The Halloway pitch arrived the next morning at 9 am sharp. The boardroom had been cleared and cleaned but somehow netted out to something more sad. The sterile table and white walls felt empty and vacant, like there was nothing left to grab onto. Something about fluorescent lights and overly polished furniture in a high-stress environment feels especially jarring in the warm, morning sun. Gordon’s assistant had set out fancy water bottles and a plate of cookies, but nothing had been touched.
The Halloway team sat in a row of almost matching suits. Chris, a man whose light blue tie had sat in on all his HR conversations. Martin, who seemed like he didn’t want to be there. Arnold, whose too-strict posture made it clear that he’d be the first to not get it. Then, two assistants on either end writing down every word that was said.
Across from them, sat Joel in his own pressed dark blue suit. Eli, in a slightly cheaper-looking dark blue suit, and Marie in a black skirt suit that she would regret the moment she stepped into the room. Gordon was at the head of the table, playing his best managing director.
On the screen: a person at a cliff’s edge. You know the one.
“Halloway, as all you gentlemen are well aware, sells quality vehicles,” Joel began. It sounded really hollow in a room where this would never be disputed fact. They were wasting time and already losing their audience.
“When we ask consumers to buy into electric,” Eli said, joining Joel at the front, “we know we’re asking them to take a leap into the unknown.”
CLICK. Their slide deck progressed, revealing the Dynamo with its chrome details and cute electric bolt flounces.
“EV purchases are accelerating among men thirty-five to fifty,” Eli said, and the slide produced a graph that was real in the same way unicorns or Santa are real.
“Which opens a lane for Halloway to enter as the calm, cool big brother,” Joel added. 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.
Another CLICK. A video this time of a road curling through the mountains with yellow leaves falling gracefully, and a gray-haired driver. Georgia’s wrinkles had been abandoned for stock footage of a real old man, which was probably a good call.
“We acknowledge their fear,” Eli said, “and invite them to jump anyway.”
The team paused for dramatic effect. It was awkward.
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 Halloway isn’t just a truck, but a friend among friends.”
“Who wouldn’t want their truck to be their best friend?” Joel improv-ed that last question, but he probably should have held it back.
CLICK. A ‘thank you’ slide appeared in the very quiet room. The odd silence was out of politeness, hopefully. 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 wouldn’t matter. The Halloway team would eventually rise 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.
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.
Photo Credit: Billy Pasco
Onto part 4.