Schwartzman let out a long, deep breath, and slowly shook his head.
“He’s going to be pretty pissed off.”
“Exactly,” agreed Dr. Herschberg. “And when he gets angry enough, He’ll realize you won’t give him what he needs, and he’ll find a new person to bother.”
“And what about that person?”
“They’re not my patient.”
Schwartzman stared at the floor for a while, thinking hard about what the doctor was suggesting. He looked up at Dr. Herschberg and nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll do it. I’ll ignore Him.”
“No, you won’t,” said God.
“Yes, I will,” said Schwartzman.
“Our time is up,” said Dr. Herschberg.
IKNOW you can hear me,” God said to Schwartzman through the radio of his car. Six-speaker, Surround Sound divination. Dolby harassment. “It’s not going to work.”
Schwartzman tried changing the radio station.
Howard Stern was interviewing a lesbian midget. There was a harsh crackle of electrical interference, Howard’s voice cut out and behold, God spoke again.
“Hey, Schwartzman,” said God. “Listen. I’ll tell you a little secret, okay? But you can’t tell anyone. It’s just between me and you, okay? Because I love you. I do. All right, here goes. It’s nature. Nurture’s got nothing to do with it! But you can’t tell any—”
Schwartzman angrily switched the radio off.
Ten miles away, in the oak-walled office of Dr. Herschberg, a hardcover Physician’s Desk Reference slid off the highest shelf of the tallest bookcase, striking the doctor on the head and killing him instantly.
SUNDAY morning, Schwartzman was having the golf game of his life.
“I shall bring floodwaters on the earth,” shouted God loudly as Schwartzman was trying to line up a putt on the ninth green, “and destroy all that is under heaven! Flinch! Fliiiinch!”
Schwartzman kept his head down, his elbow straight, and sank the putt.
Over the next two weeks, every stock in Schwartzman’s portfolio tanked.
He was mugged, carjacked and burglarized. He lost on every scratch-off card he played. He almost won two dollars at Pick Ten, but the winning numeral, 1, mysteriously transformed into a 7.
One morning he found his car with four flat tires. That afternoon, he was rear-ended on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. That evening, he dropped his wallet somewhere in Prospect Park while walking his beloved dog Sparky. That night, Sparky was struck by lightning and killed.
“Damnedest thing,” said the policeman standing over the sizzling corpse. “And you say his name was Sparky? Damnedest thing.”
His cat Millie was run over by a Federal Express truck and the hamsters he kept in the basement escaped from their cages. They quickly took advantage of their long-awaited freedom to squirm behind the wood paneling, where they died long, wiggling deaths and then slowly decomposed.
Through it all, Schwartzman never once responded to God.
He never prayed, he never beseeched, he never begged. He didn’t repent, he didn’t give charity, he didn’t donate to the synagogue building fund.
He stopped going to synagogue entirely.
He had an Egg McMuffin with bacon and cheese every morning, and mixed his meat dishes with his dairy dishes every night.
And yet, despite all their misfortunes, the loss of every one of their pets, and the loss of every one of the pets they’d bought to replace their original pets, the Schwartzmans had never been happier.
They took long walks on Saturday mornings.
They bought nonkosher pretzels from nonkosher street vendors and covered them with nonkosher mustard.
They went for Saturday afternoon drives to nearby parks and faraway museums.
Instead of watching Leno, they made love.
And behold, one Thursday night later that summer, God spoke to a Mr. Akiva Twersky in Kew Gardens, Queens, saying, “Make for yourself an ark, for you and your entire family, because I have found you righteous in your generation.”
“Who’s that?” called out the terrified Twersky. “Hello? Who’s there? Who’s talking?”
Schmuck.
They’re All the Same
AT twelve noon and one one-thousandth of a thousandth of a second, God strode through the front door of the Manhattan advertising offices of Goldsmith Deutsch & McCabe.
His appointment was for twelve.
The morning had begun at a frenetic pace. God was expected and everybody was busily tidying up their workspaces, emptying wastepaper baskets, pulling down on their hemlines and deleting pornography from their hard drives. Goldsmith Deutsch & McCabe had all of God’s North American business, and they were keen to add His global business to their roster.
God didn’t just walk through the etched smoked glass front door of GDM every day. There were fresh bagels at reception, cut daisies in the women’s restroom, and not a single used condom in the men’s. Nobody told anyone to fuck off, no one complained about the crappy coffee, no one smacked his computer and loudly proclaimed it a lousy motherfucker.
At roughly five minutes after twelve, Goldsmith came out to meet Him.
Let the bastard wait, thought Goldsmith.
“Hey, God!” Goldsmith called, doing his best to smile, shaking God’s hand firmly. “Good to see you. No one told me you were coming in today. How are you doing?”
“Worse now,” said God.
Everyone laughed.
Prick, thought Goldsmith.
Deutsch hurried over and quickly wedged himself between Goldsmith and one of the agency’s highest-paying clients (Procter & Gamble was number one).
“C’mon! C’mon! Let’s go inside. We’ve got bagels….”
The agency had spent the last six months preparing for this meeting. They ran focus groups in New York, London, Prague and Detroit. Respondents were separated into three groups: Believers, Nonbelievers and what they had ultimately defined as the target with the greatest possible potential, Persuadables.
They conducted e-research, consisting of e-polls and e-surveys, presented in a document titled e-Findings that they had e-published on the Web. Respondents had been asked a number of questions:
If God were a person, who would He be?
Would you want to work for God? Would you want God to work for you?
Would you vote for God if He ran for President?
God is at a party. Is He (A) the life of the party, (B) a wallflower, or (C) drunk and disorderly?
God shows up at your doorstep. He is wearing (A) shoes, (B) sneakers, or (C) God is barefoot.
They did concept testing of a number of preliminary taglines and positioning statements. Nobody in the focus groups liked “The Original and Still the Best,” they were split on “The Porsche of Deities” and “Feeling Odd? Try God” met with consistent disapproval. One elderly woman took personal offense with the latter as she understood the tagline to be suggesting that if she believed in God, she must be odd; a meaningful discussion nearly ensued, and an emergency plate of doughnuts was hurried in.
The meeting began. Everyone wore bright, colorful creative-looking ties, the walls were covered with bright colorful ads and the table was covered with bright colorful food.
God took His usual seat at the head of the table.
Figures, thought Goldsmith. If there was one thing that thirty years in the advertising business had taught him, it was that these guys were all the same. Where were the titanium Palm Pilot and Tag Heuer watch?
God took off his Tag Heuer watch and laid it down on the table beside his titanium Palm Pilot.
“Where’s McCabe?” asked God. “We should at least have one goy in the room, shouldn’t we?”
Everyone laughed.
“He’s in the Caribbean,” Deutsch said. “Silver wedding anniversary. St. Bart’s.”
“Ever since The Simpsons I just can’t go there,” joked Goldsmith.
Nobody laughed.
&nbs
p; “I’d like to go over the agenda before we get started,” said Stacy, the energetic young account executive. Stacy told them that they would begin with a light breakfast, then a debrief on the rebrief of the last brief, then Research, then TV advertising ideas, then more Research, then Print advertising ideas, then Research again, and then a light lunch.
They would be given a research document on their way out.
Stacy invited them all to the breakfast buffet set up in the corner. Before she could even finish, God jumped up and raced straight for the crullers. Goldsmith tried to pass him at the corner of the table, but God zipped past and grabbed them from the plate. Goldsmith had to settle for a lousy croissant.
Figures, thought Goldsmith.
Goldsmith’s mother had passed away just twenty-three days ago after a long and difficult battle with Alzheimer’s. God had apologized and expressed his sincerest regrets in an e-mail addressed to the entire agency. “In her memory,” he wrote, “we should all redouble our efforts and commitment to this most important project.”
Goldsmith didn’t care for God’s apology. He wasn’t angry about his mother’s death; death happens. But he was angry about her suffering. He could well understand that there were things he could not understand, but the need for suffering was something he never wanted to understand. He couldn’t stomach the sight of God these days, but what was he going to do? Tell the firm’s biggest client to go fuck Himself?
Quietly, though, Goldsmith was having his own small revenge. Despite pressure from Deutsch and McCabe, he had refused to give God the CEO commercial that he no doubt wanted.
If there was a second thing that Goldsmith had learned after thirty years in the advertising business, it was that, ultimately, every CEO wants to star in his own commercial. The CEO commercial gave them the chance to do that, disguising their narcissism and vanity as accessibility and concern. From Iacocca to God, they were all the same.
Hello, I’m an egomaniac, and today I’d like to talk to you about me.
Goldsmith wouldn’t do it.
He wouldn’t give it to Him.
We open on God in a field, making the flowers bloom! We cut to God in a forest, making the birds sing! We cut to God in a hospital, bringing babies into the world!
No fucking way.
“Okay, folks,” called Stacy, “let’s get started.”
Goldsmith was still waiting for God to pull His nose out of the creamer.
“Beautiful day,” Goldsmith tried.
“I made it myself,” God answered loudly.
Everyone laughed.
STACY turned off the overhead lights and started the projector. God wondered aloud how much of that projector came out of His pocket.
“Seventeen percent commission, my ass,” He said. Everyone laughed.
Stacy began.
The harsh reality was this: God was skewing old. And white. Of course, it was a difficult market. His numbers were through the mosque’s roof in the East, but in the West, God was in the toilet. As chart A clearly showed, there had been a short spike in His awareness levels immediately following 9/11, but it had been a nearly continuous freefall ever since—and even back then, His awareness was skewing negative.
In response, as charts B, C, D and E showed, the agency had conducted focus groups in Atlanta, Houston and Chicago. They had given a roomful of college-educated men and women aged twenty-one to thirty-five earning over $50,000 per year a deck of picture cards. On each card was a picture of a famous celebrity, along with one extra card that just read “God.” There were two white boards hung on the wall; one board was labeled “Cool,” the other was labeled “Not Cool.” The moderators directed them to pin their celebrities to whichever board they felt most accurately described them.
Jon Stewart, Quentin Tarantino and Moby all made it to the Cool board; Colin Powell and Rob Lowe did not.
Most worrisome, Stacy concluded, was that in the opinion of sixty-eight college-educated men and women aged twenty-one to thirty-five and making over $50,000 a year, God was definitely “not cool.”
God was right up there between Carrot Top and Gallagher.
The projector was turned off, the lights were turned on and Goldsmith stood up. Presenting the ad campaign was his part of the show.
He picked up his presentation boards and carried them to the head of the table.
He tried to put aside his personal feelings toward God. He was a professional, after all, and this meeting was the culmination of six long months of work. Six months of early mornings and late nights, six months of Start Dinner Without Me and Not This Weekend, Mom, I’m Working.
“We have been working long and hard on this campaign,” Goldsmith began.
God was rudely writing on his titanium Palm Pilot.
“Kick puppy,” Goldsmith imagined.
Goldsmith’s mother hated those Palm Pilot things. He’d bought her one for what turned out to be her last birthday in an attempt to cheer her up. But her hands shook too much and she couldn’t remember the strange new alphabet. She liked to hold it, though; Goldsmith liked to imagine it reminded her of him. More likely, she just thought it was a Bible.
God smacked his Palm Pilot angrily and threw it onto the table. “Piece of shit,” he said loudly.
Deutsch smiled and tried to direct God’s attention toward Goldsmith.
“We want your business,” continued Goldsmith, “not just for the revenue, but because we truly want you to succeed.”
He loathed himself. He loathed every last cell in his body.
God was still grumbling about the Palm Pilot.
“Why is every fucking thing those fucking Japs make such a piece of shit? Why?”
Everyone laughed.
“We’re going to show you a range of ideas,” Goldsmith soldiered on, “and I want to emphasize that these are just ideas, just works in progress.”
“You mean they suck?” God quipped. “What are you, a fucking Jap now?”
Everyone laughed.
Even Goldsmith laughed.
Goldsmith laughed and laughed, long after everyone else had stopped. “Everything’s funny when you’re paying the bills,” Goldsmith laughed, and then he laughed some more.
“I’m not paying your bills,” God said coldly.
Everyone laughed.
If there was a third thing that Goldsmith had learned after thirty years in the advertising business it was that sometimes, with some clients, “fuck you” is a valid answer.
“Fuck you,” Goldsmith said.
Nobody laughed.
···
THE account was eventually awarded to Ogilvy and Mather. The contact report made no mention of the incident. “Client was appreciative of the effort the agency clearly made on His behalf, but Client wondered if the Client’s needs demanded an agency of a more established nature.”
Everyone at GDM agreed that God would have made a terrible client. Very P&G.
Procter & Gamble. A notoriously difficult client.
“Let’s just focus on the Nike pitch,” said Deutsch.
A few days later, Goldsmith called the team into his office. A producer in L.A. owed him a favor and he held in his hand the Ogilvy rough cut of God’s new commercial.
We open on God in a field, He’s making the flowers bloom! We cut to God in a forest, making the birds sing! We cut to God in a hospital, bringing babies into the world!
They’re all the same.
Smite the Heathens, Charlie Brown
CHARLIE BROWN, walking down the street.
He is wearing his baseball cap and is smiling.
He meets Linus.
Charlie Brown says: There’s something magical about the very first baseball game of the season.
Linus says, “Schulz died last night.”
“Good grief,” says Charlie Brown.
LINUS and Charlie Brown, walking down the street.
Linus says, “Last night someone spray-painted a giant pumpkin on our front door.”
&
nbsp; Linus says, “This morning I prayed to the Great Pumpkin to protect us from the rioting Schulzians.”
Charlie Brown asks, “How’s Lucy taking it?”
Lucy strolls over.
“NEVER AGAIN!” she shouts, flipping the boys upside down.
Linus says, “Personally.”
CHARLIE BROWN, sitting in his beanbag chair. He is watching TV. Sally stands behind him.
Sally asks, “Are we Schulzian or Pumpkinite?”
Charlie Brown says, “We’re Schulzian.”
Charlie Brown says, “Schulzians believe in a Creator who writes and draws us every single day …”
Charlie Brown says, “… while Pumpkinites, like Linus and Lucy, believe in the Great Pumpkin who flies around and rewards his believers on Halloween.”
Charlie Brown says, “But ultimately, belief should be a personal choice.”
“Which one gets more vacation?” asks Sally.
Charlie Brown rolls his eyes.
CHARLIE BROWN and Linus, standing behind the old stone wall.
Linus ducks.
Snoopy and Woodstock stroll over. Snoopy wears a beret and carries a rifle on his shoulder. Snoopy’s shirt reads: SCHULZ IS THE LORD.
Snoopy and Woodstock leave.
Linus stands up.
“Good grief,” says Charlie Brown.
SNOOPY sits on the roof of his doghouse, facing his typewriter. Woodstock sits on Snoopy’s shoulder.
Charlie Brown strolls over.
Snoopy hands him a page.
Charlie Brown reads: “The only final solution is to kill all the Pumpkinites as they have killed Schulz our Lord.”
Charlie Brown looks up at Snoopy.
“Mein Kampf,” says Snoopy.
Woodstock starts shouting loudly and waving his red pen.
“Mein editor,” says Snoopy.
SNOOPY sits on the roof of his doghouse, facing his typewriter.
Snoopy types: “It was a dark and stormy night.”
Snoopy thinks.
Snoopy thinks.
Snoopy thinks.
Beware of God Page 8