I don’t know why, but advertising attracts jokers. More so than other lines of work.
Maybe it’s because you need a wry sense of humor to work in a business that essentially makes stuff up. Or maybe the business attracts the kind of people who have a skewed (read: twisted) take on life, living and the reason we’re all on this planet.
It helps that people in the business work extraordinarily close to each other, often for long hours, including weekends for months at a time. At a high-pressure job that isn’t exactly saving lives, and when you’re that close to someone, with so much pent-up tension, you’re either going to kill them or sleep with them.
After you’ve done the latter and passed on the former (doubtless, because stripes aren’t a good look for anyone), you think how wonderful it would be to get them good.
I mean, real good.
Here’s my best effort: I was working with an art director called Gwen*, on a big-but-not-terribly-urgent-or-interesting project for one of our clients. I was doing my best to focus on it, but Gwen wasn’t in the right mind frame. She was desperately looking for a new apartment in Manhattan that was within her budget, and it was all she could think about. She began to despair and was making nice with some of the homeless guys on 6th Avenue, in case she had to sleep next to them under a bridge.
She was stressed, she was desperate and she made a huge mistake: she told me how stressed and how desperate she was.
I told her not to worry, I was sure something would come up and I suggested we stop working on the project that day and pick it up again tomorrow morning. Then, I went to my desk and posted an ad on craigslist.com, advertising a 2-bedroom apartment in a really desirable neighborhood called Hell’s Kitchen (west of midtown Manhattan, in the 40s). I pretended to be a lawyer who was traveling to Europe for two years and was giving up my apartment for the duration, at an (unheard of) price of $1200/ month. The only stipulation was that whoever took over the lease would have to look after my two pets.
An English sheepdog called Patsy. And an Iguana called Herman.
The next day, I walked into the office and swung by Gwen’s office.
“I found a great place she yelped. “It’s just $1200! I’ve written the guy an email. Do you think I’ll hear back?
I mumbled something about keeping fingers crossed and then I fled to my office, where I could die laughing in private. After my heart attack had subsided, I opened my email account. And my jaw hit the floor.
One hundred and seventy eight emails. All asking for the apartment. All professing their excitement at the prospect of looking after an English sheepdog and an Iguana. The air was thick with the stench of desperation and brown-nosing:
? One man sent me pictures of the iguana he had as a child.? One couple informed me that their cousin, Melvin, worked for the Bronx Zoo in the reptile house and he had promised to help them look after Herman.? One lady told me she had family in Europe who could help me out, if only I would give her the apartment. She also mentioned her cousin worked for the traffic department and she could make all my traffic tickets go away.? Another lady sent me her picture with very little clothes on.? A man sent me his picture with no clothes on. His face was digitally hidden and he had a black lizard sitting on his shoulder.
Eventually, after much scrolling and reading, I found Gwen’s email. Her tone was pleading, anxious and slightly crazed. I wrote back and asked her whether she’d like to go out for dinner with me.
I heard a shriek from the other room, where Gwen was. Then, I heard people gathering to her office. Followed by excited chatter. Then, I got an email from Gwen with her phone number. Two minutes later, Tom from accounting stepped out. I called over to him and asked him what was going on.
“Gwen’s gotten an answer from the Iguana guy came the dejected reply. “He never replied to my damn email.
“Tom, you don’t have a black lizard, do you?
“No. Why?
“No reason.
Eventually, I had to let Gwen know. But only after I’d asked her if it would be ok to check in on my 86-year old mother, while I was away, spoken to her on the phone and quizzed her about her favorite shade of undergarments and asked her if it would be ok if she could drive me to the airport, on my last day.
I took a picture of the mark on the wall, from where Gwen threw the ashtray at me. Good thing I’m quick on my feet. You have to be when you have a pet Iguana.
* The names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.
Mohammed Nassar was kidnapped at birth and forced to work in advertising, in Cairo, New York and London. Today, his main concern is that archaeologists will one day stumble upon his desk, debate the value of his profession and judge him.
