Chapter one

Chapter 1

To capture imaginations, I start with an image.

I can’t rely on clients to conjure my visions, so I weave telling words, set the stage, lead them in . . . then I show them. It might be a mock-up or storyboard or composite photo or even a video animatic―whatever it takes. If they like what they see, they imagine what that could become. Then we talk money, and if the budget’s big enough, I make images real. But it all starts with a concept; they have to envision it, and they must believe.

That’s why I show them.

So here we are climbing into one bodaciously fast speedboat, fully equipped with the next generation of tri-dimensional imaging―from below-surface sonar and thermal-sensor scanning to satellite mapping with course-route logic and a host of other applications. CEO Billy Sizemore and his company’s top marketing muckety-muck are mid-ship, strapping down their portly carcasses. The silver-maned codger climbing in next to me aft is my account-VP, Frank Dellman. I’ve spent a lot of agency money on this because I can’t count on these guys to imagine what I have in mind.

They’re here to see for themselves.

The professional boat-racing champ steps aboard, greets his passengers, powers up, and activates the digital Sizemore 4000. An impressive display holographs a miniature image of our boat docked at the pier, fish schooling below the surface, stumps and brush lurking in the depths, a moss-slick log bobbing across the cove, birds gliding high in the blue . . . well, you get the picture.

“This baby,” the champ says, “could top a hundred if we needed it―smooth, too, like a puck gliding on ice.” He pats the conn lovingly, an expert obviously in awe. “This’ll be a quick demo around those islands and back to the pier―just long enough to get a feel for the new Sizemore Wave-Slicer.”

And off we go!

It’s fast, and it’s fun, weaving around obstacles, the projection anticipating our course. We can feel the wind in our faces, warm sunshine on our backs, all while the product impresses us with cutting-edge engineering and technology.

Sizemore and his lieutenant have already embraced the novelty of my approach, now imagining hordes of potential customers taking my ride―I mean their ride.

Right on cue, Frank blurts an unabashed whoop, calculated approval for one unparalleled trek. Sizemore grins ear-to-ear. So does his minion. And so do I.

So far so good.

Then all hell breaks loose! There’s an explosion, a fireball on the far shore, and a man’s waving his arms, calling for help.

The pilot zooms right up alongside the bank. The man jumps on the bow, shouting about people trying to get him―Go! Go! Go!

And we’re out of there just as several more come running toward the shore, firing weapons―at us!

There’s another explosion, now the sound of a chopper powering up. Man, this Wave-Slicer is really moving fast!

The 4000 is flashing superimposed images, dot-line course recommendations, obstacle warnings, readouts and sidebars, data-this, data-that.

Islands are streaking by in a blur, that chopper coming after us.

Our passenger slumps to the deck, maybe hurt, barely holding on.

“We’ve got to reach the main pier!” our pilot shouts. “Sheriff patrol’s got a boat there!”

The chopper’s gaining on us, now firing shots into the water.

“Won’t make it―in time,” the man gasps. “Head for that cove―leave me in the woods―they can’t land there―you go for help―”

Pilot banks hard to the left. Wow!―hold on to your gotchies!

We zoom up a narrow inlet, thread more obstacles, head into the mouth of a creek, reverse hard, and glide alongside a low embankment―

“Keep yourselves strapped in!” Pilot warns us. He jumps out and pulls the wounded man ashore.

The chopper is coming in lower. What happened to my leisurely demo ride?!

Pfoom! Pfoom! More shots!

“Go!” the man shouts. “Get help!”

Pilot jumps on the bow, reaching across to paw at the 4000. A 3-D image of the channel appears. He touches a menu icon to select auto-pilot, then jams the throttle and holds on for dear life as the boat jumps back, turns by itself, and takes off.

Pfoom! Pfoom! The chopper’s after us again.

Wind-whipped and pressed into our seats, we zig-zag a perfect course to the main channel, hard reality matching the image we see in that projection.

We hit open water and zoom full-throttle, easily topping a hundred.

Still the chopper’s gaining on us―closer―closer!―but then we see the main pier, and our pursuers bank away, too late to stop us.

The 4000 flashes Return?

Pilot reaches over and swipes the Yes icon. We veer toward the pier, still at top speed.

Sizemore and the muckety-muck are freaking out by now, everybody holding on for dear life.

Pilot is shouting at us about this great state-of-the-art technology, boasting about product features while showing us the benefits. I’m not even a boat man, but I’m seriously impressed. The clients are eating it up. Praise be!

The Wave-Slicer throttles down and pulls up to the pier where a man ties us off. We unstrap and get up, wobbling on sea legs. A door appears from nowhere, so we step through . . .

And find ourselves back in the real world, surrounded by eager faces, standing in a grungy warehouse in an industrial stretch of Chicago’s South Lawndale.

“Give us the go-ahead to build thirty of these simulators,” I tell our breathless clients, “and we’ll truck them to every boat show in North America.” My virtual-ride guru is hovering nearby, shooing away his crafts-team so Frank and I can work the clients. Sizemore peers back into the nondescript box, amazed by how real it all seemed.

“Just about everybody I know is begging for a chance to come down and test out the new Sizemore adventure,” Frank says, nudging his clients. “Just think of the media attention this will draw, too.”

The marketing muckety-muck gushes, “Yes!―all that free publicity!―and the word-of-mouth―”

“Damn,” Sizemore says, “this could be big.” He grins, a far-off look in his eyes. He can almost see it now . . .

“It’ll attract teens and young adults, too,” Frank points out, “planting seeds of brand awareness for future Sizemore sales.”

Both clients are bobbing their heads, ready to dance a jig. They can see the possibilities, costs be damned.

Sizemore licks his lips. “You got good ideas for other Sizemore adventures?”

I’m smiling now, too. We’re a team. Vision is almost reality.

This one’s a done deal.

“Oh yeah,” I promise. “You can’t imagine.”

*               *               *

Talk about an adventure, try riding somewhere with Frank at the wheel. He’s a deft but quixotic driver, always on a mission, undaunted by hulking trucks, contemptuous of stop signs, amused by amber lights. He’s going to drop me at the studio on his way back to the agency.

“Score one more for the Frankster,” I say. “You are the man.”

“You’re the one puts on the freak shows,” he says, allowing a brief hint of smile. “It’s been a privilege playing your carny.”

I sure don’t like hearing him talk in the past tense. Two work days and a final three-week vacation before his 65th birthday, Frank is winding down a long career in the media biz, his last six years at Kehoe/Lundy where I’ve been a VP/creative director the past four. Frank’s the best, a dealmaker, an inside guy who knows the clients and their companies and their families, always making sure I have whatever I need to get the job done. His big send-off party is tomorrow night, and though I’ve been trying to act upbeat about it, I can’t imagine doing this job without him.

He turns on the radio to check for business news, but some jockey is bleating about last night’s controversial fatal accident in the “Mile-Square” community, a high-crime section of Chicago’s near west side. A guy who owns a small chain of drugstores allegedly hit a pre-teen girl near the El. The media’s already caught the scent of scandal, raising questions about why a wealthy white guy would be driving around this area late at night. Of course we get to hear the Reverend Falluson’s latest sound bites. He’s ranting about the baby-killer racist who has a history of taking from the community without giving anything back, now calling for a boycott of the man’s drugstores to send a message.

“Free airtime,” I grouse. I can’t stand that self�'righteous, self-styled community leader. Lately, he’s been making noises about running for office, showing up wherever there’s a camera, comforting the families of victims, preaching God’s politics from the pulpit.

“And TV will eat this story up,” Frank spits back. Neither of us has much respect for local news, both having played a small part in this base form of pandering earlier in our careers. It’s a world that hypes for sensation, each story’s importance ranked by how titillating the shots are, dragged out as long as there’s anything to show. Worst of all, it pretends to be respectable, even while running roughshod over presumably innocent people’s lives, flaunting so-called “team coverage” that ranges from silly to worse than tabloid.

“Alcohol may be involved,” the radio says.

“A giant catfish wearing lipstick and a Nehru jacket may be involved, too,” Frank interrupts, “but those aren’t facts telling the story.”

Sports scores are tumbling from the radio now.

“You looking forward to soaking up some rays?” I ask Frank. He bought a condo on Florida’s Sanibel Island where some of his old connects have retired, but he sure doesn’t act excited about the idea.

Looking distracted, maybe a bit frustrated, he even stops for an amber light. “I have unfinished business,” he says.

That sounds like Frank, the man with a full plate always anticipating another course, but lately he seems a bit worn out. It’s not that he suddenly looks older―those deep grooves lining his gaunt face aren’t new, nor is that bit of paunch earned by mastering the art of client wine-n-dine, and those trademark gray wool suits of his with striped burgundy/navy ties have been looking out-of-date for years―it’s that undousable fire deep inside, the one that’s always burned through the competition and deftly kindled every new job . . .

It’s guttering, and I think he’s afraid it might simply flicker out.

“You’re thirty-five years old,” he says, ignoring my question.

“That’s a real buzz-kill.”

“There’s more to life than a job, you know.” Only twenty-two when his wife died in childbirth, he’s thrown himself into work ever since, a lonesome man whose only family has been generations of business contacts and his cronies at the Chicago Athletic Club. “Marry her, Danté. Turn Cyn into Mrs. Roenik before it’s too late.”

“After she makes partner; that’s our deal,” I explain, surprised he’s broaching this subject again. “Young big-firm lawyers have to prove they can run a marathon before they’re put on the fast-track. We’ll get hitched someday, then maybe even foist a brat or two on the world.”

“Just remember,” he says, “―regrets suck.”

Business news is on now, so he turns it up. The lead story is about Battle Creek’s big drug-maker, The M�'Slovak Company, filing for FTC approval to merge with a Swiss firm and become one of the world’s biggest, instantly opening many European and Asian markets for American products.

“Still the only job I regret,” I tell him. We’d trained their sales reps in how to convince docs to switch their patients to Parzilac, encouraging bigger doses for longer periods, and for uses not approved by the FDA. I imagine it helps a lot of people, but M�'Slovak doesn’t want to shatter the illusion of complete safety by advocating better screening and closer monitoring, this despite dozens―maybe hundreds―of cases of unexplained violence. That job left us feeling like participants in a mass deception. M�'Slovak won’t even admit that Parzilac might be involved in one of their test subjects committing suicide the day I was scheduled to shoot her testimonial. Not related, they say.

“So do something about it,” he challenges.

“I did. I refused to do any more jobs for them.”

“So what? Sam’s group just picked up the slack.”

“Come on, Frank. Between satellite training, merchandising, and telemarketing, M�'Slovak’s a big Kehoe client.”

“Not anymore. As of this morning, they dropped us. It took me a long time to pull that off.”

“What’choo talkin’ ’bout, Willis?”

He glances over, puzzled. “I still don’t know what that means.”

“Lucy!” I try, my Cuban accent not particularly authentic. “Lucy, you got some ’splaining to do.”

Ignoring me, he turns in at Shoot & Die, an old tool & die shop converted to a production center with soundstages, edit suites, animation/effects, and space to grow. Yikes, he parks and shuts off the engine. I don’t want him coming in; Kristen’s shooting insurance pitches with Hal Neusome, but Frank doesn’t know they’re also doing a surprise video to show at his party, a humorous mock newscast announcing his retirement.

“I managed to kill the account with a bit of sabotage,” he finally says as we cross the lot, “―you know, unexplained problems, information slipped to our competitors, seeds of distrust planted here and there―that kind of stuff.”

“Well,” I say, not sure what to say. “Frank, you are the man.”

“I put you on a job that left blood on your hands―literally. I never respected you more than when you risked your career to step aside. I felt our whole agency should walk, too, but couldn’t muster the support.”

“Every time I see a Parzilac ad, I still wish I could nail M�'Slovak to the wall.”

“Me, too,” he admits, “but I was advised that could prove very dangerous, so I’ve been wimping out.”

“Dangerous?” I ask, holding the door for him.

He pauses mid-stride and sizes me up. “Very,” he says cryptically, continuing inside.

We greet the receptionist, a sharp guy who keeps track of everything. He picks up the phone as we walk by, so I know he’s warning Kristen that Frank has entered the building. Bird-dog one to bird-dog two: bogey’s in the field.

Instead of following me to the control room, Frank says he’ll head back toward the offices and make phone calls.

“You have a cell-phone in the car,” I point out.

“That’s a company phone,” is all he says, one secret agent to another, secret communications and all. Swallow the phone bill if you’re captured.

I find Kristen sitting in the control room watching veteran Chicago newsman Hal Neusome on a wall of monitors. She’s calling the shots while he shares advice with underwriters on how to sell our client’s life-insurance policies. “Two pages left,” she says, showing me the script. “I need you to check Frank’s visuals,” she adds, noticing I’m alone.

I have the still-store operator isolate a small monitor I can turn off quickly in case Frank walks in. There’s a Breaking Story graphic, a retirement banner, then shots of Frank that will go over Hal’s shoulder as he announces that a legend in the industry is toddling off to Florida for some quiet time. The pictures are all from the same photo, but altered variously so Frank’s trademark suit and tie are accessorized to show a rather, well, let’s call it historical career: caveman’s pelt, zoot suit vest, Nehru collar, hippie hair with peace medallion and roach clip, skinny tie, fat tie, cowboy hat, dreadlocks . . .

“Sam’s hiring in-house producers,” Kristen says after a cut. “He won’t be using freelancers anymore.”

Sam Cox is another Kehoe/Lundy creative director Kristen’s been counting on for occasional jobs. I’d like to keep her busy full-time, but I’ve always encouraged her to juggle other clients, too, in case something happens to me. “Are you applying?”

“Full-time working for Sam? I’d wind up in the loony bin,” she admits, “but I’m worried you might start dipping more and more into the in-house pool, too.”

“Then read my mind,” I advise. Normally she can, too, a creative director’s dream: tops at her job, loved by clients and crew, that rare performer who can capture my vision, a producer who can read my mind. “Am I thinking I’d ever let you get away?”

She just smiles and goes back to work. The rest of the visuals look good, especially the section where Hal will extol Frank’s many accolades: real shots of his industry awards, then old bowling trophies, mocked-up covers of Time and Adweek, Frank accepting a Tony, an Emmy, an Oscar, a merit badge from the Boy Scouts, several 4�'H cow ribbons, now his mugshot on America’s Most Wanted . . . and finally the closing shot, Frank in his gray-wool suit, sprawled on the beach, half-buried in sand piled on by little kids with plastic pails.

Right now it looks too much like a funeral shot, but I’m sure it’ll be a hoot at the party.

I sit back to watch Hal for a minute. He used to be a top-rated anchor until accusations started flying during his acrimonious divorce, followed by unexplained absences from his job, and finally a belligerent altercation with police during his drunk-driving arrest, the latest caught on video and broadcast by competing channels. After being fired, he dropped out of sight, then surfaced again following a stint in rehab. Now he’s doing a Sunday-night talkie on the local independent station, so far a bust in the ratings. He goes way back with Frank, and that’s enough for me to help the guy when I can.

“Hal wants to schmooze you,” Kristen says, wrapping the last shot. “We need to light the news set, so I’ll stall until Frank leaves.”

Kristen talks to the grips while I join Hal on the stage, walking him over to the snack area so a local legend like him won’t be humiliated having to pitch me for work in front of the crew.

“I’m not going to pitch you for work,” he says with a wry smile. He just did.

“You’re on the A�'list, Hal,” I assure him. Normally I like to banter with him, but I just approved the visuals for my mentor’s send-off video, and now one of his old friends is worried about being cut loose. It’s starting to hit me.

“I’ll count on that,” he says, clearly relieved. Hal’s a good-looking guy―especially in make-up―with chiseled features, a hint of distinguishing gray through his styled coif; but he’s in his low fifties now, that age where clients don’t want him delivering messages for the 18-49 demographic. He eyes some donuts wistfully, then asks, “Have you seen my new show?”

“A couple of times,” I admit. He’s fishing for feedback, and I know he wants the truth. “I grow bored watching talking heads, you know. I’d like to see more remotes and pre-produced segments, more visuals.”

“Me, too―but my director sucks.”

He’s right. I know the guy, and he sucks. “Then shape the format from your anchor chair, even call the rundown live on the air. Give it a behind-the-scenes feel. It’ll come off more honest, less rehearsed, and make viewers curious about what might happen next.”

Neusome’s got that look; he can see it now. I don’t have to draw him a picture. “This Sunday I’ve got the Reverend Falluson. We’re covering that hit & run.”

“You got anybody to speak for the drugstore guy?”

“No, the family’s mum. If he’s charged by then, there’ll be a cop or prosecutor wanting to give the police version, all while pretending they don’t want to talk to the media about an ongoing investigation.”

I shake my head. “I hate to see Falluson get another soapbox, spinning somebody’s misfortune for his own benefit.”

“So do I,” he admits, “but this is what I do.”

The receptionist pages me up front to meet Frank, who leads me outside where nobody can hear. “We have a two-o’clock with a potential new client, something about allergy test-strips.”

“Count me in, but shouldn’t you hand it off? I mean, tomorrow’s your last day.”

“You still want a shot at doing something about Parzilac?”

“Well, yeah. But―”

“Then we’ll start with allergy testing and see if that leads anywhere. Just remember, say the word and we’ll walk away.”

“What word, Frank? Nobody ever tells me the word.”

“Until then I’ll be back at the office reviewing accounts with Sam; he’s taking over some of my clients.”

“Let him read the files himself. You’re retiring.”

He looks away. “Sure, I’ve been trying to imagine myself lying on the beach . . .”

“Sounds like just what the doctor ordered,” I offer, upbeat, trying to envision him catching those rays.

He snorts his disapproval. “Can you really see me taking it easy?”

“That would be a sight.”

He shakes his head. “I just can’t picture it.”

Author's Note

formatting did not carry over from bookblock, apologies

Reviews

[Aravind]

An interesting start! Intrigues the reader quite well. I am really curious now.
This is my first review on this site, so I am keeping it simple. :D

Oh this didn't seem right " skinny tie, fat tie, cowboy hat, dreadlocks . . ." Skinny tie and fat tie? Did I read it wrong?

The ending could be better though. Are you ending it like that because it finishes the scene? I don't know what you are working towards in the next chapter, so I might be wrong. Don't take this too seriously.

Overall, awesome piece. I am looking forward to reading more!