Truth in Advertising (24 page)

Ian said, “They're not great.”

“Is the Al Gore idea good?”

Ian said, “Not really.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, we're not that good.”

I said, “That sounds about right.”

I turned to go but stopped.

I said, “It's a good job, isn't it?”

Ian said, “Yes.”

I said, “And we're lucky to have it. Especially these days.”

“Yes.”

“But we don't really like it anymore.”

“No.”

“And yet we don't leave.”

“Nope.”

“Why is that?”

Ian said, “Fear. Laziness. Complacency. Mostly we don't know what to do.”

I said, “We die, ya know. One day. We die.”

Ian said, “I know.”

Silence.

Ian said, “Listen, thanks for stopping by, this has been great.”

I said, “The ideas.”

Ian said, “Don't worry. It's no big deal. It's just the Super Bowl.”

•   •   •

The train hits a straightaway and ramps up speed. Time for the conference call.

Martin, Ian, Alan, Jill, and Keita will be with the client. Several other clients from offices around the globe will call in.

I dial the number, say my name, hit pound.

Someone says, “Hi. Who was that who just joined?”

I say, “It's Fin.”

The voice says, “Hey, Fin, we're just waiting on a couple of others.”

I hear muffled talk as people gather, the beep as others join the call, their recorded name announced.

Perhaps my father has left us millions of dollars, money we never knew he had. Perhaps he has left us stocks that he bought in IBM decades ago, a nest egg, an apology. “I was looking out for you. I just had anger issues.” Maybe there are home movies, a box of Super 8 film that he secretly took, edited together, making a short film of our young lives, one he narrated, explaining everything.

Someone says, “Hey, everyone. I'm Carole. Some of you might not know me. I wanted to thank you all for calling in. It's much appreciated. I know we have a lot of ground to cover and I hope everyone has
the agenda, but I'd also like today to be informal enough for people to jump in. The other thing is confidentiality. What we're talking about here is serious and proprietary and potentially huge for this company. You wouldn't be on this call if you weren't vital to this project. So what's said here stays here. Who'd like to start us out?”

There's silence and then laughing.

I'm wondering if Martin or Alan is going to do any setup but perhaps there's no need since we all know why we're here.

I decide to jump in.

I say, “Hey, everyone. It's Fin Dolan in New York. Well, on a train from New York to Boston.”

Carole says, “Hey, Fin.”

“I thought I'd say a few words about our thinking.”

“Great,” Carole says. “Exactly what we were hoping for.”

Perhaps it's the three cups of Amtrak high-octane coffee and the Sara Lee crumb cake I've had, but I'm feeling good. I want to lay the groundwork for the Al Gore idea. I want them to see the genius.

I say, “I think what makes this product so great is that it will have such an impact on the planet. On landfills and oceans. And I think we need to align ourselves with the environmental movement. Diapers can be green. That's an amazing thought. You think of what a diaper is and does . . . and here we have something that won't harm the environment. . . . How remarkable is that?”

There's an unusually long silence and I worry that I've hit a bad cell zone.

It's Carole. “I'm sorry. Who did you say you were again?”

“It's Fin.”

“I'm sorry, I don't see that name on our call sheet. You're in Gentron's New York office?”

“Gentron? This isn't Snugglies?”

“Get off this call
now
or we will hunt you down and sue you!”

•   •   •

I check into a hotel using our company's rate and take a long shower. Eddie has e-mailed us the name of a restaurant near where he works. It's not far from the hotel.

Ian calls.

“Why didn't you call in?”

“I did. Just to the wrong call. I was seconds away from being a tech billionaire. How'd it go?”

“Tough to say. Might have liked Al Gore.”

“Did they buy anything?”

“They're having a think, getting back to us in a couple of days.”

“Was I missed?”

“No. There were half-a-dozen people on the phone and at least twenty in the room. You okay?”

“Fine. Why?”

“When's the last time you guys were all together?”

“The first Clinton administration. We'll be fine. We're just like a family. Except for the caring part.”

•   •   •

There's a sparse crowd, lots of seats at the bar, a few people sitting in the lounge area. A bitterly cold night a few nights into the New Year. I'm nervous.

The bartender is Grace Kelly. She's Grace Kelly when Grace Kelly was twenty-five, a vision, the porcelain skin and the ice-blue eyes, the honest-to-God blond hair, a smile and a beauty that unnerves your internal monologue. Then she speaks. And what comes out is the world's heaviest Boston accent.

“How ahh ya?” she says, which can also be pronounced
How are you?

“I'm good. How are you?”

“Me? I'm supah. What can I get ya?”

“Beer would be great.”

“Sam Adams?” Except it comes out “See-aaaaam Adams.” Long soft vowels. It makes me love her more.

She draws the beer from the tap and I watch her. She is used to being watched.

“In town on business?” she asks as she puts the glass down in front of me.

I nod, do a kind of bobblehead doll move, back and forth. “Well, it's certainly a
kind
of business.”

“That sounds intriguing,” she says with a flirty smile that makes my insides turn to jelly. “What do you do?”

Me? What do I do? I'm a fighter pilot. I'm a rescue diver. I'm a stunt man. I do stunt work. Hanging off cliffs, that kind of thing. Did you see the opening of
Mission: Impossible III
? That was me hanging off that rock. No. I'm with Oxfam America. I'm back in the U.S. to drum up money for a new project I'm working on. It will bring video games . . . I mean, water . . . to a village. I'm a vascular surgeon. No . . . don't. Just tell the truth. I'm a copywriter and I'm in town because my father died. He died and we were estranged and now my family and I will hear his last will and testament. Say it.

“I'm in town to try to buy the New England Patriots.”

“You're kiddin'!”

“I'm not. I represent a man, a very wealthy man, who has his eyes on them.”

“Wow. That's amazing. You're not going to take them away, are you? We love our Pats.”

I say, “No, no. We'd never do that.”

A couple has sat down at the far end of the bar.

She smiles and says, “Don't go anywhere.”

Don't go anywhere? What does that mean? Is she flirting? Is that possible? Or is she just being friendly? Is she propositioning me? What does she look like naked? Someone taps me. I look up and see a guy, late fifties, suit, tie undone, sitting a few stools away. He's had a few drinks. He says, “James Dean dying in a Porsche accident?”

I smile. “Yes.”

He says, “Who cares, besides maybe Mrs. Dean and the guy's agent? He made three movies and they were lousy.
Rebel Without a Cause
? How about rebel without a friggin' clue? What a little girl in that red windbreaker. Brando read for that role.”

He nods. Grace Kelly is back and rolls her eyes and smiles.

“And what about Duane Allman?” he says. “The day he crashed his Harley-Davidson Sportster a few months after the release of
Live at the Filmore East
 . . .”

He turns quickly to face me. “What day was that?”

“I have no idea.”

He says, “October 29, 1971. Where was it?”

“Belgium,” I say, though he's not really listening.

“Macon, Georgia. The day he . . . well, something ended in this country. For me, anyway.”

He sips his drink. Brown liquid. He sings softly, in a not unpleasant voice.

“Lord, I was born a ramblin' man, tryin' to make a livin' and doin' the best I can . . .”

He's looking straight ahead now. “Ever notice no one talks about Scope anymore?”

“The mouthwash?”

“Scope, Boraxo, wax paper, paper lunch bags, Colgate Tooth Powder. Came in a red tin with a little plastic cap. What happened to that stuff?”

“I guess people just stopped using it.”

“That makes no sense to me. How can you just one day stop using something like Scope?”

I shrug. Grace Kelly puts a fresh beer in front of me and winks.

He checks his BlackBerry. He types quickly with his thumbs. This is a man with a job. Perhaps he runs a company, is responsible for other people's jobs. He makes decisions, determines what kind of ad agency is chosen. I fear he's going to remove his pants. He puts the BlackBerry down.

He says, “I mean,
seat
belts, for Christ's sake.”

He looks at me, as if those two words explain it all, as if they are a kind of genius answer to Fermat's theorem.

“Seat belts,” I say, as if I understand what he's talking about.

“Right?” he says. “I mean, we used to crawl around the station wagon like cosmonauts in a weightless environment. Adults would literally blow cigarette smoke in your face for fun. We drank whole milk with five tablespoons of Bosco in it. We ate Chips Ahoy like kids eat vitamins now. And look at us. We're fine. Aren't we fine?”

“I certainly think so.”

He picks up his glass, smiles, and clinks it against mine. He drinks.

He says, “I've gotta take a piss. Be right back.”

I say, “I can't wait.”

And then I turn and look toward the door and see my sister walk in. How bizarre, I think. I am related to her. We have the same parents. We grew up in the same house. And yet she is a stranger to me. I read once that 99.9 percent of one person's DNA is identical to another's. I walk over as Maura hands her coat to the hostess. I watch her undo her scarf, stuff it in the arm of the coat, fix her hair by rolling it back behind her ears. I have watched her do these things a thousand times. The youngest always watches his brothers and sisters more than they ever know.

“Hi,” I say.

My voice jerks her head up.

“Fin. I didn't see you there. Am I late? Hi.” A fast blinker, often nervous, high-strung. We hug, the awkward hug of strangers, the flat hand pat, slow repeat, on the back.

“Not at all. I just got here.”

The hostess seats us at a table for four and hands both of us an array of enormous menus—daily specials, wine lists—as if we're taking part in a food-and-beverage convention. Maura has put on lipstick for this. She has done her hair, which she wears in the chin-length bob of a Boston suburban mom, sensible, non-sexual, kind-of-cute. She wears a canary-yellow sweater set with black pants. Her shoes are round-toed, comfortable slip-ons. She rubs her hands.

“This is nice,” she says, looking around.

I nod and smile. Our mother called her Honey Bee. She read me stories when I was little. She said, “Don't ever let Mum see you cry.”

The waitress takes her drink order.

“Did you drive in?” I ask, though I had no knowledge that these words were going to come out of my mouth. I have a smile on my face like a game-show host. I want to slap myself.

“No. No, I took the commuter rail. Paul didn't want me driving. Supposed to get three to six inches tonight. I hope Kevin's flight lands.”

Maura has four kids. They have names and ages and she stays at home, having left a job in something or other at Fidelity. She used to go to church a lot. We talked about it once, a long time ago. She felt a connection. She used to go with my mother. Then the monsignor of her church was sentenced to prison for molesting dozens of young boys over the course of thirty years. Now she cleans obsessively. She loathes newspapers in the house, she told me. Her husband, Paul, is an engineer or a scientist or a programmer or a hedge-fund guy who invented a software program. He made a lot of money. They live in a house slightly larger than Finland.

“You look good,” I say, though this is a lie. She looks tired and stressed, older than I remember, a woman in deep need of yoga and a massage and a beach and sexual healing.

She rolls her eyes. “I look old. There's Eddie.” She waves toward the front of the restaurant and I look to see my oldest brother, the man who knows everything. I stand and shake his hand. He leans over for a perfunctory kiss on Maura's cheek, both of them turning away, skin barely touching. The waitress brings Maura's drink.

Eddie says, “Grey Goose rocks, olives, please.”

It is striking to me how much Eddie looks like our father, though I would never say that out loud. He would be insulted, as if that were a criticism, as if somehow he and not his DNA were at fault. Eddie is a real estate lawyer. Three kids, separated last I'd heard. I don't think he's looked either of us in the eye yet.

Maura sips her wine, puts it down. I smile at the salt shaker. Maura picks up her drink and sips again. Eddie looks around.

Maura says, “How are the kids, Eddie?”

Eddie nods to the table. “Good. Good.”

Check, please.

Eddie says, “Where's Kevin?”

Maura says, “On his way, I guess. If his flight landed.”

Or if he ever got on it in the first place. It is hard to say who took the worst from our father. Certainly not me. And he left Maura alone for the most part. It was Eddie or Kevin or my mother. My mother, though, could calm him sometimes. And Eddie was tough. Kevin . . .
Kevin was mostly just confused that his father would treat him like that, that his own father seemed to hate him. He applied only to schools on the West Coast after high school. He just wanted to get away. He studied graphic design, somehow got a job at Apple. Now he has his own firm. He lives with his boyfriend. I get a card from them at Christmas. He used to call me Finneus.