Fire in the Firefly

by Scott Gardiner

  “Because your beauty and intelligence combined to inform you that you could do better. Please don’t take that as a compliment.” He wants to reach up and tilt the rearview mirror so he can meet her, eye to eye. “It’s a statement of pure objective truth,” he says. “Men go into politics because they’re hard-wired to believe that power and authority will also bring them women. That’s why their careers flame out so often once they get what they want. Women are motivated differently. Power and celebrity—without the stuff that supposed to come with it—doesn’t cut it. Believe me when I tell that the world would be a better place if women ran it. Honestly. But there are just too many better ways for a woman to get what she wants than through politics. Most women aren’t interested. They’re far better off as MBAs like you.”

  “Or ad execs, like you?”

  “Except that we males are programmed by a billion years of evolution to do whatever it takes to attract the attention of women. We have a natural advantage in the field of advertising.”

  “So Daniel’s been telling me. Antlers on the elk, fire in the firefly, et cetera.”

  “Full marks to Greenwood.”

  She is quiet for a spell. “I’ll concede some truth is possible in what you say, but you’re wrong about the bigger picture. Maybe someday I will run for office.”

  “When I was a kid, I wanted to be a novelist. Maybe someday I’ll go back to unpaid scribbling. Meantime, what do you plan to do with yourself, now you’ve given up peddling safes?”

  “Peddle something else, I guess. That’s what I do. But first I think I’ll travel for a while. I’ve never seen India. Maybe Nepal …”

  “Food for the soul.”

  “You know I can’t decide if you’re a genuine cynic or just another asshole romantic in hiding.”

  “All cynics are romantics at heart, so either way you’ve nailed me.”

  “You see yourself as a romantic?”

  “I spent my university years trying to define that term. Never did. Closest I can come, I think, is to say that a romantic is someone who understands the value of beauty. There are stricter definitions, sure. But that one works for me.”

  “This should be interesting. How does Julius Roebuck define beauty?”

  He turns his head and holds her eyes for as long as the road permits. “You,” he says. “That really should be obvious.”

  They pass a police car parked on the shoulder, lights flashing. A man in a turban sits in the cab of a dump truck, massaging his dastar. “You wouldn’t think,” says Roebuck, “that that would be enough to stop traffic.” The towers of the city rise and shimmer in the heat ahead. They’ve worked back up to speed again.

  “Don’t take it personally. I mean that. It’s not you individually. It’s just that there’s nothing in the world more beautiful than a beautiful woman. I’ll tell you a story.”

  “I’m told you have a story for everything.”

  “There is a story for everything. But this one’s about me so it’s especially apt.”

  They have reached the outskirts of the city proper, entering the canyon of new condominiums. Construction cranes are working everywhere, pulling towers of glass up through the rubble of yesterday’s mortar and brick. Every surface here is clad in mirror. She has told him that she’s planning to go shopping. Roebuck has agreed to drop her at an intersection not far from his office.

  “When I was young and travelling,” he says, “the focus was still Europe. Nowadays people head to the East, but in my day it was Paris and London and Rome. So picture me in the Vatican, Sistine Chapel, to be precise, taking in the splendours. Except there’s this girl …” Their exit is coming up; Roebuck interrupts himself to execute a lane change. “She’s Scandinavian, I think, though she could have been from Winnipeg, for all I know. I never heard her speak. The key was that she’s beautiful. Not one-in-a-million beautiful, just ordinary everyday beautiful. Beautiful enough, though, to be more interesting than anything painted on plaster or carved into marble. So there’s our twenty-something Julius, telling himself to pay attention to The Creation of Adam and The Last Judgement, and all those amazing Botticellis, but who keeps looking at this girl—this ordinary girl—who is still more beautiful and fascinating that anything Michelangelo ever made, or could, or anybody else. That was my lesson, that day, that there is nothing on earth more beautiful than women.”

  “You never outgrew it?”

  He barks a laugh. “Fact is, everything I’ve learned since then has reinforced it. I have seen the Himalayas. I’ve watched the sun go down over the Serengeti, and the moon on the canals of Venice, et cetera, et cetera. All that good stuff. All those things that are supposed to be beautiful. They are beautiful. They are. But there’s no painting, no sculpture, no glorious sunset or pristine mountain that’s as beautiful as a beautiful woman.”

  “And you can’t fuck a mountain, after all.”

  For the second time that day, Roebuck misses his exit. It takes him several moments to come to terms with the depth of his appreciation. “That,” he says, reorienting, “was the best thing … that was … perfect.” He cranes his neck, changes lanes, and shoots down the next ramp. They will have to work their way back now from the opposite direction. He’s still chuckling, still shaking his head when they reach their intersection. Roebuck pulls the car into an empty taxi stand. “If I ever write my memoir,” he says, “that’ll be the title. You Can’t Fuck a Mountain. Zhanna, you’re amazing.”

  “Thanks.” She pulls her cellphone from her bag and checks the time. “Plans for lunch?”

  For a moment, for a nanosecond there, he thinks about proposing Alison’s. But Roebuck is a man of principle. “Regrettably,” he says, “I have another appointment.”

  “Daniel! Daniel! Dan?”

  Roebuck is striding down the hall toward his office, calling as he goes, then remembers that Greenwood is still at the intake meeting out at Artemis. He goes back to his desk, opens up the intranet and checks relevant schedules. There’s an hour block that works tomorrow afternoon. Roebuck books Greenwood and his creative team for a meeting in his office. “SHOE ACCOUNT???” he taps into the subject line. “IDEATION …”

  When he looks at his inbox, he finds a note from Zhanna Lamb.

  DRAG AND CLOP

  That’s the sound a heel makes on pavement. A dragging sound, followed by a clop. Problem with your marketing concept: How to make drag and clop sexy? Know you’ll think of something. Thx for the ride. Z

  Roebuck re-opens the intranet, erases what he’s written, and types DRAG AND CLOP?

  Daniel Greenwood is a lucky man. He is fond of Daniel Greenwood.

  Roebuck opens the door that night to a house full of balloons. All red; all wearing happy faces above the lettering in brazen pink: “THANKS!!!” Anne is limp in the centre of the room, wordless. There are dozens, no, hundreds, nudging at the ceiling, trailing ribbons like the tails of jostling sperm. Is the imagery deliberate or is this just his own interpretation? He is learning not to underestimate Yasmin’s natural talents. Roebuck herds them together and pushes them in bunches out the door. Threads of carmine tadpoles stream toward the setting sun.

  They had decided—he and Anne together—that their first, best hope was Yasmin’s waking up with sober second thoughts. “I’m sure that once she understands how uncomfortable this is,” Anne said, “she’ll just drop the whole idea.”

  “I was the one uncomfortable. You were the one making it worse!”

  “Please don’t start that again.”

  That was Saturday night, the acrid end of long deliberations in the wake of Yasmin’s raptures. Sunday: silence. Monday: a houseful of balloons.

  He has seldom seen Anne so utterly speechless, though she wasn’t that night. But this is no time for pity. “It’s all your doing,” he says, standing in the doorway.

  “Oh, God! Please don’t keep say
ing that. What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t see what else we can do. I don’t see what other choice you’ve left us.”

  He still can’t quite believe it. He still can’t believe how this has come together. “No,” he’d blurted in blind refusal. “Yasmin, get that idea right out of your head.” She had stared at him, trembling, then collapsed into another spasm of tears. And then Anne, his own wife, Anne, who even then—even in circumstances as unequivocal as these—could not resist her role as spousal opposition. “Julius, please!”

  What he recalls is the cramp of betrayal, the feeling of connectedness spinning apart. Yasmin had recommenced her rhythmic moan, face down on the tablecloth. How could she? How could Anne fail to take his side, even in a thing like this? Dumbstruck, Roebuck retreated to the bathroom.

  It was then as he remembers it, just then, seated numbly on the john, that he recollected his appointment at the No Fuss Vasectomy Clinic at four o’clock this Wednesday afternoon. The spinning stopped, turned, and began to rotate in the opposite direction. Roebuck sat on a little longer, weighing probability.

  “All right,” he said, rejoining the women. “If that’s what you both want, I’m prepared to do it.”

  “Julius!” cried Yasmin, surging to her feet.

  “Julius?” said Anne.

  “Oh, Julius!” purred Yasmin, arms now clasped around his neck.

  Later that night, much later, they had faced the situation objectively, he and Anne, and decided that for now there was nothing they could do. It was wait and see, at this stage. The rest of the weekend came and went: Morgan had a soccer match; Katie a friend’s birthday party; Anne, as usual, arranged the buying and wrapping of an age-appropriate gift. Roebuck mowed the lawn and washed the car and drove out to the soccer pitch. On Sunday afternoon he put in two good hours at the gym; Anne managed a few sets of tennis.

  Monday afternoon: clarity.

  “This is all your doing,” says Roebuck, standing in the doorway, spilling red balloons into the willing sky.

  8

  A novel is a month with a woman you love.

  A short story is a weekend with a woman you like.

  A newspaper is an hour with a call girl.

  A blog is four minutes with a heroin hooker.

  Copywriting is the same again, except you’re the one giving the blow job.

  The Collected Sayings of Julius Roebuck

  Greenwood likes the idea from the start, or almost the start, a fortunate thing for them both because the meeting at Artemis has returned him to work flatter than spilt beer. Roebuck has occupied his art director’s office bright and early Tuesday morning with a pot of coffee and two cups on a platter. It’s obvious, glancing around, that Daniel’s being kept too busy to have achieved much in the way of workspace decor. ADs, in Roebuck’s experience, tend to cover every surface with gaudy prints and blocks of edgy, out-of-focus close-ups. All that Greenwood has got up so far is his picture of the condom and the screw—the same board he showed the client—and a framed poster Roebuck recognizes, but hasn’t seen in decades. He stands with his coffee mug, studying it. It’s a dappled photo of a spotted fawn, sleeping peacefully on a forest floor above the text: “If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was.” The image sends Roebuck straight back to his student days.

  “Five minutes after you left,” says Greenwood, tossing his jacket on a chair and accepting a mug from Roebuck’s tray, “they sat me down with the VP, Brand Engagement.” Greenwood drops into the seat behind his desk. “She just couldn’t wait to tell me how much she loved the campaign. Loved it! Loved our ideas. Loved, loved, loved all the original thinking, and all that bold imagination! Thought it was just so awesome …”

  Roebuck is still gazing at the poster. He sets down the empty tray. “But now,” he says, “they were very pleased to take this opportunity to provide you with some insight on how your boards could be improved.”

  “You got it.” Greenwood is rubbing his face, eyes squeezed shut. “Starting with the teasers. Such a terrific idea! So cool. So totally out-of-the-box. Wow! They just loved the concept. She went on and on about how everyone thought it was so creative …”

  “But they think it might be just a tad offensive.”

  Greenwood is speaking from behind his fingers. He opens his eyes, one at a time and retrieves his cup. “She said they worry how something that aggressive can ever earn consumers’ trust.”

  “Valid point.”

  “But that was the point, leveraging mistrust! Losing that will gut the whole campaign.”

  “It’s okay, Dan. We’ll push back. This always happens, you know that. Clients need to see that you can think outside the box so that when they stuff you back inside it, you’ll still come up with something worth their money. That’s how it works.”

  “Yeah but …”

  “Don’t worry about that right now. There’s something else I want to talk about. Have you checked your calendar?”

  “I just walked in.”

  Roebuck looks at his watch.

  “They kept me out there last night till way past dinner time!”

  “When you do get around to starting your day …”

  “I’d have started by now if you …”

  “You’ll note that you are booked for a two o’clock meeting.”

  Greenwood has booted up and is peering at his screen. “Drag and Clop. What the hell?”

  “You can thank your friend Zhanna for that.”

  “Zhanna?”

  “I gave her a lift from Artemis. It was only yesterday.”

  “Right. So much went on after you guys left. What does Zhanna have to do with …” He stares at the screen “Drag and Clop?”

  “That’s the sound of high heels.”

  “Can I ask what is it with you and women’s shoes?”

  “No names mentioned, strictly between you and me for the time being, but a certain producer of high-end women’s footwear may be unhappy with its present image in the marketplace.”

  “You’re looking to pitch a shoe account?”

  “I congratulate myself daily for the wisdom of your hire.”

  “I repeat, what is it with you and women’s shoes?”

  “Listen, nobody has ever marketed shoes by sound. I’m thinking it’s a whole new model of branding.”

  “Drag and clop?” Are you kidding me?”

  “Think of it like a mating call.”

  “And there you go again with the mating calls …”

  “Zhanna pointed out the problem. How do you make drag and clop sexy?”

  “What is drag and clop?”

  “You’re not listening. It’s the sound of high heel shoes. A drag sound, followed by a clop sound. That’s the first order of business, to run some acoustics. But I think she’s pretty much nailed it. You haven’t talked to her since yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “Clever girl. Incredibly insightful. She should run for office.”

  “Zhanna? In politics? There’s a thought.” Greenwood squints again. “But I think I’m beginning to hear what you’re saying. The sound of high heel shoes, in action …”

  “Picture a woman walking in heels,” says Roebuck. “Got it? What we’re looking for is the sound she’s creating. Now imagine her walking toward you down a sidewalk, say, or the terrazzo floor of a shopping mall.”

  “All right.” Greenwood’s eyes snap open. “Interesting. Automatically, automatically, I’m seeing her as attractive.”

  “Is it the heels or the way she’s walking?”

  “For the purpose of this exercise I would say there’s no distinction.”

  Roebuck nods and scribbles a note. Greenwood has settled back into his chair. “Okay. I do hear a kind of a dragging sound—as the hard part
of the heel scrapes along the ground. Then the rest of the foot comes down. That would be your clop, I guess.” His face has softened and the corners of his lips turn up.

  “Look at you” Roebuck says. “You’re smiling!”

  “It is pleasurable, that sound.”

  “I bet if we put a monitor on you, it’d show your heart rate spiking. Your frontal cortex is getting a major hit of oxytocin.”

  “Worth running some tests. Client pay?”

  “There is no client, Daniel. Not at present. But I admire your instinct. For the sake of argument, let’s say there is a client, and the client has money for a television campaign.”

  “Drag and clop … Not the most lyrical of phrases.”

  “But maybe we don’t have to use it as a phrase. Maybe we rely on the sound itself? Do we need to say it in words? Make a high-fidelity recording of a model walking down a runway, enhance the acoustics, and play with that?”

  “Like the background beat in the soundtrack? I get it. Sure, it’s definitely percussive. Sort of like the drum track in a piece of music. There’s a rhythm.”

  “Good! I like that.” Roebuck swirls the coffee in his mug like wine. “Though there’s something about drag and clop I also like. It’s so clunky, so ugly. The client would hate it. Guaranteed to get attention.”

  “That’s your technique, isn’t it? Piss them off then talk them around.”

  “Seems to work.”

  But Greenwood isn’t listening. “I’m thinking about your mating calls.” He sits up straighter, hands on his knees, fingers tapping. “What if we use animals?”

  “Animals? What, wearing stilettos?”

  “It’s your idea! Antlers on the moose, mane on the lion; all that crap you’re always on about. They’re all some form of mating call. You said so yourself!”

  Greenwood is on his feet. “Here’s what I’m seeing.” He comes to a stop in the centre of the room, hands poised mid-air like a conductor stretching the hold between notes. “Opening frame is your classic nature-shot: A moose, say, standing in a pool of lily pads, water streaming off his head as he lifts it up out of the water. Natural Geographic stuff. We hear the sound of a moose call. Moose make mating calls, don’t they?”