Bob Beach
* * *
“HEY, EVAN, YOU MISSED all the excitement Saturday night.” Connor McKee stood at the opening to Evan Moore’s cubicle, making faces at the mug of bitter agency coffee in his hand. “I can’t believe you didn’t show!”
Evan didn’t look up from his monitor. “The in-laws are in town. Dana’s dad insisted on taking us out to Mancy’s and the symphony.” Not only did he miss the Ad Club dinner, he had to spend the night listening to the old bastard wail about the lamestream media and their fake news.
“You skipped the awards dinner for your in-laws? Wow, that’s dedication. Anyway, congratulations, man, that’s terrific! Nice piece!” He turned to leave.
“Congratulations? What for?” Evan lifted his head from Adobe Illustrator, where he was putting the finishing touches on a logo design for Hanover Construction.
“The award. Didn’t you know? You got a gold medal Saturday!”
Evan’s heart locked up and his mouth went dry. A gold? Me? He spun around on his chair. But then he remembered he hadn’t entered anything.
“I did? What for?”
“Yeah, a gold medal. For the Atkins poster.”
Evan felt an icy hand grab his spine. Not the Atkins poster. No. He had that handled. “But I didn’t enter that. I had Kathy pull it.”
“Well, lucky for you she didn’t pull hard enough—it got a gold. Your first, isn’t it?”
“Jesus Christ.” Even jumped up and waddled across the bullpen toward Kathy’s office. The large, open area was dimly lighted to avoid screen glare and distraction for the designers. Although he never found it a distraction and wondered if the real reason wasn’t just to save on electricity. For privacy, the space was divided into small cubicles with five-foot fabric-covered walls, which gave about as much privacy as a half-open bathroom door.
A half dozen designers tapped intently away at their keyboards. Oversize screens flashed and beeped and belched video into the semi-darkness as he passed. A colony of moles sifting for precious metals: gold, silver, bronze.
“Hey, Evan, congratulations!” called someone from a cubicle.
He popped his head into Kathy’s doorway. The administrative staff had their own individual offices, with four walls and a door that actually closed, as though they were more important to the agency than the designers who created the product. “Didn’t you pull the Atkins poster from the entry pile?”
Kathy looked up and nodded. “Yeah. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“How could it win an award, then?”
“Damn, it did, didn’t it?” Kathy thought a moment. “The client must have entered it himself. It was somebody from Atkins that accepted the award. Congratulations, by the way. Is that your first gold?”
By the time she was finished speaking, Evan was halfway back to his workstation. Crap. The first gold was the passage to manhood as a designer, the coming of age, the signaling of a future star. Something he chased as hard as any of the other creatives. But this sure as hell wasn’t the way to do it. If only he hadn’t been so wiped out. If only he’d had more time. This would hang over his head for a month, maybe longer, until he was sure nobody had caught on. Well, hell—everybody did it. Why should he sweat?
Connor had moved on by the time he got back to his cubicle. Evan watched him drift through the bullpen, looking more like an account executive than a writer, with his tailored jackets and Stephano Ricci ties. Connor was tall and slim, built for fashion. Evan Moore was less tall (he didn’t like the word short) and burly (he didn’t like the word pudgy) and his closet was filled with X sizes in heavy fabric, like denim shirts and pants, to disguise unflattering bulges. On the positive side, denim wore like iron and only needed washing once a month or so. And denim was never out of style in the bullpen.
The Atkins poster was going to be a problem. Evan wasn’t among the creative stars of the agency and everybody knew it. He was a competent designer but not brilliant, certainly not anyone’s candidate to win a gold medal at the ad show. In fact, this might be his only chance to snag a medal of any kind, ever.
He never dreamed that piece would win an award, but damn! If nobody caught on, it would be so cool to have just one really great design in his portfolio, one big award. Even if it wasn’t really his.
Evan settled down again to the Hanover logo. When this was finished, he’d have a set of four alternative designs to hand to the account guy—Webster had been nagging him about this for three days. His mouse flew around the pad, adding line, color, typography. In a moment, the problem of the Atkins poster faded away and the soft background murmur of the bullpen faded.
This version of the Hanover design was a three-dimensional block “H” in perspective that looked formed of concrete. He’d found a terrific color combination—a medium grayish-green face with the sides and top in a slightly darker grayish blue—very contemporary, a sophisticated look. But it wouldn’t work. There wasn’t enough contrast between the colors to reproduce well in black and white, like in the newspaper. The form of the “H” would disappear. And it was too soft—a construction company should have a bolder, stronger image. He changed the blue to a heavy green, almost black, working as a dark shadow to emphasize the lighter green face. Better. The “H” really popped, now. He usually considered green a weak color, but Hanover was a residential builder and the green suggested natural forms, landscaping, nature. Positive associations for a prospective residential client. He fiddled with the lighter green, making it brighter and trying subtly different hues. Gradually, the design came alive, and the 34” x 22” CRT screen of his monitor became Evan’s entire universe.
“Congratulations, Evan. Your first gold. You’ve raised the bar for yourself!” Paul Wick, the creative director, draped his lanky body over Evan’s cubicle wall, and suddenly the Atkins problem was in his face again.
Crap. Was that going to be another issue? Were expectations going to be higher after this? He glanced at his watch. Noon already. Almost three hours had passed while Evan was lost in the ecstasy of creation.
“Hey, Paul.”
“All the medal winners are going out to lunch to celebrate,” said Paul. “On me. Grumpy’s. Grab your hat.”
That was all Evan needed—stuck at a table for an hour, with the agency’s top creatives grilling him about his award. “Ah, shit, Paul, I can’t. I’ve got this logo to finish up and get mounted for a presentation at one.”
Paul looked surprised, then offended. “Seriously? Can’t spare an hour?”
“I’d better not, Paul. Webster’s been on my ass about this. Sorry.”
“Lord love a duck. Since when has work replaced fun as Priority One around here? Okay, but you know what happens when you don’t show—we’re all going to make fun of your little pecker.” He stood up and walked away.
Yeah, the Atkins poster was going to be a problem. But what could he do about it? He could confess now, but that would seal his fate. And kill his one chance—a ridiculous, impossible chance—for a gold medal. Let it ride. And hope.
* * *
EVAN WHEELED HIS FORD Escort to the curb in front of his house. Daddy had parked his mammoth GMC Yukon in the driveway, so Evan couldn’t get to the garage. Why did he need all that horsepower and those big, knobby tires to haul two wrinkled boomers and a sack of groceries back and forth from Kroger? The closest Daddy ever got to off-road driving was the unpaved parking lot at the church of the holy rollers. And not even then if it was raining.
Evan climbed the front steps to the porch. The house was a three-bedroom wood frame in the university area of west Toledo. Back in the day, the neighborhood was primarily Jewish and the homes were all neatly painted, the lawns groomed. But the makeup of the area had changed. Now worn patches of bare dirt appeared here and there, and most of the homes needed touching up. Clusters of kids played stickball and soccer in the street. But that was the reason Evan could afford it now. He pushed open the front door.
“Surprise!”
It was. Evan stopped, feet frozen in place. Dana stood just inside the door wearing a long-striped cooking apron over her good red dress, holding a bright yellow cake sprinkled with gold flakes. Her parents flanked her, holding bunches of helium-filled balloons by their strings. Dana and her mother were beaming and Daddy’s perpetual frown had softened a bit. What the hell? This wasn’t his birthday. The cake had a small centerpiece—a tennis trophy? No, just a plastic ceremonial cup with big handles. A gold cup. He looked up at the balloons. Gold. They’d found out somehow. Crap. The more people that knew about this, the more likely things could get out of hand.
Dana’s mother, Lydia, rushed forward and threw her arms around his neck in a big hug.
“Oh, Evan, we’re all so proud of you.”
Lydia was plump and gray but hid it well with bright, frilly outfits. Daddy was wiry and erect as a goalpost, with silver hair in a short brushback and a pencil-thin mustache like the British officers in old war movies. He hated denim almost as much as he hated hair that came down past the shirt collar, as he reminded Evan daily. He probably hated Evan, too, but hadn’t specifically articulated that yet.
Daddy stuck his hand out tentatively. “Congratulations, Evan.” He didn’t seem quite ready to accept that Evan had achieved something notable. Probably a clerical mistake somewhere that would be corrected in due time.
Evan took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thanks, Don.”
Dana, not wanting to mash the cake, just stood there grinning and brushing stylishly long strands of dark hair from her face.
Evan felt his face growing warm and hoped it wasn’t turning red. What was the problem? Why the guilt or shame or embarrassment, whatever the hell it was? He did it all the time. Everybody did. But he hadn’t been careful this time. And it won a medal.
When Lydia and Daddy had disengaged, Dana grabbed his arm with one hand and propelled him into the dining room. “Keri Wick called this morning to see why we weren’t there Saturday night. She told me about your gold medal. Congratulations, star designer!” She pulled out the chair at the head of the table and set the cake down.
The aroma of grilling steak drifted in the door as Dana made her way out to the patio. Definitely a celebration. Although the steak was really for Daddy. Evan and Dana didn’t spring for steak very often, but Daddy didn’t consider it a meal unless there was meat.
The good plates and glasses, the ones that matched, were set. That was real butter on the table. Uh-oh. There was a bottle of wine, a dark red, probably a cabernet. For the celebration, obviously—Evan and Dana didn’t usually have wine with meals and Evan was mostly a beer drinker. But Daddy with a bottle of anything was risky business.
Already on the table were plates of asparagus, tomato and mozzarella salad, red potatoes, and dinner rolls. The aroma of the freshly baked cake still lingered in the air.
Lydia slid into a chair at the table. “Oh, this all looks just so delicious!”
“Just what is it you do again, Evan?” asked Daddy. Evan explained at least once each time they visited, but Daddy had never seemed to grasp it.
“I’m a graphic designer, Don.”
“So show me something you’ve designed.”
Evan pulled out a magazine from the stack on the side table and flipped through to an ad for Ithaca shotguns, something he thought the old bastard might appreciate. “Here. This is one of my ads.”
Daddy took the magazine and nodded and hemmed to himself for a minute. “So you did the picture of the shotgun?”
“No. that was the photographer.”
How about this picture of the bird in the air? That’s pretty.”
“No, the illustrator did that.”
“Did you write the words?” asked Daddy.
“No. The copywriter wrote the words.”
“How about this little thing? The logo, is it?”
“No, they’ve had that for years. It’s an icon of the industry.”
“An icon, an icon...” he muttered to himself, hemming some more. He put the magazine down. The unasked question hung in the air: So if you didn’t do any of those, and there’s nothing else on the page, what the fuck exactly did you do?
“Look, Don, I’m the one who determines what the ad is all about. Maybe it doesn’t sound like much, but nothing happens—not the pictures, not the words—until I’ve decided what goes into the ad, what it will look like and where things go on the page.”
Daddy picked up the magazine and perused the ad again. “So you’re the one who decides that the pictures should go at the top and the words go at the bottom.”
Evan felt his face starting to burn. He was sure Daddy was pimping him—nobody could really be that dense. But the old goat was clever. Evan couldn’t come right and accuse him or Dana and her mom would be all over his case.
Dana chuffed through the kitchen door in a cloud of smoke and sizzle, balancing a plate of juicy steaks in her kitchen mitts.
“Whoa!” said Daddy, in his best imitation of Robert Mitchum. “Beef—it’s what’s for dinner!”
Everybody sat for Daddy’s prayer. Then there was a shuffle as serving platters made their way around the table and the steaks and side dishes were doled out, sorted, sampled and praised. Daddy uncorked the wine and poured for everyone.
“A toast,” he said, holding up his glass. “To the star designer. First gold but not the last!”
“Hear, hear,” said Lydia.
“To my talented husband!” said Dana.
Lydia and Dana raised their glasses and touched Daddy’s. Evan followed reluctantly.
Daddy drained half his glass and topped it off again.
They dug into their dinner, and for a few moments there was only the sound of cutting, chewing and the occasional murmur of appreciation.
“The steak is absolutely perfect, honey,” said Lydia. “Don’t you think so, dear?”
Daddy grunted. “Could have pulled it off the fire a little sooner. Still, nothing like steak for a real dinner.”
“Speaking of real,” said Dana. “I suppose this is a ridiculous question, Mom, but have you tried the new Impossible Burgers? They’re actually good. You can hardly tell the difference.”
“You mean fake meat?” said Daddy. “You’re right, it is a ridiculous question. Just some left-wing idea to put the cattle ranchers out of business.” Daddy finished his glass of wine and poured another.
“Are they really that good?” asked Lydia.
“This one is,” said Evan. “It’s really getting popular. Even Don couldn’t tell the difference.”
Don frowned.
“Throw on a little mustard, pickle, onion... they even bleed like real meat, like a regular fast-food burger. You can get it at BK.”
“What’s this liberal rush to dictate how we live our lives?” said Daddy. “I don’t want fake meat, I want real meat. And I want light bulbs like Edison made, toilets you don’t have to flush four times and a car you don’t have to plug in at a charging station every fifteen minutes.”
“Daddy, nobody’s dictating how you live your life,” said Dana. “You eat real meat every day, you have incandescent bulbs in every room and you have the old kind of toilets that waste water. Just the way you want it. Nobody’s even asking you to change.”
“The damn president is! The cows are farting too much methane so he’s going to ban red meat to fight global warming. Another goddam hoax. Just more fake news to force their socialist agenda on us.”
Evan rolled his eyes and wiped his mouth with his napkin to hide the smirk.
“Oh, Don,” said Lydia.
Daddy was getting red in the face, and he refilled his wineglass.
“How about Rush and Beck and Newsmax, Don? Or Fox and their chattering heads? That’s the real fake news,” said Evan.
Daddy wadded up his napkin and threw it on the table. “It’s their own opinions. They have a right to express that! It’s their freedom of speech.”
“They’re spouting ridiculous, baseless claims that mislead people,” said Evan. “Don’t you think they have a responsibility to tell the truth?”
Dana stood up abruptly. “Anybody want coffee?” She walked around the table grabbing plates, empty or not. Time to douse the flames of political passion before it got out of hand. “Daddy, how about you?”
Daddy ignored her and emptied the last of the cabernet into his glass.
“Evan, would you give me a hand clearing the table?”
“I’ll help you, honey,” said Lydia, springing to her feet. “This was a wonderful dinner.”
For a moment there was only the clattering of dishes and plates and dinnerware as Evan and Dana and Lydia gathered the remains of the meal and headed for the kitchen.
Daddy glared at their departing backs and lifted his glass. “Well, there’s your truth and then there’s my truth.”
Evan looked up at the ceiling in supplication and lifted his arms.
Dana leaned against him and put her arms around his waist.
“You sure he’s your real father?” whispered Evan. “There wasn’t a libbie in the woodpile somewhere?”
Dana punched him in the side. “I’m sorry your celebration didn’t go well, sweetie.”
“It was a great meal, though. Thank you.” He gave her a squeeze. “Listen,” he murmured. “About that. Go easy on this medal thing, okay? Don’t tell your friends or neighbors about it. Just pretend it never happened.”
Dana stiffened and stepped back. “Why? This is great news! I want everybody to know what a terrific designer my husband is. Why should I keep quiet?”
“Look, it’s a mistake. I got the medal, but I don’t deserve it. I don’t want people to think I’m a grasping jerk if they should find out.”
Dana’s eyes widened. “What? Why? What did you do?”
Evan sneaked a glance toward the living room, where Daddy and Lydia were just beginning their nightly scrap. “Keep it down, okay? I copied the idea for the poster. It accidentally got entered.”
“So what? You do that all the time. You spend hours browsing through that stack of design magazines in the den looking for ideas.”
“But this time I lifted the whole thing. No changes. I didn’t have time. And I never wanted it entered in the show.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. If it wasn’t for those books, you designers would never get any ideas. Nobody’s going to care. Most of those books are years old, anyway—the original client won’t give a damn. You worry too much.”
Damn. He might as well take out an ad in the newspaper. The newspaper! Holy crap! The Blade would cover the story, they did every year. There was no way to keep a lid on it.
But Dana didn’t think it was a big deal. Maybe nobody else would, either. Still, it was time to test the water on this, just in case.
* * *
WHEN HE GOT TO HIS workstation the next morning, Harper Levin was sitting in his chair reading the coverage of the show in The Blade. Harper was the agency’s top designer and a mentor of sorts to less stellar lights like Evan. She was petite with lots of dark hair and startling green eyes. Harper was one of the few designers in the bullpen who dressed up for work, usually pants suits with frilly blouses. Marking her territory as alpha creative, with an eye on Wick’s job.
This was it. Either he laid it all out now to Harper or duck and roll. But if he didn’t come clean now and everything unraveled later, he’d be toast. They’d think it was an intentional steal. Harper was his cover, evidence that it was all a mistake. And maybe, just maybe, it would end with her and he could quietly keep his gold.
“Too bad you weren’t there Saturday,” said Harper. “You missed an opportunity to get your face in the paper. Can’t pass those up. Looks good in your personnel file.”
Well, at least he’d gotten a break there. “Hey, listen, Harper, about that poster—”
“You’re one up on me so far this year. I got stiffed. Your first gold, right?”
“Yeah, about that. I need your advice.”
“Good. I’ve got plenty of that, and it’s all free. One: don’t go looking to sign with a talent agency quite yet. Makes management nervous and you don’t have the resume to attract BBD&O. Two: stay away from the groupies—they’re nothing but trouble.”
“Yeah, no worries there. Thanks.” He pulled up the side chair next to Harper and pulled up a PDF image of the Atkins poster.
“That’s your gold,” she said, and clapped her hands in applause.
He reached into a drawer and pulled out a design magazine. OZ Grafix, a twenty-year-old Australian publication, something he’d found at the bottom of a pile in the resource library. He handed it to Harper. “Page twenty-three.”
Harper flipped to the page. “Oh, shit.”
Evan’s design was an exact copy of the poster in the magazine.
“This one’s by... Adrian Smith. In Australia?” She looked up at Evan. “Couldn’t you at least have changed the colors? Jesus, Evan, what were you thinking?”
“Yeah, I know. But it was like two in the morning and the client needed it at nine. I’d been working on the project all day and I was out of gas. I had two solid designs but I needed another, so I tossed in a swipe. Only one chance in three he’d pick it.”
“That was your first mistake,” said Harper.
“What’s that?”
“Clients have an uncanny nose for crap. You give the client a couple solid designs and a turkey to choose from and the client will pick the turkey every time! Or, in this case, the swipe.”
She was right. A law of client behavior he’d forgotten in his exhaustion.
“But fuck, you shouldn’t have entered it,” she said. “It’s unethical. Not to mention really stupid. This could make the whole agency look bad. Wick will blow a gasket!”
“I didn’t enter it. I had Kathy pull it. But the client loved it so much he entered it himself! I didn’t know about it until after the show.”
Harper’s eyes widened, then she burst out laughing. She covered her mouth. “I’m sorry. But that’s just so... so... weird. So funny!”
Evan scowled. “Everybody does it.”
“I know, I know. But we usually diddle with it a bit first.” She started laughing again.
“So what should I do? Tell Wick? Or ignore it and hope nobody catches on?”
Her face turned sober again. “Shit, don’t tell Wick. Nobody’s gonna go Googling around in Australia, for Christ’s sake. And this thing is twenty years old. Bury it.” She tossed the magazine into the wastebasket. “Just keep your ass clean, okay? No more shortcuts. I don’t want to have to train any more rookies.” Harper got up and walked out.
Good. Harper thought it was a joke. If anybody else got wind of it, maybe they would, too. If they didn’t, he’d be marked as the guy who claimed a medal for somebody else’s piece. And Evan didn’t want this first gold to be a rite of passage to a new line of work.
* * *
THE NEXT TWO WEEKS crawled by like his great-aunt Lucy on her Sunday drive to church. Each day Evan expected to find a summons to Wick’s office, but each time he passed Paul in the bullpen he got nothing more than a friendly wave. He began to breathe again. He kept his head down and his mouth shut, trying to be invisible. As the days passed, it looked like he might actually get away with it. His own gold medal.
On Thursday of the third week, he received a letter from the Advertising Club of Toledo:
* * *
DEAR MR. MOORE,
It has come to our attention that the poster design for the Atkins Company, which was submitted to the recent awards show listing you as designer, was directly copied from a poster designed by Adrian Smith of Brisbane, Queensland, Australia and published in the magazine Oz Grafix. We are therefore rescinding the gold medal award issued to you and demanding the return of the certificate.
Under no circumstances can we countenance such unethical and blatant plagiarism. It brings disgrace not only upon you, but upon the Advertising Club of Toledo. Please return the certificate immediately. In addition, we are permanently barring you from any and all Toledo Advertising Club events in the future.
Sincerely,
Andrea Watson, Executive Director
At the bottom of the letter was a hand-scribbled note:
Evan: We know ideas get swiped every day. If you hadn’t won a gold medal, we could have let this slide. But given the complaint, we had to do this. Sorry. – Andrea
* * *
IT WAS OVER. GOSSIP like this would spread faster than a poison ivy rash. By morning, the whole world would know. The cheater. The copycat. Everything he did from now on would be questioned, scrutinized. If he ever did manage to win anything, people would snicker in disbelief behind his back. In an industry where creative awards helped determine salaries, he was doomed to fall to the bottom of the ladder.
Who was the whistle blower? Who could possibly have known about a twenty-year-old Australian graphics magazine? Was it somebody from Metzger who’d seen this in the file? Harper, even? No, he was no threat to her. But who?
Better that Wick hear it from Evan now than from the grapevine tomorrow. He pulled himself out of his chair and trudged across the room to Paul’s office. He rapped on the door.
“Hey, Evan. What’s up?”
Evan stepped in and tossed the letter and the magazine on his desk. Although Paul had his own office, it was dimly lighted like the rest of the creative department. Even creative directors had workstations and quotas for billable hours. Paul picked the letter up and read it through, then read it again. He dropped the letter on the desk and leaned back in his chair. “Show me.”
Evan sat at Paul’s computer and brought up the image of his poster. “Page twenty-three,” he said.
Paul flipped to page twenty-three, leaned forward and stared. “Jesus Christ, Evan. You know better than this. If you’re gonna steal a design, you have to change the colors or flop it or reverse it or change the font. Or something. Preferably all of the above. What the fuck?” He glared up at Evan.
“Paul, it’s a twenty-year-old book from Australia, for God’s sake. It was a rush job and it was late and I was exhausted. And I needed a third design. The rule is a minimum of three. I thought I’d have a chance to work it a bit when it came back, but he loved it just the way it was.”
“But entering it? Claiming it as your own?”
“I know, I know. When I heard it was in the submission pile I pulled it. But then the client submitted it himself. He picked up the award. I wasn’t even there that night.”
The anger faded from Paul’s face and he gave a long, low whistle. “Holy crap! That’s a new one.”
“I mean, everybody does this,” said Evan. “I never thought there was a chance in hell it would float to the top. And that’s what the whole reference library you’ve got in there is for, isn’t it? All those journals and award show books. To spark ideas. Or swipe something—that’s what it amounts to. Everybody calls it the swipe file.”
“And what’s the chance, right?” said Paul. “Everything’s so arbitrary, so subjective, another set of judges and this probably wouldn’t even have made the cut. Talk about bad breaks.” He sat up in his chair and tossed the letter back toward Evan. “Just give them back their fucking certificate. Like you say, everybody does it.” He pointed his finger at Evan. “Just don’t pull any more shit like this. If Haydon finds out, I’ll have to poke him down off the ceiling with a stick!”
“I don’t have the certificate. The client picked it up at the show.”
Wick threw himself back in his chair. “Oh, fuck.”
“So, what do I do?”
Wick thought for a moment and sat up. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll have the account guy talk to the client. Schmooze him a little, get the certificate back. His piece won a fucking award, he should be happy as a mutt with a fresh bone.”
Terrific. But it was Evan who’d have to live with the bad press and the lifetime ban. He’d probably have to stay at Metzger Advertising his whole fucking life. Who else would hire him now?
* * *
“HEY, BAD BREAK WITH the Atkins poster,” said Connor. He hung over the divider with the ever-present mug of coffee. “Too bad about the gold. Man, what a crazy deal.”
“Yeah,” said Evan.
“This will all blow over by next year, trust me. The Ad Club people will forget or they won’t give a damn. Probably both, as long as nobody’s yanking their chain.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, don’t worry about it. You’ll survive.” Connor meandered through the bullpen to impress some other unsuspecting designer with his threads.
“Yeah.”
Maybe Connor was right—nobody cared enough to make a deal of it. But some people had long memories. And whoever turned him in would still be around. And how many people would just read the headline and ignore the explanation buried in the fine print?
The brutal fact was that his career options had narrowed considerably. So had his earning power. For the immediate future, he was the black sheep of the ad community. And trying something else? Leaving the business? Unthinkable. This was his life, his love. But he still had a good job. Maybe his colleagues would see it as a joke, like Harper, or an awkward accident like Connor. He wouldn’t have to wait long to find out.
* * *
EVAN WAITED A WEEK.
“Haydon wants to see me? Haydon Metzger?”
The president wanted to see Evan? Only one thing this could be about. Evan hung up the phone and shuffled through the creative department across the building to the administrative offices on the far side. More like a bank or an attorney’s office over here. Carpeting and secretaries and big walnut desks and thick glass doors to the offices and bright LED lights all over so you could see what you were doing. He stopped in front of the secretary’s desk.
“Go on in, Evan,” she said with a broad smile. “He’s expecting you.”
What big teeth you have, Grandma. He rapped on the glass door and stepped inside.
Metzger looked up and waved him in. “Come on in, Evan. Have a seat.”
Evan sat without a word. There was a white envelope sitting on Metzger’s desk. Metzger leaned back in his chair and scratched his head.
“I’m sure you know what this is about. And I have to tell you, I’ve never come across anything like this before. This thing has grown from a simple oversight to an irritation to a pain in the ass quicker than anything I’ve ever seen.” He sat up in his chair again, put his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers.
Just a pain in the ass? That didn’t sound too bad.
“Anyway, we got your certificate back.”
His certificate? Maybe Metzger didn’t realize that he’d never laid eyes on it.
“We’ll return it to the Ad Club, so don’t worry about that. But Tom Atkins was extremely unhappy about it. He thought he was being cheated, that we were billing him for the creation of a design that was just lifted from somewhere else.”
“But he actually got a deal,” said Evan. “I didn’t record the four or five hours it would have taken to design it from scratch. Just the half hour it took to scan and trace the original. He came out ahead.”
Metzger nodded. “I know. We all understand. But his real problem was the publicity over a pirated design. He feels he’s been made a fool of by his agency in front of the whole community. He’s unhappy and unreasonable.”
“But he’s got a design he loves,” said Evan. “It’ll do a good job for him.”
“In his current mood, that’s irrelevant.”
He was being fired. Evan was losing his job over something everybody in the industry did. Where would he go?
“I’m sorry as hell about this. It’s our loss even more than it is yours.”
Evan doubted that. Where would the money come from to cover the bills? How long would it take him to find another design job?
“But I’m sure you can understand, even if you don’t agree. We can’t keep you after this. He’s a good client. Not a huge one, but a very profitable one. He’s threatened to pull his account. He wants blood, and we have to give it to him.”
Evan’s blood, of course. He could hear it pounding in his ears even now. Would any other agency even give him an interview? Did the scandal mean he was poison in the ad world, now?
“Technically, his position is solid—we submitted a stolen design and charged him for it. He has a legitimate beef. We have no ground to stand on, here. I’m sorry.”
Metzger stood and picked up the envelope from the desk. He walked around to Evan. Evan stood up and Metzger put the envelope in his hands.
“There’s four weeks of severance here, twice what we usually give. And an excellent letter of reference. We hate to lose you, Evan. You’ve been a good employee for us, and that’s what we’ll tell anyone who wants to contact us. But we can’t afford to lose an account over this silly thing. Technically, this was unethical behavior—copying somebody else’s design and presenting it as yours—so that’s what it will read on the record. But we all know better—it was just a bad break.”
Technically? Silly thing? Bad break? It was nice that this didn’t cause Metzger to lose any sleep, but what was he was supposed to tell Dana?
“We’ll clean out your workstation and send all your personal things home to you.”
He put his hand on Evan’s shoulder and turned him toward the door. “I wouldn’t worry about finding another job if I were you. You’ll catch on with somebody. A week, two weeks tops. You’re too good to be on the street longer than that. You might even end up with a better position. You’ll have a good reference. The other agencies will understand—it won’t be a deal-breaker. After all, everybody does it.”
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Discussion Questions
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FEBRUARY 2022 Vol. 3, No. 2