sex.lies.murder.fame.

by Lolita Files

  “I can understand your concerns,” Beryl said. “We’re living in an age of moral conservatism. This book isn’t about what it seems. On the surface, yes, it’s about a man who wakes up as a giant penis. That’s easy to dismiss as pornography if you haven’t read the book. But at its core, this story is an argument in favor of decency, an allegory for what’s tragically happening in the world today, what with all the focus on excess, self-absorption, the lack of personal accountability, and the pursuit of money at the expense of the human spirit. Penn Hamilton has written an extraordinary story that examines the horrors of sexual perversion and moral complacency. It’s a cautionary tale that will have all of America talking, which is difficult to do in an age when people don’t exactly run out to buy books anymore.”

  The execs glanced around at one another. Their attention was piqued.

  “So will any of this branding have to do with the book’s content?” asked the Starbucks exec. “Are you asking us to tie into the whole penis theme?”

  “No, no, definitely not. I think what’s happening here is that everyone is getting hung up on the penis imagery. That’s a minor metaphor for the greater concept. It in no way gets to the heart of the book and who Penn Hamilton is as an individual. Our initial focus will be on the writer himself, capitalizing on his visual appeal and market positioning as a focus for the consumer. Everything else will radiate from there.”

  Beryl was in her element at the front of the conference room at CarterHobbs. She had them transfixed.

  “All of us are aware that image is everything. Image is what sells. Everything else will naturally follow. The content is already there.”

  “So where do we fit in?” asked the Tower representative. “What can Tower do?”

  “I’m glad you asked that,” Beryl said. “You see, in addition to the book, Penn will also have a hip-hop single and music video costarring and produced by rap mogul On Fiyah that will be released a few months before the publication of the book, both of which will further cement his image and broaden his demographic beyond the literary realm. This means tremendous opportunities for Tower Records and Apple i Tunes,” she said, looking at the Apple rep, “both individually and combined.”

  It was an egregious lie, but one she knew wouldn’t be a lie for long. She already had the meeting with Fiyah set up. It was to take place the next afternoon. And he would sign on. She was sure of it. She knew she was walking a dangerous line, but the executives were now even more compelled. The smell of money was in the air, and everyone was suddenly doing silent computations of just how much could end up flying into their coffers. Penises be damned.

  The idea to make a record with Fiyah had come about quite accidentally, as she discovered yet another fascinating talent in her beau.

  It had happened at the Canal Room, at a party Beryl was invited to and had brought Penn, on the low, to attend as her date. They didn’t sit together, hang together, do much of anything together—just in case—but they’d made eye contact across the room and had somehow managed a casual dance.

  At one point during the night, the deejay let people come up and take a turn at the mic. Penn had been knocking back drink after drink, his spirits high on all the good fortune he’d been riding of late. He took a turn with the deejay and had freestyled over the music of Biggie’s “Hypnotize” for a full ten minutes. The crowd, which included Mariah, Mos, and members of the Roots, packed the tables, the floor, and the banquettes, shaking their shit as he rocked the beat.

  Pharrell was at the party that night and was digging Penn along with everyone else. Beryl’s head began spinning with ideas. The next day she was on the phone with Pharrell. She wanted to reconnect with On Fiyah again. She wanted him to do a song, any song, with Penn.

  “Can he rhyme?” Pharrell asked.

  “Yes. You saw him last night.”

  “Who?”

  “The really good-looking blonde guy who was rapping over that Notorious B.I.G. song.”

  “Yo, that kid? He was tight. All right, all right. I’ll set it up. But Yah’s gonna want to hear something. Why don’t y’all roll by tomorrow. Maybe we can lay something down right quick.”

  Penn was just as good in the studio, kicking clever street rhymes that flew off the top of his head with ease. He’d been freestyling for years. It was something he did for the amusement of his friends during his college years. Music was a strong suit. He’d been a piano prodigy, after all.

  Pharrell put him on the spot, just to see what he could come with. He kept changing the beats. Up-temp. Slow stuff. Twista-type rapid-fire beats that required serious lingual calisthenics. Much to Pharrell’s shock and amusement, no matter what he dropped, Penn could spit.

  “Where you been hiding, man?” asked Pharrell.

  “Just biding my time, man, biding my time.”

  “Why didn’t you ask me to do a joint with him?” Pharrell asked Beryl. “I could have produced something sweet. Everybody would have been bumpin’ his shit.”

  “Uh, um, uh…” Beryl stammered.

  “That’s all right,” Pharrell laughed. “The lady wants Fiyah. We’ll go get you Fiyah.”

  For Beryl, the landscape was growing wider and wider. She didn’t know much about hip-hop, being more of a pop and rock kind of girl. What she did know about rap, she’d experienced with Snoop and Pharrell. There were names she’d heard in the media like Jay-Z and P. Diddy (both of whom she’d seen at parties), and Biggie and Tupac, who she was pretty sure were dead. But On Fiyah seemed to be in virtually every single form of media there was. That’s why she wanted to get to him. There was another rapper she’d heard of. Eminem. He was immensely popular. Penn had the potential to be like that, but glossier. Teens would love him. The girls would go crazy.

  Pharrell recorded the impromptu session and sent it over to Fiyah.

  The meeting was set.

  She would make it all come together. But these execs in front of her now didn’t know that, and didn’t need to. It was just a matter of transactions now.

  “We see opportunities with iPods to download audio versions of the book or individual chapters,” Beryl said now, turning to the Apple exec. “We also plan to do audio interviews introducing Penn. These will take the place of galleys. They’ll go to the standard reviewers, as well as radio stations around the country, packaged along with an advance of the rap single. It’ll employ the newest scrambling technology, so the music can’t be bootlegged on the Net. Once the song is released, the only way to get it will be to pay for it. But iTunes has already proven consumers are willing to do that.”

  “This sounds like what Martha Stewart did,” said the Apple guy. “Co-opting all types of media. What makes this any different?”

  “Martha made a lot of money for the companies she worked with,” replied Beryl. “Cross-promotion is a bonanza within itself. But Martha took one thing—raising the standard of domestic living—and that’s what she parlayed into an empire. We’re talking about a man who will parlay multiarts across multimedia.”

  “How so?” the Calvin rep asked.

  “Through fashion, by being a model for your company, Calvin Klein. Through literature, via his book with us. Through music, with his song and video, therefore allowing a tie-in with both iPods and Tower Records, and as an accessible Superman who drinks coffee, strong coffee, from the king of all coffees, Starbucks. Starbucks and their Defibrillators are what keep him going. How about that as a message! Starbucks makes the fuel that keeps our engines churning throughout the day, but if you drink Defibrillators like Penn Hamilton, just imagine the things you could do!”

  The Starbucks people were smiling, imagining it all.

  “And that’s just the beginning. There will be film opportunities based on his literary material…television. He’ll already be a star by that point—in the book world, the music world, and in fashion. The difference is he won’t just be one of those celebrity dilettantes who piddle around in every genre of everything, spread paper-thin just
for the sake of personal gluttony and naked consumerism. Penn Hamilton is a true talent who brings extraordinary things to the table. His writing is genuinely impressive, the kind that garners critical acclaim and wins awards. He’s a musical prodigy, a six-time national chess champion, all before the age of twelve. He has an IQ of two hundred ten.”

  A gasp cut through the room. If all eyes weren’t on Penn before, they were certainly on him now. Beryl allowed the “two hundred ten” to hang in the air for a long moment, long enough for them to consider the vast implications.

  This was no ordinary King Kong. This was a monkey genius.

  “Imagine the press that will precede him. His backstory is amazing. It’s right there, in that packet in front of you. Everyone will be dying to do a story on this man, even if they don’t know what his book’s about. It’ll be a feeding frenzy. A feeding frenzy from which we can all directly benefit.”

  Beryl realized in that moment that she should have been a manager. The Kittell Press crew, who were also present, were damn lucky she worked for them.

  “Product placement will be woven throughout the text of his upcoming book. It’s a very simple editorial tweak that in no way affects the quality of content. Characters won’t just go into a record store, they’ll go into a Tower, and they’ll listen to their music on iPods while they’re drinking Starbucks”—she turned and made eye contact with the Calvin exec—“and wearing Calvin Klein. Once the book is released, potential buyers will be able to download sample chapters from kiosks at all of your stores. Kiosks where they can dock their iPods. We’ll do CDs, compilations of songs Penn Hamilton loves to listen to as he writes. Starbucks can sell them as point-of-purchase items. As the public connects with Penn Hamilton and the characters in his book, they’ll simultaneously be connecting with all of your products!”

  The entire room was one unified grin.

  “And we plan to have ads,” she said, “right inside the book. At intervals, so as not to be too obtrusive, but they’ll be there. Bright shiny ads for iPods, Calvin, Tower, and Starbucks. Unlike magazines, which people tend to toss after a certain amount of time, books are forever. They’re never thrown away. If anything, they get passed on, traded, checked out of libraries. Imagine the shelf life of a book in the library! Imagine the shelf life of an ad in a book in the library. That same ad touching people over and over and over again!”

  She was flashing her megawatt smile, her arms outstretched. She was completely running the room in her impeccably tasteful cream Dior suit.

  “Imagine if we had all of you on board with this. It’s a wide-open arena, people. All you have to do is be willing to play.”

  She let the electric silence hang over them as they pondered the potential riches they’d reap.

  “We’d need to see an advance copy of the book, of course,” said the Starbucks rep. “We can’t just take your word for it. Even if the rest of the country is going to be kept in the dark, those of us who decide to sign on are going to require full disclosure.”

  “Yes, yes,” said the other execs.

  “Our legal department will have to review it,” said the Tower guy.

  “Of course,” Beryl agreed. “We have packages prepared for each of you. I’m sure we all understand, of course, that they are extremely proprietary. The way we plan to launch this book is unique to us as a publishing house and unique in the world of business in general, so to have its content leaked would greatly jeopardize our strategy.”

  The execs nodded.

  Beryl clasped her hands together in happy, infectious excitement.

  “But again I must say, I’m confident that, once you read the material, you will be just as enthusiastic as we are about the tremendous possibilities that lie before us.”

  “From what I understand,” said the Tower guy, “you don’t even have a title for this book.”

  “Of course we do,” said Beryl. She ignored Penn’s quizzical look. “And it’s very much in keeping with our desire to keep things shrouded in mystery.”

  She was smiling, her eyes dancing with mischief.

  “Well, what is it?” asked the Starbucks exec.

  The room stared at her in anticipation. Even her boss was confused.

  Beryl basked in their gazes for an extra moment before she spoke.

  “The title of Penn Hamilton’s first book is …Book.”

  All four companies were in by the end of the week.

  And so it was that Beryl had been able to rah-rah Calvin Klein into putting Pennbook Hamilton in a major ad campaign where he wasn’t even wearing any underwear. Apple and Tower would be a part of that same ad, with both iPod and Tower logos on the cover of the book he would be holding. There would be separate iPod and Tower campaigns as well, all integrating the other companies. Starbucks would sell the CD single of Penn’s new song, and they would introduce a new coffee, the Defibrillator, the strongest they had to offer, in an ad featuring Penn and his book. Dump displays in bookstores would have logos for Apple, Tower, Starbucks, and Calvin Klein, and offer discounts for their products with the purchase of Penn’s book. Customers would be able to pay to download Penn’s new song into their iPods at music stations in Tower Records all across the country. The song would come with an audio bonus of Penn talking about his creative process. Previews promoting the book’s release would be run as a coming attraction at movie theaters.

  Twenty-five million dollars. That’s how much in combined dollars and co-opted services Beryl had been able to coax out of the four companies to help kick off the great Penn Hamilton cross-marketing campaign. It was a first in publishing. Kittell Press was throwing in a couple hundred thousand. There wasn’t a need for them to put up much more. The plan was for sales to be bigger than big, somewhere in the millions, that rarefied place saved for books like The Da Vinci Code and anything with the title Harry Potter. Everyone involved with Book was daring to dream. Between Beryl, Kittell Press, Apple, Tower Records, Starbucks, and Calvin Klein, everything would be done to ensure Penn became an American icon.

  On Fiyah was everything and nothing like Penn expected.

  They were at Worldwide WifeBeater. Penn expected the place to be crawling with hardheads and thugs and have a rough, ghetto edge that would be instantly palpable.

  Fiyah was a professional. He greeted them personally and escorted them back to his office, but he wasn’t as stiff as they’d expected he’d be. Pharrell had given him the heads-up. Fiyah’s conversation was very accessible, as though the three of them were already friends.

  “Thanks for taking the time to see us,” Beryl said.

  “Not a problem,” he said. “I remember we met before at that Trump thing, I think. I’ve read a lot about you in the press.”

  “Really?” Beryl asked nervously.

  “Good stuff, good stuff. Relax yourself. How’d you like that diamond sweatsuit?”

  “I loved it,” she said. “It’s my favorite.”

  Once they were settled in Fiyah’s office, Penn couldn’t help studying the man. He was charming, magnetic, quite sleek and sophisticated in an expertly tailored suit and enormous diamond studs in both ears. Lots of shiny bright things. Watches, cuff links, rings. Neatly trimmed hair. A kind of sublime elegance, despite all the blinding jewels. He was alternately soft-spoken and reserved, then full of raucous laughter, which could, just as quickly, turn into pensive intensity.

  “I’m usually more casual in the office,” he said, explaining the suit, “but I got a thing uptown I’m doing this afternoon.”

  “You look great,” Beryl said.

  On Fiyah nodded.

  “So my man Pharrell was talkin’ you up. Y’all got this book deal and all, and the Calvin thing, and what, what else?”

  “Starbucks,” Beryl said, “Calvin Klein, Apple, and Tower Records.”

  “For real? That’s hot. Yo, I checked out the tape and, yeah, you got something. You definitely got something. I mean, you could be a white boy doing hip-hop, but you won’t come a
cross as just another hip-hop white boy, know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Yeah,” Penn said. “I like hip-hop, but I’m into a whole bunch of—”

  “He can do anything,” Beryl said. “He plays the piano and—”

  “The piano? Yo, that’s crazy.” Fiyah nodded, the wheels in his power head visibly turning. “Here’s the thing: see, I don’t just put my name on stuff just to see my name on it, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  Beryl opened her mouth. Fiyah held up a finger.

  “Lemme finish. What I was gonna say, though, is I’m seeing this, you know, the possibilities. There’s like a million ways we can flip this thing. You got that look, that blonde, blue-eyed, pretty-boy-next-door kinda thing. Brad Pitt and shit. Everybody’s all-American. People like that.”

  “That’s the idea,” said Beryl.

  “Yeah, yeah. And what I really like about it is that it speaks to the heart of how I get down. I’m all about the cross-promotin’-multiplexin’-product-maximizin’ thing. This is straight-up how I like to do it.” He was intense now, almost talking to himself. “Yeah. White chicks, black chicks, Eskimos, Aborigines…everybody’s gonna flip over you. You got the perfect American look. Gay, straight, you won’t alienate nobody. It’s like every demographic in one fell swoop.”

  Beryl was thrilled at On Fiyah’s enthusiasm.

  “See,” he said, “marketing is all about identifying the facts, spinning off some new ones, and making the people believe. Look at you, kid. Everything about you is user-friendly. And this book you got coming out…what’s the name of it?”

  “Book,” Beryl said.

  “Yeah, the book. What’s the name of the book?”

  “That is the name,” Penn said.

  “What’s the name?” asked On Fiyah.

  “Book is the name of his book,” Beryl said.

  Fiyah sat back, silent, checking out both of them. He rubbed his chin.