I assigned Bertram to conduct a social media campaign, tweeting information about the fundraiser attendees. Patti Smith and Richard Hell had both agreed to attend. Our YouTube channel received some noteworthy buzz as well. Dave had a ton of video that he had compiled over the years, and his job was to get all of his admiring fans in town to share the feeds on Facebook. The virtual community “liked” us and the journalistic community was supportive. That looked good but I wondered if that would really amount to anything substantial. What I needed was a great headliner to make the show. If we had a big star to support the bar, maybe a media-hungry benefactor or politician might step forward with enough money and influence to turn the tide.
I even called the local historical society to have the bar listed on the national registry of historic landmarks, but the historian answered my request by saying that across the street from the bar were the Elysian Fields, the site of the first organized baseball game, which was played in 1845.
“That is a historic landmark. A bar that opened in the early 1980s is not really the kind of history we’re looking for,” he told me. I would have to create from scratch a new place in history for the bar.
The bar’s demise landed smack in the middle of the mayoral election in town. I contacted both candidates to make a statement, but each was reluctant to say anything about saving a bar. They were both more comfortable with a ribbon-cutting at a charter school. I would have to wait out the candidates, who were reluctant to lend their support without gaining a political advantage. I was going to need divine intervention, but it looked like it would take someone big to make this into a political issue, rather than a business one. I stared at the poster of Bruce Springsteen hanging over my head when Bertram came in to the office.
He had stopped for coffee and had three in his hand, expecting the third part of our office group to be assembled. He was exhausted from staying up late to tweet, re-tweet, and tweet again. The impulsive immediacy of it all was a dream for insomniacs, but made it impossible to get sleep.
“I always think I’m going to miss something,” he explained.
“I thought Dave would be here, by now,” he added.
“Nope, just me,” I said.
Bertram handed me my coffee and a few extra “Sugar in the Raw” packets.
“Not that you need any more sweetness. You are sweet enough, girl,” he added.
“Corny, but effective,” I remarked back.
Dave had been making a last effort to fend off Schmidt, the landlord. His big renovation plan was to make the place into a large daycare center, the latest franchise called Tot Land, which his daughter would run. The entire building would be repurposed for its new small residents, complete with a bouncy house and a jungle gym where the littlest Hobokenites would live out their playground fantasies. Ironically, this was the place that people had come to live out their rock and roll fantasies.
Schmidt’s daughter would be here at any moment to look over the office, which she planned to renovate into a luxury penthouse space for her and her daughter to live in. Schmidt was an older German man who owned the oldest and only German pub in town, and most of the block on which The Garage was located. He had bought up the block, building by building, in the 1980s when the town was experiencing a downturn. It was Hoboken’s “before” picture. Nobody was coming to town to hang out due to an upturn in crime.
This was the time in New York City following the famous Bernard Goetz subway shootings. Cities were perceived as more dangerous than ever. Most Jerseyans headed for the suburbs, to large warehouse-like dance clubs instead of risking theft and shooting in New York or even, Hoboken. Real estate followed this flight trend and prices decreased. Just as Uncle Pep thought, people were always trying to get out of Hoboken. This was another grand exodus from town, not seen since the rough and tumble days of the 1950s as depicted in On the Waterfront, which had been filmed in Hoboken. People were trying to get out and get out fast. For someone with forethought and capital, this was a place to invest. Enter Andres Schmidt, a first-generation Hoboken resident with vision. He had inherited his family’s beer garden across the street from The Garage. And with a careful eye on the uptick of his bank account and the downtick of the real estate market, he scooped up properties on upper Washington Street faster than you can say weinershnitzel.
Earlier that morning, I felt nostalgic as well, but about my personal history and not the neighborhood. I thought about Daniel and Emily hard at work at Smith & Drake. I knew they would be at the biannual meeting, where the editors pitched the next season of books. There, each publicist would learn his or her fate as to which authors they would be stuck with all year; this was rarely news that anyone welcomed. But the fickle hand of fate was to intercede once again and this time it was Mr. Freud. There are no coincidences. I learned this via text, which is where all important information is shared these days. Daniel sent me four words that were to change the course of my life; well, at least my morning. “We got The Boss.”
After years of persuasion from the CEO of Smith & Drake, a huge Springsteen fan (despite his staunch Republican ways, which seemed to be in direct contrast with everything Bruce stood for), the publisher finally had the financial backing to get The Boss to sign. The picture book of Bruce’s early days at the Jersey Shore was to be packaged with the release of his early, never recorded songs. All this was to be a fundraiser for the rejuvenation of his hometown, Asbury Park, which, not unlike Hoboken, was experiencing a resurgence. The book had not been announced yet, but Daniel had already planned a social media campaign of his own; the regular media would pick up a carefully worded tweet from Bruce.
The book deal was in no doubt put together along with the backing of the French media conglomerate that had acquired Smith & Drake. The media company owned several record labels, magazines, and other international publishers and was always looking for company synergies across their various holdings. These acquisitions were so common that many of us joked that we would all be working for one giant publishing company, instead of the several independent houses all over New York. But with the changing digital landscape, the traditional publishing model was not as profitable or as feasible. Besides, just about anyone could publish a book from his or her iPhone.
Immediately deeming this information way too important to await words coming over my screen, I speed-dialed Daniel. I wanted to leave no room for misinterpretation, like those suspicious of those emoticons and shorthand phrases. He was expecting my call.
“Hi, Jessie, before you say anything, I already got us in,” he preempted me.
Daniel, with his new super-status as Bruce’s book publicist, was to meet “The Boss” at a benefit concert, and he was allowed to have a “plus one” guest. I was to be his “plus one,” for these kinds of events which real spouses never wanted to attend. This would be perfect; what’s one more benefit concert? It’s in New Jersey, plus the video was made right here at The Garage. It was all too good to be true. This had to happen; I would make it my life mission to make this happen. I said as much to Daniel, within earshot of the curious, but skeptical Bertram.
Bruce had been the soundtrack for my childhood. I even had a button that said “Bruce Juice” on it, which I wore to sixth grade every day. It was his face on an orange juice label and the pin was shaped like a bottle. I still had that pin somewhere in my parents’ basement. Sidetracked by the button’s whereabouts momentarily, I may have jumped too quickly. Bertram was watching me relay all of the juicy and not so juicy details to Daniel. As soon as I hung up, he cautioned me to take a breath.
“Move slowly, Jessie, don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.”
This advice was not taken, because when Dave came in looking dejected, sad and out of hope, I grasped for whatever I could do to make him happy.
“I think I can get Bruce,” I blurted out. Instead of cautiously considering my remarks, which I had done for my enti
re career, I had turned into a person who leaps before the net appears. At least that was my working philosophy at that point, courtesy of a greeting card Caroline had sent with that Zen Buddhism statement on it, just last week. That card was the only personal thing in my workspace.
I told Dave all about my uber-connections. My still best friend Daniel worked for my former publisher, he was Bruce’s publicist, Daniel would do anything for me, and that, in turn, meant that Bruce would do anything for you. Somehow it all seemed logical.
Dave jumped over the desk and gave me a spinning hug that lifted me off my chair. I think I was overwhelmed by the closeness. Something I had only fantasized about, a hundred times since meeting him at Starbucks. But I was so slightly weak with the excitement of it all that I may have overpromised, just a smidge. I looked over Dave’s shoulder to see Bertram nodding his head.
“Or you could go a different route entirely,” he quipped.
But I did not want to hear from any more detractors. I was happy in Dave’s arms and, for one moment, I had his attention. And he seemed happy too; at least, that is what he said.
“I knew you could do it. And to think for a moment, I thought I might sell out entirely and have you start one of those crowd sourcing websites, like some kid who has real problems like he needs a kidney or bone marrow or something. I want The Garage to make it back because it’s important and people need it, not because we are a charity case.”
But that moment was to be cut short, when Andres Schmidt’s daughter, Lively, arrived at the door, tape measure in one hand and Hermès bag in the other.
“Do you mind if we have a look, privately?” she asked. As Bertram and I gathered our things, Dave was about to follow, when suddenly, as if by second thought, Lively said to Dave, “You…can stay.” Dave hunched in his shoulders in one of those “go figure” motions.
But we both knew even a stuffy, spoiled good girl like Lively could not resist the irresistible charms of someone who looked like Steven Tyler.
I had made the promise and broken the cardinal rule of publicity, underpromise and overdeliver. And Bertram knew that I had confused the order of that mantra as well.
“Be careful with what you tell Dave. It’s hard to break a promise once you make it.”
“I know, but this is Bruce. It just has to happen.”
“It might all look good now, but it’s like Jerry warned. ‘When life looks like easy street, there is danger at the door.’” At that point, the double entendre of Lively at the door had not quite registered.
Bertram, a devoted Grateful Dead fan, had a habit of bringing Jerry Garcia’s philosophies into every conversation. But, I, as much as Dave, needed some good news. Bertram was going to have to come up with a less foreboding Jerry lyric to suit my mood that morning.
At that point, I should have promised that I could get an invitation to The Boss, not that he would ultimately accept it. Promising that he would be there was an entirely different story. But Dave was so happy, and when someone is that happy, it’s hard to take that away.
The next night, Daniel and I headed down the Jersey Shore to the event. Before I could even think about meeting Bruce, there was the concert. A Bruce Springsteen concert is much more than a concert. He has his band, which is more like his family, all so well meshed, that it’s hard to imagine these people any place except on stage. I often wondered about performers, what did they do when they were not on stage? Did they do laundry, shop for produce, clean the bathroom? Did they perform any of the functions of real people or let others do that for them? I mean, at some point, doesn’t Little Steven just take out his own garbage?
I felt like I could speak for Bruce. His life story was in his music; even his wife was in the band. As he played all of my favorite songs, I believed that he was singing the soundtrack to my comeback as well. He has a way of making you think you could get out of any situation in New Jersey, or anywhere else, for that matter. But for some reason, I was thinking that a lot of bad situations do happen in New Jersey, so he had plenty of material to work with.
Bruce is great at depicting that angst and struggle, bringing together an overwhelming wave of hope that you can get yourself out of your current station in life. And after seeing him in concert, I believed that he would singlehandedly pull me out of my current malaise. But, as I knew from my brief experience with self-help, the answers are always within. And most Bruce songs help you recognize the difficulties. The path you take after that is of your own choosing.
After the music ended, we were given large placard badges and led backstage to the meet and greet along with 30 other non-groupie looking VIPs. The placards we wore made us feel special, but a casual observer would have witnessed how out of place they made us look. We were not a cool-looking bunch.
One by one, we were led to the couch where Bruce sat drying off from his performance. Daniel’s editor and Bruce’s editor had already talked on the phone, so this meeting was more of a technicality than a real business event. These things are strictly perks for the minions who would be putting in countless hours to ensure the success of the book. But the event serves its purpose by putting those who work on the book in complete awe of the artist. The show guarantees their servitude. For a short time, anyway, the publicists, the editors, and the publisher, as low as they are on the media food chain, have that one moment where they think that they can publish the best book ever. And celebrities, whether they are aging Broadway stars, retired baseball players, or former talk show hosts, all romanticize the idea of writing a book, as if it’s the last piece of the puzzle that finally gives them the credibility they long for. They all want to be an author, which is odd, because we all want to be rock stars or celebrity athletes or models. But the obvious irony aside, we had one shot to get Bruce to the bar and I was not going to blow it. After all, I had met countless celebrities, I had been in Oprah’s green room, and I had met Katie Couric and Matt Lauer. I once rode in an elevator with Bill Clinton. Celebrities did not scare me.
When it was our turn to meet and genuflect. Bruce said in that signature raspy, almost Southern cadence:
“Hi, it’s nice to meet you.” He shook my hand and the realization hit me. Bruce touched my hand. So overwhelmed was I with that notion, I stared at our joined hands in amazement.
“I’m Bruce and you are?” he prompted, indicating that this was not the first time an adoring fan went mute in his presence.
I said nothing, I just stared at him, his hoop earrings jingled, and his dark tight T-shirt was still a bit moist from the encore of “Rosalita.” The way he sat on the couch, so casually as if he had not just changed the life of everyone in the arena. The sheer god-like nature of the rock star. He sipped from a bottle of Evian.
Daniel released my hand from Bruce’s and nudged me, hoping to break me out of my stalker-like trance.
“Wow,” was all I could manage to say. Daniel jumped in, worried that our few minutes of greatness was coming to a close. The list of well-wishers behind us needed their moment of praise as well.
“This is Jessie, she’s the publicist for The Garage. They’re having a little event; they thought you might drop by.”
“The Garage, I did a video there.” He looked over to George, his manager, and said, “What was that video?”
“Glory Days,” said George.
“Yes! Video!” I echoed, now only able to use one word at a time, incapable of putting a coherent sentence together in front of my hero. Daniel interjected once again, “They’re shutting the place down, but there’s one last hope, a fundraiser later this month,” Daniel explained.
“Fundraiser!” I blurted.
“That’s a shame, that’s a shame. If there’s anything I can do, let me know,” The Boss added, but he was already being introduced to the next group of VIPs that stood behind us. I hoped that theirs would go better than mine, but I was doubtful.
“Come
to our fundraiser,” I squeaked out just as I was being ushered off.
“George,” Bruce motioned to his manager, “take the information and see what I’m doing. If it can be done, then it can be done.” He looked at me and winked.
And that was that. I met The Boss and gave him an invitation. The rest would have to be left to chance. If it can be done, it can be done.
Nobu was not my usual place for lunch, especially in my weakened financial state. But, when Mark Feist, the tech mogul turned philanthropist, accepts your invite, you have no choice but to accept his terms, regardless of what financial straits that puts you in. My “page-a-day” calendar of inspirational quotes for that day was, “Lack of money is no obstacle, lack of an idea is an obstacle.” I hoped that Mark felt the same way. Mark and I had met outside the backstage door at the Springsteen concert. I had no idea who he was at the time. Daniel thought he was hitting on me as he flipped his business card and jumped into a hummer that waited for him on Ocean Avenue. “Let’s do Nobu back on the island.” “The island,” of course, could only refer to one location: Manhattan. As if this New Jersey side trip had disoriented him so much that he needed to ground himself back on the terra firma of New York City.
Calling his office to set up our Nobu lunch felt more like running the gauntlet. His officious assistant was trained to separate the real from the charlatan, a skill refined by all good gatekeepers. I had had some experience with gatekeeping of my own. You only have to run into one kook at a bookstore to know how important a position this is. I once had a fan try to lick one of my authors at a Barnes & Noble. I also knew that you have to befriend the gatekeeper, as it may be your only chance to gain entrance. But this gatekeeper wanted only to ask me a series of pointed questions, Gallup Poll-style. She took down my name, my company, and the place where her boss and I had met, and then finally she asked me which celebrity I most looked like. That was strange, but without another option I told her Drew Barrymore. That was not the first time I had played the celebrity lookalike game either, which made me more or less prepared with an answer. Apparently my credentials checked out enough for Mark to merit calling back to set up the lunch.
Best Friend for Hire Page 13