Truth in Advertising (28 page)

“No. Just thinking about it.”

A tidal wave of regret and fear sweeps over me. I have done it all wrong. I understand nothing. My stomach roils and my palms tingle and Phoebe is young and I imagine her life laid out before her. The real marriage this time. The one she wanted. With the right man. Fulfilling work, children, a home, me a distant memory. She'll run into Ian in a restaurant/airport/Grand Central. They'll talk, catch up. The older child will hold Phoebe's hand, the little one on her hip. Pretty dresses. They'll look like their mother. Ian will have left the agency years before, moved on, started his own design firm, gotten married in Massachusetts, spend August at his new place in Provincetown. Friends. Love. Joy. Fulfillment. And you, Phoebe? he'll ask. Three children, she'll say. A boy, the oldest, with his father, who we're on our way to meet. He's a former model turned yachtsman turned novelist. Just sold his second book to Hollywood. We live up on the Park at Seventy-ninth Street. Mostly we're at our place in Maine. Do you ever hear from Fin? she'll ask. Really? Cocaine? Wow. Without his pants? In a restaurant? Yikes. And still single? Still at that agency? Wow. That's . . . horribly sad and pathetic.

I say, “You were married once.”

It comes out more like an accusation than a statement. I didn't mean to say it out loud. The reaction is like a slap. She looks at me, trying to figure out how I know.

I say, “Christmas night. Looking through photo albums with your mother. It's not a big deal. I mean . . . it's none of my business.”

Phoebe says, “Yeah. I was married. What's your point?”

Her voice is cold. I've never heard her like that before. She looks down at her wine, smoothes the table, takes a sip, looks away.

I say, “I'm sorry. I didn't . . . I didn't mean to be rude.”

She looks up, stares at me unblinking for what feels like a long time, as if she's trying to decide something.

Phoebe says, “Our families knew each other. Had for years. We knew the same people, the same friends. It was comfortable. I thought I was in love.”

She hasn't taken her eyes from mine and I'm afraid to take mine from hers.

Phoebe says, “I got pregnant right away. It was a mistake. We weren't trying. That wasn't the plan. Not then, anyway. We were twenty-four. But he was so excited. Nate. That was his name. This was all he ever wanted. But I was . . . I was terrified. And I just thought, ‘Ohmigod. What have I done?' And then, right before I was three months pregnant, I lost the baby. And ya know. That word . . .
miscarriage
 . . . I used to think, ‘Oh, how awful,' of course. But it didn't have real meaning to me before. Then you think you're going to have a baby, even if you aren't ready or are scared shitless, so when they . . . when they die . . . you change. You change a little.”

She drinks her water.

She says, “We went on for a bit, but he knew something was wrong. He took me on vacation. St. John. He thought it would cheer me up. That's when I said I wanted a divorce. He fell apart. It was ugly. His family was angry. It was fucking horrible.”

She takes a long drink from her wine.

“When it was done, I left for Paris. The Frenchman was perfect. He treated me like shit, which felt pretty good at the time.”

I say, “I'm sorry.”

Phoebe says, “It's late. Maybe let's call it a night.”

There's so much more I want to say but I can't seem to find the words.

•   •   •

We walk to the corner of Houston and Sullivan. The wind blows in gusts, cuts through your clothes. Phoebe has on one of those Russian hats, all fake fur and flaps. No one's out. She puts her arm up and a cab cuts over two lanes and pulls to the sidewalk. The driver is talking
animatedly on a Bluetooth and picking his nose. I open the door to the cab, smiling, lean over and give her a half hug, say, “Thank you for coming out tonight. I really needed it and your friendship means the world to me.” Close the door, watch the cab drive away, walk home, secure in the knowledge that while my father is dead and his ashes will be taken care of, I have good friends who care about me and I them.

But that's not what I do. That's not what happens.

She puts her arm up and a cab cuts over two lanes and pulls to the sidewalk. The driver is talking animatedly on a Bluetooth and picking his nose. She turns to give me a half hug and I lean in too fast, misjudging the distance, thinking she was farther away, and kiss her on the mouth, hard, awkward, horrible, getting part of her cheek along with lips and somehow smelling my own breath, a steamy potpourri of hen, wine, and airplane.

“Ow!” Phoebe says, covering her mouth, pulling away.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

I put a gloved hand to my lip, thinking I may be bleeding.

She puts a hand to her forehead, confused, annoyed, and takes a deep breath.

I say, “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

“Fin. You should go home.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. Just . . . it's late.”

T
here is a plaque above the entrance to our office building, the names Lauderbeck, Kline & Vanderhosen writ large in crisp Futura. There was a time when it thrilled me to see those words, to walk under them and into this place. The year I started, the agency had been voted Agency of the Year by one of the trade publications. Like most institutions when viewed from the outside—other people's families, other careers—it appeared to be a wonderful place.

Now I am simply part of the crowd that daily streams in through the revolving doors, shows their ID, waits for one of six elevators, quick fake smile, nods, reads the paper, stares at the coffee cup, the feet, sniffles, listens to the iPod, presses the elevator button over and over and over.

The days meld together. Moments of lightness, of meetings, walks down a hallway and nods and smiles to coworkers of five years, eight years. Wasn't I taking this exact shower at this exact time yesterday morning? Or was it a week ago? What day is it? The subway and the coffee cart and the gym, the copier, the men's room, the cafeteria, the void of time lost. We settle into a life. Maybe we made this life or maybe it simply happened. People get promoted. They get married. They have children. She's how old now? Holy cow. Where does the time go? They leave for another company. They come back three years later. They get divorced. They move to a larger home. They take a trip to Africa. They have chemo. They have an affair. They lose a parent. They find their way, are blessed with good fortune, win the club doubles tournament. They travel to Detroit for business. They
drive through an intersection, are hit by a drunk driver, live in a nursing home the rest of their days. I don't know where time goes. This seems like a good tagline for something.

The holiday party starts at 10:00
A.M.
and the office is dead, people taking the morning off.

The paper says the war in Iraq is not going well.

The paper says the war in Afghanistan is not going well.

The paper says the man whose ex-wife cut off his penis years ago and threw it out of a car window is in talks with Fox to start his own reality TV show called
How Bad Is
Your
Ex?

I stand and look out the window, watch as two men unload sacks of what looks like flour. Each time one of the bags hits the two-wheeled cart, a puff of white mist comes out of the corner of the bag. The job seems appealing from this distance. They wear work boots and heavy cloth jackets and there is physical labor involved. They're talking and laughing as they do it. Has one of them told the other a filthy joke, using words like
tits
or
pussy
? Is that snobbish of me? How the hell do I know who they really are? Maybe both are trying to get their master's in writing at Columbia. Maybe one just told the other the story of Sisyphus, of rolling the rock up the hill, only to have it fall down and start again, how it's a metaphor for life, for work. Are they classical scholars, Larry Darrell–like from W. Somerset Maugham's
The Razor's Edge
? Seekers of truth, of God in the everyday, the every detail? A woman in a formfitting skirt walks by and I see one of them mouth something. The woman turns and gives them the finger. The men laugh.

Smash cut to opening credits of
Oprah
. Camera dollies in over the heads of applauding audience members. Cut to Oprah, clapping (for herself?).

Oprah says, “Finbar Dolan. My last show and there was only one guest I wanted and that was you.”

“Thank you, Oprah.”

Oprah says, “Wouldn't commercials be funnier if you were allowed to swear?”

“Absolutely.”

“If every spot were like something on HBO.”

“Volvo. Drive fucking safely.”

The audience laughs.

I say, “And brought to you by McDonald's. I'm fucking loving it.”

Oprah laughs. “Hahahahaha!”

I laugh and jump up and down like Tom Cruise. The audience is hysterical, applauding. Oprah's laughing.

Oprah says, “You're awesome.”

I say, “No, you're awesome.”

The audience applauds both of us and our awesomeness.

Oprah says, “Why aren't you more famous, more successful?”

“I don't know. I don't know what others are missing.”

“Your father was a police officer.”

“Yes.”

“He went into harm's way to protect people. He stood between us and danger.”

“Yes.”

“And yet you . . . you do nothing for others.”

“No.”

“Do you volunteer?”

“No.”

“Do you give money away?”

“Once in a while but not much.”

“Do you give blood?”

“God, no. Can't stand needles.” I laugh and turn to the audience, but it's an entirely different audience of somber, disappointed people who loathe me.

Oprah says, “What do you do for others?”

I say, “What do you mean?”

“Your father was a volunteer during World War Two, saw combat, sat in the pitch black for hours with a dead man on him. Yet you can't even bring yourself to honor a dying man's request.”

“You have no idea what you're talking about. He hit my brothers. He left my mother.”

“Your mother had an affair.”

“No.”

“Your mother had sex with someone who wasn't her husband.”

“Shut your goddamned mouth.”

Oprah says, “It's your a-ha moment.”

“It's not true.”

“Why do you lie?”

“Why do you put yourself on the cover of every issue of your magazine?”

“We're talking about you.”

I say, “I've never watched your show.”

“You even lie to yourself. You're like one of those birds that skim across the water, looking barely below the surface, unable to engage in anything lasting or meaningful.”

I say, “Let's go to a commercial.”

•   •   •

Keita is standing at my door.

He says, “Fin. I am so sorry for you.”

It's begun to rain outside and though it's still early, dark clouds make it seem like dusk.

“Keita,” I say. “Thank you. And thank you for your very kind message last night.” It's only then that I notice his expression. “Is something wrong?”

“Fin. Have I offended you?”

“Offended? No. God, no. Why?”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Absolutely not. Why? What happened?”

“My father's office call me. I must go back. I am told I am impeding business.”

“What? No. There's very little business that happens here to begin with.”

“I wanted to see the TV commercial. Go to Hollywood.”

The math comes slowly to me, but when it does, it's clear. Someone called. Frank, Martin, Dodge. Most likely Frank. He'd push a Girl Scout down to win a race. I would prefer that Keita fly home, truth be told. I'm deeply tired and don't feel like babysitting. But there's something about his expression, the wounded, childlike look
that says he simply wants to belong, that somehow opens a small empathic window. He's also wearing suede Converse All Stars with his dark suit, a nod to this morning's party, perhaps. I say, “Then come to the shoot with me. Please. As my guest. Put me on the phone with your father.”

A wide-eyed grin. “You would do this?”

“Absolutely. We're buds, right?”

I've strayed too far into jargon.

I say, “Buddies. Friends.”

He likes this word. “Buddies. Yes. Buddies. Okay.”

He pulls up a chair next to mine and we sit uncomfortably close as Keita dials his Vertu cell phone (base price, $4,000) and speaks Japanese, his personality changing, his voice rising, his tone more severe. He waits, puts his hand over the phone. “One of his three assistants. She does not like me. Fin. Your father. He is better?”

Maybe all conversations should take place from a few inches away, where you are almost touching the other person, where you are looking each other in the eye. Perhaps there would be less lying.

“No,” I say. “He died.”

Keita puts his hand to his head. It's the hand that's holding the phone and his forehead hits the speaker button. I know this because I hear someone speaking in Japanese on the other end of the phone.

Keita ignores it. “Buddy,” Keita says to me, putting his other hand on my shoulder. There is something about his pain, the gesture, that moves me to the point where I find a hitch in my throat. The voice speaking Japanese becomes louder, angrier.

Keita whispers, “My father,” and rolls his eyes.

Keita takes the phone off speaker and talks to his father in Japanese. I hear his father respond, watch Keita's bad-dog expression. I understand it all too well. Anger sweeps over me, a kind of chemical response that surprises me. Keita hands me the phone and I lie my face off to Keita's father, telling him that we need Keita for the shoot, that he provided valuable input during the early stages of the creative process and during the internal review and that the client met him and
asked for him to be there. And that we know he's needed in Japan but he's needed here as well. Keita's round face smiling the entire time. And who knows. It never hurts to have a billionaire around.