The bar was the same as any other that got written up in Eater for having a good ambiance. It was fine, and the drinks were fine. Joel grabbed a seat near the main bar, the one under the framed photo of Maroon 5. It was a strategically neutral pick for a bar that wanted to cater to the everyman aesthetic, a band nobody will actually 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 experience.
Joel’s suit had been disassembled to the base, with just a button-down left on top with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows. It was 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. Everyone in this bar was saying they were a “creative director,” but he was actually one; he was the real deal. He took a sip from his short glass.
“Joel!?” A voice shouted his name from the other side of the bar.
It was Evan, and just the sight of him started to create a small tension headache behind Joel’s forehead. Evan wore a black t-shirt that was tight even for New York standards. He told everyone he never wore the same shirt twice, that he didn’t go to the cleaners; he just threw them away, couldn’t stand the feeling of washed Japanese cotton on the back of his neck. The same was true with his jeans. He never washed them, just put them in the freezer, or to be more specific, his housekeeper Linda put them in the freezer every evening, and he would remove a pair every morning.
Evan moved through the room like there was a camera just out of sight, over somewhere in the back corner. He was always performing for a reality show that had yet to be greenlit. He slapped Joel on the back in a way that said hello while also claiming his personal space. It was to feel domineering; that message was clear. It stunned Joel for a second, that same kind of feeling like when you accidentally run into a glass door because it’s too clean. Your head feels like it’s buzzing, and that feeling doesn’t go away for a few days.
“No way,” Evan exclaimed, like the universe had brought them together and not a Google search for ‘hot nyc bars.’
“I was just telling someone about you.”
“Really,” Joel tried his best not to sound shocked. He forced a smile. “How have you been, man?”
“Busy.” Evan quickly responded. That 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.
“Did you hear about our Gucci balaclava controversy?” We ended up doing a soft pivot on the original campaign. We created this micro-site where you could anonymously submit a personal confession. People will admit anything if you give them a micro-site to do it on. It ended up being a treasure trove of personal data, and nobody really paid attention to the brand’s apology on Instagram stories. It was over in 24 hours. You can’t ask for a better outcome.”
Joel nodded.
This is how Evan spoke all the time. He was always pitching himself and his work. This was also how Evan told time, by campaign. It had been 36 campaigns since the last time Evan and Joel had spoken in a non-professional setting.
“We ended up building an in-house studio for brand social content. Everyone wants to go viral, respond to whatever is trending that day. You should come by and see it.” Evan 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 easier. “We just pitched Halloway.”
“Ah. Very -- Midwestern.” Evan meant it as an insult. He reached forward and stole a tiny peanut from the bowl in front of them. He looked around, like he was making sure more than just Joel could 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 didn’t laugh; he didn’t find any of this funny. “You know -- I was actually just headed out when you caught me,” he said because he couldn’t take any more of whatever this weird pissing contest was.
“Well -- then, I guess we’ll have to grab a proper dinner soon to catch up,” Evan smiled.
They did a weird friend handshake-hug hybrid that had been negotiated over a decade of working in the same industry, but only ever interacting when it was absolutely necessary. Joel watched as Evan moved back into the crowd, grinning as he pushed through throngs of people. The jukebox at the back started a song from everyone’s favorite Maroon 5, and Joel decided that was his cue to get the hell out. He downed the rest of his drink.
On the walk home, the East Village did every stereotype it could think of. There was steam rising from manholes, a guy selling roses to couples who needed to prove they had a magical night, and bars spilling out with drunk, overworked professionals. Joel passed a fancy home decor store, some indie shop with a bunch of modern-looking mirrors in the front window. He saw himself multiplied a thousand times. The version at the end looked like he had slept; it was him a million universes away. The version in the middle looked like he had not. The original version also made it look like he had not.
Joel’s building lobby was quiet, and at midnight-ish he stepped into his hallway. The inside of his apartment was dark. He tried the light switch, but the interior lights didn’t flick on. He tried them again. Nothing.
He set his keys in a small bowl by the door. The bowl was etched with the words PARIS, TEXAS, but he did not, in fact, buy that bowl in Texas. It was purchased for its aesthetic; that was its main value proposition. Joel’s ex-wife had found it at an antique shop and bought it for him. One of the few things that remained in the apartment that still had her memory. He had to keep the bowl; it fit the aesthetic. His whole apartment was curated to have an effortless cool that felt like someone had lived a full life between the walls; he just wasn’t the one who had done the living. He crossed through the living room; he didn’t have a TV, and into the kitchen. He dug through the junk drawer past the old prescription bottles and every size of tape but couldn’t find a flashlight.
After giving up on light, he felt for the cabinets, reached in and grabbed an “I Heart NY” mug and filled it with sink water. He downed the cupful in one go; someone in college would definitely consider it chugging. The mug left an odd metallic aftertaste in his mouth, almost definitely lead.
His floor-to-ceiling windows let some of the city light outside leak into the dark apartment. He had these thin, gauzy curtains that provided absolutely no privacy. If he was going to walk around in the altogether, his neighbors would be getting a free show. In the dark, the apartment softened into a safe place, softened his face, and for the first time today made him feel a foreign sense of calm. Then, he saw it. Sitting on the kitchen counter was a math test with a big 98% circled at the top. Lyla’s long division and PEMDAS lined up in neat rows under each question.
Joel smiled to himself, walked to the fridge, found a promotional Taco Bell magnet, and pinned up the paper between an old birthday invite and a field trip permission form for the Metropolitan Museum of Art that he had failed to sign. The magnet said ‘Live Más,’ a motto he did, in fact, not live by.
“Dad?” He could hear 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. “The power’s out.”
“I know! I’m pretending to camp.” He could hear her smiling sass, even in the dark. She was good at making the best of things, and quite frankly, the lights being shut off by the city was a fun way to unexpectedly change her evening routine.
Joel pushed her door open wider with two fingers. Her room was decorated like a page from Pottery Barn Teen; she had the full bed, dresser, and side table set in matching, modern wood. Flanking that were the quintessential tween design items: clothes in piles, stacks of books climbing the walls, a soccer ball resting against the dresser.
Lyla sat in crisscross-applesauce position on the bed under her fluffy blanket; the missing flashlight was propped under her chin. She gripped the ‘Catcher in the Rye’ like a crab between her thumb and fingers. She was almost to the end, and in that moment, Joel felt like Holden Caulfield, ‘damn near bawling, he felt so damn happy,’ but the feeling passed quickly.
“Did your pitch go good?” she asked kindly.
“Yeah, it went.” Joel sat down on the edge of her bed.
She looked at him, eyebrows lifted. The flashlight changed his face, added years in the harsh, pointed shadows.
“Mom says sometimes a ‘no’ is a good thing; it can be a relief.”
“Your mom is very good at sayings.” He put a hand on the blanket and felt the shape of her soccer shin guards she had tucked away at the foot of the 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 my any day now.” She rolled her eyes at the thought of an adult’s hollow compliment.
“Max is trying his best,” Joel countered.
Lyla nodded back. Joel got up.
“I’m going to bed. You too?”
“In a while. Night, dad.”
“Good night.”
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.
Every Monday, Below the Fold talks through the stories behind the brands.
Every Friday, The Business of Advertising shares lessons from over a decade working on the front lines of advertising.
I love that this is a new side of Mark we're seeing, him and his daughter.