by Max Barry
Coming from Sneaky Pete, this is more than I can stomach. “Oh, please. Let’s talk about substance, huh? We developed Fukk. We developed the summer campaign. What have you done?”
Sneaky Pete says immediately, “Mr. Jamieson, I find this hostile attitude quite inappropriate.”
“Yes, Scat,” Jamieson says. “Let’s keep this professional. Sneaky Pete has been running Fukk for the past two months.”
The grin: wide and white. It says: Thank you, Scat, for getting Jamieson to support me. Please keep it up. I want to walk around the table and pop him.
“All I’m saying,” I say tightly, “is that Sneaky Pete does not have the same credibility as 6 and me.”
“Yes, credibility,” Sneaky Pete says. He says it so fast that I’m instantly sure I have fucked up. Big time fucked up. He’s been waiting for us to raise this, and now he’s pounced on it. “Let’s talk about credibility.”
I glance at 6, but her gaze is fixed on Sneaky Pete. I’m pretty sure she knows what’s coming next as well as I do.
“This new campaign: it is remarkable, yes. But I must ask what risk was taken to produce it.” He takes a long, slow breath. “It disturbs me to raise such matters ... but I have reason to believe that 6 and Scat almost failed to produce a summer campaign for Coca-Cola at all. I have reason to believe they allowed the schedule to slip so far behind that this company was in serious jeopardy had the new campaign not been developed.”
This is serious stuff, and I see eyes widen among the three SMT. No doubt each of these men has a major stock holding plus performance-based bonuses.
The speaker crackles into life again. Jamieson’s voice is strained. “What’s your justification for thinking that?”
Sneaky Pete sighs. “I didn’t want to mention this, Mr. Jamieson ... but 6 resigned from Coca-Cola last Friday, citing in her resignation her own mismanagement. The following Monday she withdrew her resignation and instead presented her new campaign.”
This time, his grin is all for 6.
6 doesn’t wait for Jamieson’s reaction. “This is what I expected, Mr. Jamieson.” She actually sounds a little bored, but her eyes are like fire. “Frankly, I’m a little disappointed.”
The speaker allows us to hear Jamieson kill the motor. I guess when you hear that one of your staff took a good shot at fucking up your company, it’s worth pulling over to hear more. “Explain.”
“What Sneaky Pete says is, of course, a mixture of half truths and fiction. I’m happy to give you a detailed brief on the summer campaign whenever you like. But that’s not the point.” She sounds so credible; I am truly impressed. “The point, Mr. Jamieson, is that we produced a campaign. We produced a campaign that was better than the one we were given. Let’s look at results.”
Sneaky Pete says, “No one is disputing the result. The issue is: Can we really trust you?” He is leaning closer, eager. “Are you tough enough to handle this campaign? Do you ...” The grin, gone as fast as it appears. “Do you have the balls?”
I jump in. “Hey, let’s get back on track now. Look, if I could just have a minute, I’d like to go through a list of reasons why—”
Jamieson cuts me off. “I want to hear this. He’s right: I’ve got concerns about your ability to handle the pressure at the top, 6. So convince me. Can you handle this campaign?”
“I—” 6 starts, but Sugar reaches out and coyly strokes 6’s face. 6 pushes her away, furious, but for a second she is thrown. “Of course I do. I—”
Sneaky Pete cuts in. “And there is something else, Mr. Jamieson. It particularly distresses me to raise this.”
“What?” There is a tinge of fear in Jamieson’s voice, and that worries me a great deal. If Jamieson is scared, he will choose the safe bet.
“I don’t expect this to affect your decision in the slightest,” Sneaky Pete says carefully. “I want you to know that I consider this entirely separate.” I immediately think: You don’t do business law for the fun of it. “But I think you should be aware that 6 is pregnant.”
I stare at Sneaky Pete in shock, then start to turn toward 6. But I don’t make it. Sneaky Pete’s grin breaks out again, and I’m instantly positive that 6 is no more pregnant than I am. This is another tactic. A pregnant woman has about as much chance of being given control of a top project as a drunk; they’re viewed as equally reliable.
6 is so outraged she can barely speak. “I—am—”
Sneaky Pete says smoothly, “I’m sorry, that was irrelevant. Let’s not speak of it.”
“I am not pregnant!” 6 screams. Her voice silences everyone; even Jamieson sits quietly in his BMW for long moments.
“I’m sorry,” Sneaky Pete says. “That wasn’t very sensitive of me. 6, do you need a few moments?”
“Why?” she demands. “Because I’m female?”
Sneaky Pete lets her words hang in the air for a few seconds, allowing Jamieson plenty of time to digest them. “That sort of outburst,” Sneaky Pete says sadly, “is precisely what I’m concerned about.”
6’s jaw works uselessly; she stares at Sneaky Pete with wide, outraged eyes.
“I like girls, too,” Sugar whispers, and I can’t believe her smile isn’t malicious.
6 falls. I see it happen. Her face dissolves, and she doesn’t hang her head fast enough for her hair to hide it. She pushes Sugar to one side and, before I can rise, flees from the room.
strike three
I break out of Ludus, blinking in the sudden sunlight, and spot 6 just as she slams the cab door. I sprint toward her, but the car peels away from the curb, leaving me staring at the back of 6’s head in its rear window. I watch until the traffic engulfs her.
“I love you,” I say quietly.
A Brief Interlude with Scat and Tina
eviction
“I don’t know what you did to her,” the speaker tells me fiercely, “but it was enough, okay? You leave her alone.”
“Tina, you don’t understand. I’m on her side. She got screwed at Coke today, but I was trying to help her. You understand?”
The speaker doesn’t answer.
“Tina? Hello?”
Two hours later, the speaker clicks open again. “Are you still there, Scat?”
I struggle up from the sidewalk. “I have no home and you have all my clothes. Yes, I’m still here.”
Tina sighs. “Look, you can’t stay here. I’ll throw your stuff down from the window.”
“I know the drill,” I say wearily, and I head around to the side street to collect my possessions.
absolutely no idea
So, for the third time, I am homeless.
A New Life
six months later
When I emerge from the pool, Cindy is by my side with a big fluffy white towel. “Nice workout,” she says admiringly. “Mind if I dry you off?”
“Knock yourself out,” I tell her generously. I stand with my arms and legs splayed while she gives me a thorough once-over. I can’t help but notice her particular attention to my groin. “Hey now, go easy on Mr. William.”
“Sorry, Scat,” she says coyly, applying a final squeeze.
“Oooh,” I say.
“So, any interviews today?”
“Yeah, probably.” I roll my eyes. “There’s always some show or rag that wants to talk about my success.”
“Must get boring,” Cindy sympathizes.
“Yeah, well.” I shrug. “You gotta give these people what they want.”
“Right,” Cindy says, vigorously toweling my calves. She pauses. “Except ...”
“What?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Cindy, what?”
She looks up at me, her blue eyes huge. “Promise you won’t get mad?”
“Uh,” I say. “Well ...”
“You don’t really have any interviews today.”
I gape. “You canceled my interviews?”
“Not ... exactly,” Cindy says. “It’s just that you’re not really successful. We
don’t really live in this big house.”
“What are you talking about?”
She stands, dropping the towel. “Well, I haven’t said anything before, because you seemed so happy. But this is just a dream.”
I stare. “A—a—”
Cindy nods.
“You mean—my car? My stock options? God, my invitation to the Academy Awards?”
“‘Fraid not,” she says.
I scream.
dawn
“Are you okay?” Cindy says.
“Uh,” I say, clutching the sheets.
“You’re all sweaty.”
“Sorry. Just a nightmare.”
She looks at me sympathetically. “Was it the one with Sneaky Pete again?”
“Ah ...” I say. “Yes it was.”
“Poor baby.” She pecks me on the cheek, then swings her legs out of bed.
“Where are you going?”
“It’s almost five. I’m going to work out.”
“Oh,” I say, still a little bewildered from the dream. “Sure.”
Cindy frowns at me from the doorway, nude and appealingly lit by the streetlight leaking past the venetian blinds. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Sure,” I say. “Sure I am.”
a workout
I stare at the ceiling while Cindy puffs and clanks on her workout machines in the next room. When she returns, a thin sheen of sweat on her skin, I haven’t moved.
“Hey,” she says, a little sharply. “We agreed. No moping over the past.”
“Sorry,” I say guiltily.
She comes over and sits down on the edge of the bed. “We’re doing okay,” she tells me. “You’re doing okay. Okay?”
“Okay.”
She pecks me on the cheek again and rises from the bed, tossing her hair, which these days is blond. “So what’s on for today?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Of course I remember,” Cindy says. “But I want to hear you say it.”
“You’ve got the Wal-Mart catalog from nine. Your acting class is from four to six. And tonight we’re having dinner with a representative of Christian Dior to discuss a signing.”
“Christian Dior, ” Cindy says, her eyes shining.
“Cindy,” I warn her, “it’s just a first meeting. They’re not going to sign you on the spot. You understand?”
“Scat,” Cindy says, “you’re the best agent in the world.”
thank you very much
Cindy leaves at eight, and about ten I drag myself into the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror for a while. Then I shower, pull on jeans and a T-shirt, and eat breakfast in front of whatever comes up when I turn the TV on, which happens to be an Elvis movie.
A little while later I realize that I’m staring at the screen without really seeing it, so I try to pull myself together by calling a few advertising agencies to see if anyone has a spot for Cindy. One guy asks if Cindy will sleep with him for a spot, and I tell him no but I will.
I do three more calls, then realize that I’m staring pointlessly at my shoes. The phone is dangling from my hand, emitting quiet tones to itself. I hang up quickly, a little frightened by my own listlessness. Five months ago, this stuff was actually fun.
I look at the screen, where Elvis is sitting on a log and strumming thoughtfully at his guitar. A sprightly girl in a bright orange sweater is sitting at his feet with an enraptured expression, like Elvis knows the answer to everything. “Elvis,” I say emotionally. “Tell me what’s wrong with me.”
Elvis says to the girl, “Well, I guess I just love my music. I love making it all up. Some people go through their whole lives without ever getting to create something, you know? If that was me, heck, I’d go crazy.”
I stare at the TV, open-mouthed.
“Elvis,” I say eventually, “they didn’t call you the King for nothing.”
relapse
When Cindy arrives home, I’m sitting on the sofa in the dark. She stands in the doorway for a long time.
“Cindy,” I say, “I’m having a crisis.”
There is a pause. “No,” Cindy says tightly. She slaps on the lights. “No, you are not.”
“Cindy, I’m sorry,” I say, squinting a little, “but I am.”
“You are not having a crisis,” she says, refusing to look at me. She dumps a bag of clothes on the kitchen bench, her lips tight. “Because tonight we are meeting with Christian Dior.”
“Yeah, I don’t think I can make that now. You see, I was watching this Elvis movie and it got me thinking: I don’t create anything anymore. I just—”
“We are meeting with Christian fucking Dior!” Cindy screams. I am shocked into silence. She stalks over to me. “We have worked very hard on my modeling career, and tonight we have the opportunity for a dream contract.”
I open my mouth to explain my new theories on the importance of creation and the futility of process, then see Cindy’s eyes bulge alarmingly and decide this is probably a bad idea.
“You,” Cindy spits, “don’t deserve a crisis. You’ve had enough crises already.”
“Hey,” I say.
“I’ve picked you up twice.” She stabs my chest for emphasis. “It’s time you started to think about someone other than yourself. Is that so hard?”
“Uh,” I say, starting to feel a little guilty. “Well, I guess not.”
“No. It shouldn’t be.”
I bow my head. “I’m sorry.”
Cindy sighs. “It’s okay,” she says, stroking my hair. “We have a new life now. A good life. We’ve started over, and it’s working. That’s what’s important.”
“Forgive me?” I ask hopefully.
Cindy looks at me, then smiles. “Sure,” she says. “Now go get dressed.”
a bolt from the red
The phone rings while I’m trying to decide between a black jacket and a red one, but I let Cindy pick up. I don’t hear anything from her for a minute, so I get a start when I turn around and she’s in the doorway with the phone.
“Scat,” she says carefully, “there’s a call for you.”
“Okay,” I say, equally carefully. “From ... ?”
“Coke.”
an offer
Cindy hands me the phone and I accept it with numb fingers. I try to act as casual as possible, but my eyes have watered over and I feel like I’m blushing furiously. Cindy sits on the bed and watches me.
“Hello?”
“Scat,” the phone says, and it is definitely, absolutely, completely not 6. My heart drops out of my mouth and lands somewhere around my feet. “It’s Gary Brennan, pal, how you doing?”
“Gary.” The fact that Coke’s VP of Marketing has chosen to call me is a pretty exciting development on its own, but it’s hard to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “I’m doing great. What’s new?”
Cindy sniffs. I shoot a glance at her, but she turns and looks out the window.
“Well, that’s what I want to talk to you about. I think I’ve got something that might interest you.”
I swallow. Important to stay casual. “Really?”
“It’s your kind of scene, all right. Hey, are you on a land line?”
“Yes.”
“Good. This is real confidential stuff. You understand?”
“Of course,” I say, although I’m not really sure.
“We’re starting something big, Scat. Something huge. Maybe the biggest marketing project the world has ever seen.”
Something is called for here, but whatever it is I don’t have it. I settle for controlling my breathing, which is threatening to get a little out of control.
“It’s going to be either a massive success or a total flop. There are asses on the line over it, including mine.”
I take a deep breath. “And you’ve called me?”
“I need a creative. I need the best fucking creative I can get. You.”
A wind roars past my ears, and I close my eyes and sink on to the bed to rid
e through it. When I open my eyes, Cindy’s blues are boring into me. “That’s very nice of you to say, Gary.”
“Look, let’s not bullshit each other here,” he says amiably. “Six months ago, you and 6 got royally screwed. I don’t expect you to just forgive and forget. Maybe you don’t want anything to do with Coke anymore. Maybe you don’t want anything to do with marketing anymore. I could understand that.”
“I’m an agent now,” I say abruptly. Cindy squeezes my knee. “Whatever. Here’s the deal. I can’t tell you any more about this project, but trust me when I say it’s big. I’m offering you a position on the team. Do you want it?”
“Gary,” I say evenly, “can you hold for just a second?”
“Sure.”
I mute the phone and turn to Cindy.
“Well?” she says aggressively. As I watch, little tears form in the corner of each eye. I look at them for a long moment.
I punch off the mute. “Gary?”
“Here.”
“No.”
en route
In the car, Cindy tells me happily, “You’re the best agent in the world.”
an evening with christian
Cindy is wearing an eight-thousand-dollar dress and as we enter the Saville I spot men sneaking her appraising glances. I can’t see the representative from Christian Dior, so I get the maître d’ to seat us near the window. We end up, I think, at the same table that 6 and I shared ten months ago.
“Do you know this woman?” I ask the maître d’, pointing at Cindy.
“I am sorry, sir, I do not,” he says. Which is fair enough, given that the only real exposure Cindy has had so far has been in department store catalogs and obscure, unpaid fashion shows.
“Her name is Cindy,” I say, “and I’d like every waiter who comes to this table to say, ‘Excuse me, but aren’t you that model?’ ”