Isn't Everything Inevitable? | Part 6
Anything can be fixed with a micro pledge mechanic.
The bar was the same as any other bar that got written up in Eater for having a good ambiance. It was fine. The drinks were fine. Joel grabbed a stool near the main bar, the one under the framed photo of Maroon 5. A neutral pick, a band nobody will admit they saw live. The bartender poured him a glass of whiskey on ice with only a little bit of small talk. That part was ideal and definitely the best part of the ambiance.
Joel’s suit had been disassembled to a button-down with the sleeves pushed to his elbows. Just the right amount of harried for a creative director out for drinks after a long day. He knew he was playing a part in a city where everyone was pretending to be something, especially in places like this. He took a sip from the short glass.
“Joel?!” A voice with confidence shouted his name.
Evan. The name was already creating a small tension headache behind Joel’s forehead. Evan wore a black tee that was tight even for New York standards. Glossy hair. Shiny teeth. Dark wash denim, the fancy kind that you don’t wash, but instead put in the freezer for some reason. He moved through the room like there was a camera just over his left shoulder. A constant reality show focused on only him. He slapped Joel on the back in that way that says hello while also claiming your personal space. It stunned Joel for a second, the same kind of feeling like when you accidentally run into a glass door because it’s too clean.
“No way!” Evan exclaimed, like the universe had chosen this and not a Google search for ‘hot NYC bars.’
“I was just telling someone about you.”
“Really,” Joel said. He found a forced smile. “How have you been, man?”
“Busy,” Evan said. It was his full-time brand. Not being busy, but talking to everyone about how busy he was. He plopped into the chair next to Joel.
“You hear about the Gucci balaclava controversy? We did a soft pivot, turned outrage into a micro-pledge mechanic. Ten thousand user-generated apologies in forty-eight hours. People love to make personal confessions if you give them a micro site to make them on.”
Joel nodded.
This is how Evan spoke. Like he was always pitching himself and his work. This was how Evan told time. By campaign.
“We built an internal studio just for brand social shoots. Everyone wants to go viral. Get in trouble the right way. Not political, but using memes and all that kinda shit. You should come by.” He glanced down at Joel’s rumpled button-down, then back up at his tired eyes.
“How’s North?”
Joel considered lying. It would have been easy. “We just pitched Ford,” he said.
“Ah. Very… Midwestern.” It was meant to be an insult. Evan stole a peanut from the tiny bowl in front of them. “You still working with Georgia? She’s great. She posts her illustration work on Instagram. I always give her a like. Maybe that would work for Ford?”
Joel nodded, trying to push the conversation to an end.
Evan looked around like he needed more than just Joel to hear him. “We’re doing the social launch for this new algae-based toothpaste. Algeneron,” he said. “Don’t laugh. They raised thirty million in round A.”
Joel did not laugh. Nothing about any of this was funny. “I, uh…I was actually just heading out when you caught me,” he said, because he couldn’t take any more of whatever this was.
“Well then…let’s grab a proper dinner soon,” Evan smiled.
They did a friend handshake that had been negotiated over a decade of working in the same industry, but only ever interacting at the parties. Joel watched Evan move back into the crowd, grinning as he waded through the throngs of people. The jukebox started a song from Nickelback, and Joel decided that was the perfect cue to down the last of his drink and get the hell out.
On the walk home, the city played its normal stereotypes. Steam from a manhole. A guy selling roses to couples who wanted to prove they had a magical night. Joel passed a storefront with mirrors and saw himself multiplied. The version at the end looked like he had slept. The middle version looked like he had not. The original version also looked like he had not.
Joel’s building lobby was quiet. At midnight-ish, he stepped into his hallway. Inside the apartment, the dark had a softness. He tried the lights, but the lights didn’t flicker on. He tried them again. Nothing.
He set his keys in a small bowl by the door. The bowl was etched with PARIS, TEXAS in a font designed by a cool guy with circle glasses and a full-sleeve tattoo. He crossed to the kitchen and searched the junk drawer for a flashlight. Nothing.
He filled up a cup in the sink and took one long drink. Someone in college might have considered it chugging. The window let in some of the city lights; it actually made his apartment look quite beautiful. In that light, he saw it on the counter. A sheet of paper. A math test with a big red 98% circled at the top. Lyla’s long division lined up in neat rows.
He smiled. He went to the fridge, found a promotional Taco Bell magnet, and pinned the paper among old birthday invites and school forms. The magnet said “Live Más,” a motto he did not, in fact, live by.
“Dad?” Lyla’s voice from her room, checking to make sure a killer hadn’t entered.
Joel cracked open her door. “Hey, Lyla,” Joel returned. His voice was soft. “Power’s out.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m pretending to camp.” He could hear her smiling sass, even in the dark. He pushed her door open wider with two fingers. Clothes in piles, stacks of books slowly climbing the walls. A soccer ball resting against the dresser. Lyla sat criss-cross-applesauce under her fluffy blanket, flashlight propped under her chin. The book in her hands was ‘The Catcher in the Rye.’ She was early for it, or maybe exactly on time.
“Did your pitch go good?” she asked kindly.
“Yeah. It went,” he said. He sat down on the edge of the bed.
She looked at him, eyebrows lifted. The flashlight changed his face, added years. “Mom says sometimes a ‘no’ can be a relief,” she said.
“Your mom is very good at sayings.” He put a hand on the blanket and felt the shape of the soccer shin guards she had tucked in at the foot of her bed for safekeeping.
“I saw your math test on the counter. Pretty impressive.”
“I know,” she said. “I told Max, and he said I should major in math. That Stanford would be calling me any day now.”
“Max is trying his best,” Joel countered.
She nodded. Joel got up. “ I’ll let you get back to your book. Good night, Lyla.”
“Night, Dad.”
If you’re new here, I write a monthly serialized novel called Everything is Advertising, about a burned-out Creative Director and his cynical team that accidentally create QAnon through a viral marketing campaign. If you like that kind of thing, you can start at Part One and catch up from there.
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Photo credit: Nguyen Dang Hoang Nhu
I love that this is a new side of Mark we're seeing, him and his daughter.