Landon hunched over his computer in the dark room. A classic reading lamp on the corner of his desk cast a disk of light over his handsome profile.
“Take a seat, Dane.”
The situation seemed dire. Dane withdrew within himself, deep beneath his tingling exterior. On the surface, he felt a feverish chill on his skin, and experienced the scene as if from afar. Peristalsis rumbled through his intestinal tract. All of his reading about fecal incontinence appeared like a teletype across his consciousness. He tightened his sphincter for control.
“Dane, I want to apologize. When I called you in here last month, it was because Maureen Fitzrooney filed a serious complaint against you. From what I had come to know about you, it was hard to believe her allegations. However, as a matter of HR policy, we needed to take her complaint seriously, especially since you were in the probationary period. As it turns out, you were right to protest your innocence. Maureen is no longer with the agency. She had a plethora of her own issues and a penchant for complaining about others. So please, accept my apology and let’s put that behind us.”
“I will, Landon. I just want to be worthy of your confidence.”
“You are, Dane. That’s why I’ve called you in. I had to be sure about you, that you could handle pressure. You have been tested as thoroughly as a condom. You have held up splendidly.”
“Tested? I mean, thank you, Landon.”
The Savior regarded Dane with pride and trust. His manner was at once paternal and fraternal, with a soupçon of grandeur and gravitas befitting a feudal lord confiding in his vassal.
“Dane, you’ve passed five of the six trials of pharma. First, you showed the inflated ego of a true writer by defending trivial heartworm copy from an editor while having the good manners not to insult her tawdry attire. Second, you passed the bad partner test. When Bushkin, an advertising dinosaur, denigrated your talents, you did not retaliate with profanity or violence. In your third trial, you kept your cool when you were passed over for a pitch and never protested when your concept won the business without your receiving credit for it. For your fourth trial, you handled the human resources accusation of inappropriate conduct toward a female colleague without calling the accuser a bitch. And most recently, you sat for three days in a urinary incontinence workshop without wetting yourself.”
Landon paused, perhaps expecting Dane to laugh at his uncharacteristic attempt at crude humor. But Dane could not believe Landon was capable of crassness and thought he was hearing things. “Of course, je plaisante!” Landon continued. “In fact, you contributed with your typical brilliance. You’ve worked your way up the anatomical ladder—from pet parasites to human intestines and now to the urinary tract. You’ve written movingly on fecal incontinence. Your concept with the truck losing its load of Christmas gifts on the road still makes me nod with wry approval. For this you merit extra credit. I have only one more task for you to carry out. If it goes as well as I expect it will, you’ll receive the assignment you were born to have.”
“Yes, thank you,” was all Dane could say. Had he really done all of that in four months? He was awestruck by his own industry.
“Now you know more than you ever wanted to about urologists and stress incontinence. So I need you to create a powerful message and campaign for the product, a collagen injectable that prevents involuntary leakage.”
“That’s…wonderful, Landon. Thank you. I won’t disappoint you.”
“De rien! I know you won’t,” Landon replied cheerfully.
Landon’s use of French idioms always reassured Dane and buoyed his spirits. No doubt it recalled his undergraduate days, when he studied French philosophy and was the Big Existentialist on Campus. Sacré bleu! Those were the good times, when nothingness was a cool idea and not the story of his life.
For a week, Dane pondered the assignment, struggling for the words, images—and voice—of stress incontinence—an embarrassing problem afflicting millions of women, as well as men after prostate surgery. It might not lend itself to humor but it was not lifethreatening, so he could be creative with it.
On the evening of the Silver Pill Awards annual wine, cheese and crudités party, Dane was more anxious than usual. It was a sign of inspiration inflating in his brain. Of course, when he experienced this torment it seemed that nothing good could come of it. He felt heavy, uneasy and dull, like a frustrated failure. His colleagues were heading out to the Silver Pills party. They cajoled Dane to stop working so they could hit the shindig in a “creative show of force.” Despite their pressure, Dane could not stop writing headlines and doodling on his pad. The more his workmates coaxed him, the more rooted he was to his chair. He was so agitated that he perspired from the conflicting pressure to stay and to leave.
When his colleagues finally gave up on him and left, Dane experienced great calm and relief, such as he had rarely felt. Out of the relaxed sphincter of his imagination, headlines emerged, then visuals. He had that rare creative event—a total eclipse of the mind. Words and images came together in a complete concept and this one concept then suggested two more for a perfect campaign.
Dane wrote the visual ideas and headlines in large, crude letters—a child’s emphatic penmanship—before bolting for the Silver Pills party. Spent and serene, he had a dull headache—a creative concussion—but enjoyed the industry schmooze because he had cause to celebrate, although he kept it to himself. He knew his incontinence work was good; no, better than good. Incontinence would never be seen quite the same way again.
When he presented these concepts to the client later that week, in Green’s main conference room, everyone was pleased. Afterwards, Landon left the room with Dane and whispered, “That’s your work. You should be proud. Great job! Come to my office. I need to speak with you.”
13. DANE RECEIVES HIS REWARD
Even in the ecstasy of triumph, Dane was grim and businesslike as he walked into his mentor’s office. A tower of folders stood on the corner of The Savior’s desk.
“You’ve done everything I’ve asked of you,” LeSeuer said. “I couldn’t be prouder. You have proven yourself worthy of the assignment I had in mind when I hired you.”
Landon prepared to lift the stack of folders from his desk but flinched.
“I’ve been having trouble with my back,” he admitted. “Please take the folders.”
Dane lifted the tower of folders and held it before him. Landon placed his hands under the stack so that the two men simultaneously bore the folders for ten seconds. Then LeSeuer released his grip, leaving Dane to carry the stack of bulging folders alone.
“This is the most significant business pitch I ever won, Dane, and I’ve won more than my share. This drug is expected to gross $8 billion per year. I’m handing it over to you.”
The stack Dane held rigidly before him measured forty inches high and weighed sixty lbs. It contained every study, government submission of data, internal document, FDA letter, and clinical trial protocol related to Refluxydyl, the next blockbuster GERD (Gastroesophogeal reflux disease) medication to be launched. Dane’s arms trembled under the unstable weight. Yet he summoned all his strength to remain strong and still. He understood the importance of this moment. It was tantamount to the dubbing of a knight or the changing of a guard. He even imagined it was like Jacob receiving Isaac’s birthright. Dane felt he must be worthy of this investiture and the solemn trust it signified. He held the tower of documents steady to demonstrate to Landon his strength and purpose. If he laid it on the desk or let his arms so much as flinch he would show his mentor that he lacked the will and toughness for this job.
“Dane, you are now the writer of record,” Landon said. “You will be an expert on everything pertaining to this product and this account. I know you are ready.”
Dane’s arms were twitching now and the stack hung low in his weary arms. When The Savior concluded his remarks, he nodded, smiled warmly and said, “Go forth and read every word in that stack…Just kidding.”
When th
e brief ceremony was over, Dane carried off the voluminous stack of documents, which swung low before him like an elephant trunk. He walked as fast as he could to his office, believing that if he took his time he would have a hernia and drop it all in front of everyone, resulting in a moment to rival the office kimchee fiasco, now recorded in agency annals.
Case 2-C
GERDMASTER
14. THE LORD OF REFLUXYDYL
As Dane subdivided the document tower into several low-rise units and scattered them on diverse office surfaces, Dane assumed writing responsibility for the multimillion dollar launch of Refluxydyl, the sexy next generation proton pump inhibitor (PPI) and a presumptive multi-billion dollar blockbuster drug.
It was the most important new launch at Green and arguably in the entire pharmaceutical industry. Dane had triumphed over heartworm, and fecal and urinary incontinence, but now he had to battle GERD, a.k.a. acid reflux disease, a much larger and more lucrative therapeutic area, populated by many drugs of divergent strengths and modes of action.
This was the marketing story.
Esophogard, a hugely popular and profitable drug, would soon go off-patent and its manufacturer faced the loss of $8 billion in revenue. The drug company hoped to replace its juggernaut with a new drug, which was the same molecule trimmed in half—an enantiomer.
The unproven theory behind the enantiomer was that it worked better than the original molecule and had fewer side effects. It was steak without gristle. But was a leaner molecule a meaner one?
Refluxydyl presented two significant marketing problems. First, it was no more effective than the soon-to-be-generic product it would replace. Secondly, it would cost three times more than the generic. Equal strength at three times the cost was a hard sell.
However, Dane saw Refluxydyl only as an enormous opportunity. The launch of Refluxydyl was his chance to create something important. Though he had achieved some success by becoming the writer of record on a blockbuster account, Dane aspired to advertising greatness. He posed himself the challenge of creating the winning concept, something uniquely his. To accomplish this, he must only write a powerful, enduring headline and a compelling visual based on a real product benefit.
In advertising terms, it was a daunting challenge. Since Refluxydyl worked no better than the drug it would replace, Dane needed to provide another compelling reason for doctors and patients to switch. People often believed that new was better than old, and that evolution produced improvement. However, the new drug was no breakthrough, only the next phase in a progression. Meanwhile, the client wished to avoid depicting Esophogard, the older drug, as passé since it remained the most popular drug in its class, and would gross billions before going off-patent. The new drug must not cannibalize the old one, but be identified with it. To this end, Refluxydyl had the same branding colors as Esophagard and the pills and packages were to bear an unmistakeable family resemblance.
In Dane’s view, this was no revolution but an orderly succession. People felt comfortable with gradual change; now how could it be expressed?
One evening in the subway, Dane stood by a pole when a sentence occurred to him that was so simple and pure, it was appalling it had not come sooner. Dane fumbled in his pocket for a pen, only to realize he had no paper handy. This was no time to scrounge for a scrap in his briefcase; any distraction would break the delicate strand of words. He let go of the pole and started writing on his hand but the pen was dry. He put the pen tip in his mouth to moisten it, moved it violently across his palm until the ink flowed, and staggered around the subway car, scrawling precious words on the parchment of his skin. When the train lurched to a stop, Dane stumbled on a seated passenger’s foot and fell, driving the ballpoint deep into his hand. Dane shouted out in pain, removed the pen and resumed writing.
“Are you okay?” one kindly passenger inquired.
“Fine,” Dane said automatically, unwilling to impede the flow of the line with an extraneous word. As blood seeped from his selfinflicted stigmata, Dane crouched on the subway floor and scribbled the last three words of his verbal formula. He completed the breakthrough line and licked away the blood to protect it.
“Where Esophaguard left off, Refluxidyl takes off.”
Dane visualized a sprinter handing off a purple baton with the Refluxidyl logo on it to a stronger, sleeker runner.
The time, effort and internal turmoil he needed to arrive at this simple solution astonished him. It was more like excavation than creation. Tons of debris had to be hauled from his mind to find this concept. But now that he had it, it seemed to have always been there.
In this sense, advertising was an art. Before a work came into being it was impossible to imagine it; yet once it existed, one could not imagine the world without it. Now Dane was free to enjoy his weekend. He and Becky took Iris to a classmate’s birthday party at a skating rink. When the birthday girl threw up, Dane saw this as a sign that he must pay for his divine insight with an act of kindness. He helped the astonished parents clean the mess.
At the next creative review the walls of a conference room were festooned with pictures and headlines on paper scraps. Within the agency, Dane’s concept was identified as a winner. Landon predicted that they would see Where Esophagard left off, Refluxydyl takes off for years to come.
No sooner had the buzz from Dane’s concept subsided than three members of the client’s product team broke protocol and barged into the creative review, two weeks ahead of the agency presentation. They liked Dane’s concept and headline but the client’s branding director focused on a picture Bushkin had discovered. It was a flame cupped between two hands. It had no headline because Bushkin no longer had a writing partner. The clients needed none. They fixated on this stock image as if it were a sacred icon and identified in its luminous mystery the brand essence of Refluxydyl.
The Green creative team scrambled to perfect this image even while developing other concepts. Bushkin emerged from creative irrelevance to assert his Golden Age genius, while Dane saw his major opportunity to make a name for himself aborted.
15. THE LADY OF REFLUXYDYL
Green Healthcare Advertising was the fifth largest pharmaceutical advertising agency in the world, but the acid reflux launch forced it to grow. The studio and creatives needed to work 24/7 to satisfy the client’s indefatigable quest for the concept that would make Refluxydyl a blockbuster.
Stan Bushkin, the art supervisor, was so happy to have a job that he took orders from his boss, Gaines Burger, and did not dare to be proactive. However, launching an $8 billion brand demanded leadership, initiative and organizational prowess.
A new art supervisor was brought on to “help” Bushkin.
Gwen Maxon was a tall, large-boned woman with a musical voice, a sharp eye, deep reservoirs of energy and will and a vast network of designers, retouchers, production people, and art directors whose talents she could tap at a moment’s notice. When Gwen introduced herself to Dane on her first day, she seemed tentative and quiet. She spent the greater part of her first day in the lady’s room throwing up. Everybody saw this as a propitious sign; Gwen was clearly off to a good start. When her stomach settled, Gwen lived up to her overture and became the powerhouse of the Refluxidyl launch.
A fifteen-year veteran, Gwen knew all phases of advertising and worked with ferocious purpose. She could often be found stooped over her computer, working out the details of a layout so intently that if spoken to, she answered in the monotone of an oracle. Work, however, was merely one outlet for Gwen’s persona. She had childlike powers of observation and loved to laugh and carry on. Her light spirit was unstable, though. When crossed or harassed, Gwen’s large brown eyes widened and rolled and her voice contracted into a tremulous whisper more intimidating than a shout.
One morning, the acid reflux team sat in their team conference room waiting for a status meeting to begin and for Stan Bushkin to show up. After fifteen minutes the goateed and rotund Gaines Burger arrived.
The creat
ive director of art informed the team solemnly that he had news to tell them before they heard it elsewhere. Bushkin had been fired.
Burger filled the stunned silence that ensued by eulogizing Bushkin as a great guy and a talented man, who simply did not have the right personality or skill set for the hands-on, day-to-day leadership needed at that moment on this team.
At Green, employees were terminated humanely. They were not barred from their offices, ushered out by security guards and told their possessions would be shipped to them later. Bushkin lumbered around the offices until noon like a man experienced in all things, including job loss. He shook hands and said his good-byes. He told Dane he had a bright future. Dane found it ironic that Bushkin was fired soon after discovering the client’s favorite concept.
16. MAIDEN PRESENTATION
The first major presentation for the client took place a week before Christmas at the company headquarters west of Philadelphia. Dane and Gwen had arranged 19 concepts on 16 x 24 corkboard panels in order of presentation and fine-tuned their remarks. People patted his shoulder and told him not to be nervous. There was no need; Dane was confident. He knew he could fall back on his dormant teaching skills.
Dane and Gwen took a train to Philadelphia with Landon LeSeuer and his partner, Gaines Burger, for the three o’clock meeting. They were supposed to leave at 11 AM but Gaines insisted that noon was early enough. When they arrived in Philadelphia at 2 PM, Landon insisted on using the men’s room. “I learned long ago not to make myself uncomfortable for clients,” he remarked with casual sagacity.
By 2:10 PM their limo was en route to the company headquarters twenty miles west. The highways were choked with holiday shoppers so they took back roads that meandered at 30 mph. When Dane watched the car clock approach 3 o’clock, his mood plunged from nervous to despondent. By making the client wait, his supervisors were dooming his chance to shine. Dane recalled the interview when he blew his chances by arriving at 9:05. Was he cursed?
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