“Daniel?”
“His portfolio.”
“Got it.”
Anne is brushing her teeth. She returns to the sink, spits, rinses, and dabs her mouth. “Has he given you any idea what he thinks about the laminate?”
Roebuck nearly blurts that the first he heard about any of this was just the other day from Yasmin, but catches himself. “I don’t think so,” he says.
“He didn’t say?”
“I guess we’ve all been busy.”
“We’re suggesting a laminate for the kitchen. I think Yasmin has taken a shine to him. Is he single?”
Roebuck isn’t sure about this either. “He was dating someone a while back, but she moved on. Come to think of it, I don’t know all that much about Daniel’s personal life. I didn’t even know he’d bought a condo.”
“Really?” She studies his reflection in the vanity mirror. “It has potential. Two levels, facing the lake.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“Of course. It’s one of the new builds down at Liberty Village.”
“Big job?” Roebuck asks because he doesn’t know what else to ask.
“Not especially, no. But on the other hand it’s walls-out. Which is of course a challenge seeing as the exteriors are floor-to-ceiling glass.”
“Right.”
He still doesn’t know what to say. He wouldn’t mind pursuing the conversation, but Anne has vanished back into the bathroom steam and does not reappear.
27
Branding is biology torqued.
The Collected Sayings of Julius Roebuck
Sex and advertising.
Toast and butter. Horse and carriage. Love and marriage. Certain words just go together. Just fit.
Sex and advertising is one of those matches made in heaven. Literally, if you believe in Adam and Eve. Or any other foundational myth I’m aware of.
Everything, everything begins with sex. It’s so obvious we want to disclaim it. Like saying breathing is fundamental to life. So evident, it doesn’t need repeating. But with breathing we don’t take the next step and deny it. We don’t suggest we can discount breathing because breathing is so obvious—because breathing is cliché.
When I was a boy, people had sexes. We were male, and we were female. These days we have gender. And gender of course is a more inclusive term. Many languages have more than two genders. Latin, if I’m not mistaken, has three: masculine, feminine, and neuter.
Which I suspect is the point. Gender is sterilizing agent; it’s an attempt to rope sex up to the fencepost and sterilize it.
This is the second of our era’s great accomplishments: our embrace of gender over sex, which you may interpret as a form of social evolution. Language evolves toward greater precision. But here we’re moving in the opposite direction. Which, for us advertisers, is an excellent development. I’m put in mind of a friend who likes to point out that branding is what ranchers do to steers with white-hot irons.
I digress. We were talking sex.
Despite our best efforts, sex remains imperative. Without it, we don’t reproduce. Without reproduction, we don’t exist. Neuroscientists will tell you that if you want to light up every region of the brain, show it dirty pictures. No other form of stimuli effects anywhere near as broad a range of neural receptors. Sex is hard-wired. As long as human beings remain biological organisms, we will remain keenly motivated by sex.
We have this funny way of neutralizing things, don’t we, by calling them clichés? I have always thought this one of the stranger characteristics of our culture.
Sex and advertising are a cliché for the simple reason that they represent an ineluctable truth. The message for both is the same. It’s always the same.
Choose me.
What the fuck? Roebuck sighs and slowly scrolls back up the page. What is he thinking? They’ll laugh him off the stage. Miles off topic. On the other hand it isn’t, really; not really at all. And who cares anyway? He highlights the passage, but that’s as far as he gets. Roebuck presses “Save” and, with a conscious effort, moves on to matters more pertinent.
He has lined up a series of appointments this week with his bank, his tax attorney, and his accountant. Housekeeping, these consultations; only distantly of interest, but important nonetheless.
Roebuck is conscious that he’s taken his eye off the ball in recent months. But he has by no means left the game. This is not his nature.
28
God is too big to be that small.
The Collected Sayings of Julius Roebuck
The morning of November third arrives in bright blue skies. Starlings gabble in the eves and an optimistic cardinal says “chew, chew, chew” somewhere in the hedge out back. Roebuck pauses, hoping for a flash of red against the yellow leaves. He has always had a soft spot for cardinals, though he appreciates them more come February when they’re calling out for spring. Not so long ago he came across a survey revealing that the average North American can readily identify a hundred different advertising jingles, but could barely recognize ten birdsongs in their own front yards. “Chew, chew, chew” goes the cardinal out back. Roebuck turns the key and starts the car.
Normally, she gets in touch before mid-afternoon.
For O-days the itinerary is deliberately fluid. If her temperature is bang-on first thing in the morning, she will want him first thing in the morning—after which he’s back in the office by noon and able to reschedule whatever appointments he has missed. More often, though, it’s closer to lunch. Which makes arrangements even more straightforward. Roebuck absents himself for what for amounts to a normal midday break and returns to his desk fatigued, admittedly, and hungry—always—but with the remainder of his afternoon intact. He will miss it. He knows he will miss it. But miss it or not, it’s finished. He has grossly tempted fate. Elemental reasoning suggests that the farther into this he goes, the farther out he sticks his neck, so today—after today—Roebuck is retracting his apparatus to where it decently belongs. He has been lucky, luckier than he deserves. During the hiatus, probably—when Yasmin launches into her usual post-production crank—he intends to break the news. At which point he has every confidence that she will violently reverse position. Roebuck is curious, in fact—anxious even, admittedly—but genuinely curious, too, to see where her reaction will net out. He hopes it won’t get dangerous. But whatever, whatever the fallout, he is resolved. There is pleasure in a decision soundly made.
So it’s something of an anticlimax when the morning passes without contact. Roebuck checks his calendar, consults his spreadsheet; counts back the days: twenty-eight on the money. Bang on exactly.
Twelve o’clock comes and goes. Roebuck’s eye is on his email throughout a meeting with the manager of the digital agency he has hired to upgrade the Artemis web presence. At one o’clock the outmoded cellphone he relies on for his private calls sits discreetly on the corner of his desk while Roebuck entertains a VP of Marketing, who is here today to tell him that, what with the downturn, Finance will longer authorize his agency’s retainer. A few minutes past two, and Roebuck is alone again at his desk. Carol the receptionist solemnly enters his office and places before him an imposingly thick, cream-coloured envelope embossed with legal seals that has just arrived by courier and for which Roebuck himself must sign to acknowledge receipt of delivery.
So it has happened.
It’s true he’s been expecting this, sort of; at least with the logical part of his being. But in every other sense Roebuck is completely unprepared. He wonders if retirement is going to be this way, or the kids’ graduation, or his first grey hair: you know it is coming, but the shock of it still stuns the day you grasp the fact it’s really happened. Time decelerates with every heartbeat as Roebuck breaks the seal and methodically unwinds the strings from their red paper buttons. With each revolution his senses heighten; he is conscious of the rasp of
his own lungs, the thrum of his arteries, the quiet brush of thread against paper. How curious that this has come today.
He reads it over carefully and places yet another call to his attorney—Roebuck has observed due diligence, he has—and then absorbs the whole of it again more slowly. Still he is surprised. More than surprised; shocked. Holding his right hand level before his eyes he sees that it is trembling. Better than he thought. Better than he would ever have imagined.
He needs to talk to Anne.
Roebuck punches in the number, but disconnects before his wife picks up. Anne, he knows, will tell him that a thing like this is his decision, his alone—then leave him with no doubt at all about her confidence that whichever way he chooses is certain to be wrong. If he says he is thinking of accepting, she will warn him that he’s always rushing in. If he admits he is planning to say no, she’ll remind him that the economy is in a downturn and an opportunity like this may never come again. It’s a useful way of working through a process, but it’s not the kind of feedback he wants right now.
His desk phone rings. It’s the attorney’s office calling for confirmation that Roebuck has received the offer; their preference is for tomorrow morning if he can make himself available. He dials Lily.
“Julius …”
“Short notice, I know, but can you meet me for a drink?”
“Um …”
“I need to talk.”
“Right now …”
“It’s important!”
“Well so is …”
“Lily. Please. Something really big I need to tell you.”
“As a matter of …”
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Julius!”
He hangs up. On his way out the door, he pauses at reception to let Carol know he’ll be out of office for a spell. Carol is appalled.
“You can’t! You have your interview with AdForge!”
This isn’t like him. Roebuck forces himself to stop and reason this through. “Right.” he says. “Ask Daniel to take it.”
“Daniel isn’t in today.”
He leans with both hands on the desk to emphasise the seriousness of what he is about to say. “Carol, will you call AdForge, please, and tell them I’m very sorry, but a family emergency has come up. I have to cancel.”
If Carol were chewing gum she would blow a bubble while she gave herself the time to think this over. “Sure,” she says. “Everything okay?”
Roebuck waves a hand. “Absolutely.” He stabs the elevator button. “Where’s Daniel?”
The doors slide open, Carol shrugs. “Not here.”
“Omniglobe wants to buy me out.”
He has planned to hold off telling her until he has a drink in hand, but Roebuck just can’t wait. Lily has barely got her seatbelt buckled before he blurts his news.
“Sorry?” she says.
She’s been like this since she met him at the door. Roebuck is aware that he should have started with how her day is going, but the weight of what he has to say is so immense it is impossible to set aside.
“Omniglobe,” he says. “Parent to the fucking world.”
“Yes. I know Omniglobe.”
“Of course you do! They own half the shops you work for. More.”
“Yes.”
“Now they want mine.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
Lily’s reaction isn’t what he was expecting. Roebuck isn’t really sure what he expected; only that she’d be more … moved. “What kind of question is that?” He has to pump the brakes to make way for a Vespa. “All right. If you want me to say I built this business into an award-winning agency, okay; I’ll blow my horn.” A bus stops dead ahead, and Roebuck cuts into the other lane. “What it does say is that those guys think my little agency is worth the ridiculous amount of money they’re putting on the table.”
He is hoping she will ask.
“Slow down!”
“Sorry.” Roebuck eases off the gas. “I admit all this is … affecting me more than I thought.” He puffs his cheeks. “It hasn’t come as a complete surprise, you know. They’ve been sending out feelers for months. But somehow still it’s caught me, I don’t know … off guard. I guess I never took it seriously. Or maybe I’ve just been too busy to do more than go through the motions. This kind of money, though, definitely makes you sit up and take notice.”
Still nothing.
“Bottom line,” he says, “is that now I have no idea what I should do.”
She is staring out the window. For a moment it looks like she’s about to speak, but can’t find the words.
“I know!” Roebuck thumps the steering wheel. “Exactly! That’s why I needed to talk … What do you do with a thing like this?” She has turned to look at him, but he has swerved around a delivery van. “They want me to stay on for an eighteen-month transition. If I accept, I’d have to pretend I’m still interested in running the business—and who knows, maybe I would be?—question is, what would I do with myself? After?”
Lily sighs. “When I first met you, you said you had a novel in a drawer somewhere.”
Roebuck looks at her, stunned—enchanted. “My God,” he says, “That’s perfect! At the dawn of the digital age, as printed word lies dying, Julius Roebuck sets up as a novelist.” He reaches out to touch her knee. “And you’re right, too. It’s a good time for the likes of me to be getting out of the business. Maybe I should do a memoir. That’s close enough these days to fiction. But on the other hand …”
“Pull over at that taxi stand.”
“What?”
“Just stop.”
Roebuck stops. Immediately a cab pulls in behind him, leaning on the horn. “I have to move,” he says, but Lily has unbuckled. Before he knows what’s happening, she is standing on the curb, staring through the open door. The cab behind nudges his bumper, horn blaring.
“I missed my period,” Lily says and disappears down the stairs into the subway.
When Roebuck gets back to the office, Carol is sitting with her back squared and eyebrows arched. She nods furtively toward a woman seated in the waiting area. “I didn’t get to her in time,” she whispers without moving her lips. Roebuck has no memory of how he has arrived here. He can’t remember driving back or parking the car or riding up the elevator. His cellphone is still open in his hand; he knows that he has been dialling Lily and that Lily hasn’t answered. Carol clears her throat and bobs her head toward the waiting woman. “Mr. Roebuck will see you now,” she says spacing out the syllables. Even in his fog, he registers that she has been practising this line the whole time he has been away. He turns, habit in the driver’s seat, smiles his smile, and extends his business hand. “I’m very sorry to have kept you waiting,” says Roebuck with all the sincerity in the world. Escorting her toward his office, he has the presence of mind to ask if she would like a coffee or a soft drink? Anything at all?
“I’m good,” she tells him.
At another plane of being he is vaguely conscious that under other circumstances he would be setting up to charm this girl. Something like muscle memory—perhaps a little deeper—has him setting one foot in front of the other as they walk together down the hall.
“Thanks for this.” She passes him her card.
Roebuck transfers the mobile to his other hand and receives the card politely. Senior Reporter. He has now wrapped his head around the fact that this woman is here to interview him. “It’s a scheduled feature,” she tells him. “Right now we’re calling it ‘Changes and Challenges.’ The industry’s evolving. That’s the topic.”
“I see,” says Roebuck. He has always got on well with the press. “Please have a seat.”
“Nice office.”
“Thank you.” He slides into his own chair behind his desk. Normally he would sit
side by side with her, but today he feels he needs the distance.
The reporter launches into her preliminary patter designed to put him at ease, and Roebuck, who’s been doing interviews like this since before she learned to spell, replies with prepackaged cant of his own. She asks for his permission to activate her tape recorder; he grants it with his most engaging smile.
Part of him is dealing amazingly well. The other part is spinning in a blinding void.
“Social media,” she says. “Is it the game-changer everyone’s predicting?”
Journalists always want to talk to him about his only-women-count approach to advertising; it’s what he’s known for in the biz. Roebuck has been lining up the usual palaver. Only now it’s dawning on him that this isn’t why she is here today. “Social media?”
“You know, Facebook, MySpace, LinkedIn, Flickr, or the new one, Twitter, which people are saying is going to be huge. Are micro blogs of 140 characters about to change the way you do business, Mr. Roebuck?”
“Got you.” He has a strong impression this young woman is more comfortable—and very likely more conversant—than he is on this topic; she belongs to that demographic. “Right.”
He has paused to focus and is pleased with what comes out. “A short burst of inconsequential information,” Roebuck says and smiles. “That, I believe, is more or less the dictionary definition of twitter. Any social force with the moxie to give itself a name like that has my vote as a game-changer.”
And suddenly, quite suddenly, he realizes it’s this he’s been writing about—maybe better to say around—in the Ferrer/Léche text he’s been fooling himself with. Has he spoken this out loud? “Sure, he says, watching his performance from some place of dim but horrified detachment. “Advertising is changing. But the change is only methodology. In all the other ways it is, as it has always been—and will always be—the same.”
Fire in the Firefly Page 22