She smiles. “Scandinavian Airlines prints poems on the sides of the engines for the passengers in the window seats to read. I just think that’s wonderful.”
“Mmmmm,” I say. “Wonderful.”
She glares at me. “Well, it is wonderful. It’s thoughtful. It shows they’re thinking about people, about their passengers.”
“They only do it for the press it generates,” I say.
Greer lays the magazine across her legs. “You can be really cynical sometimes,” she tells me. “For all your talk about recovery, you’re a very angry, bitter person.”
“Happy Hour’s over. What do you expect?” I snap.
“There are other ways to be happy,” she says, “besides drinking.”
“Like?” I ask the expert of happiness.
“Like just sitting out here, taking some time for ourselves, enjoying the sun.” She smiles a fake smile that she thinks looks real.
“While some poor bus driver bleeds to death on the side of the road because you didn’t call the police.”
“That’s not fair!” she cries.
“No, it’s not.”
Greer picks up her magazine and begins thumbing through it again, snapping the pages.
I close my eyes and imagine how easy it would be to walk into the hotel bar and have a cosmopolitan. Nobody would even know.
A moment later, she says, “Oh, wow. A new pill that prevents male pattern baldness. One hundred percent effective, it says.”
I bolt upright. “Where? What?”
She smirks and pretends to read. “Made from the blood plasma of slain bus drivers.”
Horribly, I laugh.
So does Greer. “God, I really am an evil monster.”
“No you’re not,” I tell her.
“How do you know?” she asks.
“Because if you were truly evil, the Nazi would like you more.”
She considers this. “True.”
“As long as the Nazi hates us,” I say, “we can’t be all bad.”
“We mean well,” she says.
“Mostly,” I add.
“It’s advertising,” she says. “Advertising does it to us.”
“I hate advertising,” I say.
“I know. We should be bus drivers.”
Later that afternoon, we are called to the set to approve the final wardrobe. Because we hate the commercial we are about to shoot, both Greer and I see this as an enormous task, something better left to God, or if God is preoccupied, then a coin toss among the stylists.
“I really couldn’t care less,” Greer says to me in the minivan.
“Dress them all in black. Put everybody in green armbands to tie into the bottle,” I say.
At this point, we’re not shooting our second or even third campaign choice. We’re shooting something that Elenor and Rick basically forced on us. Something that features dancers and the flag of Germany, along with a couple of puppies.
“It’s all just one big so what,” Greer says bitterly.
Once we’re on the set, I locate the M&M and potato chip table. It’s next to the director’s chairs where the agency is supposed to sit. Greer and I toss our stuff on one of the chairs and each grab of handful of corn chips.
“Ho hum,” Greer says. “Isn’t advertising exciting and glamorous?”
“It’s better than manual labor,” I point out. “The least amount of work for the maximum amount of money.”
“I guess,” she says, crunching a chip. “If you don’t mind handing over your dignity.”
“I don’t have any dignity,” I tell her. “I never have. That’s why I’m in it.” I eat some M&Ms. “Besides, I was drunk for so many years, I didn’t really even realize I was in advertising.”
“I was painfully aware of it,” she says, glaring at me.
After we nod our heads at the costumes, speak to the director for five minutes and choose a glass for the product shot, it’s time to go back to the hotel. Only two hours of actual work, yet it’s drained us completely.
“I’m just going to sink into the whirlpool,” Greer says, her head against the window of the minivan.
“I’m gonna order a salad and watch TV and then crash,” I say, hardly able to keep my eyes open.
Although it’s only six P.M., we seem to have contracted some sort of brain-numbing disease. The threat of tomorrow has made us drowsy.
“Normal people in America don’t realize how stressful commercial productions are. They just think advertising must be really fun. They don’t realize it’s hell,” Greer says, absently twisting her diamond tennis bracelet.
Belinda is unconscious on the daybed in her trailer. Belinda is the model we hired to wear the silver swimsuit and dance on top of a giant beer cap. Unfortunately, Belinda suffers from an eating disorder and after bingeing on forty or fifty Mint Milanos, she collapsed near the toilet in the dressing room.
“Just our luck,” Greer says, plucking lint off her sleeve. “The first day of the shoot and already there’s a problem with the talent.”
We’re guarding the snack table. Elenor and Rick are sitting with the Nazi, distracting him with a spreadsheet program on Elenor’s computer.
“This is great. Just what we need. More down time,” I say, stuffing a handful of party mix into my mouth.
Greer paces like an anxious ferret. “Never work with children, puppies or bulimics,” she says.
The director walks over. “This sucks.” He folds his muscular, tattooed arms across his chest. “She threw up all over her hair, so we have to re-do her.”
“Oh, that’s just grand,” Greer says. “Thank you Anna Wintour for ruining the female body image.”
I say, “Did she wake up yet?”
“Yeah, she’s awake now. But she says she’s really dizzy. She’s afraid to get back on the bottle cap. Afraid she’ll fall off.”
Greer narrows her eyes. “Bribe her with a slice of cheesecake and some Ex-Lax.”
Watching the playback monitor, it’s immediately clear that this will be one of the worst commercials Greer and I have ever shot. The Nazi is not ranting or grinding his teeth, so we know he is happy. And this means the commercial is an abortion of the worst kind.
Greer sits with her legs crossed, foot tapping at the air.
Elenor is hunched over her computer.
Rick wonders out loud whether or not one particularly handsome assistant producer “is a fruit.” Truly, he can’t take his eyes off him.
And I am trying to see if I can remember how a martini tastes. It’s like trying to picture a dead relative in my mind, trying to see their face, their smile.
All the while, Belinda writhes on the bottle cap, looking gaunt and vaguely unsteady.
“Don’t worry, we can add some color to her skin in postproduction,” somebody comments.
On the plane home, I decide to do my expense report. Greer is writing an angry letter to the company that makes her alphahydroxy face cream because she says it burned her skin. I ask her for a pen.
“How do you spell ‘catastrophic’?” she asks.
I spell it for her and unfold my bill from the hotel. I lower the tray table and spread the bill out, along with an expense report form from work.
“Is ‘crucify’ with an ‘s’ or a ‘c’?”
“Jesus, Greer. What kind of letter are you writing?”
She snorts at me. “You have to word these things strongly if you want to get anywhere.”
“What do you want from them?” I ask.
“A year’s supply.”
“It’s crucify with a ‘c.’ Now leave me alone.” I start adding my hotel room, tax and meals for each day. Then I see the minibar charge. The total is sixteen hundred dollars. “How is this possible?”
“What?” Greer says, turning to me.
“What the fuck?”
“Augusten, what is it? What’s the matter with you?”
“My minibar charges. Look.” I hand her the bill.
“The
se aren’t your charges?” she says, looking over the bill.
“Of course not. No. I only took bottled fucking water.”
She stops chewing her gum. “You did read the little notice on the minibar, didn’t you?”
“What little notice?” I say.
Greer, ever the A student, recites the notice from memory: “For your convenience, you will be automatically billed for each item removed from your minibar.”
“But all I drank was the water!”
“Okay. But did you take things out and then put them back?”
“They bill you for that?” I say, horrified.
“Of course. All the good European hotels do it now.”
We weren’t in fucking Europe. I say nothing.
“What did you do? Take all the liquor bottles out every day and then put them back?” She laughs like this is not something within the realm of actual possibility.
Unfortunately, it is. Because that’s exactly what I did. I fondled all the bottles, constantly. Sixteen hundred dollars’ worth of fondling. That’s like hiring a prostitute every night for a week. And not even having a drink to break the ice.
Back in my apartment, I phone the hotel and explain the unfortunate situation.
“I’m sorry,” they tell me.
“And . . . ?” I say.
“And that’s why we put the notice on the minibar door,” the customer service representative tells me with great smugness. Smugness that seems to say, Richard Gere wouldn’t bitch about this.
That’s it. I lose. Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic. For the rest of my life, there will be a bar tab.
“He’s German, he’s supposed to be punctual,” Greer says, annoyed, checking her Cartier Panther watch. “I could have used this extra time to sleep!”
I’m sitting in conference room 34A with Greer, Barnes, Tod and a few other people who make up the “Beer Team” at the agency back in New York. We need to show the Nazi the commercial we shot and get his approval so the spot can be shipped to the networks and, regrettably, aired.
The Nazi is half an hour late.
Half of the pastries that the catering department brought into the room for the meeting have been eaten, croissants with their corners spitefully pinched off, the jam centers of donuts scooped out by fingers.
Barnes, the account guy, looks at his watch, spits a breath out of his mouth. “Guys, if he’s not here in fifteen minutes, why don’t you go back to your offices and I’ll call you when he gets here. This is so rude.”
Greer leans over, whispers in my ear. “How much do you loathe advertising?”
“I despise it,” I whisper back.
The conference room phone rings and Barnes answers it. He places the receiver to his ear. “Conference room 34A,” he says. He widens his eyes, looks at us and nods.
“Get your armbands on, the client’s here,” I say under my breath.
Barnes hangs up. “I’m just going to go stand by the elevators for him,” he says as he leaves the room.
“I am not in the mood for him today,” I say to whoever’s listening.
A few moments later, Barnes returns with the black-eyed, frowning client. The client’s nasty black leather briefcase is attached to his fist. Everybody rises from their seats, a courtesy. I am tempted to hail him with an outstretched arm.
The Nazi walks directly to the table with the bagels, cream cheese, pastries, coffee and lox.
“Wouldn’t it be hilarious if he took some lox?” Greer whispers.
“Shut up,” I say back with an evil grin.
Nazi pours a cup of coffee, flips a couple of the pastries over with his fingers and makes a disgusted face as he walks to the conference room table and sits. Fwap! Fwap! The fasteners of his mysterious black briefcase spring open. He retracts a pad of graph paper, then reaches into his jacket pocket for a mechanical pencil. He checks his watch. “Ve need to make zis brief, as I have anozer engagement across town viss ze pee-ahh people.”
P.R. As in public relations. This man has a way of making every sentence sound like a steel cable being stretched to the point of breakage.
Greer kicks me under the table, turns her head and gives me the eye.
Barnes starts the meeting. “Well, we’re -here today to show you the cut. Let me just say that we’re all very excited about this commercial. We think it came out great. And the goal is for you to sign off on it today, so we can get it to the networks in time to make our air date.” He claps his hands together as punctuation.
The Nazi is taking notes, of what I can’t imagine. His scowling face is bolted to the pad of graph paper, fingers gripping his mechanical pencil so tight his knuckles are white. “Ya, go on, I’m lizzening,” he says, not looking up.
“So . . . then . . . I’ll turn the meeting over to Greer and Augusten, our creatives. Guys?” And he makes this presentation motion with his hand, like he’s a game show hostess displaying a twenty-seven-inch flat-screen television.
The Nazi doesn’t look up, but continues to write.
Greer rolls her eyes.
Barnes looks at her and motions for her to go ahead by giving her the international hand symbol for “hurry up”—rolling his hands around each other in midair—while mouthing the words, Let’s go.
Greer simply places one hand on the table before her, then places the other neatly on top. When Greer wants to, she can be hypnotically sexy and captivating. And she wants to. “Hans?”
The Nazi looks up immediately.
Greer smiles her Meg Ryan smile. “Hi, I hope I’m not bugging you. You look so busy there taking notes.” She gives a subtle, practiced laugh. Though he’d have no way of knowing it’s practiced.
I could be imagining it, but I believe he blushes. Or perhaps it’s merely capillaries bursting in his forehead, as a result of his anger at being interrupted. The equivalent of a smile crosses his lips and he dramatically slams his mechanical pencil down onto the pad of graph paper, folds his arms on the table and says, “Guten morgen, Greer. I’m sorry if I vas rude. Please, go ahead.”
“Great. I just wanted to move things along because I know you have somewhere important to be.” She’s still doing Meg Ryan. She does a great Meg Ryan. I know Greer, and I know that inside, she is thinking, I would like to chop you up into small, manageable pieces and grill you on a hibachi, then feed you to my shar-pei. But all that comes out is Welcome to moviefone!
Greer and I rise together. We are performing the Ballet of Two Who Pretend to Actually Give a Shit; a private performance for our client. Greer steps aside and motions for me to go to the video player. She does this because Greer couldn’t so much as find the power switch if her life depended on it.
I slide the tape into the machine. It makes a whirrrrr sound, then a ker-chunk, then a buzz. After you hear the buzz, you can push PLAY. But I wait.
The tape in place, I now face my client to give my little previewing speech. “Now, Hans, as you know, this is a rough cut. The picture hasn’t been color-corrected yet, the titles aren’t perfect, so what you’re seeing is a very rough cut.”
Greer, ever the flawless professional, is already standing across the room beside the lighting control panel. “Ready?” she chirps.
“Greer,” I reply.
And with her seventy-five-dollar manicure, she depresses the LIGHTING ALL button. Smoothly, the lights above us fade from bright to medium through dim, past faint all the way to darkness.
I push PLAY. The machine makes a deep, throat-clearing sound. The monitor displays some video crackling, then immediately the familiar countdown: 5–4–3–2–1. A beat of blackness. Then our horrible, cheesy commercial.
Shots of beer bottles being pulled from icy coolers.
Male models, female models hugging each other.
Puppies scrambling in the grass.
A kite soaring up into the sky.
A man leaping into a water fountain, despite his dress shoes and suit pants.
A woman on a bicycle, arms and
legs outstretched.
A bride in her wedding gown juggling lemons.
Over all of this, a song: uplifting and motivational. Product name mentioned within the first six seconds and repeated eight times. A catchy tune, designed to be permanently tattooed on the brain. A tumor that causes one to purchase. At the end, the singers sing the slogan: Germany in harmony. . . with America. Then the beer bottle appears with the slogan printed beneath it on the screen.
After the commercial plays through once, I push REWIND and say, “I’ll play it again for you.” I must have said this a thousand times in my career.
As the tape is rewinding, the room in darkness, Greer says, “Maybe I should check to see if he’s pushed the right button, sometimes he scares me.” She must have said this a thousand times.
After it rewinds, I push PLAY.
Just at the scene where the redheaded model opens her hands, setting the firefly free, the door to the conference room opens, a wedge of light spills into the room. My secretary closes the door again, heads toward me. I move to her. She cups her hand around my ear and whispers.
I walk over to Greer. “Come here,” I direct, as I pull her arm. I open the door and lead her outside.
“What?” she asks, whirling around toward me.
“It’s Pighead,” I say.
“Oh my God, what?”
“He’s in the hospital. He was taken there by ambulance.” Something’s rising in me. Dread, panic, confusion, I don’t know. Something’s either rising or falling, I can’t be sure.
“You should go now,” she says.
“But I can’t, the meet—”
“I’m not kidding, Augusten. Just leave. I’ll take care of things.”
I chomp on my thumbnail. “Shit, Greer. I’ve been so fucking consumed with this nut from my group therapy that I’ve totally ignored him. That and this stupid job. I didn’t even call him once during the shoot. And now he’s in the hospital.” I want a drink. Rubbing alcohol, even. That is my default, wanting a drink. And no amount of rehab, no AA meeting will ever be able to switch that default to, say, orange juice. I want a fucking drink. I don’t want to go to the hospital to see Pighead. I want to go to a bar.
“Go,” she says.
Dry Page 22