“Damn, man, would love to. Can’t. Got plans.”
“Ah, okay, see you tomorrow,” Paul says, and heads downstairs.
I first met Paul Marterelli right out of the Marines. With my Columbia journalism degree there was only one gig for me: adman! Soon enough some good networking connected me with Paul, and we clicked instantly.
Paul was a creative guy, a writer, and a good one. Clean-cut, glasses, conservative dresser; would have assumed he was an account guy if you didn’t know better. Met him the first time downtown at McSorley’s. We hung out, had beers, told stories. Tells me he’s got the CrawDaddy account, an up-and-coming tech company, with their kick-ass cowboy CEO—an ex-Marine!—and wants my own Marine self to take him on. Perfect—at least for an advertising moment. More on that later.
Paul founded Marterelli & Partners in 2003, positioning his team as a feisty “ad store,” and soon established his agency as an early and proactive user of social media on behalf of their clients.
On my first day, he called the agency team together to introduce me. “Okay, guys, listen up,” he said, “It is my great pleasure to introduce Tim MacGhee, a kindred spirit if there ever was one. An adman in the truest sense of the word. New to our business, but he’s got a couple of years and some genuine leadership experience under his…ammo belt. A natural leader. A teammate. He’s joining us to, well, call CrawDaddy’s bluff and help us get their kick-ass brand on the Super Bowl!”
There was warm applause all around. A couple of whistles.
“Tim, as a small token of our sincere welcome, I want you to have this, a present from all of us.” He handed me a gift-wrapped box.
“Wow, this is amazing!” I patted my heart a few times. “Thank you, Paul. Thank you all.” They’d given me a really nice canvas attaché. I recognize the maker—J.W. Hulme. Damn!
“And by no means does this suggest that you are a bag-carrier.”
“Beautiful. And it sure beats the hell out of my Marine assault backpack!”
A genuinely wonderful reception. Turns out it was the perfect gift. I offered a few positive words of appreciation, and Paul showed me to my desk. That was day one, about three lifetimes ago.
Now I’m on my way back up to my corner cubicle on the fifth floor, and I’m getting universal smiles and nods in the hallways, colleagues glowing in the shared success of our Chubb meeting. Feels good. Word travels fast.
I’ve got time to kill, and here’s Ramon to help. As you can tell by now, I’m not one of those stuffed suits that wears his title on his tailored sleeve, looking down his nose. I love the troops. I’m a team guy. And over the years I’ve discovered I have a lot more in common with some of these guys than I do with my so-called peers.
“Everything work?” he asks.
“Like a charm. Thanks, as always. Well done.”
“I’m here to serve,” he says with a grin.
“So, meet you up on the roof?” I say.
“Let’s do it,” Ramon says. What a good guy. And a good partner.
“Okay, man. I’ll get it wrapped here—then I’ve got to run out for a quick stop. Back in a flash. Sun’s already dropping. See you upstairs.”
The agency occupies the top three stories of a five-story brownstone in downtown Manhattan, so we have exclusive access to the roof, a convenient escape that offers a view of historic surroundings and fresh air—as fresh as Manhattan air gets. A place to hang. On nights like tonight, it’s an after-work gathering space for us kindred spirits.
Got to get to the bank first, down on Canal Street. I grab my attaché and catch a cab on Second Avenue. “Canal and Broadway,” I tell the driver. “Wait for me, okay? I’ll be in and out in a flash.”
“Sure,” she says, and off we go.
Thirty minutes down and back, and I’m on the roof in another fifteen. Ramon’s already there with a handful of other agency types, each one with a beer in hand from various coolers downstairs.
It will take an hour or so for me and Ramon to be left up there, alone.
Chapter 4
Tough night. Couldn’t sleep. Since when does this kind of stuff get to me?
Now I’m in the kitchen at three a.m. when my wife, Jean, comes up close behind me and puts her arm around my waist.
“You okay?” She’s asking because I’m never like this. I’m the calm at the center of the storm.
“Yeah, sorry. Had a crazy day. Crazy good, most of it. Worked late, you know? No big deal. Just need to unwind.”
She heads back up to the bedroom and I look in on the kids, stop by the bathroom, pop a rare Xanax and shuffle back to bed, reminded again that I am part of a wonderful, loving family. A gift.
I crawl in under the covers and the love of my life slides over next to me.
“Honey?” She’s not convinced I’m okay.
“Don’t worry, baby. Got this important interview tomorrow at lunch, great opportunity, a job I really want.” Little does she know how much I need this job.
“Anyway, I can hang in here a little later in the morning.”
She’s already asleep again.
The alarm erupts at seven a.m. and it feels like I’ve been struck by lightning. Shower, shave. Pull on some selvedge denims and a cashmere sport coat, both black, out of the closet along with an Essex multi-check lavender shirt and the hand-painted tie I bought down in the Village.
First impressions are important. Never thought of myself as a slave to fashion, but this is the advertising business and I’m headed for a critical interview.
The office doesn’t expect me in until early afternoon, which means I have time for a rare breakfast with the kids before Jean takes them to school. A second cup of coffee with the New York Times and I’m off to the train station.
I’m about to experience the kind of day that most people could never imagine, not in their wildest dreams. Or nightmares. Neither could I.
Chapter 5
The 8:57 Hudson Line express from Croton-on-Hudson into the city gives me enough time to make a quick stop and grab one more cup of coffee downstairs at Grand Central Station, so I can get focused on my meeting with Kaplan.
But now, pitching myself for a job I absolutely must have, there’s a thousand conflicting thoughts spinning around inside my head that have nothing to do with the agency business.
She’s familiar with my résumé. This is about chemistry.
Me…in a single sentence…?
“That’s a damned good question,” I say to this agency superstar, snapping back to the here and now. “I’ve thought about how best to describe what I do, who I am. And here’s my answer, if you’ll pardon my French: I’m a guy who makes shit happen.”
“That’s certainly to the point.” She chuckles. “Especially in our business. And especially for an account guy. Great attitude.”