Russell Wiley Is Out to Lunch

by Richard Hine

  I start to feel a little calmer. I stuff the wet tissues into my pants pocket. I need to explain myself, confess all I’ve done wrong, make Jack understand why I’ve been reduced to this blubbering mess.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s OK,” says Jack.

  “No,” I say. “It’s all my fault. The mistake in the business plan. It wasn’t Judd who screwed it up. It was me. I told my friend at Vicious Circle all about it. I didn’t know he was going to write an article. But I should have kept my mouth shut. And the one about Unicorns. That was me too.”

  “Unicorns?”

  “Yes. I wrote it. I’m Christopher Finchley.”

  “Let me get this straight,” says Jack. “You’re saying you made the ten-million-dollar mistake that Vicious Circle is writing about?”

  “Yes.”

  “But after you made the mistake, wasn’t the plan reviewed by Judd Walker?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then Jeanie Tusa?”

  “I guess.”

  “And then Henry Moss?”

  “I think so.”

  “So three people signed off on your mistake?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And how did you come to make the mistake?”

  “I was helping Judd with a spreadsheet. I typed a number wrong.”

  “Why wasn’t Judd doing the spreadsheet himself?”

  “He asked me to help.”

  “So yours was an honest mistake?”

  “Yes. But I could have owned up to it sooner.”

  “Do you normally prepare the spreadsheets your finance department presents?”

  “No.”

  “So you weren’t the one responsible for any of Jeanie Tusa’s previous errors?”

  “No.”

  “Well,” says Jack, “let’s assume this article in Vicious Circle is correct and there was a mistake in the business plan as it was presented. Who should I hold accountable? You, the typist? Or the consultant who presented the plan? Or maybe the financial director whose job it was to verify the numbers? Or should it be the financial director’s boss? And for the purpose of this discussion, let’s say that this boss had been alerted by corporate finance to an ongoing problem of serious budgeting errors coming out of his department.”

  “Well,” I say, “when you put it like that.”

  “Russell, I applaud your honesty. But this was not your project. And verifying the numbers was not your responsibility. And neither was ensuring the necessary fail-safe mechanisms were put in place. Henry had been warned about this. Your mistake was a test of the system. The system should have been fixed.” Jack looks over at his credenza, where various mementos, awards and pictures from his long career at the Chronicle are on display. “Perhaps if Henry hadn’t been so busy plotting…” He trails off, shakes his head, then refocuses his gaze at me. “Regarding this article.” He picks up the copy of Vicious Circle that’s lying on his desk and waves a hand over the printouts of online articles from CNN, the New York Times, even the BBC. “The good news is that it’s given us the kind of publicity money can’t buy. The whole world is now talking about our plans to launch the Daily Edge.”

  “They’re not saying very nice things, though.” My voice sounds nasal. I reach for another tissue and blow my nose again.

  “As I told Larry Ghosh this morning, I’m used to being abused in the press and to being underestimated by others,” says Jack. “Even by those who claim to be my most loyal lieutenants. Anyway, Russell, as for this alleged mistake, the official word from me, the Daily Business Chronicle and from the Ghosh Corporation is that there was no mistake—there is no mistake. We are standing behind the numbers we announced to Wall Street. The launch of the Daily Edge will proceed as planned. We will simply need to find a way to launch successfully with ten million dollars less than we might normally have spent.”

  “I’m not sure that’s possible,” I say.

  “You may be right,” says Jack. “Unfortunately, given the level of scrutiny this project has generated, we can’t go back and adjust the numbers. But let’s put that topic in the parking lot and deal with it later. I want to tell you the real reason why I called you here this afternoon.”

  Jack stands up and walks around his desk. I look over my shoulder as he walks past me. His assistant, Nora, heavily pregnant, has entered bearing a tray of tea and cookies.

  “I’ve got it,” he says to her. “Russell, why don’t you join me over here?” Jack sets the tray down on his coffee table and waits for me to walk over and sit on his couch before he lowers himself into his armchair. He pours me a cup of tea.

  “Milk or lemon?” he asks.

  “Milk, please,” I say. “Thank you.” It was Sam who got me into the habit of drinking tea the English way, but I push that thought aside. I drop a sugar cube into my china cup and stir the tea Jack has handed me. I look over at his desk, which now seems far away. I blow on my tea and take a sip. It’s Earl Grey. I realize how large Jack’s office is, even compared to Henry’s. I count fifteen windows as I wait for him to prepare and taste his tea, then place his cup and saucer down on the table.

  Jack leans forward, hands clasped together, fingers interlocked. “As of one o’clock this afternoon, Larry Ghosh and the board of Ghosh Corporation have asked me to succeed Connie Darwin as CEO of Burke-Hart Publishing. I have accepted the offer.”

  “Er, congratulations,” I say. I’m starting to feel even more foolish about my crying jag.

  “As of two o’clock this afternoon, I have asked several people to leave the company. Among them, I am sorry to say, are Henry Moss and Jeanie Tusa. I have also terminated, effective immediately, the contract of the consultant on the D-SAW project, Judd Walker.”

  “Oh, wow.”

  “At the same time, I have asked Yolanda Pew to assume the title of publisher of the Chronicle and president of the Burke-Hart Business Group, and I have promoted Barney Barnes to become the president of the Lifestyle Group. Both Yolanda’s and Barney’s new responsibilities will include all the print, online and offline brands that they control.”

  “It sounds like the new structure makes sense.”

  “It would have made even more sense two years ago when you first proposed it.”

  “I guess we allowed history to get in the way of logic.”

  “That has been a problem of ours, hasn’t it? But hopefully we are now in a position to change all that. Which brings me to you, Russell Wiley.”

  I don’t say anything. I’m hoping that the fact that I’m not only still in the building but also sipping milky, sweet tea in the office of our new CEO means I’m not getting fired. But I don’t want to take anything for granted.

  “You’re one of the few people in the building no one says a bad word about. Your value to this organization was probably the only thing Henry and Barney agreed on lately. Did you know Barney tried to hire you to run his conference division two years ago? Henry hit the roof. I had to play Solomon on that one.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, Russell. We’ve got some big challenges ahead. Are you ready to take on some new responsibilities?”

  Five minutes later, I leave Jack’s office and head back down to twenty-five. Lucky Cat is there to greet me, the new vice president of marketing for the Burke-Hart Business Group.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Six Weeks Later

  I shave quickly, cutting through the foam with a disposable triple-bladed razor. I shower, lathering my hair in a nettle shampoo that makes my scalp tingle. I towel myself dry and walk into the bedroom naked. The lights are on, the curtains closed. I disconnect my iPod from my laptop and insert it into the dock of my speakers. I dress myself while Lloyd Cole sings about young idealists. I pack all my devices—computer, BlackBerry, cell phone—into my messenger bag, then clip my iPod to my belt and plug in my headphones. Lloyd’s no longer angry, no longer young, no longer driven to distraction, not even by Scarlett Johansson. Then I’m ridin
g down the elevator, heading out into the cold, gray January morning, listening to a song about New York City sunshine.

  The downtown 6-train is crowded. There’s no room to read my Chronicle-wrapped New York Times. Clinging to a pole, I pull out my iPod and call up my latest downloaded episode of Roger Jones’s video podcast.

  The opening graphics are slick, professionally produced. With accompanying music and sound effects, the words “The Daily Diary of the Incredible Shrinking Man” appear on-screen, followed by an animated photomontage that shows Roger melting away before our eyes. A title slide announces, “Day 61, Weight Loss 42 lbs.” Then Roger appears, sitting on a chair in his bedroom. He starts talking to the camera. On his slimmer face, his moustache looms larger than ever. The woman next to me looks over my shoulder at the screen. She nudges her friend, and through my headphones I hear her say, “Have you seen this guy? He’s hilarious.”

  I watch the three-minute episode, chuckling at Roger’s deadpan observations about everyday life. Today he notes a surprising coincidence: just one day after Oprah featured a medical discussion on the benefits of farting, Mayor Bloomberg called a press conference to reassure the public about strange smells wafting over New York City. I wince a little when Roger starts describing the physical realities of his post-surgery life, such as the pungency of his own emissions and the strange places he finds loose flesh hanging. But I know that his scatological openness and self-deprecating style are part of his appeal. His videos are generating more than 275,000 downloads each day. And he’s getting email and marriage proposals from fans all over the world.

  When Roger started posting his daily musings on YouTube, he was just an anonymous fat guy with a camera he’d borrowed from the office. He didn’t tell anyone at work what he was doing. He didn’t tell anyone watching what he did for a living. The subtext of his first video, recorded the night before his surgery, was the fear he might not survive his operation. Dizzy and nauseous from his liquid diet, I think it gave him strength to know that, whatever happened, he was leaving this message behind.

  During the first few days of his recovery, Roger’s sister was on hand to videotape his progress and document the speed with which his sense of humor returned. Within a week, he was alleviating his medical-leave boredom by posting more and more of his video updates online. With category tags like “diet,” “fat” and “surgery,” his postings quickly found an audience. In another two weeks, an episode of his diary became a featured video on the YouTube home page. At that point, Roger: a) really took off; b) got busted by his boss; and c) became a cornerstone of my vague and still-underfunded marketing plan to get advertisers interested in the launch of the Daily Edge.

  I didn’t change much of what Roger was already doing. Apart from the souped-up opening titles, Roger’s YouTube videos retain the DIY aesthetic he’s known for. But I did give Roger complete freedom to talk about work. Regular viewers now know that Roger is employed by the Chronicle—a paper he says is just like him, “shrinking but not disappearing.” For the past several weeks, viewers have shared in Roger’s anxiety as he sat helpless at home reading the negative news and dire prognostications concerning the launch of the Daily Edge. One day he dressed up in a cape and tights and fantasized about saving the Chronicle from the launch of the “Daily Disaster.” The next day he confessed he had spent six hours updating his résumé in an effort to switch industries at the first opportunity. The day after that, he told viewers he was going to keep his day job for a while longer—and that the Chronicle was giving him the time and resources to create his own Daily Edge–sponsored website.

  The day Roger returned to work, his office was overflowing with cards, gifts and flowers sent by his online admirers.

  Last week, his website attracted 1.7 million unique visitors. Along with all its exclusive Roger Jones content, it also features promotional content from twelve different corporations. Advertising on the site is free. But the only way for an advertiser to be featured is to book a campaign in the Daily Edge.

  I walk across town from the Fifty-first Street station and pause at the light to look up at the Burke-Hart Building. I cross the street, then cut across the mini-plaza. Two police officers are joking with the crowd gathered behind the barricades: a mix of college-aged tourists, high school girls playing hooky and middle-aged men trying to look inconspicuous. The presence of a few paparazzi-types feeds into and enhances the communal anticipation. Everyone in the crowd, amateur and professional, is clutching some kind of digital or video camera, or multifunction cell phone. I walk unnoticed past the throng, making sure to display my company ID as I get close to the revolving doors.

  A cheer goes up, and I look back as a white stretch limousine pulls up to the curb. A chauffeur steps out and opens the passenger door. Then, with the assembled onlookers capturing every moment, a pair of glittery platform boots appears. Chunky, six-inch heels connect with the sidewalk, and then, a split second later, Kiko Soseki has pivoted herself upright, wobbling slightly in her boots as if she were on a spring. She straightens the cubic-zirconia-studded sunglasses that half-cover her face and waves to the cheering spectators.

  Kiko takes a couple of halting steps forward. Part of her morning ritual includes speaking to the hyperactive Japanese TV crew that waits for her each day. For the benefit of the TV cameras and her fans, Kiko opens her pink fake fur jacket to reveal the outfit underneath. It’s a tight sweater dress with what looks like a large splatter of green paint across the front. Prominently printed within the splatter is the now-ubiquitous slogan, “Everybody Needs an Edge.” More than anyone, Kiko has risen to the challenge of publicizing the launch of the Daily Edge, often by turning herself into a billboard using clothes she has designed herself.

  Behind Kiko, Sally Yun and Angela Campos—a.k.a. the Me Soseki Crew—emerge from the limo and start striking poses for the crowd. Lately, Sally has adopted a Mohican hairstyle in homage to Annabella Lwin of Bow Wow Wow. Along with black thigh-high boots, tight green shorts and a red-and-white floral jacket, she has a designer-punk T-shirt that reads, “I Want Candy…But I Need an Edge.” Completing the multicultural tableau, Angela Campos is dressed as a dandy highwayman, an updated version of the Adam Ant look, complete with white stripes across her face. Angela’s version of the outfit retains the ruffled collar and sleeves, but the jacket is cut short to expose her taut stomach.

  “Hi, Russell!” she calls out. Heads in the crowd turn my way, then quickly lose interest. Of the three Crew members, Angela is still the most likely to break character and utter phrases that are not preapproved. But I don’t worry about that. Breaking character has become part of her character’s charm.

  Liz Cooke steps out of the limousine’s front passenger seat, talking into her Bluetooth headset. She circles behind the TV crew, taking care to stay out of the shot. Apart from a baseball cap that bears the slogan “Everybody Needs an Edge,” she’s dressed inconspicuously. Liz gives the rolling finger signal to Kiko, who wraps up the interview. Kiko, Sally and Angela head over to their fans to sign a few autographs. I notice several members of the crowd holding the new issue of Posse, which has a picture of the Me Soseki Crew on the cover. The boots Kiko is wearing will be featured in the next issue of Heel.

  Liz sees me and smiles. She’s having fun playing the role of Svengali to the online and, increasingly, real-world phenomenon she has created.

  Six weeks ago, before I promoted Liz to Martin’s old job as creative director, Kiko was just a regular, moderately popular MySpace user. Her few hundred online friends included Japanese and American art students, graphic artists, New York club kids, plus a few dozen sexual predators who’d chanced upon her provocative photos and blog entries.

  But then, everything changed. It wasn’t only my world that got turned upside down.

  After I promoted her, I told Liz I wanted her to make as much noise as possible to promote the launch of the Daily Edge brand. Don’t think of it as a newspaper, I told her. If we act like we’re launching
a newspaper, advertisers will come down with hives. I gave her a shoestring budget, access to some resources of the Ghosh Corporation and another copy of Christopher Finchley’s article on creative anarchy.

  Have fun, I told her. And don’t worry about failure. Failure, after all, was all but guaranteed.

  The plan Liz came up with had nothing to do with newspapers. And even less to do with selling advertising. Instead, she presented ideas that were outrageous, illogical and ridiculously cheap. I approved her plan immediately. Then, like a good Unicorn, I got out of the way.

  Within the first week, Liz worked with Kiko to refine and relaunch her online identity, mixing fact with fiction to create a persona with maximum global, cross-generational and multimedia appeal. The new MySpace Kiko was a blank slate of a woman: uncensored yet mysterious, she represented a bridge between American and Japanese cultures; she was shy, but she didn’t mind blogging about her most intimate secrets; she loved Japanese tradition but sang songs in English that, if they were ever translated, would shock her parents; and of course, MySpace Kiko—just like her real-life counterpart—loved to party.

  Through her new page and profile, Kiko introduced the world to her new BFFs, Sally and Angela. She posted dozens of photos, videos, plus a few homemade acoustic MP3 demos of her sly, confessional songs.

  Meanwhile, Liz let Kiko and the Crew loose on the New York club scene, with a paid group of paparazzi always in tow and trendy club kids blanketing the city with promotional material. Quickly, the members of the Me Soseki Crew were added to everybody’s “must-have” list—both as MySpace friends and guests at VIP events. Pictures showed up everywhere—from Style.com to DailyCeleb to Go Fug Yourself. When word got out that the Me Soseki Crew had signed a deal with Ghosh Music, they graduated instantly to the gossip columns and tabloid press, providing relief for weary writers—and readers—desperate to break their Paris-Britney-Lindsay addictions.

  Everyone wanted interviews. But Liz restricted access. She didn’t want Kiko and the Crew’s popularity to peak too soon. Instead, she used exclusive fashion shoots with selected Burke-Hart magazines to build credibility and feed the frenzy.