The Trouble with Bliss

by Douglas Light

At four-thirty Sunday afternoon, Morris takes the F train up to Thirty-Fourth Street for the focus group Andrea Angel set up, a focus group for a new salsa.

  Sundays are the worst at Herald Square, the masses pushing from Macy’s to the Gap to the discounted perfume and ties shops to the wholesale gadget stores with their overstock of the Statue of Liberty lighters and World Trade Center bottle openers. Buy, buy, and buy more. Everything’s cheap, fleeting. The stench of stewing hotdogs and caramelized peanuts hovers over the sidewalk like mustard gas; no one escapes a lungful.

  Morris finds the address.

  Inside the building’s lobby, signs posted everywhere announce that everyone must show I.D. before entering. Morris pauses at the front desk, pulls out his stitched wallet to shows his license to the security guard. The guard waves him on without even looking up; he’s more intent on solving the last entry of his “The Bible and You” crossword puzzle.

  The elevator snaps Morris to the twenty-first floor, rising swiftly then slowing. He’s still wearing his suit from this morning, minus the tie. The doors open on the offices of New Day Focus Group.

  “What’s your name?” the receptionist asks Morris as he signs in. She has the odor of Aqua Net hairspray and has a slight harelip. She lisps.

  “Morris,” he answers. “Morris Bliss. I’m here for the salsa session.”

  “Sombrero Salsa,” she says. “You’re the first to arrive. Small group. Sundays usually are,” she tells him. “Just you and”—she glances at a printout—“three others, women. This way, please,” she says, and leads him down a hall to a room with corporate brown carpets. One wall is all mirrors, like in a police interrogation room.

  Morris studies his reflection, corrects his posture and decides he needs a haircut.

  “There’re some snacks,” the receptionist says, pointing to a small spread of warm cans of Guavatini, a milky fruit drink, and a basket of well-picked-over Doritos. “Help yourself—pack it in, if you like—and then have a seat. The others should be here soon.”

  Morris motions to the mirrored wall, asks, “Is that one of those mirrors with someone watching on the other side?”

  The receptionist turns to the mirrored wall, like she’s noticing it for the first time. She gasps. “Woooooo,” she says, then, laughing, strides out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  Aside from the lingering smell of hairspray, Morris is alone.

  The room, sparse, looks like a conference space for a law office that specializes in divorces. Set about a large, round table are six chairs crafted more for design than comfort.

  To the side of the table stands an easel. A dark blue cloth covers it, concealing presentation boards. Morris meanders around the room twice, then, curiosity taking him, he walks over and slowly lifts the corner of the cloth, wanting to see what is underneath.

  “Step away from the easel,” a lisping voice commands from the room’s speakers.

  Morris steps back, startled, then turns to the mirrored wall.

  “I see you, Mr. Blister,” the voice states. “I’m watching. Wooooo.”

  “It’s Bliss,” Morris says. He’s talking aloud to an empty room. “The name’s Morris Bliss.”

  There’s no response, no reply.

  He tries leaving, but the door is locked. “Hey,” he yells. “Hey, I’m locked in.” No one answers, no one comes.

  He stops rattling on the door, walks up to the mirrored wall. He presses his face to it, trying to see through. “I know you’re back there,” Morris says. “I know you’re watching.”

  “Are you talking to yourself, right?” Andrea Angel asks, standing in the doorway. The door’s now open. Three women are behind her.

  Seeing Andrea, Morris’s tongue turns thick, like it’s been soaking in salt all night. “Hi,” he says. “No, it’s just, I was locked in.”

  “Right, well,” she says, testing the knob, the door. “There’s no lock on this door, so that’s impossible.” She motions the others in. “Why don’t we all have a seat.”

  Morris sits, feeling like an idiot.

  “You look nice, right? Good to see you,” Andrea says, coming around the table to touch him on the shoulder. “Great. Okay, right,” she says, passing out name tags. “I’m Andrea Angel,” she says, “and—”

  “We’re being watched,” one of the women, Nancy, says. She has the face of a professional poker player, her mouth and eyes non-committal, betraying no thought. She nods to the mirrored wall. “This guy here was talking to the people behind those mirrors,” Nancy says to the group, to no one in particular.

  “She’s right,” Morris says, vindicated. “There’s someone back there.”

  “It’s that fat man with gray hair and a lopsided goatee, and the woman who reeks of hairspray and lisps. The fat man’s touching his nose right now.”

  “You can see them?” Morris asks, seeing only himself and the room in the mirror.

  “Yes, right,” Andrea answers, her hand gesturing toward the reflective wall. “This session’s being observed. There are people taping this—”

  “A fat man with a lopsided goatee—he’s scratching is neck right now—and the young woman who reeks of hairspray,” Nancy repeats, her voice flat. “She lisps.”

  Morris is intrigued and slightly frightened by Nancy, her ability to see through the mirror. He shifts his chair so he can keep an eye on both her and the reflective wall.

  “Right. Yes,” Andrea says, “but let’s not worry about them.” She moves around the table, unable to keep still. “They’re only here to record your responses. Just act like they aren’t there, right? So. As I was saying, I’m Andrea Angel,” she says, and by rote, gives her background, and the history of New Day Focus Group. She’s wearing a tight, black silk crewneck and form-fitting black pants with a blue, yellow, and orange Pucci patterned scarf tied around her hips. Her “fling into spring” attire, she likes to say. Morris misses the entire background and case history of the product they are going to discuss, Sombrero Salsa. His thoughts are on the people behind the mirror. They’re laughing at me, he worries, sitting up straight in his chair.

  “Okay, right,” Andrea loudly says, pulling Morris back to the moment, “any questions so far?”

  “Are we going to get to taste the salsa?” asks Maria, a woman who looks like she’s just woken up from a prolonged nod on bad heroin. “How can we judge an ad campaign if we don’t know what the product tastes like?”

  “Right,” Andrea says, staying in motion, like she fears she’ll be attacked. “Good question. And no. We aren’t tasting salsa tonight. What we are doing is looking at some ideas for print ads and seeing what your thoughts on them are, right? Seeing if the ads make you want to buy the salsa.”

  “I don’t like the name,” the third woman, Nadine, says. She squints. Both profiles, her right and left, are clean and attractive, but viewed from the front, her face is incongruous. She has the look of a wounded groundhog, a look that is interesting but ugly.

  “Right. Okay, duly noted,” Andrea says to her, forcing a cheerful voice. “You don’t like the name. We’ll get to talk about that, the name, in a bit. But first, let’s have a look at some print concepts.”

  Nancy glares at the mirrored wall, her head moving slightly like she's tracking prey.

  Morris is uncomfortable with the group, feels ill at ease with these women, these strangers, the fact he’s being watched.

  “Are all the ingredients in this salsa free-range?” Maria asks, her head rising to attention like she’s channeled a spirit. “That’s one thing I look for when I go to buy something, if it’s free-range.”

  “Right, well, no,” Andrea says. “There’s no chicken, no fish, no meat in this salsa.”

  “Can’t buy it,” Maria says, determinedly. “For me, all ingredients in a product have to be free-range.”

  “Okay,” Andrea says, looking to Morris. Their eyes meet and she smiles a smile so slight, no one but Morris notices. He feels a secret co
nnection with her. “Right, duly noted,” Andrea says, keeping things moving, the session going.

  She sets out a sample jar of the salsa on the table, a jar that’s shaped like a sombrero, with a small, silver-dollar sized lid sealing the top. Andrea says, “This is the product we are going to discuss tonight.”

  “Are we going to taste it?” Maria asks.

  “Right, and like I said earlier, no,” Andrea says, moving to present the first print concept. “We’re here to look at ads to get your thoughts on them, like this one.” She removes the blue cloth from the easel to reveal a presentation board with a photo of a jar of Sombrero Salsa, a bowl of corn chips, and ad copy. Andrea reads it out loud: “ ‘Take your hat off to the best salsa in town. Sombrero Salsa, Heads Above the Rest.’ ”

  “Is that supposed to be funny?” Nancy asks. Still, she stares at the mirrored wall. “ ‘Sombrero,’ ‘Heads’?”

  “Right, well, catchy,” Andrea says. “Do you think it’s catchy?”

  “I don’t speak Mexican so I don’t know what the name means,” Nadine remarks, baffled. “What does it mean?” She squints at the print ad. “I mean, what’s the name again, Sand Burro? What is that, a desert donkey?”

  “There’s donkey in this?” Maria asks, having drifted a moment. “My God, I can’t eat donkey, even if it is free-range.”

  Andrea fights to corral the group back to order, to bring them back to the topic at hand. “Right,” she says, commanding the moment, “so this ad, does it make you want to run out and buy Sombrero Salsa? What are your thoughts, Morris?”

  “The ad’s got a humorous—”

  “I wouldn’t buy it,” Maria interrupts.

  Andrea holds a tight smile. “Right, thank you, Maria. Nancy, your thoughts?”

  “I don’t eat salsa,” Nancy states, matter-of-factly. “It messes with my menstruation.”

  “But in the interview you said you did, right?” she says, controlling her voice. “You said you eat salsa and that you’d be glad to comment on a new product. Am I wrong or did you not say that? Am I wrong, right?”

  “I stated I’ve eaten salsa,” Nancy says, her palms laid flat on the table. “But I don’t eat salsa. Messes with my menstruation.”

  “Right. Okay, duly noted,” Andrea says, resigned. Again, she asks Morris his thoughts.

  “Like I started to say,” he answers, “it’s humorous, the bottle eye-catch—”

  “You know,” Maria interrupts again, “I wouldn’t buy the stuff, but I dated a Latin American studies professor in college so I can appreciate the whole Central American vibe, the echoes of a proud heritage, the work, the harvesting, all of which is represented by the sombrero, the ‘mascot,’ if you will. But, listen, I just got a great idea.”

  “I was speaking,” Morris says, irritated.

  “Think about this,” she continues, ignoring him. She holds her hands out before her. “A TV ad showing Inca Indians high in the mountains of Mexico, show them toiling under the crushing sun, sweating, struggling with rudimentary tools made of fallen trees or ox bone or something, all to produce the perfect tomato, the perfect pepper that will go into the making of Sombrero Salsa. And,” she says, “and they can be wearing sombreros.” She raps the table. “That’s the tie-in. The Indians will be wearing sombreros. ‘From the sweat of our brow to your dining room table’ can be the tagline. Or something like that. I could see it working. But I’d recommend dropping the donkey meat from the product, even if it is free-range.”

  “What’s this?” Nadine asks, entering the conversation like she’s just happened upon a murder. She glances around the table, her head tilted back so she can see better. “Indians?” she says to Maria, slow to grasp the concept. “You said Indians. I don’t get it. Why would Indians sell salsa on TV? Turkey, Stovetop Stuffing, cranberry sauce, yeah, okay. The whole Thanksgiving thing I can see, but salsa? What do Indians have to do with salsa?”

  For the next fifty minutes, Andrea corrects, cajoles, and tries to control the group as she covers five concepts for print ads, each featuring the sombrero-shaped salsa jar.

  The three times Morris tries offer his opinion, he’s interrupted by Maria’s new concept. The session concludes with him not having said a thing.

  “Right. Okay, great,” Andrea says, visibly relieved that the time is up. “Got some really good thoughts and I appreciate your time,” she tells everyone. “You can pick up your money at the front desk on the way out. Again, thank you, right? Any last comments?” she asks, looking to Nancy, Maria, Nadine, then Morris.

  “Actually,” Morris says, wanting to offer his one thought, “I did want to comment on bottle design.”

  “I agree,” Maria says, picking up her purse, “it’s great. It’ll stand out on the shelves.”

  “What I wanted to say,” Morris says, “is there’s a problem with the design.”

  The four women look to Morris like he made a vulgar comment. The room’s achingly silent, and Morris swears he can hear the hum of the video camera behind the mirrored glass.

  “Right?” Andrea finally says. “A problem?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Think about the chip.”

  “Right, yes, the chip,” Andrea says, then shakes her head. “What about it?”

  He walks to the snack spread. “The bottle designer didn’t consider the chip.” Morris finds an unbroken Doritos and holds the chip up for them to see. “See how big it is?”

  “Right. And?”

  Stepping back to the table, he takes the sample bottle of Sombrero Salsa, pops off the small lid.

  “We’re sampling the salsa?” Maria asks.

  “No,” Andrea says, holding up a hand to silence her. “Go on,” she says to Morris.

  “The chip doesn’t fit,” he says, showing how the bottle’s opening is too small.

  The women all look to each other, then look to Morris, hoping for clarity.

  “The chip won’t go in,” Morris reiterates. But it’s like speaking arches and angles to infants. They don’t understand what he’s trying to say, why the chip would need to fit. No one here would ever think to eat salsa straight from the jar.

  Chapter 22