11 pm. Conference room at Frank’s Advertising Agency. A sign taped to the outside of the conference room door says, “Quiet. A ‘Brainstorming’ Session is Underway Inside (the Conference Room).”
The white, lined 3×5 card pinned to the middle of the conference room wall said, “Clean Hair.” The words were written in bold, block letters with a “Magic Marker” brand marking pen.
Pinned around the first card were several hundred others. One of them said, “Hair cleaner.” Another said, “Wash hair.” Yet another said, “Hair dirty -> clean.” The street light across the street glared into the room, but was barely noticeable against the harsh florescent light from the ceiling of the conference room.
Frank, the owner of Frank’s Advertising Agency, sat at the head of the dark formica table, leaning back in a grey cloth chair. Though there was room for twelve at the table, only four were there this late at night. Two of the men were the core of Frank’s creative team, the best and brightest in his agency. The other was his son, Alferd, who picked at his nails while he stared at the wall with the others.
Frank stood up from his chair. A pleasant middle-aged man, he was nearly bald – “bald as a cueball,” he would often jest with his employees, though some would remind him that cueballs don’t actually grow hair, so the metaphor wasn’t particularly apt. Frank wasn’t entirely bald, just male pattern baldness. It was as though a caterpillar were curled around the back of his head; a two- to three-inch wide totally flat (except for the fat rolls on the back of Frank’s head) caterpillar with well-trimmed human hair. Frank had loosened his tie, and the silken fabric made a letter Y on the front of his white, short sleeve shirt. The buttons at belly level on his shirt relaxed a bit as he stood, though the spaces between them still made narrow figure 8s even while he was standing. Sweat stains worked their way from his armpits nearly to his waist, and the black and grey hair on his chest was visible through the thin cotton of his shirt.
Frank rubbed his eyes and stretched, exposing the full extent of his sweat stains, as well as some armpit hair.
“Well, gentlemen, it’s now eleven o’clock. I’d be grateful if I could get at least a couple hours sleep before the presentation tomorrow. Someone’s going to have to come up with something soon, or we are going to have to work straight through. Jim, what do you think?”
“Well, I’m about out of ideas,” said Jim, a pleasant mid-30s fellow with light hair and a cardigan sweater. “I mean, we’ve got the basics down on the notecards, don’t we? It’s a hair cleaning product, right?”
“Yeah, that’s right. And I know I don’t need to remind you this is our biggest client by a considerable margin, but I will do so for expository purposes. They are going to insist on something that really gives their product a feeling of being . . . different. You know, to set them apart from the other hair cleaning products out there. How about you, Mike? What you got for me?”
“Um,” said Mike, a pleasant mid-30s fellow with dark hair and a panama hat. “Well, boss, I’m looking at the notecards. There seems to be a unifying theme here. This product is used for cleaning peoples hair, right? I mean that’s the whole point, isn’t it? To help them get their dirty hair to be clean? Maybe that should be the focus of the new ad campaign.”
“Say,” said Frank, narrowing his eyes and nodding his head slightly as though deep in thought concerning Mike’s observation, which he was. “You may be on to something there.” Frank’s voice began to rise with excitement. “This is what these ‘brainstorming’ sessions are about”
“Hey, Pop,” said Alferd, a pleasant young fellow with spiked purple hair, a Grateful Dead t-shirt and a tattoo of a green dragon on his forearm. Frank looked at his son. “Mike’s right,” the boy continued. “This is about getting dirty hair to be clean. But you know what’s missing? You know what we’re not seeing in all these hundreds of 3×5 cards?”
The three older men turned their gazes to Alferd. The boy was new to the business; he was “just learning the ropes,” Frank often jested with his employees, though some employees reminded him that unlike a sailing ship, an ad agency had no sails, and therefore the ropes metaphor was not quite accurate. No one expected Alferd to come up with the epiphany that would break the creative logjam at Frank’s Advertising Agency this evening.
“Rinsing,” Alferd said. “We haven’t said anything about rinsing the hair cleaning product out of your hair as part of the cleaning process.”
A slow smile crossed Frank’s face, and he nodded proudly at the young man. “Yessss!” Frank said, raising his fist in a black power salute, even though he was a white guy.
Mike and Jim patted Alferd on the back, representing that they were pleased.
9:30 AM the next day (unless the meeting in part one lasted until after midnight, in which case it’s the same day, just later). Fiftieth floor of Cleanco Tower. Board room of Cleanco, a manufacturer of cleaning products.
A glass wall looked out on a panorama of near rooftops and far trees. Several posters for today’s ad presentation leaned against the glass wall. Jim and Mike stood near the presentation pieces. Alferd was tooling around in his 87 Celica, completely lost in the city after deciding to toke up a bit of his high-grade Michoacan this morning to “get his creative juices flowing.” The conference room table at Cleanco was black marble sitting on gleaming chrome pedestals. Thirty leather chairs sat around its perimeter. The glossy surface of the table reflected the overhead lights. The double doors at either end of the room, each ten feet tall, were dark, finely carved mahogany.
On a credenza at one end of the room, fresh coffee sat on burners. One of the coffeepots had an orange lid. Frank, the Cautious Ad Guy, walked over to get some decaf.
He poured a cup of coffee from the orange-lidded pot. The last thing he needed on top of his nerves this morning was more caffeine. Despite this, he sloshed the coffee over the sides of the cup because he was shaking so badly. He decided to leave the cup on the credenza, as he did not want Cleanco’s President and Chief Executive Officer, Burnbrose Q. Amside IV, to see how nervous he was.
The doors at one end of the room swung open. Mr. Amside entered. He was dressed in a closely tailored, dark grey Armani pinstripe suit, a spotless white shirt with extra heavy starch, and a bright red tie with an immaculate Windsor knot. The man’s full head of white hair was well-trimmed, his nails were cut straight across, his shoes were freshly shined. His face was pleasant and relaxed, in the way of men who have accomplished a great deal and have many large piles of hundred dollar bills sitting around in their basement. Red jowls wiggled in time with his double chin.
Four middle-aged men followed Mr. Amside into the room. Like their boss, they were dressed with wealth and breeding. Frank recognized them. All the top executives of Cleanco would be watching this presentation.
His heart skipped a beat.
“Frank, good to see you,” Mr. Amside said, extending his hand, most of a smile on his face.
“And it’s a pleasure to see you, Mr. Amside. Thank you so much for having us up this morning.” Frank took Mr. Amside’s hand, and gave it a manly shake. Mr. Amside winced at the squeeze, and withdrew his hand. Dang it, Frank thought. I forgot about the arthritis. Frank’s heart would have fallen if his other internal organs had not occupied the rest of the space below his heart.
The rest of the men shook hands. Mr. Amside sat opposite the presentation materials the ad guys had stacked on one side of the room. The executives took seats beside him.
“So, Frank. What you got for us today?” Cleanco’s Chief Financial Officer said.
“Well, we’ve worked hard on this, gentlemen,” Frank said. “And I really think you’re going to like it,” Frank said hopefully, since he hoped Mr. Amside would hire his agency for this advertising gig.
Frank placed a trifold presentation piece on the table with the doors still closed. “Ready?” Frank asked.
“Let’s ‘do it’,” Mr. Amside said.
“Here’s our suggestion for the name for your new hair cleaning product, then,” Frank said, opening the doors of the trifold. Inside, Frank had written in black magic marker, “Name: Cleanco Hair Cleansing Product.”
Mr. Amside frowned when he read the name. The old quadfreakingzillionaire coupled the frown with a furrowed brow and a little nod, signifying thoughtfulness. This was because he was being thoughtful about the presentation.
“Now let’s move on to the jingle,” Frank said, moving on to the jingle.
Jim and Mike stood up. Frank lifted a large poster onto the table. Frank pushed a button on the ghetto blaster the narrator forgot to mention earlier. The poster had the words of the jingle written on it, as well as many quarter notes and half notes to signify that these words were accompanied by music.
An instrumental version of Yankee Doodle Dandy blasted from the speakers. Jim and Mike began to sing.
Cleanco Hair Cleansing Product,
If applied liberally to wet hair,
Then rubbed vigorously into the scalp, such that it “lathers”,
Followed by thorough rinsing,
Your hair will, at the end of this undertaking,
Be clean, or at least
Cleaner than before.
Frank turned off the ghetto blaster. The room was silent – so silent that one could have heard a pin drop on the floor, if someone had thought to drop a pin and there were no carpet, which there was, and there were not a great deal of ambient noise, such as the ventilation system, which there also was.
The Cleanco executives looked at Mr. Amside expectantly, as they expected him to tell them what he thought of the presentation. The ad agency guys looked at Mr. Amside hopefully, for basically the same reasons Frank had previously said something using the same adverb.
“So.” Frank asked. “How we doing? Do you like it?”
“No, I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all,” Mr. Amside said, still frowning.
The other Cleanco executives nodded their heads in agreement with their boss’s assessment. Frank’s heart would have fallen once again, but his other organs were still there.
The frown slowly left Mr. Amside’s face.
“I don’t like it, I love it!” Mr. Amside exclaimed with an exclamation mark.
The Cleanco executives nodded their heads in agreement once again. Frank beamed. The other ad guys beamed.
Alferd pulled into Taco Bell and ordered six Chicken Chalupa Supremes and four bean burritos with green sauce.
Six months later. The advertising jingle was so successful that people shopping for hair cleaning products could be heard singing/whistling the jingle. Sales of Cleanco Hair Cleansing Product skyrocketed. Mr. Amside had to buy a new house with a bigger basement.
Nine months after that. Two novels based on the jingle were published. Both were on the New York Times Best Seller List for months. Oprah touted one of them on her show. “We are talking about hair cleaning today. Hair that is clean is our topic, girlfren.”
Three months after that. Dominique Canard du Croissant, the famed French film maker, produced Nettoyant Cheveux Propres, based on the jingle. The movie opens with a closeup of a naked young woman stepping into the shower. The film leers at her perky young breasts. The film does a closeup of the perky young nipples of her perky young breasts. They do a microscopic closeup on one of her nipples so that it fills the whole screen.
The nipple slowly morphs to a clown wearing an undersized white bowler hat, as French clowns are often known to do. The clown is riding a bicycle upside down on a tightrope. He moves at a slow, deliberate pace. The clown scene then fades back to perky breasts and/or nipples and/or stepping into and/or out of the shower, including some butt shots.
The reviews of the movie were positive. A famous New York Times reviewer says, “This is an important film for our age. It captures, like no other film before it, with beautiful metaphoric imagery, the way we are, all of us, like clowns riding bicycles upside down on tightropes.”
Frank, the cautious ad guy, accumulated considerable wealth from the royalties on the novels and films. He still had less money than Mr. Amside, though.
The end.