Take the Jump | Part 3
Who wouldn’t want their truck to be their best friend?
The next day had arrived, but daylight made the boardroom somehow more sad than the previous night. The overhead fluorescents were flattering to no one; every pore highlighted in the worst way possible, like when you upgrade to a higher-resolution TV, and your reality shows look a little too real. The table’s ornate etching looked sillier in this light. Someone had set out fancy water bottles and a plate of cookies. Nothing was touched.
The Ford team sat in a row of almost matching suits. Chris, a man whose light blue tie had listened to all his HR complaints. Martin, who seemed like he didn’t want to be there. Arnold, whose posture made it clear that he’d be the first to not get it. Two assistants on either end, like parentheses.
Across from them, Joel was wearing a dark blue suit. Eli was in a slightly cheaper-looking dark blue suit. Marie was in a black skirt suit that she would regret the moment she stepped into the room. Gordon, at the head of the table, was playing his best Managing Director.
On the screen: a person at a cliff’s edge. You know the one.
“Ford sells quality vehicles,” Joel began, settling into his rehearsed words, not too confident, but not too salesy. He shifted to the side, and the choreography got a little more obvious.
“When we ask consumers to buy into electric,” Eli said, joining Joel at the front, “we’re asking them to take a leap into the unknown.”
CLICK. The slide switched. The lightning appeared with its chrome grin and cute little electric-bolt logo. “EV purchases are accelerating among men thirty-five to fifty,” he said, and the slide produced a graph that was real in the same way unicorns or Santa are real.
“Which opens a lane for Ford to enter as the calm, cool big brother,” Joel said. He didn’t glance back at the cliff like he did last night. He could feel the cliff looking at him.
“How do we sell the excitement of electric to a consumer who doesn’t trust advertising? Doesn’t really trust anybody?” Eli asked. He gestured an open palm toward the screen like that old guy in Jurassic Park.
CLICK. A video appeared. A road curling through the mountains, yellow leaves falling gracefully, and a gray-haired driver. Georgia’s wrinkles had been abandoned for stock footage of a real old man. Probably a good call.
“We acknowledge their fear,” Eli said, “and invite them to jump anyway.”
Pause for dramatic effect. CLICK. Text faded in: #TakeTheJump.
“This is more than a campaign, it’s a rallying cry.” Marie moved forward. “It’s inspiration for every day. We create a narrative where Ford isn’t just a truck, but a friend among friends.”
“Who wouldn’t want their truck to be their best friend?” added Joel, but he probably should have held that back.
CLICK. A ‘Thank you’ slide. The room was quiet. Out of mostly politeness. Arnold looked confused. It was very on brand.
“I’m not sure I get it,” Martin stated plainly. “Is it a marketing campaign about suicide?”
That’s when it was over. Whatever they responded with from this point would not matter. The Ford team eventually rose from their chairs, murmuring of a follow-up call, but everyone knew the pleasantries were hollow. If they didn’t grab a cookie on the way out, it was always a bad sign, and all of those damn cookies were untouched.
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: Billy Pasco
Onto part 4.