Eli stepped into his apartment lobby and was immediately smacked by the thick smell of dog shampoo and eucalyptus. The eucalyptus was probably meant to cover up the scent of the dog shampoo, but the scents were in an active airborne battle. It was all very unpleasant on the nostrils.
The super allowed his labradoodle to roam free, and that was probably where the first scent was coming from. Eli stepped into the building’s mirrored elevator. The stylish box made it clear how tired he really looked, but it also allowed him the opportunity to check the fit of his pants in a 360-degree view. He was unsure about this more high-waisted cut, but the mirrors convinced him it was a great choice. He pushed his thumb to the 7 and watched the aesthetic white light circle the button.
On Eli’s floor, the hallway was fully carpeted with this matted brown, puce carpeting. It wasn’t half bad paired with the dark green walls, and it helped highlight the framed prints of dogs hung every few feet, but the whole environment was proof that no interior designer had ever been hired or consulted at any point. The rumor around the building was that the dogs in the photos were all Instagram-famous, and each of them had over 150k followers, but nobody had actually taken the time to corroborate that theory at this point. Quite frankly, the building’s decor was a great conversation starter for Eli and Luke’s parties. Somebody always wanted to talk about it.
Their brass doorknob looked the same as always, but Eli paused for a moment before he shoved in his key. He had that look on his face, a deep sigh that only exists when you know you’re already in trouble. He knew he was late for something, but he couldn’t remember what. He braced himself, turned the key, and entered very, very slowly.
The curated apartment that he and Luke called home looked like a page out of one of those home-design-coffee-table books or one of those awkward Architectural Digest YouTube Interviews. A blur of simple and quirky, where there might actually be a whole bowl of limes sitting on their polished raw wood table. There were two matching chairs and a row of skinny candles that had been placed there a few hours earlier for ambiance. The table also had this delicate linen runner that had been ironed flat and perfect. There were two plates and place settings, each with a folded napkin tied with a cute cotton string. That damn little string jolted Eli’s memory. Tonight was their second anniversary, the cotton anniversary. Eli had mocked the tradition the week prior when they were riding the Uptown 6 train.
Paper was year one, cotton was year two, leather was year three, which would give them the opportunity to cosplay as Old West cowboys. It was perfect because it was a role-play Eli wanted to try but was too afraid to bring up. Luke wasn’t really into it but was willing to try.
The whole apartment smelled like rosemary. The Spotify playlist had started over from the top. The candles had been burning for hours, nearly burned to their bases. A roasting pan sat on the stove, with a little aluminum foil tent. A shiny little tent of shame.
Luke was sitting on the couch scrolling on his phone. He was wearing a white shirt tucked into acid wash denim. His hair was styled, and he had definitely spent time making it look perfect. He didn’t acknowledge Eli’s arrival.
Eli clicked the door shut and latched the locks. He sat his bag down by the coffee table, the one Luke had purchased in Rhode Island and had to have shipped into Manhattan. It was a huge pain, but it did go really nicely with their white carpeting. Eli didn’t say anything, but he really, really needed to say something. He defaulted to the easiest option:
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re two hours late,” Luke responded quickly. His voice sounded more sad than harsh.
“The Halloway pitch went long, and then I got stuck at the office doing a debrief with Joel, and we --” he should have spent some time rehearsing the excuse in the hallway before he stepped into the apartment. It was all sounding very dumb and flimsy at this point, the same way you hear someone trying to open a pack of Skittles during the quiet part in a movie.
“Right,” Luke responded flatly.
Eli moved toward the kitchen and lifted the foil. The steaks Luke had roasted in the oven looked like sad, congealed blobs; the green beans were floppy; the potatoes didn’t look half bad.
“I can reheat,” Eli offered. He noticed the notes taped to the microwave. Oven at 375. Steak should be soft to the touch (for medium). Let rest for 10 minutes before serving.
“I was setting the table,” Luke looked back at him, “and I thought -- should I do cotton napkins? Like, ya know, a fun joke.”
“They look good,” Eli responded, because they did. It was the kind of thing Eli would never think of.
Luke got up from the couch and leaned on the kitchen island. He did his best to make Eli feel the weight of his lateness.
“I sat down at 7:17. I blew out the first set of candles at 8:00 because I was worried they would melt onto the runner. I lit them again at 9:10, which I now realize was absurd. I texted you at 9:20. You responded at 9:50 with a thumbs up.” He cocked his head. “Might as well have been a fuck you.”
“I shoulda called,” Eli said. “I don’t even think we won it -- the Halloway project.
Luke stared back at him with a deep anger, a deep sadness, a deep confusion. He didn’t care about Halloway, their trucks, or any piece of creative collateral that did or did not get approved.
“Darn.”
He didn’t care if electric vehicles had brand personalities or cohesive mood boards or active social media management that would write a clever quip on @Wendy’s latest post.
“I made a playlist,” Luke said. “It’s songs from the last two years. The first night we met at that dumb bar in Gramercy Park, some of the songs we listened to on that road trip upstate with your niece, that dumb song from the Titanic move.”
“Celine Dion?”
Luke pulled out one of the chairs at the dining table; he looked especially handsome in this light. He looked up at Eli like something had finally clicked.
“I know your job is very important,” he said with every bit of sarcasm he could muster, “but I left work early. I went to Trader Joe’s, I trimmed the green beans like Julia Child.”
Eli sat down across from him. He wanted to make the point that today’s pitch was a make-or-break for his career. He wanted to make the point that responding to a post from @Wendy’s would, in fact, have an impact on overall Instagram engagement. Instead, he said:
“You’re right.”
After a quick stint in the microwave, the steaks made it to the table. They ate a few bites each and laughed about how tough they were. The room was stiff, but the situation was a bit funny. That awkward kind of funny when you’re with someone you like, but don’t know what to say.
“What did you get for cotton?” Luke asked after a moment.
“Pillowcases,” Eli said. “I ordered good ones from that company that keeps getting their ads defaced in the subway. They’re Danish.” He nodded his head towards the bedroom. “I’ll put ‘em on after dinner.”
Luke smiled. “I got you socks.” He stood and walked to the coffee table, opened the middle drawer, and pulled out a small box wrapped in that brown paper that old-fashioned packages have.
They were fluffy white with cute little yellow stripes at the top. Eli felt something in his chest. Longing? No, that couldn’t be it. Maybe it was real regret.
“I really am sorry,” he said.
Luke nodded. “I know. Just -- before nine next time.”
They moved to the couch. Luke dropped his feet into Eli’s lap. They watched one of those shows where people date each other with no intention of finding love but were more in the market for internet fame. Eli felt his whole body relax, his shoulders finally falling. This was nice; this was calm. He didn’t think about how Halloway would probably call tomorrow and officially pass. He didn’t think about how his job seemed to require the part of him that had cost them dinner. He definitely didn’t think about that damn cliff’s edge.
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: Ehud Neuhaus
We're ready for part 6!
How many dogs have 150k?