Truth in Advertising by John Kenney Page B

an intensity and intelligence I admire, as well as their wardrobes and hair. I feel inferior to them and their awards, their quiet cool. Inevitably they ask about my work in voices of thinly veiled condescension. “Missed you at Cannes this year,” they say, referring to the French city where the premiere annual advertising award show takes place. I often have a remarkably cutting comeback, such as, “Oh, yeah? Well . . . that’s because I wasn’t there.”
    There are bookshelves in Martin’s office holding an impressive array of books, some on advertising, some on writing, and several volumes of the OED, which look to be quite old. Also a collection by Philip Larkin and three by Seamus Heaney. Mostly there are awards, dozens and dozens of awards, oddly shaped things, blocks of Lucite, gold-colored pencils, a winged lady, Greek-inspired surely, holding a globe overhead. Clios, Effies, Andys, Chuckies, Chippies. (I made up the last two.) The Clio is the big one. The name comes by way of Greek mythology, which seems right to me, as the essence of what we do is create and foster myth.
    Martin is on his iPad. Emma brings in tea.
    â€œFin. Have a seat. Just finishing something up. Help yourself,” he adds, nodding to the pot of tea. It is a ritual of his, each afternoonaround four. He has a large pot of tea and a tray of scones brought in from Tea & Sympathy in the Village.
    It has crossed my mind that I may be here to learn the news of my impending (and much sought after) promotion to creative director. Considering the bloodbath of the past year (three rounds of layoffs) and the continued grim economic news, I can’t imagine this chat is about a bonus.
    Emma leaves and Martin turns to face me. “Christmas has come early, Fin.”
    I smile my fake smile. “Really?”
    â€œIndeed.”
    My palms begin to tingle and perspire. I feel my promotion/bonus/life-changing career moment coming, and I believe that I am an exceptional predictor of the future (though empirical data disproves this).
    â€œI’ve just received a call from Brad,” Martin says.
    Brad is the CMO of Snugglies, a division of General Corp., makers of baby diapers, adult diapers, soap, shampoo, cereal, candy, car tires, jet engines, diesel locomotives, and guidance systems for Tomahawk missiles.
    Maybe Brad called Martin about me. Brad saw—helped Martin see—my worth, my uniqueness, my way not merely with words (“Does your diaper do this?”), but with people, how I inspire them, how, if I died tomorrow, the line for the wake would wrap around the block, the Times would publish the obit, I would be remembered. I mattered. Which is when Terry Gross begins to interview me for the many wondrous achievements of my storied career.
    TERRY: This is Fresh Air . I’m Terry Gross. I’m talking with world-famous copywriter and poet Finbar Dolan. Your first book, Me, How Wonderful , a collection of poems and an international bestseller, is being made into a film directed by Ang Lee and starring both Brad Pitt and George Clooney as you at different times in your life. You’ve been asked to act in it and to write the screenplay. Is it hard to write a screenplay for a book of poems?
    FIN: It is, Terry. But I was able to do it in a day.
    TERRY: You chose to live in Paris for much of the writing. Why was that?
    FIN: It’s one of my favorite cities. I bought a home there. And, of course, I speak the language without any trace of an accent.
    TERRY: You’re the youngest member ever to be elected to L’Academie française .
    FIN: Oui.
    TERRY: That’s an incredible accomplishment.
    FIN: Thank you, Terry.
    TERRY: You once landed a 747 safely after the pilot passed out. How did you know how to do that?
    FIN: Luck. And of course a great deal of skill.
    TERRY: You’re far better looking in person than on your book jacket photo.
    FIN: ( embarrassed ) That’s very