Copyright © 2018 Joseph Sciuto
Published by Iguana Books
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise (except brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of the author or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.
ISBN (paperback): 978-1-77180-271-0
ISBN (EPUB): 978-1-77180-272-7
ISBN (Kindle): 978-1-77180-273-4
Publisher: Mary Ann J. Blair
Cover image: Petrut Romeo Paul/Shutterstock.com
Cover design: Ruth Dwight
This is an original print edition of Targeted Demographics.
To my Mother and Father, my Aunt Carmela and Uncle Al
Chapter One
I’ve been called a marketing guru, an expert, and the very best in the business. I’ve been behind some of the most successful advertising campaigns over the last decade — boosting sales, respectability, and admiration for auto, pharmaceutical, oil, and tobacco companies, the US Military, the LAPD, and the movie studios. My motto is simple: “It’s okay if I know it’s a lie, as long as my target audience believes the lie and buys the product.” It was a simple maxim to live by, and God, have I made a lot of money.
One night, standing at the bar at the Smokehouse Restaurant in Burbank, California, enjoying a few ice-cold Budweiser beers, I met Nancy and everything changed.
I have struggled to come up with an appropriate way to describe my Nancy — ironic, considering my job is basically to describe the beauty in things. What I can say about Nancy is that she makes Delilah, the biblical vixen — and the one played by the beautiful actress Hedy Lamarr in the movie version of Samson and Delilah — look like a Disney mermaid. That’s not to say that my Nancy is evil. In truth, Nancy is the most conscientious and faithful individual I’ve met in LA. Unlike me, she refuses to lie. Nancy’s intellect and knowledge are astonishing. She is compassionate, but when she encounters injustice or despicable individuals such as rapists or pedophiles, or people abusing cats or dogs or the elderly, the repercussions can at times be quite literally deadly.
In the end, it was the same old story. Boy meets girl. Boy falls madly in love with girl. Girl turns out to be a mad and deranged scientist.
I was blinded by her radiance, her supreme intellect, sharp, biting, wit, and her passionate loyalty to the underdog, along with an undying belief in truth, justice, and the American way.
Chapter Two
Everything has a beginning, and not all beginnings begin at birth. Some ancient philosopher high on herbal tea and organic mushrooms came up with that tidbit of wisdom. As for my Nancy, I still am not quite sure where it all began, so let me start at the very beginning.
It had been a long day at work. Trying to put a positive spin on smoking cigarettes wasn’t easy. Using old clips of Bogart and Bacall lighting up didn’t cut it anymore, especially with the Surgeon General coming out with dire warnings all the time. It was time to take the leap across the pond and jump into the Asian market, which was ripe, ready, and willing to imitate everything the West had to offer. Of course, the tobacco company we were representing wasn’t ready to give up totally on the good old USA. I was working on what I called “targeted” campaigning — selecting parts of the country where the youth with no future were naturally hungry for a fresh and uplifting habit, something to distract from the downtrodden poverty they were living in. Places like the South Bronx, South Central LA, Appalachia, border towns along the Mexican border with Texas, and lovely, deteriorating Detroit. Also, teenage girls obsessed with their weight. Hungry for a donut? Why not light up instead? No calories!
The campaign was put on hold because the tobacco companies were under pressure from not only the Surgeon General, but also congressional committees and the heart and lung associations. They didn’t want to suddenly add fuel to the fire. Our client assured us that in a few months, after everything had blown over, they would be ready to move forward. After all, you wouldn’t want some silly things like cancer, heart disease, and shortened life expectancy to get in the way of corporate profits, would you?
I was drinking an ice-cold beer, leaning against the bar at the Smokehouse Restaurant. The Smokehouse was a Hollywood relic; originally the home of Danny Kaye before being sold and converted into the eatery. It was directly across from a major studio and at the foot of Forest Lawn Cemetery, the final resting place of many famous people. At the top of the cemetery is a museum dedicated to the history of our great nation. Large murals outside the museum depict major battles fought during the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, and World War II, honoring the sacrifices of the many men and women responsible for the survival and greatness of our country. Waterfalls and gardens separate the different murals, making the setting an oasis. On slow days at work I would drive up there and drink a few beers in the peace and quiet, imagining the stories buried beneath the tombstones, stories never to be uncovered.
I noticed an unusual energy shift among the patrons at the bar. It was as though the proverbial bright light at the end of the tunnel had suddenly appeared. Everyone — men and women alike — looked up in wonder as if they had just discovered the answer to the mystery of life. A young lady with long, dirty-blonde hair and a killer body sat down a few stools from me. I couldn’t see her face because I was standing with my back to the entrance to the bar, but she was undoubtedly the source of the fascinated affection I saw all around me.
She laid down her purse and ordered a glass of the house white wine, then reached into her purse and took out a copy of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. This was shocking because people in Los Angeles were lucky if they knew how to read, much less one of the greatest novels ever written. Before I cashed in my dream of being a famous novelist and went for the easy money in advertising, I always carried a copy of Conrad’s book with me.
I quickly assumed what every pig would: Sure, she’s got a killer body and great hair, but I bet the face doesn’t match. It would take at least ten more beers before it all came together. I remarked, “You have wonderful taste in literature.” She didn’t even lift her head to say, “I know.”
I backed off and figured it wasn’t worth the trouble. The bitch is so fucked up that she can’t even get a date; she had to come to this bar alone and pretend to read a classic, which she probably couldn’t comprehend. I had a few more beers and noticed that the other patrons were still looking intently at her, including a group of older men who, with fleeting movements only, signaled that they were still alive.
I couldn’t resist trying to get her to turn around. I needed to see her face. “I used to carry that book around with me everywhere I went.”
Again without looking up, “Sure you did, and probably Joyce’s A Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man.”
“You know, you don’t have to be rude.”
“Sure I do.” With this she lifted her head, pushed back her hair, and looked at me with giant round blue eyes. Her complexion was radiant, unlike that of any of the women I knew. She had the face of a Mediterranean goddess, but her accent was distinctly American. “If I’m not at least a little rude, you might get the wrong impression and think you have a chance of getting into my pants.”
“The furthest thing from my mind.”
She smiled and turned back to reading the book.
“So who do you think Marlow’s aunt represents?” It was a question only someone who h
ad read the book more than a few times would ask.
“I think the aunt represents colonial aristocrats who willingly turned their backs on the inhumane and treacherous behavior their government sanctioned under the disguise of progress.” She said this bitingly, her anger barely contained.
“Wow! I just thought she was a nice person,” I joked.
“Conrad was too brilliant a writer to use the aunt as a prop.”
“So, do you see a parallel between Heart of Darkness and what is going on in the world today?”
“Except for the mode of transportation Marlow used, there is very little difference. Colonization might not look as horrifying as it did back then, but it isn’t any less terrifying, inhumane, and disgusting.” She finished her glass of wine, and Fernando, the bartender, asked if she wanted a refill. “No thanks. Unless the guy behind me wants to buy me a drink?”
Fernando looked at me. “Sure, but give her your top-shelf glass of white. Her taste in wine is woefully lacking.” She looked back at me and smiled. My heart skipped a beat. She was stunning, and not shy.
“Let me guess, a woefully overpaid producer?”
“No!”
“A wannabe gangster with no connections?” Now she was just having fun with me.
“Nope. And you? A Beverly Hills bitch that’s never passed a mirror you didn’t fall in love with? What were you thinking with that trashy house wine? Did daddy disinherit you?”
She looked across at me, then reached over and touched my sport coat. “Armani, my favorite. Can I wear it? It’s chilly in here.”
“I’ll ask them to turn off the air conditioner.”
“Afraid I might walk out with it?”
Fernando placed the wine down in front of her. She picked it up, said “Cheers,” took a large gulp and swirled it around in her mouth. Then pretended to choke and spit it up all over me, exclaiming, “Disgusting!”
I was covered in wine. “You did that on purpose! What the hell?”
She calmly grabbed a couple of napkins and wiped me off.
“Why on earth would you do that?”
“I figured it was the only way to get the jacket off you. Forgive me?”
“No!”
“Please?” She took a small sip of the wine, swished it around her mouth again, and swallowed. “Delicious. Wonderful choice.”
I took my wine-drenched jacket off and put it over her shoulders.
“Thank you. I promise I don’t have any germs or terrible diseases that I know about.”
“You can have it. The jacket, I mean.”
“Thanks.” She seemed indifferent, but this woman was full of surprises.
I started toward the bathroom to clean up and she called after me, “I’ll be right here waiting for you.”
After I came back, we had a few more drinks at the bar, ate dinner, had a few more drinks at the bar, and then went back to my place. We had a few more drinks while listening to Ol’ Blue Eyes. We then made it into my bedroom, ripped our clothes off, and made love; or at least that’s what I imagined.
When I woke up the next morning she was gone. I searched the house like a child searching for a favorite toy. The only thing left was the scent of her perfume. No note or phone number. Nothing.
Required Reading: Introduction 101, The Genesis of Nancy.
Chapter Three
Work was difficult, but in the end very satisfying. The tobacco company was overjoyed with my targeting strategy. The campaign might be on hold, but the ideas kept on coming. I felt like an armchair general, decoding and identifying the enemy’s weaknesses and exploiting them to the max. Urban teenagers looking for an escape, disregarding the Surgeon General’s warning on each pack. Once hooked, customers for life — an abbreviated life, but nobody’s allowed all the cookies in the jar. The Asian market, a billion or more potential lifetime customers, tariffs or no tariffs — a win-win situation: Build the factories there, employ their people at one-third the wages of American workers — fewer tariffs, more profits.
I was feeling good about myself as I walked into the Smokehouse. The bar, like always, was half full of the same old patrons. The first few beers went down easily, and then I noticed a few people’s eyes shift to the entrance. I could smell her before I saw her. She wore such a lovely scent. She sat down next to me wearing my Armani jacket; or should I say her Armani jacket?
“Did you miss me?” she asked lustily. I ordered her a wine.
“You could have left me a note.”
“I knew you would be back here tonight.”
“Still …”
“I didn’t take you for the insecure type, Joe.”
“How did you get home?
“I called a cab, which reminds me, I borrowed fifty dollars out of your wallet. You had a whole stack of them. I figured you wouldn’t mind. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“A fifty-dollar cab ride? Do you live that far away?”
“No, less than a mile, but I left a really good tip and used the rest of the money to buy lunch.”
I touched her jacket as she reached over and grabbed the wine.
“I see you had the jacket cleaned.”
“The wardrobe department at the studio. They love doing favors for me.”
“Why did you choose makeup? You could be on the cover of half the fashion magazines in the country, not to mention overseas.”
“I love chemicals. I get to play on the supposed prettiest faces in the world. So where are we going to eat tonight?”
“Wherever you like.” She looked at me deviously.
“Or we can just go back to your place, order in, drink some wine, listen to some music, and get naughty.”
Her suggestion sounded wonderful, but I balked at the idea. “I think I would rather eat out.”
“Great! So tell me, Joseph, what is your line of work?”
“I put together advertising campaigns for companies.”
“For what type of companies?”
“All types … entertainment, fashion, beverage, liquor, oil and gas.”
“Sounds exciting and quite lucrative.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Care to share? Any companies I might know?”
“I’m not at liberty to share that information.” I lied, but I saw this going in a direction I didn’t like, and I wasn’t about to lose this precious jewel over some stupid questions about morals.
She laughed. “Is that the best you can come up with?”
“It’s the truth.”
“If you say so, Joey.” She squeezed my cheek as if I were a toddler. “Billboards, commercials, radio spots, ads in magazines, table tents?” She picked up a table tent off the bar. It featured a list of premium drinks.
“Nothing like that, but little things like table tents can do a business a lot of good without costing a fortune.”
“I’m sure, but stuff like that is child’s play for someone with your intellect and lifestyle. A handful of corporations control what we see, what we eat, what bad habits we pick up, and what we want to look like when we look in the mirror. It’s people like you who promote their lies.”
“If you say so, Nancy.”
“Don’t get angry, Joe. I apply makeup to a bunch of talentless assholes that need to read cue cards because they’re incapable of memorizing anything more than a few lines. I’m starving; is it okay if we just eat here?”
The hostess sat us at a table toward the back of the restaurant. Nancy playfully put out her hands, revealing that the jacket sleeves were way too long. “It fits perfectly except for the sleeves. That will be the next thing I have the wardrobe department do. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I stole it off the rack.”
I looked at her and tried to remember what she looked like naked. “The end of last night is a little blurry.”
“Not to worry, you didn’t do anything astounding. You only lasted a few moments. The cleanup took longer than the limited sparks between us.”
I was speechless. I didn’
t know if I was just embarrassed, or if it was the detached and dispassionate way she delivered her critique. It was like I had been slapped.
She touched my hand. “Don’t you worry, Joe. I’m sure you’ll do better tonight.”
I pretended to read the menu, my head buried between the pages.
“I think I’m going to have the fillet,” she said. “Is it any good?”
“Yes, it’s their best steak.”
The waitress took our order and I tried to regain my composure.
“So, where are you from, Nancy?”
“Surely, Joe, an advertising guru like yourself should be able to figure that out in your sleep.”
“What, did you talk to the publicity department at the studio?”
“Yes, they were quite forthcoming with all kinds of praise for you. I think a couple of the girls over there have the hots for you. If it doesn’t work out between us, although I don’t see any reason why it won’t, I think you would be wise to check out those girls.”
“That’s a real backhanded suggestion on your part.”
“A girl can’t be too careful these days. Don’t be so sensitive. I thought boys from the Bronx were supposed to be tough.”
“You’re an amazing piece of work.”
“I know! I’ve been told that many times … Oh, I almost forgot,” She reached down into her purse and took out a copy of Heart of Darkness and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. She handed me the books that were in really bad shape and filled with hundreds of notes in the margins.
“I already own a couple of copies of both these books.”
“But not with my notes and analysis in the margins. I think you would greatly appreciate my insights and get a better and fuller understanding of both books if you read what I wrote.”
I flipped through the pages of both books and I swear there were more of her words in the margins than there were words in either book. “What, did you do a thesis on these books?”
“No, silly, I just like taking notes.”
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