauntered to the park, slobbered over falafels and commiserated with one another over their mistreatment. Fortunately, other colleagues at Green Advertising, who occupied lowly positions, noted Dane’s open moping and reached out to him in his moment of bad attitude. They related painful stories of working hard and well for the privilege of continuing to work hard and well. Dane found solace with one such colleague, Beatrice Merriweather, a designer and a Buddhist, who was on such a high spiritual plane that she never wore deodorant, making her an iconoclast among professional women.
Beatrice revealed to Dane the situational truth, “Those junior copywriters must have received other offers, so Green promoted them to keep them here.”
“Loyalty, hard work and performance don’t count? Do I have to threaten to leave before I can get what I deserve?”
“See Seymour Payne,” Beatrice said.
35. THE WORLD’S GREATEST LIVING JUNIOR ART DIRECTOR
Seymour Payne was a legend at Green Advertising many spoke of but few had seen. Dane met him a few times in the kitchenette but never knew who he was. Seymour would fill the coffee filter with two packages of coffee and brew it all into one cup. He said it was all that kept him awake.
Payne had been at Green Advertising for fifteen years after a career at the best agencies on Madison Avenue. As these shops disappeared or were folded into conglomerates, he extended his career at Green as a junior art director, a rank he had held twenty years before. Green Advertising was thrilled to have the great Seymour Payne with his incomparable eye and innovative design at a bargain price.
Fifteen years later Payne remained a junior art director. No one considered promoting him, although he worked on the most important business with younger, less experienced art directors, who were his supervisors. When Seymour demanded a raise, his bosses smiled at his tirades. He had no leverage. Who else would hire him?
One time Payne was assigned an office with two junior art directors. Management thought he would be a wonderful mentor. Seymour made noises all day. He grunted, groaned, hummed and burst into sound bytes of Winston Churchill while he worked. His protégés could not be in a room with him, so Seymour was left alone after that. He clung to his job and amused himself. If you worked late, you might see Seymour in his office doorway with a mango in each hand and a “strange look” on his face.
Dane found Seymour in his office hunched over his putter, about to tap a ball into a paper cup four feet away. The ball rolled into the cup. The craggy legend glanced at Dane without a trace of surprise like he had drained that putt a thousand times.
“Years of practice, I’m ashamed to say,” the advertising legend said. “What can I do for you?
Dane introduced himself and summarized his situation.
“You seem hurt and surprised,” Seymour said, “Don’t waste your emotion on this cesspool. If you want respect in this business, do yourself a favor and forget about it. You’re a commodity so auction your ass.”
Seymour opened a file cabinet to extract a bottle of Drambuie. He poured two cups of the Scotch liqueur, which he and Dane drained, and two refills. After the libation, Seymour emitted a deep cough that seemed to expel the dust and demons of a long career spent in polluted office air.
“They call this creative,” he said. “Accountants are the real creatives at this agency. Have you figured it out yet? You can lie, cheat, steal and falsify your timesheets all you want and keep your job. You can be incompetent, lose business and keep your job. You can squeeze mangoes while female colleagues walk to the lady’s room; they’ll make you take sensitivity training—but you’ll keep your job. The only way you lose your job is to have a creative thought—and the audacity to fight for it. Leave this place. Leave them all. Don’t for a second be fool enough to believe loyalty, individuality and creativity exist in these places. You’ll do fine.”
36. END GAME
Being promoted at a pharmaceutical agency paralleled how drug dealers increased their drug earnings. By threatening to withdraw the product, you increased its value.
Griffin called with more opportunities. A number of agencies were interested in Dane and wished to lure him away from Green. He enjoyed his popularity and believed he might deserve it, but he also suspected that he was the beneficiary of an error in the labor market, which conferred inordinate value on mid-level copywriters.
Dane entertained offers from two agencies and turned down a third. It was an exciting time. He seemed to have a dimension nobody at Green could see. He wondered if Landon and his colleagues knew his secret and wanted him to leave.
Yet as he composed his letter of resignation, Dane remained unsure that he would leave Green. Despite his problems and resentments, Dane had many friends at the agency. He had learned much, succeeded often, and made many mistakes. He had transgressed and been forgiven. It was a strange but nurturing environment.
Finally Dane received an irresistible opportunity. A freelancer he had worked with was now a creative director at another agency. He offered Dane a promotion to senior copywriter, a 33% salary increase, and an assortment of interesting clients and projects.
Dane entered Landon’s office.
“Salut, Dane! Écoute! I have to run to a meeting. Is this an emergency? Can it wait until next week? The Savior expostulated.
“No,” Dane said. “It will only take a second.”
He whipped out the envelope and handed it to Landon with crisp formality. It amused Dane how swiftly LeSeuer paused, how suddenly he made the time to deal with him. When Landon opened the letter, there was
no wisdom in his eyes and no smirk in his youthful visage.
“Is it because of the locked door?”
“No.”
“Is it because of the purple folder?
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“They’re giving me more money and a better position.”
“Oh. That. Don’t sign anything. I’ll talk to Rupert.”
Rupert Mainwaring, the new creative director, was an Australian who had sold his small agency to Green and joined the multinational agency as a creative director. He was promoted to the flagship office to squash cliquishness and shenanigans, and unite everyone. Mainwaring devised an organizational concept—interlocking circles like the Olympics logo. Each circle symbolized a group and all groups linked in “unchained synergy.” Rupert spent tens of thousands to animate his concept because research showed that cartoon characters were more trusted than humans.
After Dane resigned in the morning, he waited all day for Mainwaring to make a counter-offer. Finally the creative director called him in. When Dane entered his office, the Australian chief creative officer stood in the corner, wearing a green flannel body suit, a purple cape and a yellow coxcomb with bells on his head—the costume of The Green Dreamer—the animated character he created to symbolize unity. Mainwaring believed that when he wore these superhuman, yet likeable togs, his powers of persuasion were irresistible.
“Close the door, would you, mate?”
“OK,” Dane said, ducking out of the office and shutting the door behind him. He thought he had caught the creative director in a private moment.
“No, come back and sit down!” Mainwaring called after him.
Dane took a chair and rationalized the creative director’s appearance. Of course, Mainwaring had just returned from a video shoot to promote Green as “Agency of the Year.” It was better than an alternative explanation: that Dane was having a hypoglycemic hallucination from starving all day.
At first, Mainwaring stared out the window at Fifth Avenue, looking depressed and disoriented. In this attitude, he seemed fairly normal to Dane despite the get up. Suddenly, the chief creative officer turned, leaped on his chair and onto his desk, did a jig and wagged his finger at Dane, who leaned back in his chair until it tipped. The resigning copywriter sprawled on the floor, scrambled to his feet, and crouched defensively.
“What’s wrong, Dane. Are you feeling odd—insecure, perhaps?”
“Uh, no, not really!” Dane said.
“Ummm, but you’re leaving us. You don’t want to do that, do you? You like it here. We like having you here. So why are you leaving?”
“I have a family. I need to make more money. Surely you understand that.”
“I do?” Mainwaring asked as he continued to stare out the window. “Yes, ummm, I do, yes. More money.”
“Isn’t that why you came here and left your family on the other side of the planet?” Dane asked.
Mainwaring was affronted to be discussed. He narrowed his eyes and took his measure of Dane. “Yes, money is always in the equation. But it was more than that for me. I wanted the challenge, the chance to make things happen, to shape events, to have an impact…Don’t you want that?”
“Yes, I do. But that’s not happening for me here.”
Mainwaring laughed dryly. “You have to earn it.”
“If I haven’t earned a promotion I don’t know who has,” Dane replied angrily. “Some guys in this department with three months experience have my title and salary!”
“All right. I’m offering you senior writer and a raise of ten thousand dollars. How’s that sound?”
Dane had been offered $25, 000 to leave Green Advertising and now $10,000 to stay—the difference was less than Mainwaring spent on his cartoon. Dane knew what he had to do.
“Thank you for your offer, but I can’t accept it,” Dane said.
“Well, good meeting you. Good luck,” the chief creative officer said.
What a gift this Mainwaring had, Dane thought, to make a man wait all day, insult him, and wish him well. That was advertising!
The next morning, Landon asked Dane if Rupert made a counteroffer. Dane said he had.
“Did you take it?”
“I couldn’t. It was $15,000 less,” Dane said.
Landon furrowed his eyebrows. For once, The Savior appeared perplexed by human behavior. “Why did they make a counter-offer if they weren’t going to match the offer you had?
“I don’t know. You’re in management. You tell me.”
Treachery, insubordination, procedure violations and fighting did not end Dane’s employment at Green Advertising. It ended for a few thousand dollars.
AD NOMAD 3
GRANDMAS GONE WILD & OTHER ACTS OF GENIUS
Case 3-A
AESTHETIC VS. ASSTHETIC
1. CREATIVE COMMUNE
When Dane was hired at Integrimedicom, it seemed like a brilliant career move. Integrimedicom was consumer-oriented. He could write commercials and expand his repertoire.
Integrimedicom presented a wholesome work environment, mellow with minimal politics. No one had their own account. Clients, products and projects were shared by the entire department.
“We’re small,” Sheldon, the executive creative director, explained when Dane started. “We all have to be ready to jump in at any time.”
Communal creativity with no ownership or egos at first appealed to Dane. This could be heaven on Madison Avenue—civilized colleagues, no lock outs, fistfights, or backbiting strife. The department even took him out to lunch with the man he would replace, who resigned “to get serious about his career.”
Integrimedicom occupied the seventh floor of an old office building at the crossroads of Lower Manhattan, in proximity to the Holland Tunnel, where Soho, Little Italy and Tribeca converged or divided, depending on your point of view. Across Avenue of the Americas to the west, New York reached for the rest of America in a ganglion of ramps, Canal Street and Grand—a narrow passage dilating to a hectic estuary of traffic. The offices of this new, yet classic small agency were level with the roof line of Soho—black tar beaches from which water-towers jutted like industrial pagodas.
In his capacious office along a broad corridor, Dane sat with his back to the window. Messy leftover manuscripts covered his desk like the droppings of a corporate bird. Changes had been made to an obsolete version. Editors with hatchet haircuts caviled at him to test his mettle and dedication. Would he stick long enough to rectify the mess and earn his pay? When he had time, Dane went down into the streets to the north and east—for pizza rustica slices topped by rosemary, onions and coins of fried potato or quarts of Chinese noodle soup with hot red oil floating on the surface.
Integrimedicom was an agency that apparently observed a different set of rules from the rest of the advertising world. Its proximity to Chinatown was palpable in its creative philosophy. It was like a cloister facing east, its staff a sect with paychecks, and the communal creativity they practiced was a rigorous discipline demanding self-control and self-denial.
Yet in many respects, this cloister was like a plantation, where Sheldon and Nadine, the creative directors, were lord and lady and all others, serfs.
Sheldon was an amazing octogenarian and a fifty-year advertising veteran. He was a worrier, not a warrior. Before each morning’s status meeting, he popped the lid off an aspirin bottle and said, “Never too early for Excedrin.”
Unlike Green, where creative assignments were initiated with pompous briefings and consummated with festive reviews, Sheldon and Nadine managed their business with serenity and simplicity, quietly circulating projects, shuffling partners and evaluating work behind closed doors.
What you started creatively at Integrimedicom, you rarely finished and what you finished passed through so many hands that you were a caretaker, never a creator.
“It’s all about process here,” Sheldon advised Dane on the day he started. “The result takes care of itself.”
> With a family to support, survival was Dane’s primary objective. He repeated a mantra, “This is a good place. These are nice people. You’re paid a lot.” When he was not saying this, he tried to keep his mouth shut.
Dane’s paycheck more than compensated for a coolie’s lack of fulfillment. Two years before, he earned $20,000 as a senior lecturer—and the university would not rehire him at that pittance! Now his income was five times what he made as a teacher. He had reached the salary a butcher at Victor’s Meat Market once foretold for him while he quartered his chicken. Dane personified the advertising dream luring many to the industry, and achieved it in classic advertising style—with talent, luck and shrewd job moves.
Money transformed Dane’s life in small, yet significant ways. He once dreaded bills but now enjoyed paying them! He signed checks with bravado, as if to taunt, “You want a piece of me, utility? Take that, credit card company! I can handle every bill, fee, and charge you send.”
Stability was Integrimedicom’s most alluring seduction. Dane’s colleagues had been there for years. Their contentment as creative cogs suggested that individual achievement was an illusory striving ending in futility and pain. Integrimedicom had become for them a spiritual citadel where creatives attained agency Nirvana—freedom from a tortured craving for personal recognition and from the clash of egos which inevitably resulted in painful loss of income. Sheldon was a visionary dispensing enlightenment to those who poured their souls into boxes, slogans and shelf talkers. If truth in advertising was dead, perhaps Dane had found at Integrimedicom a shining paradox—security in advertising.
2. A COPYWRITER FOR CHRISTMAS
In Dane’s second week, Roscoe, an art director, stopped by his office before their presentation. Roscoe carried several concepts they had worked on for a commercial—Dane’s first television assignment.
The commercial was for Donaral, the most trusted medication for menopausal symptoms and the largest selling product for American Pharmacon. Roscoe rhapsodized about a television shoot and outlined the review process. Each team presented script concepts to Sheldon and Nadine, who selected their favorite concept for development.
Ad Nomad Page 20
