contents
cat lady
It’s so hard to think when you have a gun pointed at your head.
“First thing tomorrow, you’d better show me genius,” Elliott had warned us earlier. Then he followed up with his very favorite threat: “Remember, I can fill your seats in five minutes.”
Come on, Kay, think. Think. THINK!
I just need one good cat food slogan. It’s not like I have to find the cure for cancer or invent some dome that will let us live on Mars.
I type the first thing that comes to my head:
Here, shitty kitty.
And I am pretty darn sure that’s not what Elliott has in mind.
Here, shitty kitty is what Johnjoshjay say every morning when they see me coming down the hall of cubicles that comprise our ad agency’s creative department. Here, shitty kitty. Here, shitty kitty. The boys’ club loves to tease me, and this gem is their favorite catcall. (Pardon the pun. Occupational hazard.) It’s because I’m the copywriter on Little Kitty, get it? Oh so clever. In retaliation, I refuse to call any of them by their individual name. At least, not in my own head. They deserve one generic identity since they all dress like identical little hipsters: sagging jeans, designer sneakers, ratty but overpriced T-shirts, hats on backward until they come in the door and then drop them next to their computers along with their matching leather satchels.
Those poser suck-ups think they’re so great because they get to work on Superfine sneakers and Atlantis—the urban clothing line out of Brooklyn. And I’m stuck penning print ads for “pussy food.” Another one of their wink-wink witticisms. But I’m not going to let any of that get me down. After all, Little Kitty is our biggest account. The proverbial cash cow. Our bread and butter. Its big budget keeps the agency lights on, so keeping the client happy keeps my bosses happy. And tonight I plan on coming up with mad genius ideas that wow the Little Kitty execs, so that Ben and I can finally get the recognition we deserve.
Speaking of, where in Manhattan is my loyal work partner? I really thought he’d be back from the gym by now with the takeout dinner and brainstorming help he promised. My stomach swoons just thinking about my hunger . . . and, okay, full disclosure . . . thinking about him. As much as I want to nail this assignment, I secretly want to nail Ben even more. Cliché, I know. Girl copywriter falls for her hot art director partner. And it’s quite possibly career suicide. But we’ve been a pair—in the work sense—since the second day of advertising school down in Atlanta, and now he’s living with me, too. Granted, he sleeps on my couch, not in my bed like I wish. And, granted, the arrangement is temporary, just until he finds a place of his own. But whatever. The point is, he’s totally grown on me, which is bound to happen when you spend almost all your waking hours breathing in someone’s Axe body spray. Isn’t there a name for that? The Axe Effect?
You see, in addition to the cohabitation, Ben and I work side by side a lot. That’s because we’re the lucky new junior team in the creative department of Schmidt Travino Drew & Partners, one of the edgiest advertising agencies in the entire country. We must have beat out like a hundred other fresh-out-of-ad-school copywriters and art directors to score this gig. Just like creative teams at other agencies, we get paid to come up with ideas together, then Ben makes the pictures and I write the words. But unlike other agencies, ours was just named Advertising Age’s Agency of the Year so we’re “a big fucking deal.” Tons of people would kill to steal our jobs, a fact that our creative director Elliott feels he must mention every time he briefs us on an assignment.
Hence, the aforementioned gun pointing at my head.
I know Ben likes me—why else would he have wanted us to take a job together after ad school?—but I’m hoping when he sees the brilliant headlines I come up with to save our asses, he gets so excited that he wants to kiss me full on the mouth. I just need to start writing. Now.
If only I had my own muse, like Olivia Newton John in Xanadu, zipping around on her roller skates, feeding that musician guy all those big ideas. “Here, Kay,” I can almost hear her saying. “Here are your award-winning headlines. Now put on these skates, hold my hand, and let’s roll through this city like we own it.”
Sigh. Good muses are so hard to find. Especially when you’re starving. My last meal was the little white bag of candied cashews I snuck out for around three this afternoon, a poor substitute for lunch. Looking out the window now, I realize that, unlike me, all the sidewalk food vendors have gone home for the night.
That’s a depressing thought . . . but what’s not depressing is that here I am. In the middle of New York City! Well, okay, my office is in Chinatown, so technically that’s the bottom of the city. And I didn’t grow up far away, but still, this place is like a whole new world. Millions of people. Infinite possibilities. I like to look at the buildings and wonder who’s still in them and who’s like me—trying to prove that she deserves a place here.
What’s the saying? If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere. For me it’s more like: If I can make it here, I won’t be broke on the next bus back to Jersey. I thought if Ben and I moved to this city together and worked our ad magic, we could take the town by storm. Can I—correction, can we—really make a name for ourselves here? And leave all the doubters in the dust? I really hope so. I also really freaking hope Ben gets back soon. Remembering there’s a whole world outside these walls is making me feel more alone than I want to be. And after all, we are a creative team.
My phone pings with an incoming text, as if some muse has indeed heeded my call. Maybe it’s my best friend, Kellie, phoning from halfway ’round the globe with one of her patented pep talks. I could use that right now even more than pad Thai.
Hey Kay, any progress on Little Kitty?
Nope, definitely not Kell texting to say she’ll call me in five. It’s Suit, the senior account planner, subliminally cracking his whip yet again. Like I don’t know I have to present ideas to Elliott tomorrow morning. Like I don’t know it’s already 8:13 p.m. Why doesn’t he just text me a picture of an Uzi aimed at my right cranial lobe?
Paranoid, I peer over my cubicle to make sure Suit isn’t lurking somewhere nearby, waiting for me to get ’er done. Nope, no signs of life anywhere on this floor. He’s probably out to a fancy-schmance dinner with that uber-beautiful girlfriend of his, the six-foot-tall glamazon who wore head-to-toe leather to the office Christmas party. I bet she’s only with Suit because of his height. No way a girl like that is going out wearing flats. I’d dressed all wrong that night, as usual. My silky red top—which seemed retro when I bought it at an Atlanta thrift shop—was so bright that Elliott kept calling me Rudolph. To make matters worse, girls like Suit’s gal pal were all over that holiday party—just like they’re all over Manhattan—as if put here just to remind the rest of us we don’t cut it. Though if Suit was with Leatherette tonight, I doubt something as banal as cat food could divert his attention for so much as a second.
More likely Suit went out with Elliott and his crew for one of their liquid dinners. They’re probably at the Hole, the dive bar on the edge of Soho where someone from our agency or another can usually be found. Not that I asked for specifics. I’m just glad to get a few hours of quiet before they file back in here later, buzzed, to play a few rounds of Call of Duty on Elliott’s Xbox under the guise that they’re “working late.”
The boys’ club had even tried to peer pressure Ben into joining them tonight, though they know full well we’re on a deadline. The deadline Elliott gave us. I overheard them all by the elevator—our sadistic creative director was being especially loud and obnoxious. Elliott’s not used to being turned down when he extends an invitation, so he was riding Ben pretty hard about “which skirt he was going to wear to work out.”
Obviously, Elliott is the ringleader of the bunch. They all call him “E”—like he’s some hallucinogenic life of their party. And like the drug ecstasy, “E” is known for extreme moods—highs and lows. Behind Elliott’s back, Ben and I call him E-hole.
His boy network is so notorious they even got their own special mention in the big “Agency of the Year” write-up in Advertising Age magazine. The article’s exact words were, “The boys’ club is alive and well at this downtown denizen of edgy advertising, thanks to Creative Director Elliott Ford and his testosterone-laden band of thinkers.”
Testosterone indeed. There aren’t many chicks here at Schmidt Travino Drew in general, and technically I’m the only one in the creative department. There’s uber-bitch Peyton but she’s a producer, which is more like creative support, so that doesn’t really count, and then there’s Gina, the creative intern who got promoted but everyone still makes her fetch coffee so she counts even less. I’m pretty damn proud of this seat I have, but I know that at an agency like this, there’s a long line of people waiting to pull it out from under me. Probably why it’s just me here alone in this ridiculous chrome and glass office space while the band of drinkers—I mean thinkers—“works” off-site.
Come on, Ben. Walk off that elevator and come to Kay—show your sexy self. Not that I have anything to show him yet, either.
I think I’ll go ransack Elliott’s office for glossy photography books that might spark an idea. He’s got three whole bookcases crammed with them, and on his Lucite coffee table alone are two books full of Japanese anime, a book on street graffiti, as well as volumes devoted to black female nudes, tattoo art, art toys, burlesque dancers, and art inspired by classic 80s videogames. I hate being in this office, no doubt some Pavlovian reaction to constantly being zapped by my boss’s sharp criticism, but oh I do love the Eames chairs. I drop myself into one and start flipping through one of the anime books, searching for visual ideas that might help Ben with Little Kitty’s ad design. Just a few hours ago, he was sitting in this very chair while we were getting briefed. I smell the seat back and there’s his scent, Axe Phoenix . . . mmmmm. I close my eyes and picture Ben’s tall, broad frame, tight with muscles . . . his tousled, sandy hair . . . and those eyes of his, both playful and brooding. I conjure his hearty laugh—so thickly midwestern, like a warm bear hug that lifts you off your feet. Lord knows I could have used one after our shakedown today in this very office.
Ugh, that was soo embarrassing. Did Jayjoshjohn have to walk into Elliott’s office right when he was telling us that he could find an addict on 8th Street who could do our job better than us? And then those numbskull idiots just go to the video games as if nothing is happening. And instead of actually giving us any creative direction, E-hole just shows all of them the new bug-sized camera he got straight from Tokyo for a small fortune. Or, as he not so humbly put it, “for more than any of you little people make in a month.”
As usual, the guys rushed to huddle around E and ogle his latest toy. I swear, there’s nothing that man loves more than having the technology that came out a second ago—or even better, hasn’t been released to the masses yet.
“It’s got a Carl Zeiss lens,” Elliott bragged, “so the quality is insane. And it’s the smallest camera in the world, so no one will ever notice it.” Then he clicked a small button on his computer. “See, I filmed this two minutes ago.”
Next thing you know, there I am, in horrifying close-up on Elliott’s huge monitor, sweating golf-ball-sized bullets as he berates Ben and me for the last round of Little Kitty ads we’d done. My limp hair, flattened even more by stress. My left cheek indented the way it always is when I’m chewing on it. And I’m squirming like a shoplifter who just got busted wearing ten pairs of Vicky Secret undies under her jeans.
“Looks like Special K is having an allergic reaction,” one of the Joshjohnjays quipped. And of course another one chimed in, “Allergic to the big dogs, little kitty?” Then they all burst out laughing . . . at my expense. It was my moment to shoot back some sarcasm and join in their reindeer games, but as usual my tongue was tied tighter than my Converses. Thank God for Ben—the mouthpiece of our team—and his effortless wit. He defused my humiliation with one of his goofy one-liners. “Wow, Kay, I never realized you had such nice pores!” A small victory in an afternoon of feeling like a total loser.
Ben might pal around with those guys every once in a while, but I just know that he would never let the boys’ club change him. Ben is too Wisconsin. Too true to his roots. True to me, too . . . I hope. And one day, he’ll want to take our partnership to a less professional, more horizontal level. I just know it.
A click, click sound snaps me back to reality. Elliott’s bug camera! Where is it hidden? I hope it’s not on! I scan high and low in Elliott’s obscenely big office, feverish with panic. The darned thing could be anywhere.
Click, click. I hear it again.
What if Elliott and the boys are watching me right now, falling off their barstools? What if footage of me sniffing his Eames chair floods the morning e-mails? Something hits my foot, and I look down to see a wind-up robot, the source of the clicking noise. Whew! I must have inadvertently knocked it off the table.
I step over the toy, grab a few books, and hightail it out of there pronto. Navigating the row of cubicles back to my own, I notice a wind-up robot on Josh’s desk, and then when I pass Jay’s, there’s another robot just like it. Hmmm. Have they always been carbon copies of each other—or did they become that way when Elliott, Fucking Famous Creative Director, hired them?
To Johnjoshjay, good ole E can do no wrong. I hate to admit it, but there is something magnetic about the guy. Luckily I’m impervious to his powers. Or maybe it’s that he doesn’t ever try to include me in the group with their high-end tequilas or trendy microbrews and whatever fads they “discover” in the pages of Spin and Details.
And it works for them. All they ever seem to talk about is gaming and indie music, yet they turn out award-winning ads for Superfine and Atlantis. Whenever I’ve seen them with girls (the few times I actually get to leave the office and have a drink at the Hole) I’m totally intimidated by who they bring around—the kind of women I always see on the street but never in the mirror: beautiful, confident, a few steps ahead of the conversation.
Ben can always tell when I’m feeling self-conscious, and when all the guys are hitting on these super-babes, he comes over and talks to me. But Ben has never—not once—made a move on me. I whine about it to Kellie whenever we talk. Maybe I should give her a quick call now. I know I’m procrastinating, but that’s a necessary part of the creative process, right?
Back at my desk, I grab my phone and see there’s a message waiting for me: Hey again. How is the cat writing going? Geez! That’s Suit’s third text tonight. No way am I responding. Does he really think I’m so incompetent that I need a babysitter to monitor my progress? I am totally going to ace this assignment. Correction—Ben and I are going to ace this assignment. And when we do, everyone can kiss our little kitties.
I look at the clock. Eight thirty. Ben should really be here by now. WTF? And WTF time is it in Paris? Ever since Kell moved there to study art history, I can’t keep track of when she should be awake or asleep. Especially since she’s leading the sort of fabulous life we both dreamed of since junior high, completely oblivious to the nine-to-five grind. It’s probably pretty late in the City of Light, but at least I can leave a message. We haven’t been connecting enough lately, something I’m quick to blame on the time difference and my work schedule, but truthfully, I haven’t been trying that hard. It kills me to talk to someone who is always so damn happy when all I want to do is complain.
I speed-dial her mobile and prepare for the beep, but am surprised when she actually picks up. Even more surprising, I hear glasses clinking, and what sounds like a French rock band in the background.
“Bonjour, mon amie!” she shouts over the music, into the phone.
“Kell! I didn’t think you’d be up! Where are you?”
“This supercool boîte en Saint-Germain with mes amis from l’université. Where are you?” She effortlessly mixes French and English in a Parisian accent I could never pull off.
I survey my cube, more a box than a boîte, and wince before admitting to her that I am again working late.
“Mon dieu, Kay!” Her French accent is so chic. “You make New York sound . . . très boring.”
“I know . . .” I sigh, putting my feet up on Ben’s desk. “It’s just that Little Kitty is the client from hell. They want headline after headline after headline. I’ve only been at Schmidt Travino Drew for four months and I bet I’ve already written three hundred and fifty lines for them, promising everything from fewer hair balls to ten lives to taste that’s ‘fur-licking good.’ Truthfully, maybe one hundred and twenty-five of these headlines have actually gone to the client. So far, they only bought and ran exactly one: ‘Kiss your bad fur days good-bye.’”
“MeeOWW!” Kell teases. “Kiss your bad ad days good-bye.”
“I know. Genius, right?”
“Kay, maybe your pussy just needs to get out more, oui?”
“Ha-ha. You sound just like Jayjoshjohn. At least Ben’s still on my team.”
“How eez Monsieur Benjamin? S’il vous plait tell me he is working on top of you!”
Even though the office is empty, I rise to my feet and make a beeline for the ladies’ room. After all, my partner will be back any minute.
“He went to blow off steam at the gym,” I tell her once I’m safely tucked into the last stall. “The poor guy ran out of cat food ideas about a month ago. But when he gets back we’re going to pull an all-nighter!”
“Ooh la la, Kay, how sexy.” Her sarcastic tone suggests disapproval.
“He is sexy,” I insist. “The way he looks at me when I’m sharing my ideas with him. And that mischievous laugh of his . . . Kell, when is he going to finally wake up and kiss me?”
“FaceTime,” she demands, and after I tap the icon, I can see the beautiful, glamorous face of my oldest friend staring at me accusingly from the screen of my phone. I can also see that she’s in the bathroom now, too, so we can have some privacy.
Kellie drops the Franglais affectation to scold me. “No makeup? Kaykay, is that really the way to woo him? And let me guess. Baggy button-down? Not what a French woman would wear to an all-nighter.”
I look at myself in the mirror for the first time all week—limp, wheat-colored hair, pasty skin, ratty flannel shirt, and day-old jeans—and concede her point.
“I know. I know. But with these crazy deadlines, I’m lucky I have any clothes that look clean.”
“Purse. Now,” she orders, and I dart back to my cubicle as she launches into one of the speeches I so love her for, even when they’re more like bitch slaps. “Stop waiting for shit to happen and start making it happen, Kay. Ben already likes and respects you. He’s just waiting for you to give him a sign. Tonight, you are going to get your sexy on, a little eyeliner, some blush, perfume, and for the love of all that is good and inspired by Vogue, take down that ponytail and brush that mess.”
Safely back in the bathroom, I follow her instructions.
“Now unbutton your shirt. One more—and push those boobs up to the high heavens. It’s not called a push-down bra, for God’s sake.”
“You know I don’t have any boobs.” I try to effectively repackage what I’ve got.
“Kaykay,” she sighs. “Sexy is an attitude. You should see some of the ugly cows here in Paris who get hot men just by knowing how to flirt.”
“I’m more of an ugly giraffe.” I survey my boyishly stick-thin frame and the Adam’s apple bulging from my neck. I have to admit, though, my minor modifications have helped. A little. Maybe this could work.
“He’s bringing beer back, too, right?”
I nod.
“You’re going to actually drink one, maybe two. Screw worrying about ads and give your life a little attention. I want you to sit close, laugh at everything he says, touch his hand once in a while, and when the moment is right, I want you to bat your hazel eyes at him and lean in for a kiss.”
My eyes stretch to saucers.
“It’s time, Kay,” she insists. “The two of you have been working together for years.”
She makes it sound so easy. But then again, she’s always been the Laverne to my Shirley. I have doubts. I may not get to the kiss, but at the very least, I will flirt. Or listen attentively and not say anything stupid.
I hear footsteps in the hall outside and whisper. “Ohmigod! Kell. He’s back.”
“Go get him, mon petit chou. Send me a ShoutOut later with the details, bisou bisou.” She starts French-kissing her phone.
I tap end as I see an extreme close-up of her tongue, pierced with a silver barbell. Is that new? No time to find out now. I grab my bag and walk as calmly as I can back to my cube, cooing, “You better have brought spring rolls, Ben Wilder. And maybe some of your big ideas, too . . .”
I look up eagerly, offering Ben what I hope is a playful smile. Only it’s not Ben. Standing in my cubicle is Suit. Damn! Ignoring his text messages obviously was not the right thing to do.
Suit. Suit. Suit, who none of us actually call by his real name. Seems that everyone around here gets an alias or alter ego. Which makes sense when you consider that advertising has got to be the fakest industry on the planet. But hey, kids, it’s fun! You can wear flip-flops to work! Just don’t expect to be liked for being yourself!
Usually I try to avoid Suit like the plague. Not because he is a strategic planner, a group notorious for siding with the clients. And not because he’s so stuffy and polished in his crisp Robert Graham sports shirts, a blatant contrast to all of us laid-back creative types in our sneakers and jeans. No, I steer clear of Suit because he’s always popping up when I think I’m alone, always sticking his head in my cube to check up on my writing. It’s so passive-aggressive. Just ask when I’ll be done, I feel like telling him, instead of acting like you care “how things are going.”
And the guy notices everything—if anyone can figure out that I’m stalled, it’s him.
“Bit of writer’s block?” he says now as he lingers by the entry to my cubicle, nodding to my tote bag as I settle back into my seat. Is he insinuating that I’d left the office for a while? Passive-aggressive stalker!
“Just a bathroom break. I know we’re on a deadline, but that’s allowed, isn’t it? Or do I have to pee in a bottle at my desk?” I don’t struggle for words around him like I do around my other coworkers. Probably because he infuriates me like my older, holier-than-thou brothers used to, and I’m used to fighting back with them verbally. Plus, I’m not trying to impress him.
“Sorry. I just thought I caught a whiff of the perfume counter at Saks. It’s going well, then?“ Suit walks over to my computer screen. And that’s when I realize I never closed my last Microsoft Word page.
“Here, shitty kitty,” he reads aloud. That’s all I ever did get around to typing. “Kay, as amazing as this little stroke of genius is, I don’t think I’ll be able to present it to the client. I do hope this is not the best of your work?”
“Oh, that?” I fudge. “It’s a joke for Ben. He’s coming back so we can mock up your lines. I’ve got pages and pages of winners.”
Ugh. Winners is ad speak for the very best lines you’ve got. I hate it when I fall back on the clichés people throw around the office.
“Good to hear.” Suit smiles, no doubt relieved. If Ben and I fail, he’s the one who will have to tap-dance for the client.
“Can I see what you have?” he asks in a friendly tone, but deep down I know he’s just being passively pushy.
Suit’s job is to develop the winning strategy for clients and make sure we creatives stick to it. Because cat food is so competitive and the differences between the products are small, he has done a lot of work with the Little Kitty execs to figure out how to make them stand out. All those meetings have made him the agency’s strongest link to the client, and that also makes him a favorite of Schmidt and Travino. Everyone else really likes him for other reasons that I’m not aware of. I’ve never spoken to him about anything except cat food. But I guess I can see why clients might find him charming. Ben said the guy’s from somewhere down south. Alabama or Georgia or Louisiana or whatever. When you grow up on the East Coast, all those states kind of blend together.
“Where are you from?” I blurt out suddenly, anxious to avoid what he just asked me at all costs.
Suit’s eyebrows wrinkle up, then he smiles, thrown by the randomness of my question.
Kay, if this is how you play coy, you’ll never manage to seduce Ben tonight.
“New Orleans,” he’s saying. “It’s a little town in Louisiana; maybe you’ve heard of it.”
Duh, I know New Orleans. And of course I know Louisiana. Kind of looks like a boot. Or a flag. They had the horrible hurricane; it’s all coming back.
Don’t ask about the hurricane, Kay. You’re cooler than that.
“Mardi Gras!” I offer.
Um, better. Sort of.
“Yes, in New Orleans we celebrate Mardi Gras.” Now he is practically laughing at me out loud.
From nowhere, I remember him laughing at the Christmas party. I’d been surprised that someone so straight looking actually had a sense of humor. Suit would probably get along swimmingly with my brothers, the Wondertwins. Brett and Brian are both successful financial analysts, a fact that only fuels our mother’s belief that nothing I do is good enough. Thanks to Attila the Mum, I have no idea how to take a compliment, let alone believe one.
You were born bald, a scrawny little chicken. I used to scotch tape bows to your head so the nurses would know you were a girl, Mom loves to tell me in that I’m-just-kidding-but-I’m-not way of hers.
One bassinet over, there was a plump, pretty baby girl with big blue eyes and golden ringlets of hair. I told your father to switch name bracelets so we could take her home instead.
She always follows this dig with deep belly laughter and the occasional snort. It’s hard to be heard when you live with someone who’s in love with the sound of her own voice. That’s why I turned to wr
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