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  “When you get tired of doing that, may I have a whack?” Connie Melman asked.

  Dane petted his face quickly and less sharply to make it seem that he was subjecting himself to a self-induced skin enhancement therapy.

  “I saw it in Maxim,” he said, so she would think he learned the behavior from a cool magazine, rather than making it up, himself.

  Dane had no need to worry about authenticating his story because Connie was not listening. The petite, high-powered woman had no time to learn about his peccadilloes. She brought Dane to a small meeting room and trumpeted her life story while Dane waited for her to review his portfolio.

  “So, first let me tell you about Connie. I’ve been in this business for twenty years. My husband’s Mel Melman, the chief creative officer of GLOBOS, one of the biggest agencies on the planet. See the sign on the wall? Go on, read it! ‘Beware of Connie!’ Commit that to memory and live by it. I know everybody, so if you ever think of crossing me, stop thinking—or you will never, ever work anywhere. But Connie comes with benefits. I am extremely good to people I represent. I get them the best jobs and the most money,” Connie paused. “So now you know about Connie. It’s your turn. Where’s your résumé?”

  “I didn’t bring one,” Dane said.

  “No résumé?” Connie asked with astonishment.

  “I have no previous advertising experience so the résumé seemed irrelevant,” Dane said.

  “Irrelevant? It’s your friggin’ résumé. When is a résumé irrelevant at an interview?” Connie demanded irascibly. “Answer: Never! How can I talk to you if I don’t know anything about you?”

  “You could ask me questions?” Dane asked contritely.

  “What were you thinking? I cannot believe a man of your age and experience would come to a meeting without a résumé.”

  Dane plunged from confidence to imbecility in seconds. He started to justify his thought process to show Connie how smart he really was, but this only confirmed his impaired judgment. She glared at him like he was a panhandler with bad breath and body odor. Dane stopped talking. It was unbearable for him to think he had blown this interview. How could he forget a simple thing like a résumé? He seemed wired differently from the people he dealt with. His only salvation was to be contrite and appeal to her humanity.

  “I’m sorry. I thought it would be a presumptuous waste of your time to show you a résumé full of teaching jobs. Clearly, I was wrong to try to read your mind. But I brought my book, which I worked on with Lance. Can I show it to you?”

  “What good is it with no résumé?” creative recruiter snapped.

  Connie darted from the room to take a call and left Dane to wallow in remorse. Later she flipped through his portfolio like it was an old Cosmo in a hair salon and acknowledged that it was good. “Still, with no résumé there is no way I can present you to my clients,” she said. “The market’s tight. You’re a beginner trying to break in. That’s a tough sell. I have openings for elite, drop drawer, crème de la crème creatives—senior writers, creative directors. Juniors come in rarely.”

  “What would you advise me to do?”

  “Sell yourself,” she said. “You have a good gut.”

  “I do? How can you tell?”

  “I feel it in my gut that you have a good gut. Use it.”

  As Dane left Connie’s office he chided himself for squandering another chance. He had made a poor impression on an important recruiter and she would never help him. Connie had unexpectedly complimented his instincts, though such praise belied his failure to bring a résumé to their meeting. However, when Dane replayed the interview from the distance of a few city blocks, he agreed with Connie about his gut. The proof was ironically his missing résumé. Despite Connie’s angry diatribe, she conceded that she could not help him since he lacked experience, which his work history confirmed.

  The headhunter’s rejection did not shake Dane’s commitment to advertising. His toughness and self-belief would have made legendary football coaches and American self-help gurus proud. Despite a B- in his only class at ID, a mentor unwilling to hire or recommend him, and no recruiter to help find him work, Dane had no doubt he would succeed. Self-belief does not always feed on facts, but where does self-belief wander into self-delusion?

  Had Dane crossed the line?

  Case 1-E

  INTERVIEWS, MENUS & A TAKE-HOME EXAM

  15. FIRST INTERVIEWS

  For their daughter’s sixth birthday party, Dane and Becky could only afford to invite half of her kindergarten classmates. This led to civil war in the class, made mortal enemies of some parents, and complicated Iris’s school days. Dane and Becky shielded her from this fall out, but Dane felt guilty for it. His work choices had harmed his daughter and his unemployment benefits were running out.

  As Iris posed happily in her new velvet dress, euphoric about her party and oblivious to her family’s money problems, Dane smiled through his guilt and assessed his options. He would market his two books—a novel and an ad portfolio—and grab the first opportunity he received. Dane took a sacred vow. If he found an advertising job first he would work at this career diligently for 20 years to support Iris until she was grown—and forget about his creative writing.

  To fulfill this promise, Dane went on a job-blitz for two months. Dane put his “gut” into action. He had no leads so he cold-called several agencies. He often connected with an automated voice telling him that if he knew his party’s extension, which he never did, he could dial it at any time, or hold the line and wait for the operator. When he managed to get through to live receptionists, he pumped them for names of creative directors, supplicated their assistants and delivered copies of his book—a small, vinyl binder with plastic sleeves. In reception areas where he left his book, he noted his competitors’ slick, leather-bound, zippered binders and hard cases—and wondered if his modest offering could compete.

  After weeks of cold response to his feverish effort, Dane felt like he was staring up the side of a skyscraper that must be scaled. At last, a human resources director phoned to arrange an interview. Dane was nervous and excited. He wore his one suit that was too tight and arrived at the agency a half hour early. The receptionist gave him an application form to occupy his time and a recruiter finally greeted him.

  Dane wrestled with his facial muscles to hide his disappointment. His interviewer was a newly hired junior recruiter, nervous and unsure. She ushered him to an airless room, nodded vapidly at his book, posed probing questions like, “What was your favorite job and why?” and scribbled in the margins of his résumé. Dane wore a starched shirt. During the tedious interview, his back started to itch. At first, Dane rubbed his back against the chair like he had seen Baloo, the bear in Disney’s The Jungle Book do. He thought he was being subtle but the junior recruiter’s eyes widened as she watched him move up and down in the chair. Dane felt he needed to explain. “My shirt, it’s got too much starch…”

  She smiled tautly and said it was okay. But Dane knew it wasn’t. His junior interviewer continued to ask him highly conceptual questions she must have learned in human resources camp, like what experience in his life fulfilled him the most.

  “Besides scratching my back?” Dane joked. The junior recruiter did not laugh. Meanwhile his back itch persisted, so Dane reached around to scratch it. However, his sleeves were so tight that when he bent his arm, the underarm seam ripped loudly. He did not know how much he had damaged the jacket but the interviewer’s stunned expression made him blush. Again, he felt compelled to explain. “I didn’t do what you think I did. That was my sleeve ripping.”

  “No worries. We’re almost done here,” the junior recruiter said.

  After a half hour, she drew a deep breath, told Dane this was a pre-screening interview, promised he would hear of any openings, and pressed the “down” elevator button for him. Dane tried to derive something positive from the fiasco. “Now you know what it’s like to be a practice dummy,” he told himself as he walke
d against the cold wind.

  Each day Dane followed up with places he had left his portfolio.

  “Has my book been seen?” he inquired of creative managers, who replied that they heard nothing; the creative department was out; there were no openings; a hiring freeze was in effect. In his youth, this magnitude of indifference would have made Dane quit, but now he could not concede defeat. And despite the apparent futility of his quest, Dane was exhilarated, intoxicated by his despair.

  16. CHINESE MENU

  Doris, the depressed copywriter, once again provided a lift. She gave Dane the phone number of her favorite recruiter, Albert Griffin, a voluble New York native who took Dane’s call and immediately complained about his heartburn. When Griffin interviewed Dane, he liked his book. He praised his ads for their humanity and maintained that one—a Gas-X concept in which Dane wore a gas mask—cut to the heart of heartburn.

  “Really, is that you in the mask? It is! I see the resemblance. That ad is so good, so honest, and so real. I have to laugh. But it also gets me right here,” Griffin said as he pressed his chest with his splayed palm and belched. “Ah. That’s it. Excuse me. My bicarbonate just kicked in.”

  It was fitting that this Gas-X ad now gave Dane job-seeking relief.

  Griffin loved the same concept which Kevorksen, Dane’s mentor, derisively dismissed as a lowly “fart joke.” Dane felt vindicated; he had been right all along and everything he experienced up to this point seemed like gratuitous grief. This was what “clicking” with someone could do. Griffin promised to help Dane. At the end of the interview the talent recruiter asked him if he was serious about advertising. One of Griffin’s cousins had married a famous author, who wrote copy before publishing several bestsellers. Dane nodded wistfully at the anecdote and secretly hoped Griffin was foretelling his fate.

  In a week, Griffin sent Dane on his first real job interview, at Peebles and Rigoletto—a reputable shop with award-winning creative. Dane interviewed with a veteran whose eyes were subdued by disappointment.

  “Are you sure you want to be in advertising?” the weary veteran asked, “It’s like wallowing in a pile of crap with worms in your gut. Is that what you want?”

  “Yes,” Dane replied enthusiastically, thinking it was a trick question. “That’s exactly what I want. I’m not afraid of dirt, nematodes or a good challenge.”

  Dane was sure he aced that interview.

  Griffin was blasé when he told Dane that the interviewers at Peebles and Rigoletto liked Dane but hired someone else—another of Griffin’s copywriters! The headhunter spared him the details but warned Dane that rejection was part of the business. In Griffin’s casual tone, Dane heard a callous subtext, “You had your chance and didn’t score. You let me down.”

  Dane needed a second interview but Griffin was not forthcoming. Dane tried contacting the headhunter. He needed Griffin to tell him, “I believe in you.” When Griffin took his call after several days, Dane detected that the recruiter’s attitude toward him had changed. Griffin told Dane he needed experience.

  “It’s like school,” Griffin observed. “You need kindergarten to get into first grade. Write an ad for a Chinese take-out—a flier or menu. Then you can put it in your book and people will think you’re professional.”

  Chinese menu? Was Griffin joking? It sounded like a step backward into the primeval peat bog of advertising, an evolutional phase before handbills for psychics. Dane felt demeaned but he could not argue with his only advocate in the industry, so he collected takeout menus for study. When a take-out manager noticed Dane’s interest in his menu, he handed him a stack of them and encouraged him to give them to friends and neighbors. He even offered Dane free fried rice for his effort.

  17. THE DREAM

  Just when Dane seemed to have lost Griffin as his only advocate, Ella Bolden, a glamorous young recruiter, reviewed his portfolio, page by page, smiled from time to time, and closed it.

  “Your book is highly conceptual,” she said, “You’re a real writer, it’s in your blood.”

  “You liked the book?” he asked incredulously.

  Ella smiled for the first time.

  “I like most of the campaigns in it and there wasn’t anything I hated. You did something really interesting with Blimpie. You actually made it seem like a cool place to eat at two in the morning.”

  “Yeah, well that’s my niche—giving mystique to goods and services poor people can afford.”

  Ella sighed. “Not every agency is right for every person. Frankly, I don’t have any clients who are right for you.”

  “No?” Dane asked. He experienced a familiar sensation of much internal weeping.

  “Actually, no headhunter can help you now. Most agencies hire juniors from within to save money. But I have no doubt you can get hired on your own.”

  “You don’t think I’m delusional for believing I can get a job?”

  “You’re not delusional at all. This is your dream,” she defended him from his doubts. “People will pay attention. Show them your book and don’t sell yourself short by calling yourself a beginner. There’s nothing junior about you.”

  “I’m old, right?”

  “That’s not what I meant. You’re a real writer. Let people know advertising is your dream.”

  His dream. These words from a woman who barely knew him sounded oracular to Dane. He considered her proposition uneasily. He had always wanted material well-being, to spend without worry. In advertising he could make real money. Did this make advertising his dream? It was creative but anonymous. It was a job. He could be like other people taking trains and living in offices. Maybe this was what he wanted—to fit in. Like an enzyme, Ella the Headhunter’s suggestion worked inside him. Out of it, Dane created the ad campaign that mattered most—to sell advertising to himself. If he convinced himself he was serious, maybe others would believe him. Dane perceived copywriting as creativity without glory. But what if he conceived a great campaign that revolutionized advertising? He would be famous. He could even change how people think. If this were possible, then advertising might become his dream.

  18. THE TEST

  With renewed ardor, Dane called unfamiliar agencies, became fluent in voice mail, forced conversation on secretaries and assistants and the few creative directors he caught on the fly. One of these rare individuals took precious moments from his busy schedule to relate to Dane how much he hated his book. Dane was like an inebriated boxer swinging haymakers at imaginary foes.

  Advertising required contacts. Since Dane had none he needed to believe his constant activity would be rewarded. However, his submissions were random and he could not keep the agencies straight in his head. They were names and lobbies. As his job hunt lost traction, he lost patience. He craved a clear assessment of where he stood. Even “No” was better than an ongoing “to be determined.” He was exposing a character flaw for corporate life: a low tolerance for uncertainty.

  One agency, WIF Advertising, on 42nd Street, near the UN, had his portfolio for a few weeks. One morning, in a spate of frustration, Dane phoned WIF and asked for the creative director. A woman answered. He rambled that his book had been at WIF for a month and he had heard nothing. He wanted the book returned to him because he could not afford to leave it where there was no interest.

  “The president of the agency just gave your portfolio to the creative director. He wants to meet you. Are you sure you want it back?”

  Dane felt foolish. He had become so programmed for failure that he was deaf to success. Although he was unsure to whom he was speaking, or who the creative director was, he remembered what to say.

  “No, of course not.”

  “So you’re available to meet the creative director?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll have to get back to you with the details.”

  Dane was too stunned to be excited. He had been in such a funk that he did not allow himself to hope.

  The next Tuesday Dane appeared in the dark lobby of
WIF Advertising, where an angry receptionist reported his arrival. A tall blond woman came out to meet Dane and escorted him to his appointment. This was Deirdre Ryan, the office manager, who had spoken to Dane on the phone. “So here you are,” she said, smiling at Dane like she knew him.

  “You’re meeting Paul Wittman. He is a partner, executive vice president and chief creative officer of the agency. His brother, Maury, is the chief executive officer. Good luck.” Deirdre brought him to Paul Wittman’s office, waited until the agency co-owner got off the phone, and announced, “Paul, this is your eleven o’clock appointment.”

  Paul Wittman was ten years younger than Dane, impeccably groomed and attired. He was imperious and friendly by turns like a feudal lord used to having absolute authority. His father had owned the agency and Paul and his brother, Maury, worked there every summer of their youth. Wittman appreciated his status, but behind his Teddy Roosevelt spectacles, his blue eyes betrayed resentment. He scowled like a man who had been deprived of a sense of his merit because he never submitted to the tests by which ordinary people earn it. He observed Dane wearily, as if the forty-something bedraggled man was one more burden to deal with. Then he lifted Dane’s portfolio from his desk and dropped it.

  “We do real estate advertising here. My client owns a residential property downtown. It’s the next up and coming neighborhood for young singles…the Wall Street district. Here’s what I need: a brochure by tomorrow morning. Can you do it?”