Fire in the Firefly

by Scott Gardiner

  “It could be that’s our problem, you know.”

  She has sensed his quickened pulse. Yasmin is wary. “What could be the problem?”

  Here again he pauses—he really is uncertain how to phrase this. “It could be that we just aren’t … properly relaxed.”

  She misinterprets. “I’ve barely moved a muscle!” Yasmin waves her hands across her loins to demonstrate how perfectly recumbent they remain. “I’ve done exactly what it says to do!”

  “I don’t mean now, I mean … before.”

  “Before?”

  “Listen.” If he isn’t careful, the opportunity will melt away. “With Anne and me, it was because we enjoyed it, it was nothing special. Maybe that’s the insight we’re missing here. Maybe we’re making this too much of a singular occasion. Maybe it needs to be normalized.” In this dim light Yasmin’s eyes are all pupil.

  “Yasmin,” he says, “I want to come again next week.”

  “I don’t need you next week.” Her eyes are so dark they are almost black. “If there’s any justice, I won’t need you at all after today. But if I do, it won’t be for another month.”

  “But I want you next week.”

  This moment has arrived a little sooner than intended, but he’s committed now. No taking this back. “If I can make time for you next month, you can make time for me next week.” Roebuck sets his jaw. “I want to see you next week too.”

  Yasmin is unblinking. He can tell that she’s processing, but beyond that he has no read on what is going on inside her head. She is staring at him. Roebuck is very conscious of the rise in thermal pressure, his shortening of breath.

  “Well …” she says at last, “I am interested in now.” She lifts his pillow from his lap, deliberately, like a cook removing the lid from a pot. Yasmin reaches, then stops.

  “What does your watch say?” Her teeth are showing.

  “Forty …” Roebuck clears his throat. “It has been exactly forty-three minutes.”

  “Almost …” Her fingers curl.

  “Yasmin,” he says hoarsely. “I want to see you again next week.”

  Yasmin’s black eyes count the heartbeat of his craving. She returns her gaze to Roebuck’s face.

  “Whatever,” she says.

  22

  When you look at a mirror, you don’t see the trees.

  The Collected Sayings of Julius Roebuck

  And here, my young friends, is where our understanding of grievance enters the equation.

  It’s well known in psychology—and never forget that advertising is psychology monetized—that any equation with grievance on one side requires a corresponding measurement of compensation on the other.

  A strict but simple formula: The greater the grievance, the greater its need for compensation.

  (Need, of course, is a word of interest, too—being as we are in the business of creating and fulfilling it. But for now let’s focus on stuff.)

  Stuff—getting stuff, accumulating stuff, going shopping—is your consumer’s antidote to grievance. The greater the grievance, the greater the need for more stuff to alleviate it. Grievance is our friend. We are negotiators of grievance; grievance brokers.

  Against whom, you ask? Grievance against whom?

  Remember that the biggest force in life is usually the closest.

  Roebuck is experiencing a twinge of guilt. He knows he should have checked his messages as soon as he got in, but he wanted to get this part down while it was fresh in his mind and besides—this confession is only for himself—he doesn’t like answering emails. He understands this is unwise: the world is transitioning to a digital age and those who don’t keep up will fall behind, et cetera, et cetera—and Roebuck does keep up, tenaciously—he just can’t seem to enjoy it. What puzzles him is how much other people love being so constantly plugged in. Greenwood, for instance. Daniel’s devices are like an extension of his body; he could spend all day with them. But Greenwood is a picture guy and maybe that’s the difference. For Roebuck, words are too important to fling out like Johnny’s apple seeds or Scipio’s salt. He prefers to invoice.

  Sure enough, he’s had to scroll through two full pages before he gets to the bottom, including items from both Anne and Lily. He always reads Anne’s first in case of mishap or emergency, but this one is just a reminder, now that the kids are back in school, to log Morgan’s fall recital into his calendar. It so happens that Roebuck did not have that one scheduled; he is grateful that Anne has provided him with plenty of lead time. He never misses any of the kids’ performances. This year, Morgan will be attempting “Ode to Joy.”

  After sending Anne a quick confirmation plus fond regards, Roebuck is tempted to open Lily’s next, but disciplines himself. Lily he will save for last.

  He spends the next hour patrolling business pages and industry blogs looking for some hint that the company he’s been watching is about to make a move. So far, nothing. Roebuck returns to his mailbox. Greenwood has forwarded a bunch of junk from Artemis plus odds and ends of several other accounts he wants reviewed. Ripreeler has scheduled its annual meeting two weeks earlier this year, though it’s still in Helsinki. That at least is decent news.

  He yawns and stretches. He is tired. Unusually tired. Roebuck thumbs his temples, rubs his jaw, and massages the back of his neck. All the emails that needed replies have now been answered; a dozen new ones have come in, meanwhile, and Roebuck has responded to these too. There is just the one outstanding.

  “I’m in the office today.”

  What office? It takes him a second. This office?

  “Expecting to be finishing up around five. Drink? xo L.”

  According to the indicator at the bottom of his screen, it’s 5:18 PM.

  Roebuck sits back down. He had gotten up to check the hall, but has backtracked to his chair. When Lily comes in to do contract work, she sits in a cubicle on the far side of the IT bunker. He had no idea she was even in the building.

  It is not at all unusual for him to join the staff downstairs at Matrix Three for an end-of-week unwinder. Roebuck often buys a round, especially if he has an announcement he wants to let slip unofficially. Usually he heads home after that or back up to the office. Most folks stay only for a drink or two. It’s Friday; people have weekends to launch.

  “You look tired.”

  He jumps.

  Lily never just walks into his office. As a freelancer, she doesn’t know him any better than her function would necessitate.

  “Stressful day,” he says, recovering.

  “Maybe you deserve a break.” She is leaning on the doorframe, feet still planted in the hall. “Most folks are already there.”

  “Where did the day go?” Roebuck rubs his eyes.

  Lily glances down the corridor. “Everybody’s gone.”

  “I didn’t even know you were here.” Stupid thing to say.

  “Stressful day,” echoes Lily, arms folded. She has her knapsack slung across one shoulder, good to go.

  Roebuck still sits, bolted to his chair. “What have you been working on?”

  “Daniel has me doing mock-ups for some print ads.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t know this either. “What account?”

  “A bunch of different ones.”

  “Oh.”

  This is silly. Roebuck smiles; he wants her to be certain he is absolutely pleased to see her. He’s just surprised.

  “Let’s go!” he says.

  The pub is filling up, but Greenwood and his crew have secured the favoured table by the window. A cluster of account people forms its own detachment opposite. The suits are always overworked and under-thanked—the pit ponies of the ad-world, in Roebuck’s opinion—he makes a point of hanging out with them whenever feasible. Lily slips into an empty chair at Greenwood’s end, while Roebuck ducks over to the other side. He asks how
everyone’s day went, and they tell him not too bad. It’s just coincidence that he and Lily have arrived together. One of the AEs has a question about today’s prepro and they kick that over for a while. The coordinator for Ripreeler mentions that she’s noticed a spike in YouTube views of certain second-generation ads. “You mean the ones with the guys on the fishing trip who can’t find their favourite spinners because their wives are wearing them at the nightclub?” It’s Greenwood talking. “Did I ever tell you that we studied that one in first-year marketing?” All to the good, says the suit—ignoring him—but it’s a long time since those spots were aired and she can’t help wondering what’s behind the up-tick. Roebuck has his own theories, but it’s too soon to get into all that. His lager goes down smoothly. He has realized quite suddenly he’s famished. What with other priorities, he’s missed lunch. The waiter brings a sandwich, and he washes it down with a fresh pint.

  It’s a beautiful day; a warm September afternoon. The sun is shining through the open windows. Before long the conversation moves on to that casual mix of near and far that burbles over shop talk. A voice down the table wonders if there’s any chance the Jays will squeak into the playoffs, which segues to the Leafs, which makes everybody laugh. Carol the receptionist got engaged last week, and everyone who hasn’t yet done so admires her ring. Someone’s mother has been diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes; the AE who was wondering about this morning’s prepro announces that her sister is expecting twins.

  He has a long drive tonight and isn’t looking forward to it. Three hours at least if he leaves once he’s finished this beer; less if he holds off until the traffic eases up. Anne and the kids should have arrived at the landing by now; maybe they’re already loading the boat. After all these years of practice, his wife has it down to a science. When the kids emerged from school this afternoon, Anne would have been waiting, motor running, car packed, groceries boxed, the gas tank topped up and ready to go. She’d have asked them each in turn if they needed to pee and, at the slightest hint of doubt, sent them back inside with orders to wash their hands when they were finished and come straight back to the car, no dawdling. Five minutes later they’d be heading north; the kids unpacking snacks and launching into the squabbles that would carry on until they’d either fallen asleep or arrived, with luck, two hours later at the marina.

  It used to make him crazy. Anne’s family is old Muskoka. She was brought up with the expectation that every weekend from Victoria Day to Thanksgiving would be spent up at the lake. Traffic is much worse now than it was when she was a girl; there’s no way Roebuck can get away by 3:30. It caused no end of tension in the early years, but now they have settled on the practice of travelling up in separate cars. Which suits him fine. Roebuck likes night driving. He listens to music or current events or passes the hours in meditative silence, rehearsing. He enjoys pulling in at the landing beneath a ceiling of stars; waiting for the sound of the inboard rumbling out of the darkness, bow light growing brighter through the murk. “Kids asleep?” he’ll ask as the fenders bump the dock. “Of course,” his wife will say. “Get in.”

  But right now he isn’t looking forward to it. Right at this moment Roebuck is totally wiped.

  There’s a full glass by his elbow; someone has ordered another round, though the group is already thinning. Roebuck drinks. He is summoning the energy to haul himself up. At the far end of the table, Greenwood is showing off the iPod Touch that he lined up for at the Apple Store this morning. In the short while he’s been here, Daniel has upgraded at least twice. People are razzing Roebuck about his antique BlackBerry, which means that now he’ll have to organize a newer model. “Excuse me,” he says. On the way to the men’s room, he dials the cottage.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “Did you make good time?” He can tell already that she’s unhappy.

  “Morgan forgot her violin. We had to go back. Just got here now.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “We’re still unloading.”

  “Listen,” says Roebuck. “I think I’m going to come up in the morning.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. I’m still not finished here and for some reason I’m totally bagged. I think it’ll be safer to drive up first thing tomorrow.”

  Silence from the other end. For all her independence, Anne doesn’t like to be there without him. Her parents seldom come up anymore; it’s just her and the kids tonight.

  “They want to sleep in the bunkie.”

  “All three?

  “Yes.”

  What she’s telling him is that she will be by herself in the main cottage with its creaks and groans and branches rasping at the window screens.

  “You know what,” he says, “I’ll …”

  “No. Don’t be silly. We’re fine.”

  “Sure?”

  “It’s not safe to drive when you’re tired.”

  “I’ll stop in the morning and pick up Chelsea buns …”

  “Zachary!” Anne says. “You stop that!” He can hear a commotion in the background followed by a splash. “I have to go.”

  By the time Roebuck is back at the table, the company has dwindled. Greenwood is on his feet. He’s heading uptown, he says, if anyone wants a lift. The AE whose sister is pregnant takes him up on it, though Greenwood doesn’t look too thrilled. “I should go too,” Roebuck says, but it’s an effort getting up. His back has been one dull ache all afternoon.

  “The busy bee has no time for sorrow,” intones Lily, gazing out across the street.

  Was that Blake? Lily is inscrutable. Of course it was Blake. Roebuck masters his surprise. He makes a show of preoccupation with his retrograde BlackBerry.

  Before Roebuck is down to the bottom of his beer, the last of them have moved on. Again Lily is offered a lift. The boss, they know, keeps his wheels in the basement lot. Lily checks her watch and shakes her head. “I’m meeting a friend in fifteen minutes,” she says in that way of hers that makes whoever’s listening smile back automatically. “But thanks.”

  Roebuck signals for the bill. The last of his full-time staff have now left the building. He’s just waiting for the waiter to bring him back his credit card.

  “I just said that,” Lily says.

  “What?”

  “I’m not really meeting anybody.”

  “Oh.”

  He is not the sharpest today. Roebuck rubs his eyes. “Did you just quote William Blake?”

  “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.” Lily’s eyes crinkle. “My corruption progresses.”

  Here’s another way to see it—from the flip side—from the perspective of forgiveness. Forgiveness is best defined as the cancellation of debt. What forgiveness represents, in other words, is the absolution of grievance. On the surface you would think that this is the last thing we’d want. Imagine the economy if all that debt was written off! But forgiveness is a powerful motivator. We can’t afford to ignore it. Instead, what we want to do is leverage.

  Who do we want our consumer to forgive? Herself, of course!

  Forgiveness, therefore, is our final co-efficient.

  Now let’s pull it all together.

  Our aim is to assure our customer that she has every reason to forgive herself because her grievance is legitimate. It justifies the compensation she will award herself by purchasing our product.

  That, my young friends, is the virtuous circle of twenty-first-century marketing. Within that cycle, the function of advertising is to provide the spark, the catalyst—the push that gets the wheel turning.

  Now then, whose shoulder do we put to the wheel?

  Roebuck sleeps ten hours.

  He has never woken up before in Lily’s bed, and it’s a shock.

  “You conked out.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Early. I’ve been poking at you.” A red sun is coming
through the window straight into his eyes.

  “How early?”

  “Dawn-ish.”

  “What time?”

  “A little before six. You passed out sooner than I hoped.”

  Roebuck is still half-asleep, but remembers a certain level of activity. “Did I disappoint?” He yawns.

  “You never disappoint. On the other hand, you didn’t stay awake very long.”

  She has slipped out of bed and wrapped herself in a blinding white robe. “I‘ll make coffee,” she says handing him his phone.

  Roebuck dials the moment she has left the room. No messages. He sinks back into the pillow. Lily reappears with two mugs of coffee and a plate of buttered scones.

  “I get you for another hour,” she says. “Then you are allowed to go.”

  There’s a new message blinking on the home phone. Anne’s voice. “Hello! Hey! Pick up.” A few beats of silence. “You must be in the shower. Call before you leave.”

  Anne assumes—correctly—that because she and the kids are awake before 8:00 AM on a Saturday morning, her husband will also be up. Roebuck dials the cottage number. He knows she has her cellphone, but it’s tradition to use the ancient bakelite unit that in former times connected to a party line. She doesn’t ask him why he didn’t answer earlier.

  “I was in the shower,” Roebuck says.

  “I called half an hour ago.”

  Anne tells him to pick up a bottle of Ripasso. She forgot to do that and the liquor store in town is useless. Roebuck reminds her that even in the city, most liquor stores don’t open until ten.

  “Then you’ll be here by lunch. That’s fine.”

  After such an earnest sleep, Roebuck isn’t tired but parts of him still ache. There was traffic in the city, but now it’s moving along. He pulls into a Tim Hortons and treats himself to a vat of double-double and a little stretching walk around the parking lot. It’s funny, almost, but Lily and Yasmin have cramped the same muscles. The weather is fine; northbound traffic light. Roebuck switches off the sound and passes the miles in contemplation of need, that keenly verbal noun.