Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Shit.
The General waded into that silence fearlessly with a thump of his cane on the carpeted floor. “Well, Brooks, I take back everything I said about fancy New York advertisements. That is just what I want for my campaign. Ms. Storms, where do I sign?”
Pamela forced a smile. “General, I want you to understand, this is only one direction we can go in. Not even necessarily the best direction.”
I frowned, and she cast me a look that probably would’ve made me quake in my bespoke suit a couple of weeks ago. I’d known she wouldn’t be happy that I’d gone around her to share my ideas with the General. I’d had a fair idea she’d be displeased when I showed up to the office that morning with my client, without giving her a chance to preview the campaign. But I’d been confident she’d see the merit in what Paul and I had designed, be thrilled by the General’s enthusiasm, and be too excited about nailing down a client to be truly angry.
I’d been wrong.
But I couldn’t bring myself to care that I was disappointing her either. What was the point here? Pleasing her? Or pleasing the client?
General Partridge frowned. “I don’t know how to be clearer than to say it flat out, Ms. Storms. I want that.” He nodded to the empty screen. “Brooks got to the heart of what I wanted and served it up better’n I ever could.”
“I’m sure,” Pamela said blandly, with a cold smile that conveyed zero assurance. “But as marketing professionals, General Partridge, it’s our job not just to give the customer what they want, but what they deserve. You wouldn’t tell a brain surgeon how to operate, right? This campaign…” She shook her head sadly. “It’s charming, but not particularly creative or even broadly appealing.”
I clenched my hands into fists on my lap. Across the table, Paul’s nostrils flared.
“Ms. Storms, I grew up in a town called Soddy Gulf. You ever been?”
“No,” Pamela admitted.
“That’s alright. Not a lot of people have.” He waved the hand that wasn’t holding the cane negligently. “I learned to cook barbecue on a repurposed oil drum, using the recipe my granddaddy passed to my mama and then to me. It’s not real fancy or creative. I don’t think it’s even broadly appealing,” he said with a chuckle. “But it’s real and it’s true and it’s good. And I don’t hold with overcomplicating things.” He tapped his cane on the ground again like he’d said all he had to say on the subject and pushed himself to his feet. “Now. Brooks, how about you bring some contracts and let’s sign ’em over lunch. I’m starved.”
Everyone else darted a look at Pamela, who hadn’t moved, then reluctantly got to their feet and headed back to their desks to post-mortem my downfall.
“Brooks. A minute of your time, please,” Pamela called before I reached the door.
“Of course,” I agreed smoothly, which was Brooks Johnson speak for, “Jesus Christ, Pamela, I just scored us a big client. I can’t believe you’re going to read me the fucking riot act.” And then I caught myself.
How ridiculous. Turned out I wasn’t any more “real” in New York than I’d been as a kid in the Thicket. I could hear Mal’s voice in my head teasing me.
“Brooks, what the hell is going on?” Pamela demanded. “You were steady. Dependable. You were my rock.”
I leaned back against the door and regarded her coolly. “I still am.”
She shook her head. “You ran off in the middle of a proposal. You hardly returned my phone calls. You went behind my back to show General Partridge your designs—”
“Which he loved, and which are totally in line with his brand.”
“But not with our brand. Brooks, you were the one who warned me that Storms Marketing had a reputation to protect—”
“That was back when you gave Kale the Partridge Pit campaign. And I was right. All he managed to do was piss the client off.”
She shook her head like I was missing something crucial. “He might not have hit on precisely the right note, but he pushed the envelope. He innovated. You…” She shuddered delicately. “You put together an unironic, down-home, junkyard campaign that’s like a hundred other campaigns out there—”
“That’s like other things out there, but better. We repurposed old ideas and made them into something new. And for what it’s worth, you can find lots of inspiration in junkyards.”
She blinked. “Do you… do you even hear yourself? Junkyarrrrds. Since when do you have that accent? Are you having some kind of mental health… episode, or whatever? Is it because of what happened with your dad? Because we can arrange for some time off.”
I almost laughed. I was miserable and homesick, but I felt like myself for the first time in maybe twenty-eight years.