Death in Advertising

by Laura Bradford

  I pushed open the door and listened as the ringing of the overhead bell was quickly echoed by Rudder from atop the perch in his oversized cage.

  “Hey there, Rudder.”

  “Hey—hey there, Rudder.”

  I laughed. “That’s what I said.”

  “That—that’s what I said.”

  Working here, with Rudder, was like being in second grade all over again. I just thanked my lucky stars that he’d never heard someone say I know you are but what am I?

  Rudder Malone was an African grey parrot. And that alone makes him interesting. His breed of bird imitates voices, words, and assorted sounds. He’s such a gifted impersonator, in fact, that I literally hide him in the back room when Ms. Rapple comes in with Gertrude. Hearing her voice once was more than enough.

  “I see that sparkle in your eye, Tobi. Who is he?”

  Mary Fran Wazoli was as subtle as a sledge hammer. She didn’t believe in beating around the bush or holding her tongue. In fact, I think Direct was her middle name. But I loved her anyway. She’d taken me under her wing when I moved into my apartment two years ago, introducing me to everyone in the neighborhood. She’d been there when I first met Nick, consulted on my outfits before each date, celebrated with us when we got engaged, dried my tears when I caught him cheating on me.

  I closed my eyes against the moment that had changed me more than any other—the sounds and visuals associated with walking in on my fiancé and the voluptuous waitress from our favorite restaurant still as vivid and painful as the what’s-a-guy-to-do look he’d given me when he saw me standing there, stunned and heartbroken.

  Focus, Tobi.

  Focus.

  I forced myself to breathe. To redirect my thoughts back to the grinning woman in front of me now.

  Mary Fran was truly the best friend I’d ever had. And even though she’d been divorced three times and held little faith in men, she still encouraged me to get out and meet new people. Though sometimes her encouragement could be better classified as a shove.

  Or, better yet, a punch.

  “There is no he.” I set my backpack behind the counter and pulled a Tupperware container out of the small fridge to my left. “Wait. Technically, that’s not true.”

  Mary Fran squealed and jogged in place. “I knew it, I knew it.”

  I pulled the container top open and removed three pieces of kiwi. “It’s not a he in the normal he kind of way, Mary Fran.”

  “Spill it, Tobi. There’s either a he or there isn’t.”

  I set the kiwi down on a small cutting board and began slicing it into tiny pieces, the blade of the knife banging against the board every time I cut through the fruit.

  “B—bang. Bang. Bang.”

  “It’s coming, Rudder.”

  “It’s—it’s coming, Rudder.”

  If anyone had ever told me that my route to being a successful advertising executive would require a stint at a pet shop, I would have laughed. Guess the joke was on me, huh?

  I picked up my conversation with Mary Fran. “Look, a guy—well, actually, two guys—came into my office yesterday. They want me to come up with a slogan for their company.”

  “Two guys?” Mary Fran asked, her feet starting to move once again.

  I laughed.

  “Snort.”

  I stopped slicing kiwi to cast a disapproving glare at Rudder and then returned my attention back to Mary Fran. “You did hear the slogan part, right?”

  Mary Fran waved aside my words as she crossed to the first hamster cage and its tenant, Max.

  Undaunted, I continued. “Anyway, these guys are in just as bad a shape as I am. But if I can come up with a slogan that’ll get them noticed, it might be just enough to turn things around for me and the agency.”

  I watched Mary Fran painstakingly move all of Max’s bedding to the bottom of the hamster condo, an effort I never understood since we all knew he was just going to load up his cheeks and take it through the tunnel again in an hour. But I knew her decision to clean the cage at that moment was as much about distracting herself as it was a necessary task. My Saturdays at the pet shop had become a kind of girls’ day out—a time to laugh, to gossip, and to fool around. If I got my agency on track, working here would no longer be a necessity for me.

  “S–snort. Snort. Snort.”

  Heaven forbid I stop cutting kiwi to have a conversation. I scooped up the pieces with my hand and carried them over to Rudder’s cage. “Breakfast is served.”

  “Break–breakfast is served. Snort.”

  I opened the food door, dropped the kiwi pieces inside, and then shut it once again. “Why does he snort even when I’m not?”

  “He remembers repetitive sounds.” Mary Fran shoved the last handful of bedding onto the lower level of the hamster condo and rested her face against the glass that separated her from Max.

  “Repetitive sounds? Gee, thanks.”

  Mary Fran smartly changed the subject. “There was a really cute guy in here late yesterday afternoon. And he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.”

  I reached for the broom and began sweeping around Rudder’s cage. “Did you ask him out?”

  “Now, Tobi, let’s not go down that route again. I’m saying he was cute for you.”

  I stopped sweeping long enough to raise my right palm. “Uh, no. We’ve been down this road, remember? Say it with me now: I. Will. Not. Set. Tobi. Up. On. Any. More. Blind. Dates. Ever.”

  Mary Fran turned from the hamster cage and put her hands on her hips. “C’mon, Tobi! I had no way of knowing he was a bigamist with a foot fetish.”

  I shuddered. Some memories were just too traumatic to revisit.

  “No more blind dates,” I said firmly.

  “Suit yourself. But you’re missing out. This guy was a little grungy, but cute.”

  “Grungy?”

  “Yeah, his clothes were kinda paint-spattered and a little, uh, outdated.”

  Some things were better left alone. The guy’s inability to dress was really not an issue since I had no interest in meeting him. Instead, I pushed the straw and droppings into the dustpan and knocked them into the trash can.

  “Why’d he come in?”

  “To take Sadie home.”

  I whirled around and stared at the cage that, just last weekend, had held my favorite cat in the whole store. Sadie was a calico and a world-class cuddler. She and I had bonded, each seeming to sense when the other needed a little extra attention. I would have brought her home long ago if my landlord didn’t despise pets so much.

  I walked over to the now-empty cage and looked inside. All that was left of Sadie was the little pink ball we used to play fetch.

  I felt Mary Fran’s hand on my shoulder, but I didn’t look up. Maybe I would miss this place more than I realized.

  The bell over the door rang. And so did Rudder.

  “Hey, Mom. Hey, Tobi.”

  Sam. Mary Fran’s son from her first marriage. A fifteen-year-old dynamo who had no use for sports or getting into trouble like his peers. All he thought about was cameras; I’d been the same way about advertising at his age.

  Sure hope things turn out better for him.

  “How’s things going, Sam?”

  “Did Mom tell you?”

  I looked at Mary Fran and saw the instant sparkle in her eye. I looked back at Sam. “No. Tell me what?”

  “I got it.”

  “Your picture?”

  Sam nodded, his silver-adorned smile stretching across his narrow face. “Yup. Got the letter yesterday. I placed first in the teenage photography division.”

  I pulled him in for a quick hug, my eyes suddenly moist. I knew that feeling, that validation of your talent. There was nothing in the world like it. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks, Tobi.” He stepped back and grinned at me. “I’m really pumped. But what about you? Anything new?”

  I leaned against the counter. “I have a shot at a campaign. I just need to find a slogan that’ll stick
in everyone’s head the second they hear it.”

  “Can I help?”

  I studied Sam for a full minute before I finally answered, my mind running in a million different directions. If I pulled off this slogan, Andrew Zander said the radio spot would lead to a color brochure and maybe even a commercial. Both would need a photographer.

  “What’s the first thing that comes to mind when I say closet?”

  Sam hoisted himself onto the counter, letting his feet dangle over the side. “That’s easy. Skeletons.”

  3

  I was about to break Mike Stanley’s cardinal rule regarding a pitch session and it wasn’t because of naïveté. Stupidity, perhaps. But not naïveté.

  Sunday had come and gone in a flash as I’d juggled words and ideas with graphics and color. So absorbed was I, the phone had gone unanswered the few times it rang (sorry, Mom), Gertrude’s incessant bark-a-thons from next door had barely registered against the backdrop of my gurgling food-deprived stomach, and I’d even turned down Mary Fran’s invite for popcorn and a movie with her and Sam. But it was the way I always worked once an idea started to form.

  I looked at the storyboard I’d drawn up and prayed the added work would not be wasted. But most of all, I prayed that Andrew and Gary Zander saw the slogan’s fun factor as a way to reach a broad audience—a way to turn their company—and, cough, mine—around.

  A soft knock on my office door interrupted my thoughts, and I looked up. “Oh hey, JoAnna. C’mon in.”

  “Andrew Zander is here, sweetie.”

  My stomach tightened as Mike Stanley’s monotone voice rushed through my head. Always bring three slogans with you. One of them is bound to catch the fly.

  “Tobi?”

  Had I not seen the note in my mail Saturday? The one that said I had fourteen days to pay my rent or I would be evicted? Had I not noticed that Cocoa Puffs and chocolate bars didn’t span all recommended food groups? Had I not just spent my entire Saturday being mocked by a bird with an attitude?

  I sunk into my chair and buried my face in my hands. “What have I done, JoAnna?”

  I heard her footsteps as she crossed the office, felt her hand on my shoulder as she tsked in my ear. “What’s wrong, Tobi?”

  “How much time do you have?”

  “You looked so self-assured when you came in this morning, what happened?” JoAnna asked.

  “Reality.” I looked up as I felt JoAnna lean against my desk, the worry in her eyes impossible to miss. “I’m sorry, JoAnna. I’m just second-guessing myself.”

  “Good heavens, Tobi, why?”

  I straightened in my chair and met her gaze head-on. “Because I’m putting all my eggs in one basket. Actually, scratch that. I’m putting my singular egg in a singular basket.”

  “Is it a good one?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your singular egg. Is it a good one?”

  I looked at the slogan I’d slaved over the previous day and read it again as if I was seeing it for the first time. “Yeah. It is. It’s a good one.”

  “Then you don’t need a second egg.”

  I felt that catch in my throat again. The one I got every time I was reminded just how much this woman meant to me. Just how much she brought to my life. I pushed my chair back and stood, giving her a quick hug as I did.

  “You’re right, JoAnna. It’s a great slogan and I know that. It’s everything he asked for. Fun, unique, memorable.”

  “Then go get him.”

  I hooked the tiny loops of my dark-brown fitted jacket but left the top third open to the gold-and-brown beaded necklace below. I’d opted to go casually nice that morning in an effort to give off the same youthful, breezy feeling Andrew Zander was looking for in a slogan.

  “Is Gary in there too?”

  “No.”

  For some reason I found that tidbit of information to be a little unsettling. I was far more comfortable with Andrew (not to mention the fact that he was gorgeous) but I had my looks to fall back on with Gary if the slogan fell apart—desperate times and all, you know?

  I pulled my hair from behind my left ear and took a deep breath. Things were going to be okay. They had to be.

  “The easel is all set up in the conference room. And so is your water.”

  I looked at JoAnna and smiled. The woman was a mind reader. She knew exactly what I needed at all times. I simply could not afford to lose her.

  “Thanks.” I squeezed her hand, then grabbed my pitch materials and headed for the door. “Get the chocolate ready, we’re gonna have a party when this is done.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  I headed down the narrow hallway, past JoAnna’s spotless desk, my attention completely fixed on the open doorway to the conference room. Unlike the first time I met with Andrew Zander, I didn’t bother to look at myself in the mirror. Sometimes you just feel put together. Thankfully, today was one of those days.

  I stopped just outside the room when I realized Andrew Zander was on his phone, his back to me.

  “Yeah, Gary, I’m here now. I’m waiting on Tobi. Look, I’m not worried, I think this girl is going to come up with something awesome.”

  I felt my cheeks warm, my mouth stretch wide with a smile. This guy didn’t know me from Adam, yet he believed in me somehow.

  “Yeah, I know we’ve got to get a slogan to WKST by three o’clock. I’ll take care of it. You focus on getting that closet system in at Hohlbrook’s and leave the rest to me, okay?”

  It’s funny how certain voices just go with certain people. Andrew’s was deep, yet gentle, a perfect match for his muscular build and kind face (not that I’d noticed or anything). As I continued to listen, I noticed his voice becoming increasingly agitated. “Is that Mrs. Hohlbrook in the background? Has she complained to you about Blake?”

  I couldn’t help but commiserate with Andrew’s plight. Owning a business was anything but easy. So many factors came into play when determining if you’d survive or not. And simply having a passion for the work wasn’t enough.

  I switched the storyboard from one arm to the other, the thick material brushing the trim work around the door. Andrew Zander spun around in his chair, the surprise in his face giving way to a smile as we made eye contact.

  “I’ve got to go, Gary,” Andrew said into his phone. “Tobi’s here.” He stood, slipped his phone into his pocket, and crossed the distance between us in mere seconds. “Hi, Tobi. You look great.”

  Score one for my wardrobe selection. “Thanks.”

  “Did you have a nice weekend?”

  “It was busy. But nice.”

  “You didn’t spend your entire weekend working on this, did you?”

  My whole weekend? No. The rest was spent sweeping up poop, shaving teeth-baring dogs, bagging up goldfish that never live long anyway, diverting discussions with Mary Fran onto something other than men, and trying desperately to help Rudder find a new sound to mimic. None of which I felt comfortable sharing with present company.

  Instead, I took a breath and composed my real answer carefully. “Helping you and your company is something I take seriously. So, yes, it was a big part of my weekend. By choice.” I motioned for him to sit down again, but he remained standing. “Would you like some coffee or some soda?”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m good. I stopped by the coffee shop on the way here. I needed a shot of caffeine, badly.”

  “Busy weekend?”

  “Busy night. I was woken up every few hours.”

  “By loud music?” I asked.

  “Nah, by my new girl. She’d rather fool around than sleep.”

  Alrighty then. More information than I really wanted to know.

  I changed the subject. “Shall we get started?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I walked around the table and set my boards, face down, in front of my usual chair. I could feel his eyes on me as I pulled the easel closer. “When we spoke on Friday, you said you wanted Zander Closet Company to be remembered.
That you wanted a slogan people would fall in love with and immediately associate with your company.”

  Andrew nodded, his eyes locked on mine (which, truth be told, was making it rather difficult to concentrate on anything other than their uncanny way of making my legs feel all jiggly).

  “You also expressed a desire to have your slogan be something that new homebuyers would enjoy without alienating their more seasoned counterparts.”

  “A tough call, I know,” he said. “But I’ve watched my parents and their friends over the years. They seem almost turned off by companies who opt to go the route of popular music or slang to promote their products. And, right now, I can’t afford to push away either group.”

  I nodded. “Makes perfect business sense. But, like you said, it’s a tough job and there’s not much common ground to be found between the groups. That’s why I opted to take a humorous route instead.”

  I didn’t miss the way Andrew’s eyebrows furrowed or the way he shifted in his seat when I said that. And I didn’t miss the way my palms dampened in response.

  Stay the course, Tobi.

  “By playing on an expression that has been around for years, we’re throwing a bone to the older demographic. By bringing a humorous connotation to it, we’re creating a youthful feel that will speak to first-time homebuyers too.”

  Grabbing the top board from the table, I placed it on the easel. With any luck, Andrew Zander wouldn’t notice the way my hand shook.

  “The first thing we need to do is get your name out there. Very often, slogans place the name of the company at the end, if they incorporate it into the slogan at all. Most don’t. They simply splash it across the television screen when the commercial is winding down, or in a small corner of a print ad.

  “But we need to connect your name with this slogan so that when people hear it, or recall it, they remember your name as quickly as they do the saying.”

  Andrew nodded, casting his eyes upward for a moment. “You know, I remember a political commercial from when I was in high school. It had this little jingle, sung by children. Congress-man Peters picks our pock-ets. It was brilliant. I didn’t care about politics, certainly didn’t know who was or wasn’t running, but I remembered that jingle.”