Anything that’s not a Starbucks will do just fine for me. I was sitting at our usual curbside table at Picaso’s waiting - hot chai latte on the table, eyes fixed on today’s newspaper headlines.
It wasn’t long until Bob strolled up and flopped himself into the seat across from me.
I was about to berate him for being late - again - to our usual morning pre-work meeting, when I observed something over the top of my paper that blanked this from my mind.
“What – the heck – is that - on your head?” I asked.
BOB: Oh, this? It’s the latest thing. Everyone’s gonna be wearin’ ’em.
Bob was seated under the largest - red - yarmulke I’d ever seen. It was nearly a swimmer’s cap, but loose and made of some kind of red felt.
BOB: Don’t you watch TV? Half of Jay Leno’s guests were wearing one last night.
I mentally rubbed my eyes when I looked around at the passer-bys on their way to hither and yon, and noticed a surprising number of folks - young AND old - toting around similar skullcaps.
A Jewish guy went by with an authentic black yarmulke - looking at all of these crazies like someone had just peed on his lawn.
“Gah. People are morons,” I said.
At this point in our relationship, it was not necessary to imply that Bob was also a moron - no, no, that was a given.
Bob and I have known each other since we were 5 when I took the head off his GI Joe with my big wheel. We went through grade school together, and although Bob didn’t come with me to college, we’ve met up afterward in a strange karmic realignment. Obviously, there have been some tense times, but for the most part, we’ve been best buds ever since that day when Cobra Commander got his sweet revenge.
BOB: I bet that I get a few hats at Parkway today. - Bob mused.
“I have no doubt.” I said, rolling my eyes. “Are we still on for lunch?”
BOB: Yeah, I’ll meet you at the office at 12… fifteen. Lates.
A gaggle of schoolkids ran by toward the bus stop - all of them with miniature oversized red caps covering their pates.
Behind the reception desk was the blonde bimbo of the week. Filing her nails, it amused me to wonder if she was even aware that she would only be in the job for a few days - or that she had even been given a job - or [slowing] that she was wearing one of those ridiculous yarmulkes.
Hers had gold glitter glued onto the edges in a diamond pattern. It looked like some kind of Christmas stocking gone horribly wrong.
She didn’t even look up when I passed her going into the offices.
On my way to my cube, I heard some hullabaloo by the water cooler, so I took a short detour to check it out.
Everyone was gathered around Mary Ashby - the office “rhymes-with-witch” - who had an open carboard box at her feet. In her hands was a rolled-up poster, not an uncommon sight around an ad firm.
Roberts and Watson, the first company to concede to my superior post-college interviewing skills, isn’t your typical advertising agency. At least, we like to say that we’re experts at targeting diverse and original methods of conveying your message. Really, we just don’t carry big enough accounts to work with TV.
Towing the company line, Ashby was jabbering about “essential partnerships” and “product alliances” and other meaningless doublespeak.
I’m going to warn you - I’m about to do a voice. This isn’t really what Ashby sounds like, but is a perfectly accurate representation of what she sounds like in my head.
ASHBY: …and so the fruit of our labor, the ‘skrullcap’.
She unrolled the poster in her hands, revealing a virtually nude woman covered with strategically placed shadows. What the… Nude except for the stinking red yarmulke!
“Ugh.” Feelings of having sold out washed completely through me. Everyone else was digging into the box at Ashby’s feet, trying to get their own free “Skrullcap”, whatever the point of that was. I sauntered through the cube farm, collapsed at my desk, and numbly powered on my computer monitor.
Desk-Cactus status: Green. Think “zen”.
A head belonging to Laura Miho poked over the cube wall.
LAURA: ‘Morning, neighbor!
Laura and I share a cube wall in our cube farm. It’s difficult to describe my relationship with her. Is it possible to be both a good friend and nemesis at the same time? That would be her.
In fact, the only thing that keeps me running in any kind of competitive race with this asian beauty is the size and location of my prime apartment. Ya gotta love old ladies who sublet.
LAURA: So, have you seen the new “skullcrap”?
She beat me to my punchline. This is annoyingly common.
“Yeah, Ashby was flouting them by the watercooler when I walked in.”
LAURA: I’m looking forward to our meeting at 11.
She turned with that raised eyebrow - her poker tell. Something was afoot. What was that about a meeting?
When the computer came up I tried to check my email, but the virus scanner was busy chirping. Only 35 spam messages over the weekend? Must be some kind of lowball record.
My 11 o’clock meeting was with Laura and Jack Roberts, the non-silent partner and head bimbo picker of Roberts and Watson. The email meeting announcement came directly from his personal secretary, one Miss Stacy Granger.
Don’t confuse Miss Granger as one of the bimbo brigade. Roberts likes his women, no doubt, but when it comes to business there’s also no doubt that without Stacy the show would simply stop running. Besides that, red hair and bony wasn’t his type.
I wasn’t shocked to see the three of them in the conference room when I arrived. What was surprising was the pile of Skrullcaps on the conference table.
JACK: Ah, everyone’s here. Let’s get started.
I took a seat next to Laura as Jack started the meeting rolling.
JACK: You’ve no doubt seen the fruits of our wonderful new client.
Laura and I both nodded.
JACK: The sales numbers since Saturday’s stunt have already gone through the roof. But the execs at Skrullcaps are concerned that they’re not hitting their target 16-24 demo hard enough, and they want to inject another star into the media mainstream.
I felt the vomit slowly rising. Laura sat with cucumber-like cool, listening to the old man prattle.
It’s times like these when I recall the advice of my grandfather upon my receipt of this job offer. He grabbed me by my shoulders, locked his eyes on mine and said, “Don’t crap yourself in the conference room.” Why he chose to convey this particular advice remains a family mystery to this day, but I’ve been heeding that advice as best I could ever since.
Stacy leaned in and whispered something in his ear, then Jack continued…
JACK: That’s where you come in. I need you to pitch some celebrities to hit those 16 to 24’s so we can set one up on TRL or whatever MTV is pushing these days.
JACK: I’ll want your ideas by four, and a call in to our pick by five. Let’s move!
Jack lept up and stode out of the room without waiting for comment. Stacy followed him stoicly.
I looked over to Laura. She had already scrawled a few names on her legal pad. Mine had a little house and a tree with a rope swing.
I snatched Bob from the lobby as I ducked out of the office for lunch.
In the back seat of the cab, I couldn’t concentrate on much aside from the red blurs of pedestrian heads passing by in the window.
Bob was prattling on about how some nobody celebrity showed up on some morning TV show looking quite foolish and stylisticly idiotic in his blue skullcap. I wasn’t listening. I was having visions of Thanksgiving - A five story high Snoopy balloon dragged past the Macy’s building, gigantic red Skrullcap flapping in the wind.
At the restaurant, I explained the Bob the task laid before me at work.
JOE: You just have to pick the right celebrity.
…said the guy behind the salad bar.
Having dined here more often that we’d like, we’ve come to recognize the salad bar attendant as “Joe” from the frequently screamed obscenities in the kitchen. If there was any doubt as to where the hair in your greens came from, you need only look to Joe’s beefy arms.
Neverthelesss, Joe seemed to fit in our 16 to 24, so I asked him who he thought this “right celebrity” was.
JOE: Ahhh… I would love to see Tori Spelling in one of these… Skrullcaps. Completely naked, of course.
Joe erupted in a fit of deep laughter, which was followed by a cacophony of obscene admonitions from the kitchen. Bob and I hurried down the line toward the cashier.
At the table, Bob started into his food, but I just sat - staring at it.
“People are sheep,” I said. “They’ll do anything they’re told to do by TV.”
Bob looked up, still munching. Still wearing his red cap from the morning. He swallowed.
BOB: I think people make their own choices – he said – I like my Skrullcap.
“That’s crap. Would you even be wearing that blasted thing if you hadn’t seen it on Leno?”
Bob pondered the question, realizing now that the Leno bit was a setup by the ad firm, and that it had worked on him.
I continued, “The trouble is that people don’t have the sense to make up their own mind.”
BOB: I still don’t buy that. Freedom to choose trumps advertising.
There was only one way this was going to end. I cut to the chase.
“Fine, what do you want to bet I can get Joe to wear a Skrullcap to work before the fad runs its course?”
BOB: Never happen, but you’re on.
“Baa,” I said, looking at his cap. I gazed down at my salad, then over toward Joe, then moved on to the meatloaf, whose mysterious preparation suddenly seemed more appetizing.
After lunch, I met Laura back at the office to hone our pitch. She came prepared with a reasonably large list. I had a decent-sized list of my own, but my effort was half-hearted.
On one hand, I wanted to win this bet with Bob. Prove I was right, crush his will like a cockroach, and keep him in his place as my social subordinate. It might even be amusing to see Joe in one of those dorky hats.
On the other hand, I didn’t feel I could let this fashion nightmare go unanswered. If I swayed things properly, I could end this insanity and get back to hawking wares for the bagel-hut pushcart business on 3rd street. Not to mention avoid eating at Joe’s for the rest of the week.
And on the third hand, all of this could tampering could cost me my job. Maybe the whole thing would die out on its own, but there was probably little hope of that with Laura on the job.
LAURA: So, who’ve you got on there?
I went through a few names, and so did she. We got down my list to Sarah Jessica Parker before Laura gave me an odd look.
LAURA: Are you trying to blow the deal?
“Huh?” I was totally oblivious.
LAURA: She’s Jewish. I thought everyone knew.
“Oh.”
We had decided early on that it probably wasn’t a good idea to include jewish folks in our list of contenders to advertise oversized novelty yarmulkes. That ruled out Miss Sex and the City.
We continued and almost got completely through our lists when the bimbo stuck her head into my cube.
BIMBO: Uh, Lauri, there’s a call for ya. It’s some docta from Pupon institute.
LAURA: Doctor Stephens? From DuPont institute?
BIMBO: Whateva. – Line one.
Laura left to take her call with only a few minutes left before our pitch to Jack. There were only a couple of names on my list that we hadn’t discussed, and one of them was my key to putting Joe into a new head cover.
