Up and Down
Page 22
At the appointed hour, I dialled into the conference call line and listened to the repetitive strains of Aerosmith’s “Walk This Way” arranged for the pan flute. Mercifully, I had to endure only a few bars of it before the call started.
“Okay. Hi, everyone,” Crawford started. “I’ve got Michael Crane here with me in the room. Who else is on the line?”
“It’s Diane, along with Amanda here in Toronto,”
“And it’s David here in Houston.”
“All right. Let’s get going. We’ve got a lot to cover and an important decision to make,” Crawford said. “Well, that was not exactly the launch news conference we were hoping for, now was it? We were lucky to persuade NASA to let Landon Percival even go to Houston. I figure after yesterday and the media coverage this morning, she’s on life support right now. We need to decide whether to pull the plug or give her a few more days. I know what I want, but I’d like to hear from the rest of you.”
“It’s Diane here. I don’t think we’d have gotten anywhere near the coverage we did had Landon not been so, um, so newsworthy. I thought she handled herself, under David’s guiding hand, very well.”
“Diane, we’re not looking for media coverage at any cost. We want positive coverage for NASA. They’re the client here.”
“I hear you, Crawford. But if I were NASA, I wouldn’t be too unhappy with yesterday’s launch. There was a ton of coverage in both countries, and that should continue as we get closer to the lift-off date. I say leave Landon in the play. She’s a media magnet.”
Bless you Diane, I thought to myself. I decided I needed to get into the discussion. After all, I was the one in Houston.
“I couldn’t agree more with Diane’s perspective,” I said. “In fact, I spoke to Kelly Bradstreet this morning and she’s not unhappy with yesterday’s newser. She did note that she’d like more NASA-focused coverage in the coming weeks but I think we can get that by more targeted story pitching. Besides, I don’t think we can pull the plug anyway. We’re too far down the road already, and NASA will make that call in the end, won’t they?”
“Okay, let’s get one thing clear,” Crawford interjected in a tone that chilled the call. “This is our program. We are their advisers. We have an obligation to provide our very best advice to serve their interests. I’ve got CNN playing in the background even as we speak here, and there’s ugly coverage of an anti-Landon rally at the JSC going on right now. I would have thought that David would have briefed us on that at the top of the call. We’ve got to stop this and stop it fast.”
“I’ve just come from that so-called rally and it was anemic at best,” I spun. “As soon as the cameras left, so did the demonstrators. They’re part of the same group that pickets the funerals of those who have died from AIDS saying they deserved it. They are incredibly offensive and they don’t represent the views of mainstream society. In fact, I think the protest will strengthen support for Landon and for the client. If NASA backs down because of a bunch of placard-waving wackos who couldn’t even chant in unison, then we certainly aren’t giving our client good advice. I say we ride it out, have Landon lie a little low for the next week or so, and try to get Eugene Crank up to the plate where he can hit one out of the park, if you know what I mean, Crawford.”
“Don’t go there, David. I mean it. I think you’ve been seduced by your wrinkly bush pilot and your judgment is clouded. The coverage we’ve seen so far, and there has been a ton, has very little to do with NASA. It’s all Landon, all the time. And there is absolutely no evidence that this will change going forward. As Diane says, Landon is a media magnet. That’s our problem. That’s what we must fix. We need NASA to be our media magnet. I’m going to call my NASA contacts and have Landon cut loose. Toronto, you can start the process to pick a new winner.”
“But you can’t do that,” I protested. “A heap of negative press will rain down on NASA if Landon is kicked off the mission, especially right now when her public profile is so high. It makes no sense. You’ll enrage every seniors group and every gay rights organization in both countries. The Canadian media will go ballistic. It’s just not right for the client, and it’s not fair to Landon.”
“Crawford, I have to say I agree with David,” Diane cut in.
“What a surprise! I’ll alert the media,” Crawford cut in, heavy on the acidic sarcasm.
“It just feels premature to jettison Landon right now. David makes some solid points and we ought to listen to what he’s saying. I really worry about the backlash here in Canada if you toast Landon. David is closest to all of this and I think his advice is sound.”
“David is a little too fucking close to all of this,” was Crawford’s response. “Look, I don’t like to play this card very often. But this account team is not a democracy. I got us in to pitch NASA in the first place. They are a TK client because of my contacts. I’m running this account, and Landon Percival will soon be heading out of the goddamned spotlight and back to whatever godforsaken part of the Canadian wilderness she calls home. End of story. We’ve already drafted the news release.”
“Crawford …” Diane began.
“This discussion is over!” Crawford roared, with the finality of a thermonuclear device. “Now I’m going to ask Michael here to brief us on the ongoing media relations program that we’ll be undertaking here in the U.S. After that we’re going to …”
We all heard what sounded like a knock on the door of the D.C. boardroom.
“You can obviously see that I’m running a meeting here,” Crawford said angrily to the interloper.
“But she says it’s extremely urgent and that you are to be interrupted,” said the voice.
“Christ! I’ll take it in my office,” snapped Crawford. “Michael, take over. I’ll be back.”
I could actually hear Crawford Blake stomping out of the room. Or perhaps my imagination inserted its own soundtrack. A second or two later, Michael, whom I barely remembered from our Washington pitch so long ago, started his presentation on the media relations play. I was still reeling from Crawford’s announcement. I couldn’t believe we were about to shoot ourselves in the foot, or in this case, the head, by sending Landon Percival home. On the other hand, I wasn’t convinced Kelly Bradstreet would support the recommendation. But her power was not supreme in NASA. Crawford wouldn’t even be calling her. He’d go around her to his more senior contacts, and he’d twist the story to his own benefit. I knew that some of the NASA leadership had been dragged kicking and screaming to the citizen astronaut party and would probably welcome the chance to piss in the punch bowl and put the uppity Kelly Bradstreet in her place. Clearly some of them never wanted Landon Percival on board in the first place.
Fifteen minutes later, I realized that Michael was still talking and I’d heard not a word of his presentation. I’d been too busy analyzing our desperate situation and trying to devise a Hail Mary that might save Landon’s seat on the shuttle. Maybe Emily Hatch was the answer. I tried to tune back in to the conference call but Michael really wasn’t saying anything that interested me any more. As far as I was concerned, Crawford Blake had just set fire to the city and passed Nero’s fiddle to Michael Crane.
I was desperate to talk with Amanda and Diane but didn’t feel I really could until the call ended. I was just about to email Amanda on my bb when I heard that familiar two-tone chime that announced the arrival of another party to the conference call.
“Hello?” the newcomer said. “Is this the NASA team call?”
“Yes, it is,” said Michael. “Who has just joined?”
“It’s Margot Spinello here in New York. I’d like to know exactly who is on this call,” she asked.
Margot Spinello, Margot Spinello. I knew the name but couldn’t place it. A suddenly very deferential Michael ran down the list of participants on the call. I MSNed Amanda on my laptop: ‘margot spinello?’
“So it’s just the TK NASA account team on the call?”
“Yes,” Michael replied.
“I’m here, Margot. Is everything okay?” Diane asked.
Just then, Amanda’s MSN response arrived: “holy shit! TK global CEO in NY!”
“No, everything is most decidedly not okay. What I’m about to tell you is highly confidential and should never be spoken of again. There could be legal implications. About twenty-five minutes ago, I fired Crawford Blake from TK with cause, effective immediately. He has left the D.C. building and is on his way to a meeting with our corporate legal counsel. About fifteen minutes ago I spoke to a Kelly Bradstreet at NASA and informed her that Crawford had been let go from TK, and I briefed her fully on the reason. I also resigned the NASA account. However, by the time I’d finished speaking with Kelly, we were back on the business. Let me explain. Again, all of this is highly confidential.”
It was deathly quiet on the line. I thought I knew what was coming. I just didn’t know how it had happened.
“Earlier this morning, it was brought to my attention that the American winner of the Citizen Astronaut contest that we conceived and administered, a Mr. Eugene Crank, is a childhood friend of Crawford Blake. More importantly, the selection of Mr. Crank was not the result of a random draw but a purposeful manipulation by Crawford Blake. Five minutes ago, I spoke to the CEO of Borden-Bennett here in New York. He is taking steps to terminate their D.C. office GM and the senior lead on the NASA contest administration. Obviously, their oversight of the draw was inadequate at best and incompetent at worst. They will also make these changes very quickly and very quietly. As you can imagine, they, like us, have every interest in keeping this all below the radar.
“I said earlier that we’re still on the account. Let me explain that, too. Kelly believes, and I agree, that going public and invalidating the entire contest would be an enormous public blow to NASA when they are already on their knees. We both agree that the odds of anyone else discovering this, particularly with Crawford no longer with the agency, are slim. The odds are not zero, but they’re slim. Crawford’s name was neither mentioned in any media materials nor noted in any coverage. So while it’s not ideal, the decision has been made to press ahead and deal with any revelations when they arise. I’m not completely convinced this is the wisest or safest approach, but as the client, Kelly Bradstreet should carry more weight in the final decision. And she has decided to ride it out. If we make it through, this approach has the benefit of protecting TK’S image and reputation, even though we don’t deserve it. We will immediately put in place a crisis contingency plan that will be invoked should this situation ever hit the streets.
“Finally, Crawford told me before I broke my news to him that he was about to recommend that our Canadian winner be sacked and a new one chosen in light of the recent media coverage. I took the liberty of raising this with Kelly Bradstreet and she shut the idea down immediately. Landon Percival is to stay in the program unless she fails the training. Is that understood?”
“We understand, Margot, and we agree,” said Diane. No one else dared speak. “That was the advice we’d already given to Crawford, and that he’d rejected.”
“Diane, I haven’t had a chance to speak to you about this, but as the next most senior TKer on the project, I’d like you to assume overall account leadership on the NASA business.”
“I’ll clear the deck and take the helm,” Diane replied without missing a beat.
“If I could ask the rest of the Toronto team to hang up now, I need to speak to Diane and Michael about the TK D.C. office in the wake of these events.”
I hung up, jumped up and down on my bed until I hit my head on the light fixture, and then called Amanda on her BlackBerry.
“Did you send that baseball team photo to Margot Spinoodle?” I nearly shouted.
“It’s Spinello,” she corrected. “And I might have.”
That afternoon, Eugene and Landon were in the JSC gym, for fitness testing. The rest of the mission crew were wrapping up their briefings and would return to Florida that evening. I didn’t think the testing would pose any problems for Landon, despite her age. After all, she wasn’t in training for the Olympic decathlon, just a quick trip into space. Clearly no one had told Eugene about Crawford Blake or that Kelly and perhaps a few other very senior NASA execs knew he was there under circumstances that now looked a bit suspicious. I can’t say for sure that he was in on the manipulation that produced his name, but I was quite confident he must have known something about it. Outstanding athlete that he was, Eugene was strutting around in full swagger wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and very expensive-looking Nike cross-trainers.
Landon didn’t wear the athletic image quite as easily. When I saw her, I wondered why NASA hadn’t provided track suits or some kind of sportswear for the fitness testing. When the NASA officials saw her, I suspect they may have considered cancelling the testing altogether. Without the cosmetic benefits of the aptly named coveralls, Landon’s wiry frame was on full display. She was wearing what my mother used to call clam-diggers or pedal-pushers. I can only describe them as green plaid three-quarter-length stovepipe pants that came down to just below the knee, revealing calves that were hairier than Eugene’s. On top, she wore a sleeveless button-up collared shirt, probably cotton, with what appeared to be an oil stain on the back. On her feet, grey work socks with red stripes disappeared into what had to be fifty-year-old black and white high-top sneakers. A red canvas belt completed the ensemble. All in all, it was quite difficult to look at her for very long. Eugene practically doubled over in laughter, making no attempt to conceal his reaction.
There were four basic tests employed to measure their overall fitness. The 400-metre run, the standing broad jump, the flexed arm hang, and finally what they called the shuttle run, where you ran back and forth between two lines about 20 feet apart, picking up or putting down a bean bag on each turn. Before the tests began, Landon and Eugene were measured and weighed.
“Good luck,” Eugene said, his words dipped in sarcasm. “And be sure you don’t hurt yourself. The flexed arm hang can snap an old bone if you’re not careful.”
Landon smiled and nodded.
“All the best to you, too, Mr. Crank.”
She meant it, he didn’t.
They ran together for the 400 metres. Or rather, they ran at the same time. She kept up with him for the first 50 metres or so, but then Eugene pulled away, finishing about 75 metres ahead of her. He was gasping for air when he broke the tape. Landon seemed to be breathing almost normally when she finished. The NASA officials checked heart rate and blood pressure for each of them.
Ten minutes later, Eugene crouched at the standing broad jump line, flexing his knees and swinging his arms. Then he exploded up and forward, landing with a great flourish and finishing with a front roll. Landon applauded while the white coats unfurled their measuring tape. After his one jump, Eugene hopped on the spot and shook out his arms as part of his cool-down procedure as if he’d just completed a marathon.
Then Landon took her position, bent her knees, crouched into a tiny ball, and launched herself to a surprising height and distance. At the same time, she unleashed a shriek that could shatter crystal at forty paces. It was like standing next to a train whistle blast, only louder. Startled by the sound, Eugene leapt further than he had in his official jump. Landon seemed satisfied with her distance, even though it fell considerably short of Eugene’s jump. Out came the measuring tape again and numbers were dutifully recorded on clipboards.
The flexed arm hang isn’t exactly a spectator sport. It entails pulling yourself up on a chin-up bar until your eyes are even with your hands. Then you hold it for as long as you can. Landon went first this time. She pulled herself up to the prescribed position and the hanging began. More than three minutes passed before she started to vibrate and then dropped back to Earth. She rubbed her arms and took some delight in how animated the NASA guys were a
s they recorded her time.
Then Eugene assumed the position. At 30 seconds his face was red. At 40 seconds, sweat was pouring down his face. At the one-minute mark, I feared he might have an aneurism. Finally, at 82 seconds, he dropped like a sack of turnips to the floor, his flexed arms in full spasm. Landon helped him to his feet and then pulled on his hands to unfold his arms.
“Well, you don’t weigh much more than 90 pounds. I’m 210,” Eugene complained. It came very close to a whine.
After a twenty-minute break to allow Eugene’s arms to return to their normal position, the fitness testing closed with the shuttle run. Based on what I’d seen so far, I thought that Landon might do very well in this event. It required short bursts of speed, and coordination, and agility. I figured a smaller person might be better suited for it. I was right. Back and forth they both flew, stopping, turning, and starting again, while grabbing and dropping beanbags. Landon beat him by a second and a half on the official run, and a full two seconds on the double or nothing round Eugene insisted on.
“This is stupid!” he complained, in the whiny voice that we were getting to know.
We all gathered in a small room just off the gymnasium for the results. The lead white coat stood at the front with his master clipboard.
“Congratulations, you’re both in very good physical condition. Mr. Crank, you scored in the 89th percentile for your age and build, a very impressive score.” Eugene nodded and shrugged his shoulders in the physical equivalent of “Well, duh.” “And Dr. Percival, you hit the 96th percentile for your age. We’ve never actually seen a specimen at your level before. We might write a paper on your performance for the Journal of Space Science if you’d agree to some more testing.”