Alien Nation #6 - Passing Fancy (12 page)

In addition, pitching was heavily political, requiring a certain amount of guile which was not part of Susan’s natural makeup. On some fundamental level, she liked to believe that the work—the art—should speak for itself. But she’d picked up some skills and instincts through osmosis. Her genuine enthusiasm and personableness tended to carry her the rest of the way, as did her life experience. Simply being a good parent, sensitive to the incremental changes in her kids, had trained her to deal with the capricious shifts of people in the business arena. So a pitch—while still somewhat frightening, and always a little loathsome—was something she could accomplish intelligently.

Most times.

This pitch, however, was difficult.

She had known in her hearts that it would be, the minute she’d begun. Berries kept listening impassively, of course, and she had long since gotten used to that—but Allman. Allman was scowling. Not unhappily, but rather like a man trying to decipher a foreign film without aid of subtitles. And his expression didn’t change even to produce the brief smiles Jonathan had predicted.

It so unnerved her that in the middle of the pitch, she broke stride—something she had learned
never
to do—and said, “Do you want me to go over any of this again?”

Allman gave a short shake of the head and a brief, two-fingered wave. “No, no, go ahead, I’m with you.”

Clearly, then, he
was
being attentive. So what was that expression on his face
about?

It wasn’t until Susan was nearly through her spiel that the image came back to her—a man trying to decipher a foreign film without aid of subtitles—and she suddenly understood Allman’s expression. It was the face of a man trying . . . to figure out a problem.

She exposed the final panel, wrapped up . . . and waited.

Allman nodded once, briefly, said “Good work,” his cursory tone indicating it was less a compliment than an acknowledgment, and before she could even smile a thank you, Allman swiveled to face Berries, got up, leaned over Berries’ desk, and whispered to him.

It was a stunningly rude thing to do. Berries, of course, took it blithely, his voice so naturally soft-spoken that he seemed to be whispering back, which didn’t help.

She could make out none of what they were saying, merely the rises and falls of hushed inflections; and she stood there getting hotter and hotter in the face, knowing nothing except that they were talking about her. Or at least her work, which was a part of her and, therefore, amounted to the same thing. They might at least have asked her to leave the room. It wouldn’t have made her any less nervous, but she would’ve
understood
—

Her thoughts were interrupted as Allman turned and sat back down.

Berries spoke first. As usual, his compliments were maddeningly understated, and he sometimes inflected declarative statements as if they were questions.

“I don’t really have a problem with it?” he said. “I even think it could work on a couple of basic levels? My biggest issue is that it’s a bit familiar—which is okay if that’s what you’re going for. Audiences often respond well to what they know.”

“Uh huh,” she said, noncommittally, just to hold up her end of the conversation. She dared not ask what made Berries think any part of it was “familiar,” certainly not in front of the client. To do so would indicate the impolitic truth: that she had sincerely thought she was onto something unique.

“But,” Berries continued, “Mr. Allman has some bigger issues that . . . sort of make a lot of sense to me?”

Allman nodded.

“Right, right. First of all,
good
presentation, really
good.”

Bletro,
thought Susan. A Tenctonese word which, in this context, translated roughly as “Yikes.”

“It’s just—here’s the thing, okay? Kimchee.”

Susan blinked. It had sounded like a sneeze, but clearly it had not been.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Kimchee. It’s a Korean appetizer. All kinds of kimchee, but the most popular kind is a white cabbage in this intense red sauce. Not just spicy,
deadly.
Like ingesting paint thinner.”

“Okay . . . ?” It was the best she could offer. She had no idea where this was heading.

“Thing is, this red sauce has a heavy garlic base. As strong as it is hot.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. See . . . let me work backwards from what I really responded to, okay?”

Ah. There was something he liked.

“Sure.”

“I’m a New York boy, and I’m thinking of this neighborhood where my grandmother lived, in Sunnyside. All along Queens Boulevard, like from Thirty-eighth Street to Forty-ninth, Korean restaurants. Kimchee palaces. And parallel to Queens Boulevard, there’s the elevated train station, gets you on the number seven, which I used to take to Manhattan.”

“Right, right,” she said. As if she had a clue. Still waiting for him to connect with the thing he’d “responded to.”

“Well, you get onto a crowded subway car with a bunch of Koreans after they’ve had their daily dose of kimchee? Whoo, man, I gotta tell ya, it’s like being in the sardine can from hell. No way out, no air to breathe except this yukky garlic fog.”

And now she had to say it. “I’m sorry, I feel like I’m missing something.”

“No,” Berries chimed in, with one of his rare, toothy smiles, “you’re not. The point is about to be made. Could you go back to panel number ten?”

“Which one is that?”
She
didn’t even know them by number, only by graphic.

“Uhh, the elevator, I believe?”

She brought it forward. “This?”

Allman practically grabbed it out of her hands.

“Yes! Right! Here it is! The key to the campaign! The elevator bit!”

“Bit?”

“You’ve got the seeds of great comedy here. Comedy scores points. That woman on an elevator after her lunch of beaver and curds? Picture it. People around her could be just, like—
hurling
themselves against the walls, anything to get out.”

“Why?”

“Because her breath—”

“No, I mean, why make the point so broadly when you—”

“Because, trust me, honey,
comedy sells.
People
remember
it.”

Honey?
Susan thought. Not judging it yet, just noting it.

“I tend to agree?” Berries added. “I mean, the campaign you’ve laid out here would be ef-
fec
-tive”—drawing out the word to express his reservations—“but it’s a little upscale, when really the product should appeal to a broader range.”

“Exactly!” from Allman.

“Well,” Susan began, “what if the main character wasn’t a businesswoman? We could change the career. We could even do a series of ads, focusing on dif—”

“The thing is,” Allman interrupted, “I’ve
always
had good experiences with comedy. Comedy spots for toothpaste, cough drops, even deodorant. It sends a message. Not only is the product good, it’s
entertaining.
And the more you exaggerate the consequences of not using the product, the more self-conscious the buyer is about not having it in his or her arsenal.”

It was said with such assurance it sounded true.

“I mean,” he continued, “I was looking at those face-to-face panels and I felt as if I wanted to laugh . . .”

(So
that’s
what was going on, thought Susan,
that
was the problem he was trying to figure out. How to turn something serious-minded into a lampoon.
He was rewriting me even before I was done.
And
now
she began to judge him a little, the verdict getting harsher as he spoke.)

“. . . And that feeling of wanting to laugh and not laughing—I think it confuses the audience.”

Susan looked toward Berries for some sort of support or, at least, guidance. He pitched his chin a bit forward, his eyes seemingly focused on his own thoughts, and casually bit his lower lip. “Uhhh—ye-ah,” he said, softly. “I don’t know that I’d articulate it quite like that, but I will say the impact of humor can’t be underestimated.” In other words, Berries was choosing his battles, and debating a client over a fine point of philosophy was not one of them.

“You know what?” Allman said, swiveling to face Berries, away from Susan, his voice rising as if divine inspiration had finally struck. “Better than the elevator! I mean, that’s closed, a box, right? Visually not very interesting. Let’s get a little motion into it, a little light and color like—like me with the Koreans. Set the thing on a subway car. Same principle, but heightened production values. Picture it. People cowering from the bad breath, then as soon as the train reaches its next stop, the doors slide open and the entire complement of passengers clears out in a mad stampede (we speed up the film for that), leaving our heroine alone. Adrift. Asking herself, ‘What’s wrong with this picture?’ ”

Much as I am now,
thought Susan . . .

“The problem there is?” Berries said gently, “Los Angeles is not known for its public transportation? Subways are an East Coast phenomenon.”

Totally unflustered by his own careless gaffe, Allman said, “A bus then. Better still. Outdoor locations, movement through the windows. People trying to
open
the windows and we
know
how hard those bus windows are to open! Yeah, that could be really funny, who wouldn’t identify with
that?
Everybody screaming at the driver, anything to get some fresh air. Picture it. The bus stops and even the
driver
gets out. Yeah. That’d work fine. I mean, I’m
sure
you guys have
buses.”
He swiveled back to Susan. “Yeah. Put her on a bus!”

“Well, I can’t put
her
on a bus,” Susan said.

Allman’s face darkened.

“Course you can, why not?” Spoiling for a fight now. He had gotten all juiced and she was raining on his parade.

Berries smoothly interposed:

“I think what Susan is saying, correctly, is that her campaign’s particular character, in
this
city, is a bit too high up on the social ladder to take buses. Cabs or a car, most likely.” A beat. “But I think what Kent is saying, also correctly? Is that we don’t need the woman to be that character anymore. In fact, if we’re going comic, what
can
she be?”

“Housewife?” A banal, knee-jerk solution. Allman’s, naturally.

“I think we can be more memorable than that.”

“Waitress?”

“No, it makes a false issue of her job.”

“Librarian.”

“Hmmm.”

It was like some kind of surreal Ping-Pong match in which she had suddenly become merely a spectator.

“Librarian,” mused Berries. “Not too subservient, not too powerful. Nice balance. Easy career to put across in costume. I could see her prim, in glasses, carrying a couple of books with those drab library bindings. And no question a woman who deals face-to-face with people all day, so we’re covered for symbolism.” He tapped his desk with the palm of his hand a few times. “All roighty. That’s the way we’re going to go.”

It had happened so fast that Susan was barely able to absorb it. And there was more yet to absorb.

“Okay now—how do we feel about the logo?” Berries queried. It was a “we” Susan didn’t much feel a part of. But she dutifully pulled out the correct panel without being asked.

“I was meaning to ask about that,” Allman said. “It looks”—squinting at it—“sort of like a cup.” He looked up at Susan. “Why is it a cup?”

Susan was now beginning to wonder if she should even bother. But she gamely pointed out that it was a positive-negative use of space, a fairly standard technique of pop art. It took Allman a disturbingly long time to grasp the concept, recognize the silhouette of faces.

“Oh! Ah. Right, faces. Close together,
I
see . . .” Clearly not sold, though. “Now, about the cup . . .”

Just as gamely, Susan explained that she meant it as a connection with mealtime.

“Hm,” said Allman. “Yeah, I don’t—”

“It is a bit of a reach for me too, Susan,” Berries sighed, “because the metaphor is indirect. A cup implies drink, not food—and not every drink goes with a meal and . . . well, I think you can do better, is the thing.”

“Actually,” said Allman, “I think it’s there already. Forget the cup, go with the faces. Except not silhouettes. Fill ’em out. A happy, smiling Newcomer facing a happy, smiling human. Bright colors, bold outlines. Comic book style, simple and cheery.
That
I could go for.”

Berries raised his eyebrows, wrinkled his forehead, smiled playfully, and spread his hands. “Well . . . there it is.” He nodded at Susan. “You know what to do.”

Allman got up, clapping his hands together. “Great. Just great.” To Berries, he said, “I’ll stop by tomorrow, then?” Berries to Susan: “That give you enough time?”

“Well, to
rough
it, sure, but—”

“That’s all we’ll need.”

Allman shook Berries’ hand, pantomimed a gunshot at Susan, and he was gone.

Susan stared, a bit dumbfounded, at the door long after Kent Allman had made his exit.

“Susan?”

She turned. Berries was rising from his desk.

“Everything okay?”

“Fine, Keith. I think. I guess.”

“I think I know what’s troubling you, and I understand it? You thought the assignment was one thing and now it’s another?”

“Partly that. Partly something else.”

“Oh? What?”

“I’m not sure yet. I mean, I guess I can get behind the new approach, but—”

“Then that’s all that really matters?”

“I suppose . . .”

“This was not a disaster, Susan; the client saw something in your proposal and ran with it. You tried for something classier, he wanted to go another way. He
is
paying the freight and he
did
have a point. It happens?”

“Yes, but . . . his way, the main character is a buffoon.”

“So’s the Maytag repairman. And Ronald McDonald is a clown. I think the lesson to keep in mind here is? We’re in a noble profession, and performing a valuable service, but ultimately? We’re not curing cancer. We’re just selling stuff.” He looked at his watch. “Anyway, I have a lunch appointment. So take your time clearing out. I’ll speak on ya later.” And he strode out of the office.