“Mr. Potts told me to ask you to show me around.”
“Just let me finish this email . . .” She typed a half-minute more, then stood. “Okay, let’s take the tour.”
Kim gave me a tour of the three floors most relevant to the copywriters, including the employee break room, three conference rooms and the employee cafeteria.
Near the elevators, she pointed to a large room. “This is the energy room. There’s one on each of the creative floors. It’s where you can go to chill and let your mind explore.”
Behind a glass partition was a large room with a foosball table, soda machine, refrigerator, popcorn kettle and cart, and stools and chairs. The outer walls were all glass, looking out over the tops of neighboring skyscrapers.
She concluded my tour at the supply closet, where she outfitted me with office essentials, then helped me carry everything back to my desk. We passed Leonard on the way back to my cubicle, but he didn’t even acknowledge me. Kim was pleasant and likable—almost the opposite of her boss.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Five years this coming June.”
“Then you’ve been here awhile. What’s your title?”
“I’m Mr. Potts’s personal assistant.”
“What is that like?”
Her brow furrowed. “Every day’s an adventure.”
We set all the supplies on my desk. “There you are,” Kim said. “Welcome to the agency.”
“Thank you.”
As she was leaving me, I said, “Mr. Potts said there’s a staff meeting at one. Where will that be?”
“His office. Call if you need anything. Just press four-two-five.”
“Four, two, five,” I repeated. “What should I do until then?”
She cocked her head. “Look busy.”
CHAPTER
Eleven
Today another dream was realized—just not the one I hoped for most.
Joseph Jacobson’s Diary
By noon almost everyone on the floor had left for lunch. I walked down to the cafeteria and got myself a chicken Caesar salad, which I ate alone, then went back to my cubicle.
At five minutes to one I grabbed a yellow pad and pen and walked over to Potts’s office. In addition to Kim, there were six other people gathered near his door. The group was evenly divided between men and women. I was the only one in a suit.
One of the men, short, thin, and narrow-hipped, with red hair and glasses, put out his hand. “I’m Timothy Ishmael. Welcome to Burnett.”
“You’re the one who got me the job,” I said.
Timothy nodded. “I’m the team manager. I met your brother, Simon, three years ago on a joint project for Sears. He’s a good man.”
I nodded agreeably though I was miles away from feeling it.
“He really hated to see you go,” he said.
“I’m sure he did,” I said, trying not to sound sarcastic.
He turned to the others. “This is Sade, Chloe and Kate.”
All of them smiled and said hello.
“And you’ve met Len . . .”
“Unfortunately,” Sade said.
“Watch it,” Leonard said.
An Asian man standing nearing the door said, “I’m Parker.”
“Hi.” I pointed at each of them. “Timothy, Sade, Chloe, Kate, Parker and Len.”
“That’s the team,” Timothy said.
Just then Potts’s voice came over Kim’s phone. “Send them in.”
“Yes, sir,” Kim said. She nodded at Timothy, who raised his eyebrows.
We walked in single file. A mix of chairs were pulled up around Potts’s desk in a tight half-circle. I thought Potts looked even crankier than he had earlier. I wondered if he ever smiled.
“You all meet Jacobson?” he asked after we had sat.
“Yes,” Timothy said.
“Good, then we’ll dispense with the introductions. I’m not happy, people.”
No surprise there, I thought.
“I spent an agonizing morning with Cecilia Banks listening to her rant about why our campaign concept for BankOne could be the definition of ‘phoning it in.’ We have until tomorrow noon to come up with something that blows their minds or, and I quote, ‘they’ll find someone else who will.’ ”
“What specifically did they not like about our concept?” Timothy asked.
“By ‘not like’ do you mean ‘thoroughly detest’?” Potts replied. “Let me read you the summary.” Potts lifted a paper from his desk. “Internal focus test results of the People Caring for People campaign. Here are a few representative comments: Are we advertising a bank or a nursing home? Haven’t I already heard that slogan a million times before? Did the chairman’s five-year-old son come up with that? Slogan could be the Wikipedia example for the word ‘generic.’ ”