Formerly Fingerman

by Joe Nelms

  Brad Wakes Up

  Brad woke up happy the next morning.

  This in and of itself was not groundbreaking. Historically, plenty of members of the human race have awoken with a song in their heart.

  It was the context of the realization that merited examination. With all the worry about losing his job and hiding his unemployment and making sure his thirty-percent-off-wings fliers were finding the right people and the rash the chicken suit gave him and his wife treating their marital vows like the adult diapers Herr Fingerman was now hocking and Frank Fortunato trying to unfriend him in the most painful way possible, Brad had come to be unhappy as a matter of normal course. It had become his natural resting state over the last several weeks. Occasionally he would use the methadone of despair as a crutch, but, in general, depressed was his baseline emotion.

  This morning, however, his waking thought was not Why me? but rather one of anticipation. And this wasn’t a matter of whistling past the graveyard. Brad was actually looking forward to going into work and accomplishing something. Granted, that something was the peacockery of advertising, but nevertheless, it was something to look forward to. A tiny beacon of meaningfulness. Hope.

  Not being the terribly introspective type, the significance of the change was lost on Brad. Instead he looked at it through the myopic vision of a morning DJ.

  I’m baaaaaack! I’m back in the saddle again!

  It was maybe the worst Steven Tyler impression ever and those were the only words he knew for the song, but it served its purpose. Brad initiated his own rally cry and sang his heart out in the shower.

  He had a new name. He had a new job that was giving him a second chance. He had a new friend. Sure there was a trial to get through and some over-the-shoulder looking to be done for the foreseeable future, but his life was better today than it had been yesterday. And that was something that hadn’t happened in a good long while.

  Maybe things really were going to work out.

  Frank 2, Brittany’s Agents 0

  Hello, rat.

  As usual, Stump had gone out for the paper before Brad woke up and this morning the headlines informed him of another Fortunato-related death. This time it was on video. Someone had killed a gentleman by the name of Alfonse Amorelli, formerly known as the FBI agent who ran the fake three-card Monte game outside 1635 Broadway on the day Frank Fortunato was arrested. He was also scheduled to testify on behalf of the prosecution against Frank. Once again, not a major contributor, but definitely a guy who could put Frank in the building when a murder was committed.

  His killers had strangled him with his own belt and captured the whole thing on a video they posted on YouTube under the title How to Kill a Rat. Then they tagged it with popular search words like sex, porn, tits, funny, twerk, Cyrus, Kanye, Angelina, and Kardashian ass. It had over two million plays before it was removed for breaking indecency rules.

  Which made it front-page news, even out there in the sticks of Tucson. Stump dropped the paper off in the neighbor’s recycling bin. He would have to keep Brad focused on work today.

  Things Look Brighter for the Lifer

  When the news of the killing—and more important, the posting of the video—hit the Rikers grapevine, Frank couldn’t help but preen a little bit. His stock shot up immediately as the beginning of his master plan came together. Even the Samoans looked at him with new respect.

  The news channels squawked about the obvious connection to the trial. Public servants demanded action. But the truth was that the Aryans had done an excellent job covering their tracks. Not a tattoo in sight for the whole video. Nothing identifiable aside from Alfonse’s crooked teeth as he fought bravely. Sure the FBI would investigate, but they wouldn’t get far.

  Frank took a nice, leisurely victory lap around the yard to let everyone know who was in charge. He made sure to give a knowing single nod to Mitchell as he passed by. Nice doing business with you.

  Malcolm’s Missed Cue

  Is it possible to consume negative calories?

  Ever since Brittany found out about Frank requesting a speedy trial, she had been in a panic. Her case was solid. Her eyewitness was hidden. Jarvis was still making progress recovering surveillance footage. But she hadn’t lost the last five pounds. How was this fair? She finally got the perfect break, but couldn’t fit into the skirt that showed off her calves so well. It was maddening.

  Her grandmother told her to find a bra that squeezed her breasts up high and tight, and the rest would fall into place. Who would be looking at her legs? But Brittany wanted that skirt.

  At least her grandmother had someone to keep her busy these days. Not that Brittany was looking for a grandfather figure or anything. She just wanted Lola to be kept occupied. And stop calling so much. Actually, Brittany didn’t care what Lola did as long as she stopped dialing her up every ten minutes to tell her that men don’t like smart women, so open her top button.

  Maybe this new guy was just the thing. He was a bit of an enigma to Lola. They had been on a few dates and she had been dropping hints like they were care packages over the Congo, but he hadn’t acted on any of them. And Brittany knew firsthand that her grandmother’s hints were tough to ignore. Lola’s innuendos were as subtle as a cable network promo and as tasteful as an art sale at an airport hotel. This guy was either a real gentleman or a deaf mute with a head injury.

  According to Lola, the happy couple had been out for another date last night. She had used the old I feel a real chemistry here line, pretended to sprain an ankle so he would put his arm around her on the way out, and even suggested a quick nightcap and backrub at his place. Nothing. He had checked his breath but claimed to not smell any chemistry, warned her of the dangers of high heels, and mentioned something about his mother needing her sleep for a colonoscopy the next day.

  The details were a little fuzzy, thanks to one too many martinis, but the gist of it was that Lola had tried to bump uglies with Malcolm and he had instead walked her to her door, shaken her hand, and left. What an asshole.

  The unfortunate series of events was described to Brittany in excruciating detail while she sat with her cell phone to her ear in Jarvis’s bay, watching the back of his balding head as he reconstructed all the unimportant parts of her surveillance footage and she continued to not lose enough weight for primetime television. It was like the whole world was against her.

  The Fire Drill

  At least the crisis of firing the New York agency gave Brad something to do at work besides bitch. Stump could tell Brad was thrilled to stretch his creative claws because he had been quiet all morning, assuming the role of Relax-I’ve-been-here-before-guy and burying himself in the vast library of awful stock photography in the hopes of finding some gem that he could turn into a campaign. So far he had only lifted his head a few times to float some not-so-impressive ideas.

  “What if we did, like, a fashion week thing and all the models were wearing diapers on the runway and Tim Gunn is there and he’s all ‘Mmm! Make it work, girl!’ and then we have a line like Assure, the next big thing in accidents or something like that?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Models don’t wear underwear.”

  It was pretty light lifting for Stump, which was fine by him. He wasn’t really a copywriter and was far more consumed with his real job.

  Two agents related to Brad’s case were dead. That meant someone was looking for Brad like he was the last bowl of Chex Mix at a locals bar. They would find him. And if they were willing to kill agents, they wouldn’t think twice about offing a civilian. Or a marshal. And there would go his perfect record. He had to be on his toes.

  Of course, after three hours of being on his toes while staying in character in the middle of a quiet building at the center of a lonely office park, Stump got a little bored.

  He slid on some ear buds and pulled Brad’s testimony video up on his computer. Perhaps a little facial action study to break the monotony. He h
ad already broken down more than half of the footage and had made extensive notes on practically every word Brad had spoken.

  They broke briefly to grab lunch from the third floor and brought their food back to their desks to eat while they worked. It was self-serving, but unintentionally inspired the other teams. Über-cerebral-writer-guy took his soup to his desk. J-pop-retro-punk-look-art-director-girl canceled her trip to Chipotle and grabbed a burger from the cafeteria. Goth-by-Hot-Topic-interactive-girl wasn’t eating anyway because she was body dysmorphic and the hunger pangs made her feel in control.

  By the end of the day, everyone had something to show for all their hard work. Except Stump. He had picked out a few more insignificant lies from Brad’s testimony, but that wasn’t the kind of thing you share during a creative gangbang.

  Alan paced. He had called everyone together that morning and reminded them he was presenting the work to Jack the next day, which meant he needed to see something at the end of today. Tomorrow was all about revisions and tweaking for Jack.

  Mike D. had been kind enough to come down to re-brief the teams and make sure everything sounded good. Everyone claimed to have understood their mission and scuttled off to get to work. Here it was eight hours later. They had better have gotten it goddamn right.

  Alan’s no-choking policy had served him well so far. A few close calls, but nothing serious. Certainly no behavior that would indicate Alan was about to squeeze the life out of someone he worked with. But he had never been tested during a time as stressful as this one. He stashed his letter openers and scissors in a desk drawer, just in case.

  “You ready for us, Alan?”

  Brad and Stump were the last to present. So far, über-cerebral-writer-guy and j-pop-retro-punk-look-art-director-girl were the frontrunners with a campaign featuring an anthemic flagship spot that played a gospel choir soundtrack while seniors participated in family activities tinged with a patriotic vibe. Occasionally, the old people would laugh at some unheard joke and high five. Their overarching theme for the effort was Dry Is Why, a chorus that answered various rhetorical, empowering questions asked by the stars of the ads.

  Alan thought it spoke to the emotional connection consumers can have with a product. Also, it implied confidence to venture more than fifty feet from a toilet. People really responded to that. Mike D. had blessed it as well.

  “Right on the money, brother. You’re saying if they don’t wear our product, they might crap themselves during church and then where would they be, right?”

  Über-cerebral-writer-guy hadn’t really über-thought of it like that, but sure, why not?

  “Something like that.”

  Mike D. slapped both hands on the work in a simian display of ownership.

  “Dig it. Alan, I dig it!”

  “Then I dig it, too.”

  So the pressure was somewhat off by the time Brad and Stump made their way into Alan’s office to show him what they had come up with. Alan already knew he had a safe campaign to show Jack that would at least fill the inside cover of Parade magazine and half a minute of airtime during Jeopardy! Everything else was gravy.

  “All right, guys, what do you have?”

  Brad had done a yeoman’s job on the project, conceptualizing the campaign, laying it out, even writing all the lines. He had run them by Stump who had grunted an approval, but that was the extent of any outside influence. This was all Brad.

  “Well, we’ve got five campaigns to show yo—”

  “Five?! What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Uh, we just wanted to make sure you were covered.”

  Alan checked his watch. Always a good sign when you’re presenting work.

  “All right, let’s see them.”

  Brad took Alan and Mike D. through the campaigns. There was a wide variety of thought, ranging from surreal executions of metaphors to clever slice-of-life banter to straight-talking authority figures.

  “So then he looks into camera and says, ‘We put the Sure in Assure.’”

  “Go back to the other one.”

  “Full Load?”

  “No, the one before that.”

  “Code Brown?”

  “That’s it.”

  Yes! Brad had a winner. Maybe. Alan studied the campaign featuring wide-eyed seniors in crowded rooms.

  “Mike D.?”

  Mike D. squeezed his mouth to one side of his face, unimpressed.

  “Meh. Back pocket.”

  “Yeah, I agree. Not quite on target strategically. We’ve got Dry Is Why and the testimonial thing we saw earlier. Let’s back pocket this one. Thanks, guys.”

  Back pocket?! Fucking Mike D., as in Douche Nozzle, had torpedoed Brad’s one shot at greatness with Assure with a simple Meh. Did he even get the bigger concept behind the campaign? Didn’t he understand the subtext of the dialogue? Had he missed the whole joke? How dumb was this guy?

  “Alan, don’t you think you might want to present something a little more conceptual? To sort of round things—”

  “Nope. Done.”

  Alan stood up, completely satisfied with himself, and brushed some imaginary dirt off of his hands.

  Brad’s work wasn’t even going to be presented unless some sort of disaster happened. Nothing short of the entire gospel-singing population of America getting struck by lightning during a volcanic earthquake would get any of Brad’s campaigns presented to Jack. Nope. Done.

  Yo was waiting for them when they got home, warming up the PlayStation. Brad spent the evening on the couch next to him, sulking his way through Madden. Three straight losses playing as the Cowboys didn’t help matters much.

  “This guy knows nothing about advertising. He couldn’t creative direct a ham sandwich and he’s telling me I was off strategy?”

  “Seems like a lot of effort just to sell diapers.”

  True. But this was the microcosm Brad had chosen to care about. He had woken up happy about it that very morning.

  “I’m just saying.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, he compulsively sniffs his armpits.”

  It didn’t.

  Brad’s sleep was fitful and if it’s possible for sleep to be spiteful, it was that too. His psyche was saturated with disbelief and anger. By the time five thirty the next morning rolled around, he’d had enough of the battle and dragged himself out of bed.

  Frank 3, Holy Shit

  Brad had an angry shower, followed by an angry shave, and considered a little angry masturbation, but, honestly, was just too tired from tossing and turning all night. Instead, he made some coffee and resumed his fuming about getting shut out of the Assure in-house advertising World Series. Did they have any idea who he was? Actually, no. He couldn’t show them his résumé. He couldn’t hype himself up by dropping the names of agencies he had worked at or the campaigns he had sort of worked on. All they had was the work that Alan and Mike D. had so politely passed on. And by end of business today, the whole thing would be a done deal. Jack would have all the work and would probably go with that hacky choir thing. Brad considered his options.

  A bomb threat? It’s been done. Stealing the work and burning it? Kind of baby-ish. Beating them by doing better work before five o’clock today? It was crazy but it just might work.

  Quality ideas that did a better job of selling diapers than a nondenominational singing group and preternaturally happy seniors. Sneaky. But that was the kind of renegade thinking that sometimes birthed miracles.

  Brad sipped his coffee and thought of the implications. That would mean working his second full day in a row. It would involve the distinct possibility that Alan, and worse yet, Mike D., would once again dismiss him out of hand and move forward with what they had already approved. It could result in further rejection from an even greater authority, and tattoo him with the stigma of the high-rolling loser. Or it could mean some redemption.

  Fuck it. Brad didn’t like the vine he had been given so he would make his own. And he would tell it where to go.
Right back to I-Deserve-This-Success-Ville. Oh yes, today would be a big day. Forget being happy or unhappy. Brad was going to be the motherfucking man. This day would set the tone for the rest of Brad’s life. He would dig deep. He would zig and zag and give one hundred and ten percent and all sorts of other clichés it was too early to think of. He would own this fucker.

  So he had to reinvent himself. So what? Hadn’t people weaker than him done it? Al Sharpton used to wear track suits to court! Of course Brad could do this.

  He stared at himself in the mirror and looked deep into his own eyes. If only someone was there to play some heroic montage music as he promised himself a new and better Brad. He would stand tall. He would make the world take notice professionally. He would rebuild himself in the manner he chose. Brad Pitt, advertising giant. And once this trial worked out, assuming it ended favorably in terms of Brad’s primary goal of staying alive, maybe he could find his way back into real advertising with his new name and some sparkling new Assure work as his calling card. Brad Pitt Saves Major Diaper Account! It was no vodka job, but it definitely merited attention. Between the new name, the new work, and perhaps some strategic facial hair, maybe Brad could even reintegrate himself back into New York advertising. Start over. Take over. God, it would make a great anonymous Twitter feed. He just needed some brilliant work.

  But first, he would check his horoscope on the crapper. Why not start the day off right?

  On his way to the front of the house to grab the paper, he passed Stump’s open door. Brad never woke up before eight on any given day, which meant normally Stump was up well before Brad stirred. But today, he lay stiff as a board on his practically undisturbed bed as Brad tiptoed past and quietly guided the front door open.

  The sun was creeping up over the horizon, adding a sort of surreal light of optimism to Brad as he greeted the day. Unfortunately, that light didn’t do much for his stunned face as he read the front page headline: AND THEN THERE WAS ONE.