It was group hesitation before Dave stepped forward and held out his hand to the only person in the room he didn’t know. He tried to sound confident. “Dave Riley. You must be from BikeHouse . . . very nice to meet you. Your company is expanding like crazy. Very impressive.” He offered no excuse for his appearance or for being late.
Shaun stood. Hands were shaken. Ellen made the formal introduction.
“Dave, this is Shaun Safford, Vice President of Marketing for BikeHouse. Mr. Safford, this is Dave Riley, he’s . . . well, he’s one of the members of our team.” Dave moved to the nearest vacant seat on the other side of Brock. As he sat, he caught Ellen’s glare.
She addressed Dave with disdain dripping noticeably from her words. “We’ve been reviewing their image, Dave, explaining how with our research and marketing studies, we can enhance the effectiveness of their advertising dollars. I was just discussing the fact that our agility as a smaller research and marketing company is actually to their advantage, compared with our bureaucratic competition.”
Dave nodded, didn’t utter a word as Ellen continued to spout on about the benefits of their company. Shaun listened politely but twice glanced noticeably at the newcomer.
“Mr. Safford, do you have any questions at this point?” Ellen had been doing most of the talking. Safford now appeared anxious to have a turn.
“I’m sold on your abilities as a company. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here in the first place. It’s obvious that you have the manpower and the smarts. I’ve heard from a couple of good sources that your ability to sift through and discern marketing data is second to none. What I want to find out from this meeting is if you have the soul necessary to work with a company like BikeHouse.”
The words caught Ellen off guard. “The soul?” she mumbled aloud.
Safford continued, “Sure, you know . . . the emotion, the empathy. Can you relate enough to our audience to ascertain answers from your gut, rather than just regurgitate little dots of meaningless data plotted out on a marketing research chart?”
Seasoned company president Ellen Brewer was ready to respond to any analytical concern that Safford—or any advertising director, for that matter—could throw at her . . . every question but one about soul. “I think that as a firm we have more than enough experience to both provide and understand the answers that come in.”
Ellen waited, but Safford was not about to let her off that easily.
“You have the experience to collect good data, no question about it. I agree there. What I’m asking here is, do you have the ability to understand our customers as equals? Will your data really point us in the right direction?”
“Well, we have the know-how, the expertise to draw the most accurate conclusions possible.” Ellen was stumbling, and everyone could see it.
“You’re not understanding my point,” Safford repeated.
Dave watched a smile cross Brock’s face. It was no doubt refreshing to watch the boss struggle. The question was, how long would Brock let her burn before getting out the extinguisher? After a protracted moment of silence, Brock interrupted.
“Shaun, I drive a sports car. I have friends who drive Harleys, others who prefer Triumphs. I even have clients out of New York City who own lifted four-wheel-drive trucks. All these people are seemingly different breeds, yet as a company we can relate to them all, because we’re professionals. We realize that market research doesn’t lie and it doesn’t discriminate. In fact, we’ve just been asked by the governor’s office to complete a second research project for them. They came back after just weeks because we were so effective at analyzing their data trends.”
He waited for Safford’s response. “The governor’s office?”
From his tone, Dave sensed immediately that it was a mistake for Brock to have included a public-sector study into a private-sector marketing pitch. Ellen hadn’t yet picked up on that fact; she was still nodding up and down like a bobble-head toy.
Safford continued, “Do you think hot-button policy wonks know anything about custom motorcycle riders?”
Brock was silent. Safford wasn’t. “If you can’t answer that question, try this one.” The man was relentless. “What direction would you recommend our ad agency take when developing this year’s campaign? Do you all follow me? What do you all think is the most important message to portray in our advertising—the one that will motivate Mr. or Ms. Average-Joe-American to discover the beauty of, say, a customized Harley, Triumph, or Indian motorcycle?”
He turned and waited.
A sinking Ellen continued to take on water. “We assumed this meeting would be geared to just the research aspects of our business, you know, an introduction. Give us a day or two and we can certainly give you some terrific recommendations.”
Safford ignored the floundering response and turned back to Brock, who had tried to regroup and reload. “As Ellen mentioned, we have the ability to research that exact question. Give us a chance to prove ourselves, and trust me when I say you’ll be impressed.”
“That’s a great canned answer, but sports car drivers and customized Harley riders are . . . well, oil and water is the worn-out expression that comes to mind.”
Brock looked surprised by his curtness, and when he glanced over at his boss, he could see her squirming. It was evident they were about to lose the pitch. Brock tried again, “If you want bikers, we can find bikers.”
Safford responded by asking a question. “It’s Brock, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Brock, have you ever ridden a customized Harley—or any Harley, for that matter?” The silence was smothering.
When no answer came, Safford turned to Dave.
“What about you? Any ideas? You’ve been pretty quiet.”
Dave’s first reaction was to walk out and keep going. He would be fired after the meeting anyway. But although Safford was certainly abrasive, his questions were fair. And while Dave weighed his request, the only answer that kept echoing in his head was a simple one-word reply spoken by Redd, a motorcycle mechanic, just a few days earlier.
“Freedom.”
Other than the introduction, it was the first word Dave had spoken during the meeting.
“I beg your pardon . . . it was Dave, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir, Dave Riley, and the message you need to portray in your advertising is freedom.”
Ellen sat silent. Brock waited for the guy to rip into Dave’s answer. He didn’t.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean when a person walks into your showroom and sees a customized Harley or Triumph for the first time, when they smell the leather, when they feel the magic, they do so because they seek freedom.” Safford leaned back in his chair as Dave continued. “It’s what we’re all searching for, in one way or another.”
Safford’s eyebrows arched. His head tilted to one side. During his pause, Ellen shifted forward, ready to add her reinforcement. Brock reached out and touched her arm, signaled her to hold off.
Safford questioned Dave further. “Can you expound?”
Dave recalled Redd’s comments about providing his own market research for a tenth of the price Strategy Data International was going to charge. Turns out the old guy may have been right. Dave tried to remember the mechanic’s words, to repeat them exactly. He would offer it straight from the source. The only concern in Dave’s mind was if he could do it with the same conviction.
“When they hit the road, Mr. Safford, when they see the stripes of the pavement zip past for the first time, when they smell the air and see the sky, at that moment they know they’re riding off to a place where they’ll find answers—where they’ll find peace—where they’ll find freedom and hope. That’s the reason that your customers will buy a BikeHouse customized motorcycle. But, of course, you know that already, don’t you?”
Safford grinned. Dave
continued, “If you hire us, that’s the message we’ll help your ad agency get across to your customers. We do understand your customer, just like Ellen said. It’s the reason that Strategy Data has such a sterling reputation. When we say that we can glean information from the data that others can’t, we mean it. Look, if you are in the market for a bike and you want the best damn motorcycle in the world, buy a customized machine at BikeHouse Custom Motorcycles. If you don’t care about reputation and results, then I guess a moped will do. Same holds true in market research. If you’re looking for a moped, you’re in the wrong room.”
Brock looked ready to stand and cheer; Ellen was poised to jump up in unison beside him. Safford leaned forward for a better look. “You’re the only one in here dressed like you know the back end of a Harley from a horse’s behind. How long have you owned your jacket?”
Dave didn’t hesitate. After the weekend he had just been through, he had no reason to care. “I just got it. It was a late birthday present. I put it on Saturday night for the first time—and in all honesty, I haven’t taken it off since.”
“When’s the last time you were out on a bike?”
Dave glanced down, considered his answer. It was a short ride, two feet perhaps, but it was still a ride. “Last Wednesday.” Dave tried to remember the model. “A Springer Softail.” He knew he would blow it if he tried to recite the rest.
It was enough. Safford was hooked. “Nice bike.”
“Yeah, it is.” He would tell the truth if the guy asked him about owning the bike. Safford didn’t.
Instead, he turned to Brock and Ellen. “How about you two? Have either of you ever been for a ride on a customized machine?” Brock shook his head. Ellen followed. It didn’t matter—Safford had turned back to Dave.
“Freedom, you say?”
Dave nodded. “Absolutely, Mr. Safford.”
“Please, call me Shaun. I’ll set up a meeting with our ad people so we can discuss the scope of the study, but I have to tell you, I’m impressed. I just love throwing that soul question in first thing. It always throws the die-hard marketing people for a loop. The fact is, it gets ’em every single time. Dave here was ready. I like that.”
Hands were shaken, cards were exchanged. Ellen walked Safford to the elevator door and then out to his car. When she returned, she couldn’t contain her excitement.
“Genius, Dave. You’re a freakin’ genius! I’m telling you, when you walked in with no shave and a leather jacket, I thought you’d lost it. I should have given you more credit.” She laughed now at her reaction. “Boy, I’m getting slow in my old age. I mean it. I should’ve caught on. I should have known.” She turned to Dave and slapped him again on the shoulder. “Welcome back, Dave. Welcome back. And your hair fit perfectly. I can’t believe I was worried about you. You should’ve just told me. And don’t you dare cut your hair until this baby’s through. I mean, did you see his reaction? I’m telling you, you’re a market-stealing, deal-making, jacket-wearing genius.”
chapter eighteen
The banquet hall is bursting with more well-intentioned overachievers than the gym after New Year’s. These are society’s capable meddlers. The conscientious. The punctilious. The doers. They have assembled today to hear about the bridge.
The woman on the front row two seats from the end, with the wire-rimmed glasses and straight brown hair, looks surprisingly like Diane Keaton. It’s hard to tell from a distance, but the man standing in the back beside the lady in the purple dress vaguely resembles Justin Timberlake. The only other obvious match in my celebrity game is a man sitting a dozen rows from the front—the spitting image of a young Tom Hanks. The rest are mostly gray-haired society women wearing fancy dresses and too much lipstick.
I don’t like large groups of people; they make me nervous. If I’d known I was going to be seated on the stand next to Professor Winston and his wife, perched in front like produce at the supermarket, I surely would have found an excuse to stay home.
After scanning the crowd, I am utterly relieved that I wore my longer floral dress instead of the short green one. Even though I’m wearing nylons, everyone knows that raised platforms, short skirts, and crowds are a scandalous mix.
I do my best to pretend I am listening to the man on stage, the man wearing a badly fitted tuxedo, yammering on about heritage and posterity. Finally, unable to take any more torture, I invent a new game to pass the time—a perfect game for a crowd of old ladies. I call it, “Guess the Price of the Walmart Skirt.” Soon my mental fun has evolved into a full-fledged game show in which contestants pair up audience members wearing similar outfits. It is the best game I’ve invented yet, and I half expect a booming voice to announce the many fine prizes in the studio for those on today’s show.
My fun is interrupted by the professor, who glances in my direction. Perhaps I am getting a bit too involved, my excitement a bit too obvious—and then the speaker announces my name.
When he turns toward me, the professor leans over and whispers in my ear. “Told you that you’d be surprised. Sorry for the lack of warning. Talk for about two minutes and tell them about the research you’re doing. Give them a little flavor of what’s to come. You’ll do fine.”
I don’t move. I feel like killing him right here, in front of all these people. Sure, there are plenty of witnesses, but I can plead insanity.
The professor pats me on the knee, as if that will speed me up or give me the strength to stand. My face is flushed and my hands are trembling. I don’t have any idea what to say, and so I sit there, not moving from my chair.
The room is growing silent as the clapping subsides. The people in the crowd who were dozing begin to stir. The professor is now physically lifting me gently out of my chair, and so, seeing no other choice, I stand and trudge to the podium. As I do, I can feel him breathe a sigh of relief. I can see people in the audience breathe too, but I can’t catch my own breath.
I look out over the expectant faces and long for my cubicle at the university, for my solitude. From the podium I have a perfect view of the woman who looks like Diane Keaton. She stares at me. Justin Timberlake stares at me. Young Tom Hanks stares at me. The gray-haired ladies stare at me. I stand in silence. I have nothing prepared, nothing to say.
“Just talk about the research that you’re doing,” I hear the professor whisper. He doesn’t know that I haven’t started the research, that I’ve been too caught up in the journal.
I glance back at him and then again at the crowd.
I apologize—never a good way to begin. I stumble through a few basic facts about the bridge that pop into my head, then stammer about how important the structure is to the community. I mumble. I pause. I stutter. I recite meaningless drivel. I sound like the professor.
I realize I am repeating phrases. It is a disaster, and it occurs to me that I should end my misery and theirs, but I can’t find a way to close. I stop again and try to collect my thoughts, to salvage what little is left of my credibility as a researcher. The crowd waits patiently.
As I grope for words of substance, for some way to conclude, for any thought that will tie my rambling together, my father’s words come to mind. I remember my childhood and the game of pick-up sticks that I played at the table with the piece of cable. I remember the words my father taught me as I played that lesson from the bridge. Mostly, I remember the man who was always there for me.
The surprise of being called on to speak and my fear of crowds, coupled with memories of my father that flood my mind, have made me a nervous wreck. I feel emotions taking complete control of the helm. Next, in front of so many strangers, I do something I absolutely dread. I begin to cry like a child.
The professor steps to the podium to hand me a tissue, and for the first time he seems concerned that he has stepped over the line, that he has pushed me too far beyond my capacity. I take the tissue and nod. I know I should sit, but instead I turn back t
o the audience and try to explain my behavior.
I apologize again, but then tell them why I am crying. I tell them about my father bringing the cable home from the bridge. I tell them about matching the strands together. I tell them about the lesson he taught me, about working together, and about how much I have missed him since his death. I echo his words and then say, “Together, we also can do the impossible.” Then, with mascara running rampant down my face, I stumble to my seat and sit down.
The room is silent, until one of the gray-haired women on the front row stands up and begins to clap. Soon, many people are on their feet, applauding. They don’t stop. The professor smiles and nods as if the accolades are for him. He pats my knee again and continues to bow to the crowd. I clutch the tissue and dab at my smudged eyes. I keep dabbing, the black keeps coming, and the crowd continues clapping. And all that I can think of is how grateful I am that I didn’t wear my green dress.
At the reception afterward, strangers congratulate me on an outstanding job. I find out that Diane Keaton’s twin is actually the vice president of the Society, that the Justin Timberlake look-alike owns a chain of furniture stores and is one of the larger financial contributors to the group, and that young Tom Hanks is the principal at a high school in Crescent City, where my information will début. They all tell me that they are excited to see the final product and add that if it is anything like my presentation, it will be outstanding.
Then the principal steps right up beside me. “Miss Katie!” he exclaims, as he reaches out with both his smile and his hand to again enthusiastically grip mine. “Your words were inspirational, even sensational. This entire evening has been . . .” He pauses, laughs, and then concludes, “ . . . educational!”
His eyes don’t turn, and while I smile back, my research brain has automatically started to scour for other closely rhyming words. Oddly, the only one that spits out is available.
The Other Side of the Bridge Page 10