Doing Lunch

by Doing Lunch Free(Lit)

  “Okay Sophia, tell me where you want to go, it’s yours.”

  “And all you want is a little sex?”

  “I could use some.”

  “That’s what I said last week, Serge, and do you remember what you said?” Flashing back in his mind, Sergotoff did remember what he had said. This was a night that he was going to come up short of his desires and he knew any further attempt was futile. He had made the mistake last week of working late and being tired when he got home. It took a lot of effort and many hours to connive the way Serge connived.

  The large conference room looked more like a convention of 1960’s nostalgia freaks than a group of the top advertising copywriters and graphic artists from London. The one area that the Russians really needed to learn about was marketing. When the government was your economy, there was no place else to take your business. Russia was going to have to learn the art of selling.

  Mikhail had dealt with these people several times before. He initially hired them when he was opening up a travel agency in London to draw people to warm weather climates. He decided to take a chance on these people when he saw the psychedelic shirts and long hair, wearing the same look of many of the rock groups he admired and enjoyed. They also seemed like they had a laid-back attitude the first time he spoke with them, something he associated with tropical settings. He got that feeling from them because they took so long to answer his questions so it was easy to draw the inference. It never occurred to him that maybe they had smoked some marijuana before they came to his office.

  With his entourage of four making their grand appearance, the members of the advertising agency turned to face them quicker than they had answered Mikhail’s questions.

  “Relax, everybody,” suggested Mikhail, who then realized that if they relaxed any farther they would all be in comas. Allison, B. Czar and Russo made themselves comfortable, planting themselves in the cushioned office chairs making sure their butts were planted just right. The others took the action to mean that it was now time to pay attention and they sat down as well. Russo pulled out his small tape recorder, wanting to catch the making of a nation. His action drew the curious attention of the young creative people.

  “Oh folks, I want you to meet Tim Russo. He is a reporter for U.S. News and World Report.”

  “So what has that got to do with advertising in Russia?” came a high-pitched voice from a thirty something year old man who stood at slightly more than five foot tall.

  “Well, Wally, he is just documenting Russia’s growth.”

  “Well, make him take an economics class and learn what the bottom line is because we are going to get this country up and running! Yeah!” Wally threw his arm up in the air and was quickly joined by the others. Mikhail started to wonder if maybe they were able to sneak some of their drugs through customs.

  “Come on, people, I have other things to do today.” The pleading of Mikhail from his frustration clearly told his friends that this was not the first time he had difficulty getting the attention of the creative types. The ad people continued to indulge in their cheering of Wally, who at the moment Mikhail would like to have turned into a Wally Wallbanger. Suddenly B. Czar climbed onto the table and began doing a tap dance, making certain to create enough noise so that he drew the attention of the others. He accomplished his goal.

  “Now shut up, time is money.” All was now quiet on the eastern front as the creatives returned to their seats. B. Czar climbed off the table and back into his chair.

  “It turned out that the city I had talked to you about is going to be completed quite a bit sooner than we anticipated. We need to start the marketing campaign right away.”

  “Okay, I have been giving it some thought and I think I have an idea,” suggested Mildred, a stunning blonde who there was just too much of for her psychedelic halter-top. It did not help that she always bought down one size just to make sure that it was filled to capacity.

  “Well Mildred?”

  “How about a classy little city from a classless society?”

  Mikhail’s eyes brightened up and Allison was just as ecstatic. Losing all control, she rose to her feet and began applauding wildly, her long hair flailing. Before long the others, except for B. Czar, joined her. Quickly, he again leaped onto the table and began dancing, “Time is money! Time is money!”

  “Not in a bankrupt country, it isn’t,” replied a voice from the crowd.

  “Come on, guys.” Looking at Mikhail, his expression became the center of sympathy. Because they did not want to see a grown man cry, they returned to their chairs prepared to get down to the business of selling a city.

  “Okay, let’s start with the colors,” suggested Wally. “You said that you were hoping to make this city the Las Vegas of the East and it’s near the Caspian Sea?”

  “It’s on the Caspian Sea,” advised Allison.

  “Water! That’s great! The family theme thing is in. We could have all sorts of water rides, maybe a big water slide,” suggested one.

  “Well what about beaches?” came another suggestion.

  “What about the colors for the advertising?”

  “Let it flow, Mikhail, let the creative juices flow,” commented Wally, trying to just let a natural rhythm develop, having sat through these kinds of sessions many times before.

  “The sand, beige or a tan would be a color,” was a comment that led the conversation into the color scheme.

  “Maybe some red for the hot time people could expect.”

  “No! No red, no hot sun. I don’t want red or black in the marketing and don’t use yellow if it’s going to look like a hammer and sickle,” advised Mikhail, putting in his inflationary two rubles.

  “Maybe a picture of an elegant chandelier?” suggested Mildred in the form of a question. While a brilliantly creative individual, she hated taking credit for her ideas. Wally had a talk with her about it once and discovered that she hated being the center of attention. She had seen what happened to Lady Di and knew that if her little escapade with her horse riding instructor had happened a century or two earlier, he could have changed his name to Igabod Mudd, Washington Irving’s famous Headless Horseman.

  “Yes, yes…we could also show photos of people enjoying the Caspian Sea,” was another suggestion.

  “And we’re going to have gambling in this town, right? So why not show pictures of gambling tables, twenty-one, roulette, dice?” The questions began to run together so quickly that Allison started to wonder if maybe the city that they were building was not something like New York. She was just hoping that the colors on the blouses of the creative people did not start to run together as the questions were.

  “Wait until you hear this one,” was the statement that rose above the others and garnered the attention of the others, and it was delivered by Lionel Baldwin of Liverpool. “How about building a soccer field and having tournaments here,” was the suggestion presented by Lionel. "We are trying to draw Europeans in, aren’t we? Let’s give them something we know they are interested in.” The suggestion was welcomed by applause and with all the self-congratulations that Russo had seen here today, he felt like he was in Hollywood, a place where there was an award ceremony every Monday and Tuesday. On any given weekend during the first third of the year, five or six movies could lay claim to having won somebody’s best picture of the year accolade. Since there were far more bad films than good ones, Russo thought, there should have been more imitations of the Raspberries than the Oscars.

  Almost unnoticed because of her quiet manner, sat Rona, at a computer, her ears attuned to the conversation. Moving her mouse about at the sound of almost every word, her eyes seldom turned to look at her associates; her voice remained silent.

  “I think that’s it, I think we got it. Soccer, gambling, good food, water sports in the Caspian Sea, elegant casinos with lounge acts...anything else?” There was no response to the question, although everyone in the room gave it serious thought, not wanting to miss anything.

&n
bsp; “Okay Rona, let’s see what you have.” Rona continued to move the mouse about for a little while longer. Finally stopping it, she clicked the right button twice. Before long a page began sliding out of the printer. Sitting with a beach at the bottom, a beach that was supposed to be along the Caspian Sea, she had offset it with hotels and foods, which were seen rising from the sea. The sheet of paper was similar to a brochure with three separate sections and the next two sections contained text. The brochure began making its way around the table for inspection by the creative types. That Russia was financing this city was inconsequential to the ad types because they had put some of their energy into it, they thought of the project as being theirs. This interpreted to mean that Mikhail, Allison, B. Czar and Russo would be the last to view the material.

  Passing before everyone’s eyes on inspection, the facial reactions reflected a favorable response. When it reached Russo, his eyes flew open, as did his mouth, and changed into the shape of a quarter moon.

  “This is incredible!” commented the journalist as he passed the brochure to B. Czar. While being a man who did most of his business on the black market where marketing strategies were non-existent, he nonetheless appreciated a fine performance. In his eyes, this met the standards of a fine performance, something that would draw people into the new city.

  “Now you just need a name for your city,” reminded Wally.

  “He’s right,” seconded B. Czar. “Suppose somebody in Moscow wants to take a cab to our new city, where’s he going to tell him to go?” The subject left everyone in a quandary. The creative people certainly did not want to interfere with the Russian culture, they were there merely to promote it. Besides, everyone from the ad agency knew that they were not familiar enough with the Russian mindset to try to figure out just how the population would react to specific names. People were usually slow reacting to change, unless, of course, Congress did away with the IRS.

  “I got one! I think I have it,” announced B. Czar, hurriedly expressing his thoughts as if the faster he got them out the sooner he would he heard. He was much like a child who was certain he had the right answer.

  “Well what is it?” responded Mikhail, not quite understanding why someone who was sure he had the answer felt he must keep it to himself.

  “I got this out of a magazine called the Hollywood Reporter. Let’s call it Tinseltown.” Allison found herself in pain from laughing so hard while Russo and Mikhail were both just glad that they did not have to go to the rest room at the time because they both knew they would never have made it.

  “What’s wrong with Tinseltown?” asked B. Czar, who was confused because he was certain that he had the answer.

  “You don’t want to know, B. Czar, because you don’t have the time,” responded Mikhail, having a difficult time removing the smile. The members from the ad agency were able to hold their laughter in, but the smiles told B. Czar that the joke was on him.

  “Well, our city must have a name, must it not?”

  “It’ll have a name, B. Czar, a good name.” Mikhail had not realized that his words had given new hope for glory to B. Czar, whose mind was searching for a name for the city. All his mind kept coming up with were girl’s names. He knew he was not about to become a father and he had not heard of any hurricanes developing in the Caspian Sea, something that just could not happen. Maybe he was thinking of girl’s names because it had been so long since he had been out with one.

  “Mikhail, how about Nirvana?” suggested Russo. “The word means paradise and could easily pass for Russian.”

  “Perfect! Perfect! If you need a job I think I can work something out in the agency. Think about it.” Tim would have appreciated the accolades if they were coming from Mikhail, since he and Allison, along with Alexi, would make the decision.

  “I like it, Mikhail. I think it works well for what we’re planning on doing, creating a place for tourists.”

  “That’s true, you have a point there, Allison. People on vacation are looking for paradise.”

  “Right! Nobody ever thought of Russia and paradise in the same thought.” Allison’s second comment put the lid on it as far as Mikhail was concerned. He was certain that Alexi would go along with it if the name were not X-rated.

  The computer artist began playing around with her pride and joy and everyone in the room just sensed that she would accomplish the same eye captivating affect again. Everyone had the same feeling about remaining silent, no one wanted her to lose even a bit of her thought. For everyone in the room knew a loss of a bit or two of thought might result in the new tourist city losing a million or two Chevecknys a year. The final click on her mouse ignited the sound of the printer working it’s magic, and that was what everyone in the room hoped this new brochure would be, magic.

  Reaching for the finished product, the artist handed it first to Allison. The young woman now understood why she was in law school and not doing something with art and design. The fact that the computer artist could come up with this so quickly left Allison in awe. She had to share her enthusiasm with the others as a group, one by one just would not do. Holding it above her head, she turned it around and moved it in front of everyone.

  The first panel of the brochure read, "The New Russian Revolution Brings You Nirvana.” It was followed in smaller print with “The New Russian Sea That Lets You Live Your Most Pleasant Dreams.” Underneath the words was a pot of gold sitting at the end of a rainbow that arched over a body of water. The applause was resounding and the sheepish artist found herself in a situation that was very uncomfortable for her. One of the reasons she chose to become an artist was because when she made the decision, she thought it was one of those things you could do by yourself.

  The night had been a rough one for Serge Sergotoff. Doing without sex for another night was killing his psyche, but not being able to enjoy the retreat at the Black Sea was beginning to bother him as much as it was Sophia. Since she wanted to go swimming when they vacationed this time, he had just made arrangements for a week in Monte Carlo.

  Originally he planned to arrange a state visit to Monte Carlo, but it was difficult to arrange now that he was no longer in charge and Alexi had to authorize all official state visits. Sergotoff offered to visit the small country but the monarchy of Monaco did not feel compelled to have a strong relationship with a communist leader from a poor country who was no longer in charge. Monte Carlo catered to high rollers, something that was in short supply in Russia, like everything else there. Sergotoff dismissed the shun, with the thought that Sophia and he wanted to do plenty of swimming and to stay at the royal estate would have interfered with their plans.

  Sergotoff had never been to Monte Carlo but he had heard quite a bit. When Russia was part of the Soviet Union he refused an offer twice to go, feeling a need to play the public relations game. He knew it would look bad for a top communist official hanging over the craps table, a game he was intrigued with.

  The idea that Sergotoff was captivated with the roll of the dice was a strange twist of irony. As a top communist official, the communists controlled everything, never wanting to leave anything to chance. It was the capitalist entrepreneurs that lived with the roll of the dice, the automobile manufacturers with their market, whether it was growing or shrinking, the farmers with too much rain or drought, etc. He was determined to go to Monte Carlo and have a good time even if he had to be pretentious about it. The only thing that mattered on the trip was that Sophia enjoyed it.

  Looking out of his office window, the timing couldn’t have been better. The limousine that he had sent for his wife was arriving at the curb right below. As Sophia’s long nylon covered legs made their appearance, Serge knew that this trip was do or die.

  Moving toward the refrigerator, a word that had been on his mind all night because of the way that Sophia was acting toward him behind closed doors, he removed the vodka along with two small shot glasses. Sophia had developed quite a reputation for holding her own. She had once beaten Medansky by
downing five shots in twenty-seven seconds. Even with all the vodka Sophia had in her that night, Serge still came away empty handed when they returned home.

  Entering the office in a most unassuming manner, Sophia headed right for the shot glasses. Downing one quickly, she twirled rapidly to face her husband.

  “Well, I hope sending the driver for me you have something pretty damn exciting to say.”

  “I’ve made plans for us to go to Monte Carlo next weekend.” The words Monte Carlo shot through Sophia’s mind like an electric charge of life. Being married to Serge had provided her with many luxuries of the West, including all of their magazines. She knew all about Monte Carlo and the celebrities that visited that locale. Maybe she would meet one.

  “Well, do you approve?” asked Serge, expecting an answer from his wife. Sophia realized that she had fallen into a stunned silence and she knew that she had to reveal her pleasure with the thought of the trip to Sergotoff immediately. Moving toward him, she embraced him in the way they had kissed as youths, if there was such a period like that in their lives. Sergotoff found that his socks were falling down and now questioned his judgment about not springing for a few dollars every once in a while for a trip before.

  “Then you approve?”

  “Yes, yes, yes. We shall have the most wonderful time. I will begin trying to find out about all the best restaurants and casinos in Monte Carlo.” Sophia did not need to say another word, for what she had just said had told Sergotoff that his spending for the vacation was not going to be limited to airfare, hotel and food because he now understood that it was going to be gourmet dining. Sophia just did not understand that he could not go in and just start plundering the treasury, as he was once able to do under Communist rule.

  “I’ve heard that the shops in Monte Carlo are exquisite. We shall have a wonderful trip.” Sophia kissed him again and moved toward the door. “I must find out as much about Monte Carlo as I can before we go.” Leaving her husband not far from tears, he was now wondering if there was any country treasury that would be large enough for what he was going to need.