contemporary approach. Break it down into parts, and each part is referring to a quality that they want to attach to the town. They bring the external in, import it you might say, to this region.”
“Import it you might say.”
“Right. Winthrop is a mystery to outsiders. Who was Winthrop, what did he do? You have to come here to find out. Why should I care, make me care—this is what outsiders think. But New Prospera, you start making up all sorts of stuff the moment you hear it. It has associations and images. Coming here confirms or disappoints the scenarios in your head.”
“Scenarios in your head.”
“Sure. But there are actually three names we’re talking about here. If you consider Freedom—”
“Your company came up with the name New Prospera. What makes your firm the preeminent identity firm in the country? The tops?”
“I actually don’t work for them anymore,” he said, raising his hands as if to wave off misconception. “I didn’t—”
“What I find so interesting is the world of opportunities that a wonderful name like New Prospera will bring to the town,” Jurgen said. “Big businesses looking for a tax-friendly haven, young people who want a fresh start. To start a family in a positive environment close to the conveniences of a big city.”
The moment stretched. Then he said, “Huh?”
“Are you keeping it real?”
“Sorry?”
“Are you keeping it real?”
“What?”
“Are you keeping it real?”
“What?”
“Are you keeping it real?”
“Yes.”
Jurgen squinted off into the distance. “I think that’s about all I have. Is there any question I haven’t asked that you’d like to be asked, and then talk naturally about?”
“No.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue.”
“Let’s say green.” Jurgen stood up quickly and extended his hand. “Thank your so much for your time. You’ve been really helpful and this was very refreshing.” And with that the reporter scurried out of the lobby to forage for the winter.
The man had been sent by Lucky, to soften him up for their meeting the next afternoon. His anger toward the housekeeper intensified acutely, and he marveled: she was a fine surrogate indeed. Can’t a brother get five minutes to himself without being hustled by some faction or other? The lyrics of a crappy ditty cavorted in his head:
Where’s a brother gonna find peace in Winthrop? / Shuttle bus shuttle bus shuttle bus
. The backup singers sashaying, hips a-rocking here and there.
The only thing that salvaged his meeting with the reporter was the sight a few minutes later of the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door of his room. He crept inside. His room remained unmolested. It was starting to look like home in there, messy and dim. A whiff of something sour.
He was going to take a nap when he noticed the housekeeper’s second note. This one was more economical. It read, “You THINK you are so smart, smarty-pants. But you ARE NOT.”
He scrambled under the covers. Shuttle bus, shuttle bus, shuttle bus.
. . . . . . . .
The first time he saw one of the ads he was watching prime-time television. One of the ensemble dramas in the top ten, a show they all agreed on. The commercial opened onto a middle-class suburban kitchen, the kind made totemic in previous commercials, with a little window with yellow curtains above the sink, through which he could see the backyard and the wood fence that kept the neighbors away. A white mother stood with a dishrag in her hand and a white child (Shade # A12) ran in. He looked up abjectly and said, “I hurt.” Then they cut back to the shot of the kitchen, but this time there was a black mother standing there with a dishrag. A black son (Shade # A25) ran into the kitchen and said, “I hurt.” The scene was repeated with an Asian kid (Shade # A17), again with the identical setting and physical movements. “I hurt.” Then came a shot of a white maternal hand fixing white Apex on a
“Import it you might say.”
“Right. Winthrop is a mystery to outsiders. Who was Winthrop, what did he do? You have to come here to find out. Why should I care, make me care—this is what outsiders think. But New Prospera, you start making up all sorts of stuff the moment you hear it. It has associations and images. Coming here confirms or disappoints the scenarios in your head.”
“Scenarios in your head.”
“Sure. But there are actually three names we’re talking about here. If you consider Freedom—”
“Your company came up with the name New Prospera. What makes your firm the preeminent identity firm in the country? The tops?”
“I actually don’t work for them anymore,” he said, raising his hands as if to wave off misconception. “I didn’t—”
“What I find so interesting is the world of opportunities that a wonderful name like New Prospera will bring to the town,” Jurgen said. “Big businesses looking for a tax-friendly haven, young people who want a fresh start. To start a family in a positive environment close to the conveniences of a big city.”
The moment stretched. Then he said, “Huh?”
“Are you keeping it real?”
“Sorry?”
“Are you keeping it real?”
“What?”
“Are you keeping it real?”
“What?”
“Are you keeping it real?”
“Yes.”
Jurgen squinted off into the distance. “I think that’s about all I have. Is there any question I haven’t asked that you’d like to be asked, and then talk naturally about?”
“No.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue.”
“Let’s say green.” Jurgen stood up quickly and extended his hand. “Thank your so much for your time. You’ve been really helpful and this was very refreshing.” And with that the reporter scurried out of the lobby to forage for the winter.
The man had been sent by Lucky, to soften him up for their meeting the next afternoon. His anger toward the housekeeper intensified acutely, and he marveled: she was a fine surrogate indeed. Can’t a brother get five minutes to himself without being hustled by some faction or other? The lyrics of a crappy ditty cavorted in his head:
Where’s a brother gonna find peace in Winthrop? / Shuttle bus shuttle bus shuttle bus
. The backup singers sashaying, hips a-rocking here and there.
The only thing that salvaged his meeting with the reporter was the sight a few minutes later of the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door of his room. He crept inside. His room remained unmolested. It was starting to look like home in there, messy and dim. A whiff of something sour.
He was going to take a nap when he noticed the housekeeper’s second note. This one was more economical. It read, “You THINK you are so smart, smarty-pants. But you ARE NOT.”
He scrambled under the covers. Shuttle bus, shuttle bus, shuttle bus.
. . . . . . . .
The first time he saw one of the ads he was watching prime-time television. One of the ensemble dramas in the top ten, a show they all agreed on. The commercial opened onto a middle-class suburban kitchen, the kind made totemic in previous commercials, with a little window with yellow curtains above the sink, through which he could see the backyard and the wood fence that kept the neighbors away. A white mother stood with a dishrag in her hand and a white child (Shade # A12) ran in. He looked up abjectly and said, “I hurt.” Then they cut back to the shot of the kitchen, but this time there was a black mother standing there with a dishrag. A black son (Shade # A25) ran into the kitchen and said, “I hurt.” The scene was repeated with an Asian kid (Shade # A17), again with the identical setting and physical movements. “I hurt.” Then came a shot of a white maternal hand fixing white Apex on a
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