Cross Dressing (3 page)

All things considered, Dan had every reason to be pleased with the way his life was working out. He had clawed his way up through the ranks of the advertising business to become creative director at The Prescott Agency, a well-regarded midsize shop in Los Angeles. Dan was famous for the series of humorous spots he had created for California Air. The campaign was so successful that California Air became the region’s number one airline after sucking hind tit for a decade. The campaign went on to win every major advertising award and it put Dan on the map.

What happened next was the sort of thing that happens only in Hollywood, and then usually just in the movies. Dan got a call from a development executive at Cinema On Demand, the nation’s hottest new premium cable channel. COD, as it was called, was in the process of creating a weekly satirical-sketch comedy show that would be unfettered by the censorship imposed by network Standards and Practices departments. Among other things, the show would feature commercial spoofs, and they wanted Dan to write and produce
them. The money was great and there was no telling what a TV screen credit and a few Cable Ace awards might lead to in a town so desperate for material that they rewarded the likes of Pauly Shore.

Typically, creative people in the advertising business weren’t allowed to sell their services on the side like that. But Dan’s boss, Oren Prescott, was enthusiastic about it. The way Oren saw it, having Dan work on the show would put him in proximity to some major-league celebrities, and that might be useful on some future ad campaigns.

In keeping with the COD theme, the sketch comedy show was being called
Comedy On Demand.
Dan was the producer for the “Commercials On Demand” which ran on each week’s show. Dan’s job was to conceive, write, and produce one commercial spoof every two weeks. Combined with his work at the Prescott Agency, this meant Dan worked eighty-hour weeks now and then, but the glamour appealed to him—as did the extra dough.

Riding the elevator up to the thirtieth floor of his Century City office building, Dan thought about this week’s spoof. He wanted to do something on law firms, but he didn’t have an angle. As was his habit when he was brainstorming, Dan began snapping his fingers like frantic castanets while his torso twitched left and right. Snapsnapsnapsnapsnap. He looked like a flamenco dancer paralyzed from the waist down. Sometimes the ideas just arrived; other times Dan had to work for them. As he passed the twenty-fifth floor it appeared that this week’s COD would require some work.

The elevator doors opened to the entryway of The Prescott Agency. As always, the reception area was tense with earnest young people looking for their big break. It was all portfolios, resumes, and hair with attitude. Dan stepped off the elevator and waded through the Ogilvy wannabes. The receptionist looked up. “Nice shirt,” she said. “Hand-painted?”

“Bite me.” Dan figured he was going to get a load of shit about the shirt if he didn’t come up with something better than the truth. By the time he reached the conference room, he had it. He laid a hand on the stain, put on a pained expression, and rushed into the meeting.

Everyone gasped. “Jesus, Dan,” someone said. “What the hell happened?”

Dan grimaced just so and waved his free hand. “Don’t worry, it looks worse than it is.”

“It looks like you got shot!”

Dan took his place at the table. “No, some punk pulled a knife on a woman in the parking garage. I think she was pregnant. Anyway, I tried to get him to drop the knife, he lunged and got me here. Paramedic said it was pretty close to my heart. Then the cops showed up and, anyway, that’s why I’m late, sorry.”

A focus-group survey on Dan’s story would have shown the room was split into four groups. The first group skewed young demographically. Lacking much business experience, they swallowed Dan’s whopper like a Big Mac. The second group was thinking,
Bullshit.
Those in the third group, all of whom knew the story was bullshit, were thinking,
Good story!
The last group, which included Dan’s boss, was thinking,
What heart?

Oren Prescott was at the head of the huge slate conference table. He was a slick-looking huckster in his sixties—silver-haired but still firm. Tanned, but not in that leathery George Hamilton way, he looked as smart and conniving as he was. Demographically speaking, Oren was a graduate-degree-holding, three-alimony-paying, expense-account-abusing, mutual fund shareholder. His lifestyle segmentation category was “Power Circle Fringe.”

The other seats around the table were filled with the butts of various department heads. Sitting in the chairs against the
wall were two media buyers, a woman from the production studio, and Scott Emmons. Oren nodded at Dan as he spoke. “I’ll keep this short so you can go get some stitches or whatever,” he said. Mr. Prescott was concerned because he needed Dan to live long enough to work on the project he was about to announce. Oren placed both of his hands on the table, then stood slowly before addressing the room. “This morning I got word that Fujioka Electronics is looking for a new shop.”

A buzz swept the room. The Fujioka account was worth a hundred million dollars in annual billings. For the past ten years they had been with Hawkins & Nelson, one of the world’s oldest and largest ad agencies. The problem with such a big agency was that you ended up with a committee writing copy, compounded by a bureaucracy that slowed down an inherently retarded creative process. Fujioka now wanted some newer, younger blood to rattle the stick in the swill bucket—a brilliant group of young people who could tell all the old lies in exciting new ways. At least that’s what Oren Prescott heard. The truth was more complicated than that, however. The truth was that Fujioka’s marketing director had heard rumors about an unplanned career change for himself, so he immediately instituted a full agency review in the hope of buying himself six months to a year before being tossed into the garbage like a crappy piece of direct mail.

“Christ, Oren, are you serious?” Dan’s mind began to race. This was a breakout opportunity. If he could bring Fujioka into the fold, Oren would have to make him a partner, lest Dan walk with the client and start his own shop.

Scott knew it too. This wasn’t flea collars or panty liners. This was exactly what Scott needed. He pulled out his notepad and wrote
Fujioka!
across the top in bold letters.

“They want more … pizazz,” Oren said, betraying his old-school mentality.

Scott wrote it down.
More pizazz.

“They’re launching a new line of electronics that are bigger and more powerful than anything ever made,” Oren said. “And they want a campaign that dazzles.”

Scott scribbled
more powerful than anything.

Oren slapped his palms onto the conference table. “We’re talking more sizzle than a steak-sauce ad!”

More sizzle
, Scott wrote. He underlined the word
more
and looked at it. Oren continued to talk, but his voice faded in Scott’s mind. He began to circle all the
mores
on his notepad, then he drew lines connecting them to one another, and a moment later it dawned on him. The whole thing. The slogan, the visuals, the strategy. Scott was on his way.

“People,” Oren said. “Landing Fujioka would
double
our billings.” He slowed his speech and continued in a lower voice. “If we somehow fail to get this account …” There was no need to finish the sentence. Oren simply let the threat hang for a moment. “Dan, get started on this right now. I want something on my desk by end of business tomorrow. I’m talking full brand review—the works, and don’t worry about strategy, we can always fake one later to fit a good idea.”

With his left hand applying pressure to his ersatz wound, Dan’s right hand began snapping its castanet. His eyes all but rolled back in his head. “Already on it, sir.” Snapsnapsnapsnap.

Scott was paralyzed. He just sat there trying to talk himself into saying, “Mr. Prescott, I have an idea.” It was an idea Scott believed was brilliant. Of course, it wasn’t brilliant in a cure-for-cancer sort of way; rather, it was brilliant in that Scott believed it tapped into whatever caused the American public to become enthralled by phrases like “Where’s the beef?” It was, in short, the best idea Scott Emmons would ever have. Unfortunately, before Scott could muster the courage to say anything, Oren said, “That’s it, people. Fear for your future and get back to work.”

Scott despised himself for remaining mute. He could still hear his father’s voice reminding him of what a loser he was. “You wouldn’t even know a diamond if you held it in your hand,” was one of his favorite put-downs. Scott’s father thought that was the best way to build character in his weak son. But somehow the method had failed to work, and now Scott was—at least in his own mind—exactly what his dad had predicted, a loser.

Mr. Prescott stopped Dan on his way out of the conference room. “How’s it going with COD, Mr. Hollywood? Did you meet Jacqueline St. Georges last week?”

“Yeah, we had a nice chat. I told her she’d be perfect for Au Naturel Cosmetics.”

“What’d she say?”

“Having won a Golden Globe award for her last film role, she denounced commercial work as vulgar until I told her what a certain former sitcom star made on those Clairol spots,” Dan said. “At which point she saw the artistic merit of my argument.”

Scott stood a few feet away, unable to assert himself. He wanted to speak, but he simply couldn’t, and it wasn’t for lack of trying. For the past six months, Scott had been listening to the “Grab All You Can!” series of motivational tapes in the hope of becoming more aggressive at work. He wondered why the results were so long in coming. The ads had promised results in two weeks. Scott decided to return to his cubicle and listen to another one of his tapes. He was determined that this time would be different. He would tell someone his idea.

Oren gave Dan a fraternal punch in the shoulder. “On my desk tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “And remember, I want ssssssssizzle.”

“Consider it done.” Dan clapped his hands together. “In fact, I’ve got a great idea already.” As Dan watched Mr.
Prescott disappear down the hall, he stood there thinking,
What idea? I got shit for ideas.

B
ack in his office, Dan changed shirts and began mentally rearranging his schedule. He’d have to put COD on the back burner for a day. The Fujioka campaign was too big an opportunity to screw up. Now all he needed was inspiration. Dan raised his hands to fill his peripheral vision and he began his trademark snapping ritual. He hoped the staccato valving of energy would focus the creative genius within. Snapsnapsnapsnapsnap. A hack at heart, Dan always started by looking for a tag line. “Fujioka … Fujioka … It’s better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. A dull stick. A stick of gum. Uh, Fujioka … not just another Japanese corporation that makes shit better than Americans …” This went on for an hour.

Dan tried closing his eyes, standing on his head, and holding his breath. He laid himself across his desk like a sacrificial lamb. He sat cross-legged on the floor. He stood and paced. Snapsnapsnapsnapsnap. But nothing came. He was spinning around in circles in his chair when his intercom buzzed. “Scott Emmons to see you,” Rose said.

“Blow him off,” Dan replied, still spinning.

“Says it’s very important.”

“I bet.” Dan stopped his chair. “All right, send him.” Scott opened the door and poked his head in. “Mr. Steele?”

“It’s Dan.”

“Dan, right, I’m sorry.” Two words and he had already screwed up. In the advertising business there was an unwritten rule about not using the titles
Mr.
and Ms. The practice of allowing all employees to call the president by his first name was designed to give them the sense that everyone was on equal footing. The idea was to prevent formality from interfering
with creativity. That way junior employees felt free to share good ideas with superiors, who could then pass the idea up the chain of command until someone near the top claimed the idea as their own. Like much of advertising, it was a transparent yet surprisingly effective ploy.

“I’ve got an idea I want to throw at you,” Scott said. “It’s about Fujioka.”

Dan glanced at his watch. “Two minutes.” He wasn’t trying to be rude so much as he was trying to be left alone.

Scott immediately began to doubt both himself and his idea. What had gotten into him? Was he nuts? Scott decided that as soon as Dan told him his idea wasn’t worth shit, he was going to throw out those motivational tapes. There was no good reason to put himself through this kind of torture just because some latter-day Norman Vincent Peale was peddling positive thinking.

Dan put Scott in the “Backsliding Climber” lifestyle segment. He was a Paul McCartney—listening, dating-service-dependent, United Way—supporting, one-bedroom-apartment-renting model hobbyist. “Time’s wasting,” Dan said.

“Oh, right,” Scott replied. He was clutching several sheets of paper, still warm from his printer. He cleared his throat. “I think I’ve got the answer to the Fujioka question.” He waved the papers feebly.

“So you said.” Dan looked at his recent phone messages, savoring the one from Beverly. “Minute fifty, I’m waiting.”

Scott spread all but one of the papers onto Dan’s desk. They were comps—rudimentary ad layouts, a little artwork, and sample copy that Scott had thrown together on his computer in the last few hours. It was crude, admittedly, but at the same time, there was something inspired about it. Dan saw that right away.

“It’s a reverse Zen thing, okay?” Scott pointed at one of
the pages. “Here’s our spokesman. An old, wise-looking Japanese guy, like … like Master Po on
Kung Fu.”

“He was Chinese,” Dan said, glancing at his watch again. “Minute thirty.”

Scott’s stomach tightened as he continued, wanting just to get this over with. “Okay, Chinese. Anyway, he’s in a lotus position, right? Sitting by a pool reflecting the Fujioka logo.”

Dan glanced at the documents. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He yawned.

Scott was dying, but there was no turning back. “Okay, you know how Fujioka wants to position themselves with the whole bigger-louder-brighter angle, right? So here’s the tag …” Scott pulled the last piece of paper from behind his back with a tepid flourish. He held it up for Dan to see and read it aloud. “More Is More,” Scott said. He paused briefly to let it sink in. “Get it? It’s a twist on the Zen thing, less is more, but it’s More Is More. See, it—”