“I don’t know why you’re not happy with what you’ve already accomplished,” Colleen said. “You’re only thirty-one and you’re already creative director. You should be content and do what you are good at: doing great ads.”
“Oh, come on!” Terese said. “You know we advertising people are never satisfied. Even if I make president I’ll probably start eyeing CEO.”
“I think you should cool it,” Colleen said. “You’re going to burn out before you’re thirty-five.”
“I’ll cool it when I’m president,” Terese said.
“Yeah, sure!” Colleen said.
Once in the studio Colleen directed her friend into the small separate room that was affectionately called the “arena.” This was where pitches were rehearsed. The name came from the arenas of ancient Rome where Christians were thrown to the lions. At Willow and Heath the Christians were the low-level creatives.
“You got a film?” Terese questioned. In the front of the room a screen had been pulled down over the chalkboards. At best she thought she’d be looking at sketchy storyboards.
“We threw together a ‘ripomatic,’ ” Colleen explained. A ripomatic was a roughly spliced together amalgam of previously shot video that had been “stolen” from other projects to give a sense of a commercial.
Terese was encouraged. She’d not expected video.
“Now I’m warning you, this is all very preliminary,” Colleen added.
“Save the disclaimers,” Terese said. “Run what you have.”
Colleen waved to one of her underlings. The lights dimmed and the video started. It ran for a hundred seconds. It depicted a darling four-year-old girl with a broken doll. Terese recognized the footage immediately. It was part of a spot they’d done the year before for a national toy chain to promote the company’s generous return policy. Colleen had cleverly made it appear as if the child were bringing the doll to the new National Health hospital. The tag line was “We cure anything anytime.”
As soon as the video stopped, the lights came on. For a few moments no one spoke. Finally Colleen broke the silence. “You don’t like it,” she said.
“It’s cute,” Terese admitted.
“The idea is to make the doll reflect different illnesses and injuries in different commercials,” Colleen said. “Of course, we’d have the child speak and extol the virtues of National Health in the video versions. In print we’d make sure the picture told the story.”
“The problem is it’s too cute,” Terese said. “Even if I think it has some merit, I’m sure the client won’t like it, since Helen via Robert would certainly trivialize it.”
“It’s the best that we’ve come up with so far,” Colleen said. “You’ll have to give us some direction. We need a creative brief from you; otherwise we’ll just keep wandering all over the conceptual landscape. Then there will be no chance to put anything together for next week.”
“We have to come up with something that sets National Health apart from AmeriCare even though we know they are equivalent. The challenge is finding that one idea,” Terese said.
Colleen motioned for her assistant to leave. Once she had, Colleen took a chair and put it in front of Terese’s. “We need more of your direct involvement,” she said.
Terese nodded. She knew Colleen was right, but Terese felt mentally paralyzed. “The problem is that it’s hard to think with this presidency situation hanging over me like the sword of Damocles.”
“I think you’ve got yourself in overdrive,” Colleen said. “You’re a ball of nerves.”
“So what else is new?” Terese said.
“When was the last time you went out for dinner and a few drinks?” Colleen said.
Terese laughed. “I haven’t had time for anything like that for months.”
“That’s my point,” Colleen said. “No wonder your creative juices aren’t flowing. You need to relax. Even if it’s just for a few hours.”
“You really think so?” Terese asked.
“Absolutely,” Colleen said. “In fact we’re going out tonight. We’ll go to dinner and we’ll have a few drinks. We’ll even try not to talk about advertising for one night.”
“I don’t know,” Terese voiced. “We’ve got this dead-line…”
“That’s exactly my point,” Colleen said. “We need to blow the tubes and clear out the cobwebs. Maybe then we’ll come up with that big idea. So don’t argue. I’m not taking no for an answer.”
8
Jack navigated his mountain bike between the two Health and Hospital Corporation mortuary vans parked at the receiving bay at the medical examiner’s office and rode directly into the morgue. Under normal circumstances he’d have dismounted by then and walked the bike, but he was in too good a mood.
Jack parked his bike by the Hart Island coffins, locked it up, then whistled on his way to the elevators. He waved to Sal D’Ambrosio as he passed the mortuary office.
“Chet, my boy, how are you?” Jack asked as he breezed into their shared fifth-floor office.
Chet laid his pen down on his desk and turned to face his officemate. “The world’s been in here looking for you. What have you been doing?”
“Indulging myself,” Jack said. He peeled off his leather jacket and draped it over the back of his desk chair before sitting down. He surveyed his row of files, deciding which one to attack first. His in-basket had a newly replenished pile of lab results and PA reports.
“I wouldn’t get too comfortable,” Chet said. “One of those looking for you was Bingham himself. He told me to tell you to come directly to his office.”
“How nice,” Jack said. “I was afraid he’d forgotten about me.”
“I wouldn’t be so flippant about it,” Chet said. “Bingham was not happy. And Calvin stopped by as well. He’d like to see you, too, and smoke was coming out of his ears.”
“Undoubtedly he’s eager to pay me my ten dollars,” Jack said. He got up from his desk and patted Chet on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about me. I have a strong survival instinct.”
“You could have fooled me,” Chet said.
As Jack descended in the elevator, he was curious how Bingham would handle the current situation. Since Jack had started working at the ME’s office, he’d had only sporadic contact with the chief. The day-to-day administrative problems were all handled by Calvin.
“You can go right in,” Mrs. Sanford said without even looking up from her typing. Jack wondered how she knew it was him.
“Close the door,” Dr. Harold Bingham commanded.
Jack did as he was told. Bingham’s office was spacious with a large desk set back under high windows covered with ancient venetian blinds. At the opposite end of the room was a library table with a teaching microscope. A glass-fronted bookcase lined the far wall.
“Sit down,” Bingham said.
Dutifully Jack sat.
“I’m not sure I understand you,” Bingham said in his deep, husky voice. “You apparently made a rather brilliant diagnosis of plague today and then foolishly took it upon yourself to call my boss, the Commissioner of Health. Either you are a completely apolitical creature or you have a self-destructive streak.”
“It’s probably a combination of the two,” Jack said.
“You’re also impertinent,” Bingham said.
“That’s part of the self-destructive streak,” Jack said. “On the positive side, I’m honest.” He smiled.
Bingham shook his head. Jack was testing his ability to control himself. “Just so I can try to understand,” he said as he entwined the fingers of his shovel-like hands, “did you not think that I would find it inappropriate for you to call the commissioner before talking with me?”
“Chet McGovern suggested as much,” Jack said. “But I was more concerned about getting the word out. Ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, especially if we’re looking at a potential epidemic.”