Syrup

  “Mmm,” 6 says. “Intriguing.”

  “Just some ideas,” I say modestly. “Just throwing them out there.”

  “I like it.” She sits back. “Now, this is where things get tough. We need to push all this through the committee.”

  “Oh, right,” I say. “The committee. When do we actually meet those guys?”

  “Tomorrow,” 6 says, a grimace flickering across her face. “Wednesday. Our first review meeting.”

  I frown. “You keep hinting how bad this committee is going to be. Are you going to tell me why?”

  6 sighs heavily. “If there’s anything worse than dealing with someone who knows nothing about marketing,” she says wearily, “it’s dealing with someone who knows a little.”

  the committee

  “Ms. 6! Mr. Scat!” the financial controller says, grinning. He’s a little man with small watery eyes and tight-bunched teeth. “How nice to finally meet you!”

  “Hi,” I say, and shake his paw. 6 just frowns.

  “Come on in,” he says “Everyone’s looking forward to meeting you.” He ushers us into the boardroom, where perhaps ten men and women are scattered around the huge table. Abruptly—and very disconcertingly—all conversation dies and ten pairs of eyes swivel onto us.

  “Take a seat, please,” Finances says, moving to his own chair at the head of the table. “I must say, we’re raring to go, Ms. 6 and Mr. Scat. I’m sure you’ll find us full of bright ideas.” He chuckles modestly. 6’s face darkens.

  “Well,” 6 says, as we slide into the two spare chairs, “we have a few ideas at this point. But they’re all quite minor. In fact, we probably shouldn’t waste your valuable time discussing them. Perhaps we can just move on to—”

  “Not at all,” a portly man interrupts. According to his ID tag, he’s from Logistics. “We’re here to get our hands dirty.” He smiles at her reassuringly.

  “We all have a little marketing experience,” a woman pipes up. Jean from Credit. “I did a half-day course, once.”

  “That’s ...” 6 says, then struggles to come up with something positive to finish with. “... fine. Then I’d like to gain your approval for the set of plot changes that Scat and I have developed. You should have all received a hard copy of these this morning. Did anyone not get that?” There is no hard copy, of course, and abruptly the room is filled with people frowning and complaining about the mail room. “Never mind. I’ll just summarize them for you.”

  She almost gets through our entire list of changes before Logistics interrupts. “Let me add something to that,” he says. “Everyone here has seen that Diet Life film that these guys created, right? Well, the actress in that was sensational. I think we should grab her for Backlash.”

  My jaw drops. “Cindy?”

  Heads nod wisely all around me. “Agreed,” Credit says. “I loved that bathroom scene. And she’s so pretty.”

  “She has real presence,” Finances says. “We’d be fools not to use her. Fools.”

  “Well,” 6 says, shooting me a glance, “I’m sure we can use her as an extra somewhere. Now, my second proposal—”

  “I think,” Finances interrupts, “we should consider her for a serious role.”

  “Could we put an unknown into a large role with all those big stars?” a woman muses. I can’t read her tag, but I’m guessing from her tight brown suit and hair that she’s a bigwig in Accounting. “It might seem strange.”

  “Then maybe,” Logistics says ominously, leaning forward, “we should market her.”

  Silence, as the room digests this.

  “Could you explain that remark, please?” 6 says.

  “Apparently, ” Logistics says, sharing a secret, “Hollywood studios have been renaming stars for years. To make them more appealing to the public. Big stars, like Kirk Douglas and even John Wayne”—his eyes sweep the room—“used to have stupid, hard-to-remember names. But with a new name, they became famous.” He tips a wink in my direction. “Perception is reality.”

  I struggle mightily against the urge to lean across the table and smack him. Saying Perception is reality to a marketer as if you’re handing out clever advice is grossly insulting. It’s like saying to an accountant: Now make sure those numbers add up; or to a new mother: You know, you have to feed them or they die. Never, never do it.

  “So we should rename Cindy?” Accounting muses. “To make her more appealing to the audience?”

  “Cindy is pretty easy to remember,” I say.

  “Let’s call her something special,” Personnel says eagerly. “Something that really stands out. Like ... um ... Cindy Cindy.”

  “‘Cindy Cindy’?” I say, appalled.

  “How about Cindy Star?” Accounting offers. “Since she’s going to be one?”

  “Cindy Hollywood,” someone else says. Kelvin, Manufacturing.

  “Holly Hollywood,” Logistics says, his eyes lighting up.

  “Cindy Starholly, maybe. No, Starry Cindwood.”

  “Cindy Star.”

  “I said that,” Accounting says scathingly.

  “Let’s call her,” Manufacturing says with relish, “Babe-A-Licious.”

  The room falls silent. I, too, am stunned at the utter gall of Manufacturing to brazenly throw up such a truly pathetic suggestion.

  “That’s brilliant,” Personnel says admiringly.

  “Good job,” Logistics says. “I like it.”

  “Excuse me,” I say, “but we’re not calling her Babe-A-Licious.”

  “Now, let’s give this some consideration,” Finances says. “Babe-A-Licious. Intriguing.”

  “You wouldn’t forget that in a hurry,” Manufacturing says, sitting back in satisfaction.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “But it’s ridiculous.”

  Eyes widen around the room. 6 says quickly, “What Scat is trying to say is that it may not be appropriate. It may lack ... credibility.”

  “I think it’s innovative,” Accounting says. “Very ... uh ... top-of-mind.” There is a murmur of appreciation at her successful employment of a marketing term. “Very top-of-mind,” Accounting confirms, nodding.

  “Our customers would really go for it,” Credit says. “You know, young, hip ... Babe-A-Licious. It suits our, uh, demographic.”

  Another marketing term, and now Credit earns a ripple of approval. This is starting to resemble a particular recurring dream I have where the entire world goes insane.

  “Is it agreed, then?” Finances asks, pleased with the committee’s productivity.

  “It certainly is not,” I say.

  Finances turns to me, frowning. “Then perhaps, Mr. Scat,” he says, “you can tell us why.”

  I open my mouth to tell them it’s goddamned stupid, then realize I already said that. Then I start to say it’s cheap and tacky and realize 6 covered that with her credibility comment.

  “Well?”

  “It will detract from the impact of the movie,” I throw in desperately. “Distract the market from the movie itself.”

  This sends the room into a moment of introspection, but only a moment. Then Accounting says, “If you’re referring to split focus, Mr. Scat, I’m sorry, but I don’t agree. I think Babe-A-Licious would actually be an added feature.”

  I start to protest, but Accounting’s cunning use of more marketing-speak has won the room. “Then it’s settled,” Finances says. “Babe-A-Licious it is.”

  damage assessment

  “Oh boy,” I say. “Oh boy. Oh, boy.”

  6 stares at me from across her desk. Or rather, our desk, except somehow only 6 seems to be sitting on the right side of it. “This is going to be difficult.”

  “Oh?” Stupid sarcasm rises in my throat. “You think so? You know, I thought maybe things were going along just fine. I mean, sure, our film now stars Tom Cruise, Winona Ryder and Babe-A-Licious, but—”

  “Scat, shut up,” 6 says tiredly.

  “Fine,” I say, a little hysterically. “I’ll just sit here and wait for you
to come up with an idea that will save us. Okay? Because we know you’re full of great ideas.”

  6 stares at me impassively. “Scat, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

  “I won’t do it,” I say suddenly. “I’ll just refuse to do what they say. What can they do?”

  “Fire you.”

  “Assholes.”

  “Yes,” 6 says, “but we are forced to bow to the wishes of those assholes. We need to find a solution that satisfies both their requirements and ours.”

  “Seeing as their requirements are to bugger the film with a barge pole,” I say aggressively, “that could be difficult. You know?”

  “Scat, you’re too emotionally involved,” 6 tells me, frowning. “It’s impairing your performance.”

  “They’re impairing my performance!” I shout dramatically. I stand up and start pacing. “Can’t we go over their heads?”

  “To Sneaky Pete?” 6 says, raising an eyebrow.

  “Then let’s go over Sneaky Pete’s head.”

  “To Jamieson? You can try.”

  “Okay,” I say, “I will. I’ll tell Jamieson that I can’t do my job because of that stupid committee.”

  “Fine.” 6 actually picks up the phone and punches in an extension. “Talk to him.” She holds the handset out to me.

  For a second I stare at her. She stares back. “All right,” I say, taking the phone. “Fine.”

  “Jamieson.”

  “Mr. Jamieson. It’s Scat. How are you?”

  He sounds distracted. “Great, Scat. What’s up?”

  “Look,” I say. “We’re having a small problem here. I’m hoping you can straighten it out.”

  There is a pause. “What problem?”

  “You brought us onboard to improve this film, right? Well, we’re trying to do that. But we’re getting blocked.”

  “By who?”

  “Well, there’s this committee—”

  “I know about it. What’s the problem?”

  “They’re an obstacle,” I say. “We have to get them to approve everything. And they’re ... difficult to deal with.” I glance at 6, who is regarding me steadily.

  “Scat, let’s get something straight,” Jamieson says. “You’ve been with the company two days. You’re involved in the most significant marketing project this company has ever initiated. I’m not going to entrust the whole damn thing to you with no checks and balances.”

  I swallow. “Sure. But if I’m going to do this—”

  “Scat, I’m in a bit of a hurry here. Is there some reason you can’t sort this out with Sneaky Pete?”

  “Well,” I say, “he’s ...” I struggle for an explanation that won’t get me fired. “Hard to get hold of.”

  “He’s your boss. Talk to him. We don’t have a chain of command for nothing.”

  “I—”

  “Thanks for calling, Scat,” Jamieson says, and hangs up.

  I stare at the handset for a moment.

  “Well,” 6 says. “Feel better?”

  “I should have told him about Sneaky Pete,” I say. “Told him how he’s trying to ruin the movie just to discredit us.”

  “That’s a serious accusation,” 6 says, flipping through her desk calendar. “Got proof?”

  “Uh,” I say.

  “Then maybe you should just threaten to quit,” 6 says. She looks up. “You want to do that? Since things are so tough? Just bail out of the biggest marketing project in history?”

  She waits me out.

  “No,” I say.

  subliminal buy messages popcorn

  “Now we need to work the committee very carefully,” 6 says. “It was a mistake to try to bulldoze them. We need to feed them suggestions, so they come up with the ideas we want them to. We need to guide them without letting them know we’re doing it.”

  “Huh,” I say. “Nice theory.”

  “It can be done,” 6 says. “I’ll give you an example.”

  “Look, 6,” I say impatiently, “I know you’re a very good negotiator and all that. But we’re dealing with a pack of utter morons. We can’t rely on them to do anything except come up with the most stupid solution to any given problem.”

  “Hmm,” 6 muses. “That’s a good point.”,

  I blink. “Well, thanks.”

  “So are you saying,” 6 says, frowning, “that there is some kind of method in their madness?”

  “Well, they obviously think they know what marketing’s about.”

  “I see. So you mean, if a proposal makes sense to their warped idea of marketing, they’d go for it?”

  “Uh,” I say. “Well yeah, I guess they would.”

  “That’s a great idea,” 6 says approvingly. “So we couch our suggestions in terms that will appeal to their basic, misinformed beliefs. Good thinking.”

  “Uh, thanks,” I say. “Huh, you know I didn’t actually mean—” I trail off as I realize that 6 is staring at me in disbelief.

  “I was demonstrating, you moron,” she says. “That’s how you feed someone a suggestion.”

  some direction

  It’s after eight, but neither of us suggests heading home. 6 is chewing through a stack of manila folders on crew logistics and I’m on the phone to Backlash’s director, trying to impart my ideas about identification.

  “Yeah, look, I was told about all this,” the director says. I think his name is Kline, but he is speaking with the short, impatient tone of one forced to deal with an idiot and I didn’t quite catch it. “You think you have a lot of smart ideas.”

  “Hey, I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job,” I say. “You’re still the director here.”

  “You are damn right,” Kline says.

  “I do have a bunch of ideas. But I don’t know how to make them work on film. You know how to do that best.” I bite my tongue, hoping that this is enough to soothe his ego.

  “You go fuck yourself,” Kline tells me, so I guess not. “I don’t have to deal with you. I am busy here.”

  “I’m sorry but you do have to deal with me, you dumb shit,” I say before he can hang up. It works: I hear his heavy breathing snuffling down the line. Across the desk, 6 looks up. “Maybe I didn’t make this clear, but I’m holding the purse strings here. We can work together to make these changes, or you can get the fuck off my set.”

  There is a long, silent moment. Then Kline bursts out laughing. I smile reassuringly at 6, to let her know that Kline and I have just been through one of those little macho standoffs and emerged with a healthy, male respect for one another. 6 frowns.

  “You must be a dumb ass,” Kline says, startling me. “You are in charge of jack shit. Now you get off my phone. I have to call Mr. Pete.”

  “He isn’t running this show any—”

  Kline snorts. “You think what you like,” he says, and the line goes dead.

  scat gets obnoxious

  “Now that’s it,” I say, slamming down the phone. “I’m going back to Jamieson.”

  “Sit down,” 6 says.

  “I’ll get him to make Sneaky Pete tell Kline that we’re in charge,” I fume. “We can sit there and watch him make the call.”

  “Then what happens when we leave the room?” 6 asks. “He calls Kline back. Do you want to watch him twenty-four hours a day?”

  “I can’t believe this,” I say. “He can’t keep blocking us like this.”

  “Of course he can,” 6 says irritably.

  “If Jamieson knew what he was doing—”

  “Scat, you’re really beginning to bore me,” 6 says. “You can stomp around and complain that the rules aren’t fair, or you can grow up and start playing the game. Now what’s it going to be?”

  “Well,” I say, a little sulkily. “Well, if you’re going to be like that.”

  a tussle

  We work until ten, which is the point where my head actually hits the desk. I snort and sit up to see 6 eyeing me. “Uh,” I say. “Tired. Just a little tired.”

  “That’s enough,
” 6 says. “Let’s go.”

  “If you think so,” I say lamely.

  When we get back to Synergy, I’m so exhausted that I just brush, flush, and fall into bed. By the time 6 finishes in the bathroom, I’m already asleep, still in my suit. Then I become vaguely aware of her tugging at my feet. “Wa,” I say, which I guess proves it’s not just in the mornings that I get so eloquent. I eventually realize she’s taking my shoes off, so I decide to fall asleep again.

  “Roll over,” 6 says, a million miles away.

  “Wa,” I mutter again, but I manage to roll. My face is enveloped by one of 6’s soft pillows, and that’s enough to put me out again. I fall into a dream where I’m fighting 6 for the world heavyweight boxing championship, and 6 is whipping my ass. Every time I swing at her, she ducks under my punch and lands a couple of body blows, her mouthguard grinning whitely at me. When I finally crash to the canvas in the fourth round, 6 has hardly worked up a sweat, and when I wake up the next morning I’m only wearing my boxers.

  talent

  “So,” I say, taking a big bite of my toast, “you think we’re still in this thing, or what?”

  “Of course,” 6 says, distaste flickering across her face at my table manners.

  I swallow. “So what do we do today?”

  “We go on location,” 6 says, sipping at her coffee. “I’m going to talk to Kline and the assistant directors. You need to handle the talent. And when you’ve done that, get in touch with our post-production house and tell them what’s going on.”

  “Mmm,” I say, thinking of Winona Ryder. “Handle the talent.”

  “Which includes,” 6 says, a little testily, “telling Cindy about her new name.”

  “Ah,” I say.