Truth in Advertising

PREPARE FOR DEPARTURE


Welcome to Lazy Weasel,” the twenty-five-year-old receptionist says. She may or may not also be a heroin addict from her appearance. Lazy Weasel is not a saloon in Wyoming but rather an editorial company on the sixth floor of an old building that once housed a printer’s shop, south of Grand Street.

The receptionist leads me back to a large, dimly lit room.

I checked my messages on the way in from the airport. Four from Martin and three from Emma. None of them sounded like they wanted to give me a raise or a promotion.

Ian and Pam stand and greet me with a hug.

Pam says, “You look like ass. You okay?” Pam-speak for I care about you.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Good. Settle in, relax, get your bearings. Take your time. You have five seconds.”

“What happened?” I ask.

Ian says, “My advice would have been to stay in Hawaii. Martin’s been looking for you. Not in a good way.”

I say, “I’ll talk with him.”

Ian says, “You could do worse than tell him the truth.”

Pam and Ian have the pasty, red-eyed, fatigued look that comes from having sat in a darkened editorial room, looking at footage for the past forty-eight hours.

Pam gestures to the man in the chair at the control board. “Biz, say hello to Fin Dolan, Ian’s partner.”

Biz is famous. Biz is cool. Biz has guitars in his office. He plays in a band. He has tattoos. Biz edits the famous commercials and also one movie with Brad Pitt. Biz was the top editor at Foolish Braggart in New York (also an editorial company) before parting ways with his business partner (and taking the business partner’s wife) and starting Lazy Weasel. He has the laid-back demeanor of a rock star. We were lucky he agreed to do this.

“Fiiiiiiiiiin,” Biz says in a way that suggests that he’s stoned or recently ingested five Tylenol PMs. “Heeeeeey, maaaaan,” he says as he hugs me.

Biz’s head is shaved and he sports a beard that would give a grizzly bear an inferiority complex.

I say, “Hey, Biz. Thanks so much for doing this.”

“Pleasure, man.”

“How’s it looking?”

“Well. Ya know. Work in progress.”

After each shoot day in Los Angeles, the day’s film was processed and sent to Biz. He then went through every minute of it, choosing the best takes, building our commercial. Biz’s languid speech stands in direct contrast to his editing speed. He already has several cuts to look at. Ian and Pam have been going over the cuts, looking for additional takes. The editing process can be a pleasant experience if the footage is right and enough time is built into the schedule. It can also be a maze of confusion, trying to figure out which minutely different take is better. Much of it is about trying to convince yourself how good it is. At this I excel.

Ian says, “You want the good news or the bad news first?”

“Good.”

Ian says, “Scott and I are going to Paris in the spring.”

“Is that good news for me?”

“No. But it’s good news for me.”

“What’s the bad news?” I ask.

“Client’s coming into the agency tomorrow. They want to see a cut.”

“How is that possible? We’re supposed to have three more days.”

Ian says, “Jan said something about the CEO. He wants to see it.”

I say, “I wanted to go home. I wanted to unpack, unwind, bathe, sleep for twelve hours.”

The receptionist brings in a bottle of wine and three wineglasses.

Pam pours and says, “You can do all of it except unpack, unwind, bathe, and sleep. Settle in. It’s going to be a long night.”

• • •

Throughout the evening we post cuts for Martin. He reviews them and calls in changes.

He asks to speak to me.

“Martin,” I say. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”

“We need to talk. Tomorrow. After the meeting.”

He hangs up.

• • •

Most people have no idea how hard it is to create something good on film. Why would they? Easier to sit in front of your TV or in a movie theater and critique. You imagine it, write, rewrite it, plan it, see it, cast it, shoot it, reshoot it, edit it, re-edit it. You colorize it, find the right music, mix the sound. Months of work under normal circumstances. And yet most times, for most commercials—indeed, most movies—the result is simply . . . okay. But it’s not great.

But somehow, something remarkable has happened with our spot. It’s certainly not the writing. It’s Flonz Kemp and his babies. It’s Biz and his pacing: tight cuts, followed by unexpected long shots, followed by super close-ups of the babies looking at the screen, the mom hurling the diaper. He’s found the perfect balance between serious and absurd. It’s not terrible. In fact, it may be the best thing Ian and I have ever done. The sad thing is we’re not quite sure how. We look at one another, Ian, Pam, and I. Perhaps it’s the fatigue. But we’re surprised that it works. Even Biz gives it his blessing.

“I have to be honest, my dudes. No offense, but when I saw the storyboard for this I thought, ‘Oh, shit. Gotta pass on this job.’ But it’s awright.”

We post a final cut for Martin a little after 3 A.M. He responds two minutes later. Like it. Show this tomorrow. Nicely done.

We go to shake hands, but Biz is a hugger. We tell him we’ll call him tomorrow after the meeting.

• • •

Ian and I put Pam in a cab, then walk for a block or two. It’s closing in on 4 A.M. Pent-up energy from sitting. Too tired to sleep just yet. We walk down Grand, right on West Broadway. Past John Varvatos and James Perse, the Hästens store selling $50,000 mattresses, the Maserati dealership, the shops selling artisanal jams, past the adorable bakeries, purveyors of eight-dollar cupcakes. I stop in front of the Ralph Lauren Double RL, not sure I even understand the name of the store. In the window are vintage-looking clothes from the 1940s, a mix of industrial worker and military. Chinos and old boots and rucksacks. There’s an attaché case with the seal of the United States Navy and it looks like it might be the real deal and it’s $595. There’s a Navy Watchman’s Cap for $145. I don’t know if the cap is vintage or not. I don’t know if a sailor in World War II wore it. I don’t know if it was taken from his dead head by Ralph’s grandfather, who thought, Now this is a cap. With this my son will start the definitive empire of all-American, blue-blood WASP clothing and style, despite the fact that we’re Jews from the Bronx named Lifshitz.

Branding. Myth. What would my father make of this? Of a wool hat, made for pennies by the thousands, probably in China by fourteen-year-olds, once worn by nineteen-year-olds who would have done anything not to wear it, not to be on night watch on a sub or a battleship, freezing their asses off, thinking God-knows-what; now here in SoHo selling for more than he made in a month? Would he be able to wrap his head around it? Would my mother? Why are there no protests in front of this store? Why aren’t people smashing the windows and burning the bullshit merchandise that’s cashing in on a time of depression and war and sacrifice and poverty and death? Where is the mention, Ralphie boy, of that less fashionable part of the story? Of the sixty million dead from World War II. More than 2.5 percent of the world’s population. Almost half a million in this country. Where is the copy on the ad with the beautiful people in the manor house with the horses reminding us that of all U.S. World War II battle casualties, the Navy lost one in 118, the Army one in 44, the Marines one in 36, but submarines . . . submarines lost one in five. Dutch Harbor, Attu, Pearl Harbor, Midway, Admiralty Island, Brisbane, Sydney, Biak, Espiritu Santo. Where is the story of Ralph Thomsen dying in my father’s arms, of the effect that had on a seventeen-year-old? Where is the story of what it is like to think you are going to die in the dark in a submarine, deep below the surface, with a dead friend on your lap? Brand that, my fashionable friend. Call it the “One-in-Five” campaign.

Ian says, “What?”

I turn and look at him. He’s looking at me strangely. “What?” I ask.

Ian says, “You said ‘one in five.’”

“I did?”

“That’s not scary at all.”

“I need to sleep.”

“You okay? The thing. The ashes. It went okay?”

I nod. He looks at me, trying to make sure.

Ian says, “Okay, then. See you in . . . six hours.”

• • •

I sleep for a few hours, then shower, shave, pick out a decent shirt, a sports coat. The meeting is a big deal. I stop for coffees for Ian and Pam and myself.

The agency is buzzing, post-holiday work. Phoebe’s empty desk throws me. All gone, no photos, nothing. Pam is in Ian’s office. She’s wearing a black skirt, black boots, white shirt, and black sweater. Ian, of course, looks like he’s ready for an Armani shoot.

I hand them the coffees. I say to Pam, “You look pretty.”

Pam says, “Shut up.”

I say, “Ian, you look pretty.”

Ian says, “I feel pretty.”

We walk to the main conference room. Someone has ordered catering, a large breakfast spread. The room’s been neatened up, agency stationery and pens at each seat. Pam sets up the computer and brings up the spot on the screen at the front of the room, tests the audio levels.

Jill comes in. “Hi, guys!”

Ian says, “How are you, Jilly?”

She says, “I hear the spot is brilliant.”

I say, “Who told you?”

She says, “Well . . . no one. I was just assuming.”

Ian says, “Where’s Alan?”

Jill says, “On a call.”

Paulie and Stefano come in.

Stefano says, “Signore Dolan. Come sta?”

We shake hands. Stefano says, “We heard there was food.”

Jill says, “You guys, seriously, this is for the meeting. You can’t touch it.”

Stefano pours coffee and Paulie makes a bagel.

Paulie says, “They won’t even know it’s gone, Jill. We were never here.”

Malcolm and Raj come in. Malcolm says, “We heard there was food.”

Jill says, “You guys!”

Pam has the spot cued up. I turn and say to the guys, “Take a look.” Pam hits play.

We watch it play through once. Pam plays it again before anyone says anything.

When it finishes Paulie says, “Nice. Really nice, you guys.”

Stefano says, “I must say I am surprised. It’s not terrible.”

Rajit is shaking his head “no” but that’s a good sign as he’s Indian.

Malcolm says, “Well done.” He pours himself some coffee and makes a bagel.

Jill says, “You’re messing up the lox.” Her phone rings. We watch her answer it. We watch her listen and hang up.

She says, “They want us in Martin’s.”

• • •

Alan is sitting in Martin’s office when we arrive. Emma says to go right in. Frank is standing at the window, his back to us, but the sky is a gunmetal gray and with the lights on in the office we can see his reflection and his thumb plumbing for something deep in one nostril.

You can tell by the way they look at us, by their stillness.

Martin says, “Have a seat.”

Alan says, “Hey, guys.”

Martin says, “Bad news, I’m afraid. Spot’s dead. Alan’s just had a call from Jan, our trusted friend at Snugglies. Alan. Why don’t you share her thoughts.”

I look at Ian, he at me. Pam stares straight ahead.

Alan says, “Their legal department is worried about the claims they’re making for the diaper. There’s new research. It basically doesn’t work. So it’s dead.”

They keep saying “dead.” But it’s not dead. It’s just not alive. It’s a project for a diaper and diapers don’t die, especially Snugglies Planet Changers. My mother is dead. My father is dead. The project just isn’t happening anymore. There’s a difference. Words matter. A day that will live in world history . . . in infamy.

Alan says, “We were able to unload the media slot, which was $3.2 million. Sold it to Skippy. First time for a peanut butter on the Super Bowl. So that’s good.”

They seem to be waiting for one of the three of us to say something. But none of us says anything. Perhaps it’s the windowless editing room we’ve spent the night in, the January darkness, the jet lag, the missed holiday vacations, the waste of time.

And then Frank turns, Cheshire-cat grin, and says, “Tell them the good news.”

Martin says, “We’ve been . . .”

But Frank cuts him off, school-boy excited. “We’ve been invited to pitch Petroleon. Just us and Saatchi, and we know they hate Saatchi. Ours for the taking. Massive billings, Fortune top ten company. The pitch is next week.”

Jill says, “We’re briefing tomorrow.”

Ian says, “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

Frank says, “There are no Saturdays anymore. Every day is Monday.” He laughs, but he’s not kidding.

I look at Martin, who’s slowly massaging his temples. I look at Jill, who’s furiously texting on her BlackBerry. Alan looks like a man waiting for a bus. I’m waiting for someone to say something, to laugh, to scream, to set the room on fire.

Frank says, “There are other teams, of course, not just you. But this could be a career-maker. You could make your mark with this one.”

It’s a warm feeling that comes over me, the kind you experience in the moments before sleep, a lovely calm. But right behind it is a line of cocaine. I’m suddenly shaky and the words fall out before I’ve had time to think about them.

“My mark?” I say. “My mark?” I’m chuckling, but not in a happy-funny way. I also want to say more than “My mark” but don’t quite know how.

Frank looks confused.

“My mark?” I say again. My eyes go wide. “Oh! I know! It’ll be the thing I have carved on my tombstone! That’s what you mean by mark. You mean like a life’s work, like Mother Teresa of Calcutta or Gandhi or Neil Armstrong. You mean the thing I will be known for, the thing that people on the streets or in airports stop me about, recognize me for. They’ll say, ‘You’re the guy who won Petroleon, aren’t you? You did that campaign that made that big, repulsive oil company look good.’ Wait. I know! I could have my mark tattooed on my body; on my ass, my balls. I could have it tattooed on my scrotum. Better yet, I could have one of my balls removed, have my mark etched on it, have it bronzed, put in Lucite, and put it on my desk. People would come into my office and say, ‘Ohmigod! Is that one of your balls?!’ And I’d say, ‘No. That’s my mark.’ Is that what you mean, Frank, you clueless, soulless douchebag?!”

Jill’s mouth is open, her fingers frozen in mid-text. Alan looks like a wax version of himself. Frank has a look that suggests I’ve been speaking French. It’s Martin who has the slightest hint of something that suggests pleasure.

Pam breaks the silence. “Dolan, I would f*ck you right now.” She laughs and walks out.

I stand and walk out and hear Frank say to Martin, “Wait. Was he talking to me?”

• • •

Ian and Pam come by my office.

Ian says, “Well, that was interesting.”

I say, “Did I just quit?”

Pam says, “Quit isn’t the right word. But I think you went a long way toward getting yourself fired.”

Ian nods. “I’ll quit, too. A symbol of my loyalty. We’re a team. We’ll freelance. Even though there is no freelance. Or we’ll get great jobs at another agency. Even though there are no jobs anywhere. Maybe I won’t quit. You’re on your own. I wish you the best.”

Pam stands. “I’ve got shit to do. But one of you is buying me dinner.”

Ian says, “Raoul’s. Seven tonight. On Fin.”

• • •

I leave the office and go for a walk. I watch the skaters at Bryant Park. Are they tourists? New Yorkers taking the day off? They seem happy, skating on a Friday in the middle of the day. I walk across Forty-second Street and take a left on Fifth, make my way over to Grand Central. I go for a walk inside, I stand on the stairs and watch the crowds hustle through. Most walk while looking at their phones. Some wait by the information booth, by the famous clock. I watch them wait, watch as they look around, look at the ceiling. I watch as their friends or coworkers or ex-wife or brother-in-law arrives and says their name. I watch their faces change as they look up and see another human being they know. Watch their faces soften and animate. I watch a woman with a scarf on her head. It’s not fashion, this scarf. It’s something else. She is thin, pale. After a time I see another woman approach. They look to be about the same age, same height, similar features. They could be friends, but I get the sense that they are sisters. They hug and the woman wearing the scarf lays her head on the other woman’s shoulder, the other woman gently holding her scarved head. They stand there like this for some time. I have to look away. It is too much. It is the opposite of quiet desperation. It is connection.

I keep walking.

On Fifty-second near Lex I pass an open garage. Men pull shiny silver carts out onto the street. BEST COFFEE it says on some. The wind picks up. Farther north I pass a homeless woman pushing a baby carriage with two dachshunds in it.

Up Madison Avenue to Sixty-fifth and then over to the park. I walk down the stairs, and sit on a bench in front of the zoo.

I have worked in the same office, in the same building, noticing the same stains on the carpet, using the same bathroom, with the same people, talking about the same things, for eight years of my life. And yet I remember next to nothing of the detail of that time. Eight years. That’s 2,922 days. I recall a handful. Why is that? Why do we forget so much of our life? Of the morning shower and the subway ride, the coffee cart and the meetings, the slow, steady slippage of time? And as you’re going through the motions, picking up a few things at the market on the way home, unlocking the mailbox door, pulling on the refrigerator door that sticks, you wonder, Wasn’t it just last night/last week/last year/five years ago that I did this very thing, felt this very same way?

It’s cold but sunny, and when the wind dies down it’s pleasant to sit on a bench in the sun. I could fall asleep. I could sit here all day. I close my eyes, play the film. I play it slowly, watch every detail. I don’t try to push it from my mind this time. I don’t try to rewrite it. I don’t wince. I welcome the pain, a man who doesn’t put his arms out as he’s falling. I don’t watch the boy this time. I watch me follow her on my bike. I watch the car speed up, turn sharply, rocket up over the curb, and hit the tree. I hear the noise, the sharp, fast crack. Time stops. Waits. I watch as I ride through traffic, watch, out of the corner of my eye, the car that had to skid to keep from hitting me. Watch as I run to the driver’s-side door, try to open it. Watch as I stick my head in the opening of the shattered glass. Watch as I say . . . no . . . as I screamed Mum, Mum, Mum! Watch as I pull my head out fast, the small cut, the drops of blood, the woman with her hands over her mouth and nose. The cars stopping. The men running. The sirens. I wait for reality to begin again. But it is already far ahead of me. It’s not all right. I won’t beat her home.

I open my eyes and see a black woman pushing an older man in a wheelchair. He smiles at me. A toddler waddles past, looking like he will fall with every step, his mother a step behind him, arms wide, just in case. Two teenagers, maybe sixteen, a boy and a girl, sit a bench away, talking closely, making out.

This is it, then. Right here. This moment.

Let me go, Finny. Let us go.

I call Phoebe. She lives across the park, on the Upper West Side.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi.”

“You’re back.”

“I’m back.”

“How’s the spot?”

“Have you ever been to the petting zoo?”

“What?”

“The petting zoo. In the park. They have a petting zoo. You can feed the animals. I was wondering, if you’re not doing anything, if you wanted to go to the zoo.”

“It’s thirty-nine degrees outside.”

“Wear a warm coat.”

She meets me at the entrance to the children’s zoo and we feed quarters into a gumball machine that dispenses pellet food for goats. If you lay your hand flat, the goats lick the pellet off your hand. There’s also a Purell dispenser.

We look at the pigs, the llama, the cow. The goats are the only ones that seem happy.

We leave and walk through the park, wander past frozen ball fields, bundled joggers. I tell her about the meeting, about blowing up. I tell her they’ll probably fire me later today, when I go back. Near the Great Lawn there’s a café and I buy two coffees. We keep walking.

“What are you going to do?” she asks.

“No idea.”

“Does Martin know? About your father?”

I say, “No.”

She nods.

“You seem okay,” she says.

“Could be sleep deprivation. I’ll probably wake up in a massive panic attack tonight. I’ve got enough money to live for about a year. If I move to Angola.”

“Why are you smiling?”

“I don’t know. I feel good.”

She nods.

I say, “I’m sorry.”

“You already apologized.”

“I know. But I’m sorry.”

“You scared me.”

“I know.”

Clouds have moved in and covered the sun. It’s getting colder.

Phoebe says, “Anyway. I think I’m going to head back now.”

I say, “Do you want to come on vacation with me?”

“Fin.”

“We could go someplace.”

She looks at me.

She says, “Give me a reason.”

I say, “Because I’ve got these two tickets. These two first-class tickets.”

“Not good enough.”

Two kids on skateboards go by. On the road, a hansom carriage pulled by a sad old horse clops along. I take a deep breath. It’s not that I don’t have the words. I do. I’ve had them for a long time. I just couldn’t quite bring myself to say them.

Finally I say, “Because there’s only you. Because I want to make you happy. Because I want to show you that I’m worthy of you.”

I’m looking at a tree and Phoebe is looking at me. I look at her now.

Phoebe, her voice different, says, “Why couldn’t you have just said that in the first place?”

I step closer and take my glove off and put my hand on her face, her cheek. I lean in farther, put my face against hers.

I say, “I thought you knew.”

• • •

Time to get fired.

I walk back into the office, going through the revolving doors as others are leaving. I need my bag. There is a FedEx package on my desk. I am instantly unnerved. I open it and inside there is a small box and a note.

Fin. Time is what you make of it. I hope what I mean is coming out with my words. Also, I bought one for myself so we both have the same one. Like brothers. Your tomodachi. Keita.

Inside the box is a Rolex Submariner watch.

• • •

The office is quiet. I grab my bag and leave. I step off the elevator and walk through the lobby. Martin is on his cell phone. He ends the call and looks at me for what feels like a long time.

He says, “There are four hours every lunar cycle when I am not an egotistical, heartless jackass. You happen to be catching me on the last hour. So I’m going to ask you this once, and only once, and, no matter what your answer, I’m then going to walk out of this building, get into a new Jaguar XJ, drive to Per Se, have dinner with a twenty-eight-year-old woman of mind-altering beauty, and, by my second sake, forget you exist. Do you want this job?”

Yes. No. I don’t know. I don’t know the answer. I do know I wish I’d studied harder in college. I wish I had a calling. I wish I was remarkably good at one thing. Just one thing that I could point to and say, “I am superb at this. I know this.” Badminton. The violin. Carpentry. Organic farming. Litigation. Geology. Animal husbandry. The Hula-Hoop. Something. But I am not good at anything. And the little voice reminds me of that every chance he gets. “Hey, Gary. Gary? You suck.” And always, for so long, I have believed him. It’s habit. It’s easier. There are times in my life when I look for experiences I can be proud of, things that might define me: the winning goal senior year, the acceptance letter from Harvard, the big account win, the wedding, the house, the first-born, the good father, the good husband, the good brother, volunteering at the hospice, jumping onto the tracks to rescue the fainting victim as the subway car pulls in. The stories of a life well lived. Little monuments we all need to sustain us during those long stretches where nothing quite so memorable occurs, when life simply passes by. I scan my memory for something to hold on to. I can find almost nothing. And then I think of the ashes. Hey, little voice. F*ck you. I did that.

I say, “Is it enough? What we do?”

Martin stares for a time. “No. It’s not enough. Relative to a trauma surgeon or special ed teacher or UN AIDS worker in Uganda, no. It’s not nearly enough. But I’m not any of those things. And I’m okay with that. I like what I do. I think what we do has value. Good companies matter to people. Their products matter to people. Do they make a difference in their lives? Probably not. But it does matter. By the way, in the time I’ve been here, this agency has worked on campaigns to get teenagers to stop smoking, bring inner-city children to camp for the summer, a battered women’s shelter in Queens, and the New York chapter of the American Red Cross. For free. And we’ve changed people’s lives as a result. I think that’s a pretty good way to make a living.”

I’m waiting for him to fire me, waiting to be humiliated because I do not understand basic things sometimes.

“Do you know how many portfolios we receive each day? Copywriters, art directors, people who want to make their living here? And yet here I stand with you, a person who wants to throw a good job away. I mean, if I could show you a photo of the woman I’m dining with . . . and yet here I stand. Why? It’s rhetorical, so don’t try to answer. I stand here because although I have thought about firing you many times with great relish, I don’t. I don’t because I think you could be good. But you have to want it. People like you, Fin. That’s not a small thing in this business. You want to hug me now, I know. I have that effect on people.”

Then he says, “I’m sorry about your father. And although it’s none of my business, I was very sorry to hear what happened to your mother. I know it was a long time ago but . . .”

I feel myself color, feel instantly uncomfortable.

Martin says, “I had an older brother. A god to me. He died twenty-four years ago, November seventh. Drunk driver. Not a day goes by that . . . well . . . you know.”

He looks beyond me, out the windows onto the street. I assume he’s seen someone or something, but he doesn’t react for several seconds.

He looks back at me. “So, I’m sorry. The job gets in the way sometimes. But that’s life, isn’t it? Come by the office sometime and I’ll show you the rejection letters I received from London’s finest publishing houses in regard to my book of poetry sixteen years ago. I keep them in a drawer. A reminder of who I am. We can be many people, you see. Good to keep in mind in this business.”

“Thank you.”

“Take a vacation. Think about what you want. The job’s still yours if you want it. Maybe you’ve been in diapers too long. Time for a change.”

“You can’t have just said that.”

“I’m not proud of it.”

I say, “What about Frank?”

“I’ll handle Frank. ‘Clueless, soulless douchebag.’ One of your better lines, actually. Maybe there’s hope for you as a writer.”

He walks away. Then stops and turns back.

“Your friend Phoebe stopped by my office yesterday afternoon. Lucky man to have a friend like that.”

He looks at me and does something he’s never done in the eighteen months I’ve known him. He smiles. An honest-to-God smile. And I find that I’m smiling, too.

I shout to him, “I feel like we should make out.”

Over his shoulder, “Dodge says that to me all the time.”

• • •

We held a funeral mass for my father in Boston and we all cried and hugged and told wonderful stories about the past, stories we’d all forgotten but that were now rendered clear in our collective memories. It was cathartic and I was deeply changed because of it. We promised to rent a house together next summer on Nantucket.

That is a lie, of course. Life doesn’t work that way, except in commercials and adorable Jennifer Aniston movies. It’s just that I can see that ending so clearly. The wide shot at the cemetery. Pan down from the gray sky to the leafless trees. Cut to a shot of the man (me, I guess) looking at the wind in the trees and the shapes that the fast-moving clouds make on the lawn and the gravestones. Cut to hands grabbing fistfuls of the chocolate-brown dirt that the gravediggers have placed in a pile atop a large square of Astroturf. Cut to the diggers leaning on their shovels. Inevitably one of them must wipe his nose with the back of his gloved hand. Note: Have a wind machine ready if it’s not a windy day. Shoot in New York to make it look like Boston. Less travel. If you want blue sky we can color correct it in post, no problem. We can do it in twenty-seven seconds with three seconds left for a VO and a logo. Just tell me what the product is.

The annoying thing about life is that it screws up the production. It’s rarely neat and tidy. And yet sometimes it can surprise you.

Maura called me awhile ago, one night at home, out of the blue. She wanted to know the story of the ashes. She told me she wished she’d been there. We talked for forty-five minutes. She told me about her children, how one of them reminds her of me at times. He makes up stories and makes his parents laugh. I promised to visit. They have a summer place in Maine. She said maybe we could all get together there sometime.

Kevin called and we spoke. I’m going to San Francisco in the spring. I’ve never met his partner.

F. Scott Fitzgerald said that there are no second acts in American lives. I have no idea what that means but I believe that in quoting him I appear far more intelligent than I am. I don’t know about second acts, but I do think we get second chances, fifth chances, eighteenth chances. Every day we get a fresh chance to live the way we want. We get a chance to do one amazing thing, one scary thing, one difficult thing, one beautiful thing. We get a chance to make a difference.

I tell Phoebe that I’m going to be at the American Airlines international departures terminal at JFK. I tell her I’ll have a passport and a suitcase. I tell her I have these two first-class tickets anywhere in the world.

• • •

Thirty yards away, a bobbing mass of lovely energy walking down the wide corridor. I watch her and realize I’m smiling. She pulls a wheelie suitcase behind her. Her long dark coat is open and she wears blue jeans and her tall brown boots and cashmere sweater her mother gave her for Christmas. Her cheeks are flushed and her hair is down and she is wearing her glasses. How strange to see her differently. The eye doctor does the test and says, “Better or worse?” A slight alteration in the curve of the glass can change the acuity, change your vision. And in the flick of his wrist things come into view.

“You certainly do a good first date,” she says, smiling. I can smell her shampoo and it smells like grapefruit.

I take her by the shoulders and move her so that her back is to the large board with the long list of departure destinations.

I say, “Pick a number.”

Phoebe says, “One million nine.”

I say, “There are twenty lines on the departure board behind you. The number you pick is the place we’re flying to tonight.”

People say, if you could do anything, if money were no object, what would you do? I’ve never known the answer to that question. I’ve never had a passion, a hobby, a calling. Except now. Money no object. I want to be with her. I want to tell her everything. To tell her the truth.

Phoebe says, “Can I look?”

“No.”

“I think I saw Cape Town. I think I saw Rome. I think I saw Mumbai.”

“Pick a number.”

“Oh, God.” She’s grinning. “Nine. No. Wait. Yes. Nine.”

I look up at the board, count nine lines down. Marrakech.

Phoebe says, “Where is it?”

I have been waiting for my life to begin.

It takes me a while to find the words. I say, “I don’t know how to do this.”

She moves my hand from my face, from my scar.

She says, “You want to know how to do this?”

“Yes.”

“There are two steps. Give me your hands.”

I extend my arms and she takes hold of my hands.

She says, “You just learned the first step.”

“What’s the second?” I ask.

“Don’t let go.”

• • •

I remember the day I bought the tickets. I was going to get married and go on a honeymoon in Italy with my wife. People did this all the time. I used miles. First class. But they still cost more than I’d ever thought I’d spend on airplane tickets. Or a used car for that matter. The big trip. They were my fear-of-flying tickets. My fear-of-life tickets.

Phoebe and I walked to the ticketing window at JFK. Just after 2 P.M. I figured we’d get our tickets, have lunch, book a hotel online, sit in the Admirals Club until our flight.

The agent typed in the reservation number. You can sense a thing before you know it, in the details: a slight squint, a small tilt of the head, eyes blinking faster.

“Mr. Dolan,” she said. “I think there’s been a mistake. These tickets have expired, sir.”

“That’s not possible,” I said.

“I’m sorry, sir. Here, look.”

I looked, half listened. I’d waited a year for this. We have luggage. We have passports. Phoebe started laughing. “So what’s our second date?”

Which is how it came to be that instead of boarding the first-class cabin on an American Airlines Boeing 777-400 to Marrakech, we boarded the AirTrain from JFK to the A train at Howard Beach, transferring at Atlantic Avenue for the N train, making all local stops to Coney Island. And there, at Nathan’s, in a gray, misty, half-light of dusk, is where we dined on wrinkled frankfurters, soggy fries, and watery beer. It’s where, sitting on a stool looking out the window at the old wooden rollercoaster, with a homeless man asleep two tables away, I told Phoebe I loved her.

It wasn’t the big trip. But it was a trip. I took ten days off, slept in. We drank coffee, wandered the city like tourists. Skating at Bryant Park, an afternoon at the Frick, rode the Staten Island Ferry. I had never walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. The weather was terrible. Cold and windy, freezing rain. It was perfect.

• • •

And then one day I went back.

Martin had told Frank and Dodge about my father, the ashes. I have to say they were very kind, considering how easy it would have been to fire me.

There is a part of me that would like to say that I did quit. It seems so much more heroic. But I do not think that’s how it works. Not today. Not in a good job, with high unemployment and real pain out there. I do not think we up and leave our lives. We don’t make huge changes for the most part. Subtle shifts, small adjustments in perspective.

If you are one of the lucky ones who know what they want to do for a living—who’ve always known and who love it—God bless you. If you are a doctor, a priest, a boat builder, a teacher, a firefighter—a person with a calling—consider yourself fortunate. And if you are like me, someone who simply found themselves doing a job they never imagined doing, I’m not sure what to say.

Except this. I will live and I will die and when I do there might be a few lines in the newspaper about the job I did and the children I made, about the wife I left behind and how long we were married. Perhaps some will cry and there will be a get-together at my home after my dead body is placed in the cold ground. Sandwiches will be eaten and coffee drunk and conversation will be had about me and hopefully what a decent guy I was but also about lawn care and insurance and movies and children and the weather and sports teams and politics and whether or not there’s more chicken salad. Later, people will go home with a renewed intensity and appreciation of their world, of how precious and fleeting it all is. They’ll hold their children a little longer, the kids not sure what’s going on with mom or dad as they try to squirm away to watch TV. A husband and wife will make love in the night as a result of the closeness of death. And then, in the morning, there will be lunches to make and dentist appointments to keep, meetings to attend, ideas to share with clients, leaves to rake, dry cleaning to drop off. The car needs a tune-up.

So there is life. The quiet routine of every day. I read the newspaper, take the subway, go to a meeting. I get a haircut, have dinner with friends, help a woman with a baby carriage up the subway stairs. I get frustrated at a coworker, annoyed by humidity, depressed at the sight of people eating alone. I try to be human. It rains. I go to bed wondering how another day, another week, another year has passed so quickly. It scares me. It makes me want to do better.

We make dinner during these long, cold, dead-of-winter nights. We listen to music and talk and Phoebe teaches me how to cook. We watch movies on my computer. We read in bed. Spring is coming.

Long after Phoebe is asleep I watch the snow fall outside the window, listen to the wind, the rattle of the old glass panes, her hip a touch away. In that moment I think, This is my life. This, here and now. This is as close as I am ever going to get to that elusive thing called happiness. How could I ask for more?

• • •

Life is best viewed from a distance. The long lens. This has been my guiding principle. If you step back and watch, well, it’s just easier. Because if you don’t, if instead you pull others close—if you need them—you will never want to let go.

Eddie called to say he was in New York for work. He was taking a flight back that evening, but did I have time for a coffee? We met at a Starbucks in midtown, sat for a time, made small talk. I told him about the shoot, about Keita. He listened but didn’t say much.

He started to put his coat on and stopped. He said, “I’m getting a divorce.”

“Jesus. Eddie. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. She met someone.”

I didn’t know what to say.

He said, “You know what my biggest fear in life has always been? The thing I’ve tried so hard to avoid?”

I waited for the answer, but I knew what it was.

Eddie said, “Being like him.”

“You’re not him,” I said. “You’re not even close.”

“Really? I’m leaving my wife, my kids hate me, and I’m angry.”

The old anger was gone, a spent shell. He seemed lost and wounded.

“Ever see Apollo 13?” he asked.

“The movie?”

“No. The Broadway musical. Yeah, the movie.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it.”

“Well, it’s like that,” he said.

“What’s like that?”

“Life.” He looked at me as if I should understand.

He said, “They’re coming back through space. At the end. Trying to get home. They have these coordinates and if they don’t get them just right, if they’re off by even a little bit, it’s magnified huge and they slip off the curvature of the earth and shoot out into space, lost.”

He looked out the window and then said, “We got it wrong. The four of us.”

“Yes,” I said.

He kept looking out the window. “Still time, though, maybe.”

“Still time.”

He looked at me. You can grow away from your family. You can run away from your family. You can choose to not talk to them. You can be hurt by them, estranged from them. But then, in a Starbucks off Bryant Park, you can be made whole by them. He smiled, my mother’s smile, the little squint.

I don’t know why the memory comes now. I’ve not thought of it in many years. This was after she died. Eddie was waiting for me outside school. He had a Ford Galaxie 500 that he somehow managed to keep running.

“C’mon. Got a surprise,” he’d said.

We drove for a while, south of Boston. It was April. Still cool. Halfway there I knew where we were going. Paragon Park. An old amusement park whose best days were long past. The rollercoaster was wood and it creaked and wobbled, a thick, heavy greased chain whipping the cars around. The first hill was so steep that when you went over it felt as if you were going to fall out. The park was across the street from Nantasket Beach. We went there a lot as kids. Blue-collar Riviera. The sand was like concrete, the water painfully, wonderfully cold. On an August day, my mother would make tuna sandwiches and wrap tinfoil around cans of Clicquot Club orange soda. The road out there from the highway had a bend and there was a point where the top of the rollercoaster came into view. Past what used to be Howard Johnsons, faded and abandoned now. Past an old motel. VACANCY. AIR CONDITIONING! COLOR TV! The bend in the road to the left, the beach opening out to the right. Sand blown over onto the road. We pulled into the parking lot near the entrance and saw a hand-painted sign. OPEN MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND. SEE YOU THEN!

I laughed, more out of embarrassment than anything else. Then I turned and saw Eddie’s face, saw how disappointed he was, staring at the closed sign.

“That’s okay,” I said.

He mumbled, “Christ, Finny. I should have called. Dumb ass.”

We got out of the car and stood there, Eddie looking around.

“C’mon,” he said.

We walked toward a shack up the road, near the beach. A fish market with a takeout window on the side. There was no way in hell it would be open. But it was. And it was like Christmas morning to Eddie.

“Look at this, will ya?” he said, all grins.

We ordered fried clams and french fries and Eddie got a beer and I got a Coke and we found a spot beside the shack, out of the wind, in the sun. I don’t know what we talked about. I just remember how good it felt being there with him. I felt safe. That was the thing about being around Eddie when I was young. I always felt safe.

We walked outside the Starbucks and stood at the corner looking for a taxi, Eddie’s arm up like an out-of-towner, waving to the off-duty cabs. He put his arm down and stared at the traffic.

I said, “Do you think about her much?”

He was still looking at the traffic. Cars were honking as a fire truck made its way through a block away. It passed.

He said, “Every day.”

“Me, too.”

He looked around, like he was searching for a landmark, a familiar corner. Anywhere but at me.

Eddie said, “I thought it would get better. As I got older. I thought it would get easier.”

“Yeah.”

He looked down and said something to the sidewalk. I couldn’t hear him. He looked at me.

“What?” I said.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

It was rush hour. Throngs of people on the sidewalk, traffic, horns.

He said, “I just . . . I’m so sorry.”

His eyes were red rimmed and he looked tired and he was blinking quickly. His voice, though. The old Eddie. My best friend.

How many times could I have called or written a letter, taken the train to Boston? How many times could I have made an effort but didn’t?

I said, “I’m sorry, too.”

I reached out my hand and he took it and we were in an awkward handshake, except we weren’t shaking hands, we were just holding hands in a handshake position, which is not what I’d meant to do.

Eddie said, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, the four of us.”

I nodded and reached my left hand out and held his forearm. Also not what I’d meant to do.

“I was supposed to take care of everyone. I mean . . . it’s not like I don’t worry about you guys.”

Boston Irish: I miss you. I care about you. I love you. You just have to listen.

He said, “It’s just been a lousy . . . twenty years.”

A taxi pulled up and a woman got out. Eddie tossed his bag into the backseat and held the door. He took a deep breath. I thought of that moment at my mother’s wake when I almost reached out for my father but didn’t.

“Anyway,” he said.

I moved before I realized I was going to, wrapped my arms around him, felt him go slack, heard his sobs into my jacket, the painful lump in my throat.

“F*ck,” he mumbled.

I said, “You’re a good man, Eddie Dolan. Don’t forget that.”

He got into the cab and in the moment before it pulled away, he turned and gave me a little head nod, a half smile, the smallest wave. And I waved, too.

I’d put it in a commercial, but no one would believe it.