Reality Check

by Leslie Carroll

  “There are a couple, actually, but I guess I felt the most connected to an early detection breast cancer campaign that ran nationally, which I did a few years ago. My mom died of it.” I was shocked at how comfortable I felt sharing this with Jack. His relaxed manner had a reassuring effect on me.

  Jack reached out and stroked my hair. Affectionately, this time. “I’m sorry, Liz.”

  I fought back the tears that come every time I mention the subject. Fifteen years later and I still respond no differently. “It was called ‘Life Begins at Forty,’ educating women about getting a baseline mammogram at that age.” I looked away from him for a moment. I needed to get my bearings back. “We don’t even know each other and already we’re talking about breasts,” I joked feebly.

  He gently touched my shoulder. “Hey, there. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He delicately smudged away a tear that had begun to trickle down my cheek. “I’m sorry, Liz.”

  “You didn’t upset me, Jack. I upset me. Memories are pretty powerful things.” I sniffled and tried to smile. “But enough about me. So what do you do, Jack Rafferty?”

  “I’m part owner of a restaurant in Miami. South Beach, actually,” Jack said. “The silent partner, if you can believe that.”

  “You’re pretty garrulous for a silent partner,” I admitted.

  “I’m the money man and the business head—for now. The not-so-silent partner is pretty well known in the music business. So the restaurant has nightly entertainment—mostly Latin, Salsa; it’s a good place for him to front his band and the bands of his friends. That’s primarily what it’s known for, not for its food, to my personal dismay. What are you doing to those poor little things, by the way?” He caught me worrying two Gummi Bears—a champagne colored one and a red one—into a sort of sexual 69 with one another.

  I felt my cheeks grow warmer. “Um . . . I . . . uh . . . like to play with my food before I eat it. Make sure it’s really dead and all that.” I popped the trysting jellies into my mouth. “I can see how the restaurateur thing fits in. Nell said you cook.”

  Jack beamed. “Cordon bleu and CIA. And proud of it.”

  “What does the Central Intelligence Agency have to do with haute cuisine? Did they teach you how to fry stool pigeon?”

  His smile faded. “Culinary Institute of America. And in haute cuisine, we call it squab.”

  “I don’t cook . . .” I started to say, when Jack turned around, momentarily distracted by the sound of heels click-clicking down the corridor. Tara was ushering Nell back to our butt-killing orange seats.

  “Cool. That was fun! Thanks, Tara,” Nell said, then announced she was going to the loo, in case I wanted to join her.

  “I think I’m up next,” Jem said, as Tara checked her roster. Jem reluctantly put her stack of midterms on my chair. “Watch these,” she called out to me. “And if you’re leaving the area, then could you just put them all in my folder and shove them in my carryall? On second thought, never mind. I’ll do it myself.”

  While Tara expelled a puff of air and checked her watch, Jem meticulously collated her students’ exams, slid the clip of her Pilot cap over the open accordion folder, and shoved the file into a huge black leather tote, which she then slipped under her chair—but not before checking to see that the marker hadn’t detached itself from the file folder in the process.

  “Well, she’s really anxious to win a million dollars,” I commented, as Jem followed Tara down the hall.

  “Didn’t even check her makeup,” Jack observed dryly.

  “She doesn’t need to. She always looks good. Unlike me who tends to eat lipstick.”

  Nell returned from the ladies’ room and grabbed me by the arm, steering me back to our chairs. “Excuse us, please,” I called to Jack over my shoulder.

  She pulled me into one of the chairs. “You do realize you were flirting with the enemy?”

  “What are you talking about? And hey, wait a minute. When I got out of my interview, I saw you flirting with him.”

  “That was before I realized that he was trying out for Bad Date as well. Once I learned that, I just started smiling and tossing my hair a lot.”

  “What makes you so sure that we’re all going to get selected, Nell?” I looked over at Jack. He was watching us. And playing with his yo-yo again.

  Nell lowered her voice, looked past my shoulder at Jack and smiled. “You just never know.”

  “I thought we weren’t taking this audition seriously.”

  “I’m not . . . but in case you decided to . . . I don’t know . . . I mean, it just doesn’t seem like a good idea to, you know, fraternize with the competition. He is really cute, though.”

  “Definitely,” I agreed.

  “Besides, Liz, he’s going home to Miami after his interview. He’s got a 6:45 flight out of Newark this evening.”

  “So we’ll also probably never see him again.”

  “So it’s a waste of time to really try to get to know him.”

  “Right.” I tried not to look disappointed. I realized I wanted to get to know Jack a lot better. I wanted to find out what was behind his dark eyes, what made them twinkle, what made him tick.

  Jem’s interview seemed to go more quickly than Nell’s and mine did. “We’re running a bit late,” Tara said apologetically, as she shuttled Jem back to her orange chair. “Don’t worry, Ms. Lawrence, I’m sure your tape is great and you have a terrific personality. . . . It’s not really the length that matters. Just what you do once you get inside.”

  The poor girl apparently had no clue what she’d just said, but I gave a quick glance around the room just to make sure that the other three adults in the vicinity were trying not to blush . . . or laugh . . . as much as I was.

  “That said—” I began.

  “It’s a myth.” Jack winked at me, then I caught Tara looking in our direction. “I have a feeling my number is up, so . . .” He retrieved a monogrammed silver card case from his breast pocket. “I hope we meet again, Liz; but in case we don’t . . . if you’re ever in the Miami area, just give a shout. I’d love to hear from you.”

  “Jack Rafferty,” Tara announced. “You’re up next. I hope you don’t mind if we move things along a bit quickly.” She started down the hall toward Rob Dick’s office.

  “Story of my life,” Jack quipped under his breath. “Or should I say, my relationships?” He looked back over his shoulder and waved at the three of us as he headed down the corridor.

  “He’s got a sense of humor like yours, Liz, but I think we can forgive him for that. Actually, he’s a really nice guy,” Nell said after we were sure Jack was safely out of earshot.

  I slipped Jack’s business card into my jacket pocket. “Yeah. He even overlooked Jem’s incivility and bought her a bag of candy.”

  “I have to return these midterms by the end of the week. I couldn’t waste valuable time flirting.”

  “You were just being an ice queen, Jem. And since when is flirting a waste of time?” I posited. “Except when you don’t want the guy.”

  Nell shook her head. “That’s okay, too. You just do it for the practice. To keep from getting rusty. So when one you really want comes into the picture, you’ll be ready for him. I didn’t want Jack, but it was fun to talk to him.”

  It was hard to believe what I was hearing. Nell can get any guy she wants. And she invariably does. “You . . . what? I thought you said he was very cute.”

  “He is. From a purely aesthetic point of view. Like I can appreciate the beauty of Michelangelo’s David, but I wouldn’t want a copy of it in my living room.”

  “In fact, because I couldn’t help overhearing it, most of Nell’s conversation with Jack consisted of talking you up, Liz,” Jem said, as she shouldered her huge tote bag.

  See, this is what I mean about finding it impossible to hate Nell. I admit to having felt weirdly jealous when I thought she was flirting with Jack. How could I have known that as she tossed her perfect blonde hair from shoulder to shoulder
, she was telling him all about me?

  5/

  The Pitch

  It was D-Day at Seraphim Swallow Avanti. Time to deliver a ninety-five-mile-an-hour pitch for Snatch. I spent the entire lunch hour fiddling with my food. We were celebrating the acquisition of another new account, a foreign automaker that would bring in big billings, so instead of grazing on her usual greens, greens, and more greens, we were treated to a fish dish (albeit swimming in a “spinach reduction”— whatever that is), that Gwen proudly named Saab Turbot. It was the first attempt to feed protein to the hungry hoardes in weeks, but I had no appetite. Gwen feared that I might be watching my girlish figure and eschewing anything but salads. I assured her that I loved real food as much as the next person, but that my anxiety at pitching my ad campaign to Lord Ian Kitchener, a real-life British nobleman, was giving me butterflies.

  At three P.M., I entered the conference-slash-lunchroom with Demetrius. He hadn’t bothered to dress for the occasion. His dreds looked rattier than usual and he was wearing an old Jamaican Olympic bobsled team T-shirt. On the back of the shirt, he had created an addition of his own, a beautifully hand-lettered “Colonize This!” In my humble opinion, not exactly the best selection of haberdashery when you’re making an important presentation to a member of the English aristocracy.

  F.X. and Jason were seated at one end of the long, burled, blond wood table, flanking the nearly equally blond man who sat at its apex. He was attractive in a doughy British sort of way.

  F.X. made the introductions, informing Lord Kitchener that I was SSA’s top-flight copywriter. “Right! You’re the ‘site bytes’ chick!” Kitchener said enthusiastically. As if the pressure weren’t already on, now I really felt I had something to live up to. I prayed that the client would go for my ad campaign ideas.

  “So pleased to meet you,” I said. He was too far from me to shake hands with him without my running around the table. Since he didn’t extend his own hand, I thought I had better keep my place, not knowing the proper etiquette of it all. Wow, I thought. A real life royal. “Lord Ian Kitchener, Knight of the British Empire: Likkbe, for short,” he joked. “Sounds like I’ve got a head cold and I’m begging for oral sex.”

  Super. An English nobleman with the coarse sense of humor of your average loutish soccer fan. His attractiveness quotient dipped precipitously.

  “I would do him, mahn,” Demetrius muttered to me under his breath in his thick Jamaican accent.

  “Oh, you’re gross,” I whispered back. We both giggled.

  Jason explained that we had a few different Snatch campaigns to present, adding that over the past ten days or so, Demetrius and I had been working late into the night to come up with three rock-’em-sock-’em ideas. Some of that was true. I can’t presume to speak for Demetrius, but I’d spent several sleepless nights wondering how the hell to promote a dustrag.

  I told Lord Kitchener what an honor it was to be working for him, took a deep breath, and wound up for the first pitch. “I like to call this idea ‘Scrubbing Bubbles meet the Energizer bunny,’ ” I began.

  His Lordship grinned in approval. “I love those bubbles—with their brush mustaches! They all look like Teddy Roosevelt.”

  This raised my confidence a notch, inasmuch as I felt that the client was at least in a jovial mood. I asked Demetrius to display the storyboards. “We’ve got these computer-generated dust bunnies, you see,” I said, pointing to the board. “And the voiceover is delivered by someone with a really sexy, throaty voice, someone like Kathleen Turner or Lauren Hutton.” I read the ad copy to them. “ ‘Everyone knows that bunnies, uh . . . multiply, well—like bunnies. Especially dust bunnies.’ Then we see a shot of lots of these adorable gray dust bunnies of all sizes, getting larger and larger as we get to the area under the bed. ‘And some parts of your home can be a real warren!’ Then we go to a close-up of a couple of really large dust bunnies poking out from beneath the dust ruffle. ‘But now there’s a way to keep dust bunnies from growing . . . and growing . . . and growing. With new floral-scented Snatch, dust bunnies are eliminated as fast as a jackrabbit!’ Then we see the sexy woman on her knees by the bed, and go to the close-up of the woman’s hand holding the product, and we watch her sweep up the dust bunnies in a single swipe. Now we go to a super-tight close-up of the product, covered with schmutz. ‘With Snatch’s space age electromagnetic properties, dirt, dust, and stray hairs remain trapped on the cloth.’ Demetrius, may we go to the next card?” Demetrius flipped up the storyboard and I continued reading.

  “ ‘And with Snatch, you don’t even have to stoop to conquer.’ And we show the woman fitting the Snatch rag onto the moplike thingy and securing it. ‘With Snatch’s patented telescopic Magic Wand, cleaning those hard-to-reach locations is a snap. Snatch fits snugly and securely on the wand’s spacious head.’ Then we have the woman demonstrate how the wand unfolds, segment by segment, like those old-fashioned vaudeville canes. ‘From a mere six inches, Snatch’s Magic Wand becomes a full-sized industrial tool. And storage is a breeze. Just toss your used Snatch in the trash, and shrink the wand to its original pocket-size dimensions.’

  “So,” I added, pointing to each of Demetrius’s drawings on the board, “we follow the woman’s step-by-step demonstration, of course. She puts everything away in her broom closet, and we zoom in on the box of product and go to the voiceover tag line, ‘New, floral-scented Snatch. Grab some today!’ ”

  I looked over at F.X. and Jason. Jason was rolling his eyes, but he was smiling. A very big smile for the benefit of Lord Kitchener. I couldn’t tell if F.X. was rolling his eyes because his thick lenses appeared to be fogged up. He, too, was grinning at the client.

  “Right!” Lord Kitchener concluded, rubbing his palms together. I hoped that meant he was pleased. Frankly, it was difficult to tell. Sometimes when Brits exclaim “Right!” it just means “Let’s get on to the next thing.”

  “Wait ’til you hear Liz’s second idea,” Jason prompted. I probably paled. Demetrius removed the storyboards from the conference table and stacked them against the wall. He lifted up a second set of renderings and placed them on the table. “You know, I’m less crazy about dis idea, mahn,” he whispered to me.

  “Keep it under your dredlocks,” I hissed in his ear, and flashed the client what I hoped would be read as a radiantly confident smile. “Picture yourself in the Olympic Village,” I began, pointing to the first storyboard. “Or at the weight-lifting world championship match. The final round. We hear the voiceover announcing very sotto voce , like sports commentators do when an athlete is about to do something very difficult, ‘The clean and jerk requires immense concentration. Alexeyev has managed to lift 570 pounds. Can the Bulgarian beat him, for the medal?’ Then we see this humongous world champion weight lifter guy approach the barbell on the floor. The commentator says, in voiceover, ‘Will he be able to do it? This is becoming a very dirty competition.’ And we see the guy squat down to lift the bar. We see him huffing and puffing and groaning. ‘Nope, I’m afraid Putzin will have to settle for the silver,’ the voiceover continues. Then we see the guy pull something out from his little red leotard-thingy. And the commentator says, ‘Oh, oh, what have we here, folks? It looks like Putzin has located a bit of Snatch.’ And then we see the weight lifter using the Snatch rag like a hanky and placing it on the bar of the barbell. And suddenly, he can hoist the free weight over his head like it’s a Tonka toy. And we hear the crowd go wild and the announcer is all excited, saying, ‘Well, well, it just proves that a patch of dry Snatch will pick up anything.’ And we see the grinning Bulgarian with the barbell high over his head, and he releases it to the floor with that sort of bounce it makes, then takes a bow. And the announcer’s tag line is ‘And you won’t have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.’ ”

  I wished there had been an in-flight barf bag in the SSA conference room, because I was ready to throw up on the spot. Never have I come up with such a lousy ad campaign that made even me want to puke.
It sucked. As far as I was concerned, there was no disguising this factor. I’d even forgotten to include the phrase ‘floral-scented,’ which was kind of an important omission, since it was the name of the product. Not just Snatch but floral-scented Snatch. I looked over at Demetrius, who shrugged. F.X. and Jason were staring at me with the dismayed expression of parents who have come home from a lovely evening at the movies only to discover that their much-trusted baby-sitter has just shaken their infant twins to death. Lord Kitchener did not look especially enthusiastic. He didn’t say, “Right!”

  Did I dare tell them the awful truth? The last thing I wanted to hear at that moment in time was “Well, let’s see your third idea.” I heard those dreaded words and couldn’t provide an answer. Because there wasn’t one. Instead, I mumbled something vague about needing to leave, headed right to my office, grabbed my jacket and purse, and walked straight past the conference room and out the door. When I got down to the street I went directly to the nearest Starbucks for a caramel mocchiato and contemplated my next steps. I figured the sugar and the caffeine rush would flush the fuzz from my brain. I felt like a spin doctor who has run out of suture material.

  As I sipped the mocchiato, it occurred to me that I had better get my act together and stop fighting my assignments, or that would be the last $3.62 cup of coffee I would be having for a long time. I fished in my jacket for a Kleenex and pulled out a fistful of clean but crumpled tissues, along with a tortoise shell hair barrette, a taxi receipt, an ancient stick of Juicyfruit, and a scrap of card stock, which I almost tossed in a nearby trash can with the gum, but something made me look at it first. It was the business card Jack Rafferty had handed me at the Bad Date auditions. For a moment or two I stopped obsessing about my disastrous Snatch pitch and started wondering what Jack might be up to . . . if he was enjoying his day. I ran my finger over the raised lettering on the card, imagining my touch would work like some sort of voodoo charm, and that wherever Jack was, he would feel it.