Ana approached the chair. "Time to go, drunk girl." She gave Adrienne's leg a kick and not a gentle one.
Adrienne jumped in her seat, opened her eyes, and scowled at Ana. "Ow. Jesus Christ! Why did you do that?"
Ana gave a fake smile as if she hadn't meant to hurt her. "Come on, Ade. You don't want to be late for your hangover tomorrow."
"Don't want to go." Then Adrienne noticed Bruce standing there smiling at her. "Hey, Bruce. You fucker. You fucking fucker. You're hot."
He pushed his lips together and nodded, stifling a laugh. "Adrienne, listen to Ana. You should go."
Ana kicked her again, less hard this time. "That's your boss talking. Get up. Come on. We've got a prepro meeting tomorrow at nine with the client."
"Fine." Adrienne pulled herself up from the chair with a slight weave. Ana took her hand to steady her. "Bye, hot Bruce," slurred Adrienne as they headed toward the door.
"See you, Bruce," Ana said, opening the door and leading Adrienne out first. Ana didn't mean to look back, but she found herself doing it anyway.
Bruce was looking right back at her as if he had known all along that she would turn around.
11
Is Selling Out Even a Thing Anymore?
Normally Joe would be up by eight and probably working by then, but this morning, after last night's many pints, sleeping in sounded like a better idea. Around nine thirty, he finally dragged himself out of bed, heavy-lidded and muzzy-headed. Not unusual these days. Ten years ago, the morning after a night of drinking was not a problem. Bright eyes? Yep. Bushy tail? Check. Not now though. Not today. Today, coffee was imperative.
When he sat down at his desk with his second cup (first one slammed in the kitchen, standing next to the sink), he remembered why there had been too many pints. Even now, face burning, he still felt the sting of Chick's words and the shame he had experienced upon hearing them. It wasn't that he was angry at Chick. He certainly wasn't thrilled with him right now, but saying what was on his mind, whether it was part of the persona or not, was what Chick did. It just didn't seem so funny when he told the truth about you.
In this case, Joe was pretty sure that Chick was correct. His literary dreams were a joke. He didn't even know what his literary dreams were anymore. So why not at least pull his own weight until he figured it out? Maybe it was time to be a man for a change. Step up.
Joe touched the space bar on the computer to make it come alive. Instead of checking his usual music, book, pop culture, and film blogs, or even The Paris of the Midwest Is Crumbling, he found himself going to the Association of Alternative Newsweeklies website. On the left side, there were top stories from weekly, mostly free newspapers from all over the country. They had "alternative" names like Creative Loafing or City Pulse or Weekly Alibi. Joe told himself that he was there to see what the other papers were writing about, maybe get some ideas. He hadn't planned to check out the job listings on the opposite side of the page, but there they were.
And lo and behold, right there was a listing for the Detroit area. It was for a paper called the D Daily. He had never heard of this paper, but they just happened to be looking for a staff writer. Joe clicked through to the listing. It was encouraging: Immediate opening; full-time staff writer; looking for well-crafted magazine-style articles; culture and lifestyle background preferred. Why hadn't he ever heard of this place? It sounded perfect for him. A quick Google search for D Daily alt newspaper produced confusing results, pulling up mostly hits for the two city dailies. Not much help.
Fuck it, he decided. This was too exciting. Joe cobbled together an e-mail with a résumé and four of his best clips and sent it off to a [email protected]. What the hell, thought Joe. Why not?
Less than five minutes later his cell phone rang. Joe didn't recognize the number. He wasn't sure what to do. It couldn't be this place, could it? No way. He decided to let voice mail get it. But on the last ring before VM clicked in, he quickly picked up his phone and hit the talk button.
"Hello?" Joe said, trying not to sound like he had just crawled out of bed hungover half an hour ago. He was conscious of how scratchy his voice sounded. Booze and yelling over the din of the bar, no doubt.
"I'd like to speak to Joseph Keen."
"Speaking."
"Hello, Joe. My name is Terrance Blankenship. I'm the editor of the Daily. I just received your résumé and clips."
"Oh, great. Wow. Well, that was . . . fast. I didn't think I'd be hearing from you so soon."
"I normally wouldn't contact someone so quickly, but I'm actually quite familiar with your writing. I've read your stuff in the Independent and was very impressed. I'm a fan of your work."
"You are? Wow. Thanks."
"Are you familiar with our publication?"
"Um. Not terribly familiar." It was not a good answer, but he didn't know what else to say.
"I'm surprised. We're distributed throughout the metro area. The Dollar Daily?"
Finally, it made sense. Dollar. That was what the D stood for. Not Detroit. Joe knew all about the Dollar Daily. It was a crummy little rag that appeared with their mail every week. It was filled with silly articles about the new ice cream parlor opening up in town, the local old woman who finds a rutabaga in the shape of President Obama's head in her garden, updates about the high school marching band, and lots of advertising. Page after page of it.
"Ohhhh," said Joe, experiencing a surge of disappointment that actually surprised him. "I guess I am familiar with your, uh, newspaper. We get it at our house." And immediately pitch it in the recycling bin, he kindly neglected to say.
"Ah, good. Then you know what we're about."
"Yes, I guess I do." He wasn't sure if he sounded snotty or just bummed, but he didn't really care since he'd be getting off the phone momentarily. He had no intention of doing anything for this rag. This was no newspaper, alternative or otherwise. It was a shopping tabloid with local interest.
It was then that the voice over the phone changed, as if the guy knew where this all was headed. "Look, Joe. I know we don't exactly seem like your kind of paper, but we desperately need a good staff writer. I think you'd be great working for us."
Whoa, daddy. "Uh, thanks so much for thinking of me, Mr. Blankenship." (He was amazed that he could remember this guy's name.) "But I'm not really looking for anything like what you guys do."
"I figured you weren't, but before you turn me down, let me just tell you about it. You know what the job would entail if you've seen the paper. It's not exactly fancy, but the Dollar Daily is doing very, very well. I can offer you a full-time position with benefits."
Then Mr. Terrance Blankenship mentioned a salary. A salary like the kind that Joe had never before been offered. A real salary that would allow him to not be constantly poor, that would allow him to pick up a dinner bill once in a while (actually, more than once in a while), that would take the financial pressure off of Ana, that might let the two of them buy a house instead of renting until they were both too old to work and then cohabitating in that cardboard box under the 8 Mile overpass. Perhaps it would even take the financial pressure off of him enough so he could finally figure out what it was that he really wanted to write.
"Really?" said Joe, still reeling. "That much?"
"Plus three weeks of paid vacation. And a profit-sharing bonus after the first year. I need someone good, Joe. And I'm willing to pay for it."
"Uh, wow. I don't know."
"Look, I know you're probably pretty leery of our type of newspaper and I completely understand, but I'm very open to changes. I'd really like to give the paper more of an alternative press feel, which was why I joined the AAN. I want to make the paper more interesting, quirky, more of an arts flavor, and I know you're great at that sort of thing. So please keep that in mind. You could be the person at the helm, taking us in those new editorial directions. It could be an exciting opportunity for you."
"Really?" Joe wasn't sure if he completely believed this guy, but it was exactly
what he wanted to hear.
"Yes, really. Look, Joe. I want you to think it over, talk to your wife, whatever. I can give you twenty-four hours to decide, but that's it. I'll need an answer by this time tomorrow."
"You're offering me the job over the phone?" said Joe.
"Yes, I am offering you this job over the phone. I know all I need to know about you." The man's voice was steeled with conviction, and Joe was finding it all rather heady. He kept telling himself to say no, but couldn't seem to spit it out. A few beats of silence. "Shall I talk to you tomorrow then?" said Mr. Blankenship, his voice now lowered, as if he didn't want to disturb the delicate trip wire of his offer.
"Um. All right," said Joe, unable to believe that he was considering this.
"You can let me know earlier too, if you decide to accept it. And I really think you should, Joe." A timid laugh on the other end.
"All right. Uh, well, thanks for thinking of me."
"Thank you for getting in touch with us. I am so thrilled that you did. Believe me, I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't think you were exactly right for us. I'll talk to you soon."
Joe hung up and just sat there at his desk for a long time, phone still warm in his hand. He felt like he had just been in a minor automobile accident. Physically fine, but disoriented and hyperadrenalized. There was something oddly exciting about this happening so quickly. It was like Chick had made everything happen, simply by shaming Joe. So instead of a prompt but polite blow-off, which is what Mr. Blankenship would have probably gotten two days ago, Joe was now actually considering this job offer.
A real job offer. A good job offer. Or rather, a real good offer for a crappy job. His first instinct was to call Ana, but he then realized that would be a bad idea. If he did take this job, it needed to be his decision. He had to figure out what he wanted himself. Right now, he had no idea of how he felt about the whole thing. Okay, that was not entirely true. No matter how confused he might feel about something, if he really thought about it, there was usually some notion, a vague clue, a whisper of a voice inside his head gently murmuring what it was that he actually wanted.
That whisper was currently screaming at Joe: Take the fucking job, idiot! It just fell into your lap! Take it! What was so alarming was that no deliberation was required. He thought there would be much gnashing of teeth and wringing of hands. What about my principles? What about my artistic integrity? Fuck all that.
Chick was right. Joe needed to pull his weight, to not have to worry constantly about where his next assignment was coming from. He was tired of cobbling together enough income to pay his tiny, disproportionate slice of the rent. Even though he had always prided himself on his utter lack of concern about manly demeanor, at this moment, he wanted to feel like a man. He wanted to be a man for Ana, instead of the worst roommate in the world, who not only leaves the toilet seat up but gets caught masturbating too.
The strange thing was, if he had gotten a job offer like this ten years ago, or even five years ago, he would have turned it down flat, and then been kind of a dick to the guy to boot. But today, he was so happy about the whole thing that he wanted to cry. He didn't even care that he'd probably be doing the worst kind of crap writing possible.
Joe hadn't realized that he had been this eager to sell out. Turned out he hadn't even been waiting for the right price. He had simply been waiting for someone, anyone, to just make him an offer.
12
Getting into Cars with Strangers
Everyone acted like nothing at all had happened the night before. So maybe none of it did happen, Ana couldn't help but think. But if it didn't, why was she still experiencing this sense of uneasiness about the entire evening? She had done nothing wrong, but still.
At least there was the preproduction meeting to distract them all from the fact that nothing had happened the night before. Though this was a fairly standard prepro meeting, with the requisite endless discussion, dissemination, and reiteration of details regarding actors, wardrobe, locations, reads, looks, feels, tonality, and other minutiae that were essential in the production of a television commercial, it certainly kept everyone occupied.
Adrienne, who generally had something to say about everything, was uncharacteristically quiet. She spoke only to excuse herself when she had to abruptly leave the meeting. Everyone watched as the poor thing returned ashen-faced, with a hint of acrid stink clinging to her clothes. (It was difficult for a 6'1" woman to unobtrusively slink back into a room.) The second time she got up to leave, the director, a fairly good guy (as directors went) with a thin-on-top, straggly, graying mullet and a barbed-wire tattoo that looked like a bad EKG (his eighties filmic heyday thus divulged: music videos for metal bands—teased-out power ballads, spandex-clad Tawnys and Kymberlys straddling muscle cars and stripper poles, and mountains of cocaine), asked if she was okay. Adrienne nodded frantically and hurried out of the room.
Not a great look in front of the client, a woman who managed to be both mousey and opinionated, who needed constant reassurance that she was doing the right thing by allowing an advertising agency to produce a television commercial.
"She's got a twenty-four-hour bug," Ana said to the client. "Picked it up on the plane, we think."
The director went back to talking about a tracking shot that he was obviously looking forward to pulling off for the spot.
After the third time Adrienne got up, Bruce had to actively suppress a laugh, then he slyly glanced over at Ana and smiled. She smiled back, then made herself turn away. There was something alluring about that smile, like the desire to stare directly at the sun. It was a smile that assured you that you were worthy of basking in its brilliance. Until later, when you weren't so sure anymore.
Ana tried not to think about any of it. She did not feel wonderful this morning, but had certainly felt worse. Bruce, for all appearances, was fine, his usual hearty, together self. When lunch was served, Adrienne excused herself for a quick nap. Ana filled a plate with salad, fruit, and a few pieces of tarragon chicken breast and tried to find a place where she could sit by herself. She ended up outside, in front of the production company, on a bench by the window. As she ate, she looked out onto 10th Street, a very unexciting, unpretentious street for Santa Monica, in the middle of an industrial district, filled with movers and warehouses as well as sound studios and film production companies. The blandness of the environs reminded her of certain areas in Ferndale, where there was nothing but machine shops and mold-making companies and places that produced mystifying products like spline gauges. Of course, that was back when the auto industry was booming. These days, a lot of those places were empty.
On the way into Santa Monica that morning, they had passed men lined along the street—day laborers for hire. They had reminded Ana of the crowds of prostitutes she had passed in cabs very late at night in New York City, back in the midnineties, on her second or third TV shoot as a still-green junior art director. She remembered them trying to look desirable from the side of the street, while hiding their desperation. Ana felt bad for all of them, men and women who had to make a living along the side of a busy avenue, scared for those who had to climb into strangers' cars to perform tasks of manual or sexual labor. Ana felt lucky to have a good job, one that was going to get even better. She still hadn't even called Joe with the news. It was all she could do to just get herself out of bed and ready for this meeting.
Next to her, the front door squeaked open and she watched as Bruce stepped outside with his cell, caught up in a conversation. He walked out toward the street, his back to her. She wondered if she could slip back into the office without him noticing her, but he turned right around and looked at her with no acknowledgment. He sounded a little gruffer than usual.
"Just PDF the layouts to me, okay? I've got my laptop. I've got a team here who can look at them too, all right? Okay, bye." He pushed a button on his cell, shook his head, and rolled his eyes.
Ana forgot about trying to escape. "Things falling apart at the agen
cy?"
"No worse than usual. I may need you guys to look at idea boards for some new business."
"I didn't hear about any new business. Who are we pitching?"
"Parnoc Industries."
"Who's that?"
"They manufacture things for the government, a lot of it for the military."
"Really? Like what?"
"Things for defense, homing devices, stuff like that."
"Jesus Christ," said Ana, not at all disguising her displeasure. "You mean they make stuff for killing people?"
"I think they'd prefer to say that it's for protecting our country."
Ana couldn't help but look distressed. "What the hell, Bruce? Could we find a more evil account? What's next? Are we going to pitch NAMBLA?"
Bruce feigned excitement. "Is it up for grabs? I'd heard it was in review. I know man-boy love is huge with the millennials."
Ana exhaled, trying not to be amused. "Come on, you know it's creepy."
"Yes, I know, but the agency is very excited. This account would mean a lot of money and a lot of new jobs. Which we desperately need. Especially since the Big Three are fleeing Detroit like rats leaving the Titanic."
Ana frowned, having heard this story many times. "Yeah, but we don't even have a car account."
"We're all hurting. Look, I know what you mean. I feel pretty much the same way. Still, if I were you, I wouldn't express those opinions back at the agency. They won't go over well, especially after you've just been promoted. Know what I'm saying?"
Ana nodded wearily. She would keep her yap shut. She knew the score: Satan didn't like to be scolded.
"How's our friend doing?" he said, motioning inside, cell still in his hand.
"I think she's napping."
"She shouldn't drink so much."
"Well, you weren't exactly preaching temperance last night, Reverend."
"You seem fine."
"For one thing, I didn't have that nightcap you were promoting." She thought about being in Bruce's hotel room, Adrienne asleep and Bruce possibly coming on to her (or maybe it wasn't that at all), and it all felt a bit unseemly. It wasn't really, she knew. On shoots, sometimes you wound up spending time in hotel rooms with people you didn't know that well. There was work to be done on scripts, conference calls, or just random client-driven circumstances. Still, it felt odd having it happen with Bruce, someone with whom she hadn't even shared much in the way of personal conversation until yesterday.
The Narcissism of Small Differences Page 8