Tuesday, July 3
11:00 A.M.
Hammerstein Ballroom, Manhattan Center, Manhattan
164 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
The lights went down, and the crowd fell silent. Backlit screens around the edges of the theater began to glow, and a low bass rumble shook the floor; Decker/Lyle could feel it in his shoes and up his legs, humming at the base of his spine.
“Everyone wants to be something.”
The voice poured out from the speakers, rich and deep and dripping with effortless authority. They’d paid good money for that voice—not just in hiring him, but searching for months in advance to find the perfect combination of warmth, trustworthiness, and hipness. They needed this event to say “Our product is revolutionary and edgy and exactly what you’ve always wanted,” and this guy’s voice said it right from the first syllable.
The screen on the stage exploded with light, shapes, and colors whirling over and around and through each other in a frenzied dance, resolving at precisely the right moment into a close-up shot of a model’s face—one of the Vickies, eyes sultry, hair swept dramatically across her cheek. The screens on the walls pulsed with life, and abruptly all the lights cut out and the room fell dark again.
“Good job,” said Hannah’s voice, tinny and distant in Decker/Lyle’s headset. “Prep the shatter, cue voice-over in three, two, one, go!”
“Everyone wants to be young.”
“Screen two!” shouted Hannah, and once again the stage erupted in light and sound as the shapes reappeared, whirling around each other in a subtle double helix before resolving again into a quick succession of images: a man on the beach, shirt unbuttoned and chest shaved; a girl in tight jeans with one leg propped up on a motorcycle; another close-up of Vicky, eyes eager, lips parted.
“Shatter!” shouted Hannah, and the image broke apart with a bright audio hit of tinkling glass, plunging the theater into darkness a third time.
Decker/Lyle could feel the energy in the audience—not much, but it was growing. They were willing to be impressed, but they’d seen this kind of thing before.
You haven’t seen anything yet.
“Ready video on screen one, slide reel on my mark, cue voiceover in three, two, one, go!”
“Everybody wants to be thinner. Taller. Shorter. Happier.” Images surrounded the audience, not just on the main screen but on every side, on the backlit screens and on the walls and in subtle projections on the floor, subconscious bursts of light and collective memory defining HEALTH and YOUTH and BEAUTY and HAPPINESS in their most iconic incarnations. “We want better curves, softer lips, harder abs, smoother hair. We spend billions of dollars every year to become exactly who we want to be.” The flashing images shifted, becoming charts and graphs and product shots: Dove and L’Oréal and Axe and Botox, arms and thighs and breasts sectioned off with the black dotted lines of a surgeon—interspersed, almost subliminally, with a diagram of butcher cuts on a cow. “We spend our lives in the pursuit of a body our body was never meant to be, filling our homes with tubes and bottles and treadmills that give us the illusion of perfection without producing any real change. It’s time to stop.”
One of the side screens froze on an image of ReBirth.
“It’s time to escape the tyranny of our DNA.”
Another screen froze on ReBirth, and then another.
“It’s time for a whole new you.”
More screens stopped, one after another, the high-speed chaos of images locking one by one into the single image of their bottle and logo.
“It’s time … for ReBirth.”
“Hit it!” shouted Hannah. The giant screen at the front, the last one still flickering, stopped abruptly, showing the ReBirth bottle towering over the audience, then slowly dissolved into a video of a heavy American housewife. Small white titles in the corner of the screen identified her as BETTY YORK.
“I’ve always tried to be thinner,” said Betty in voice-over. On the video she was moving through her kitchen, preparing a meal for her family.
“Nice job, everyone,” said Hannah. “Let’s bring down the side screens.” The backlit screens faded slowly to black, and the theater fell silent as the video kept talking.
“I want to be healthier. I want to be happier.” The video showed the whole family—pure American heartland, with two handsome boys and a blond-headed girl—eating some kind of hearty casserole, while Betty picked at a salad. “I want to look good for my husband.” The video showed the couple together, smiling happily but carefully framed to emphasize the woman’s weight. “I tried diets and exercise and everything I could think of, but it’s this body.” The video showed her walking up the stairs, each step waddling and laborious. “I’m not lazy,” said Betty. “I’ve done everything I can, with diets and exercise and every product out there. Isn’t there anything that can help?”
Betty stopped on the stairs, defeated, and the image dissolved to another woman—thin this time, but with a short, dark face and an overprominent nose. She spoke directly to the camera. The titles in the corner read KATHERINE BAIRD.
“I know I’m not attractive,” said Katherine. “It’s okay, I can admit it: five decades of feminism have hammered home that I don’t have to be beautiful to be valuable, and I believe that. That still doesn’t change what I see every day. That doesn’t change the way others see me. You know what else I learned from feminism? That I could be anything I wanted. Well, I want to be pretty, dammit.” She looked away, eyes distant. “I want to be pretty.”
There were more women in the video, one after another, each an average American woman with average American problems: they were too heavy, or too short, or flat chested, or hairy, and on and on. The last woman—number ten, Pamela Dillon—was five foot two and stocky, her ankles thick as moon boots and her waistline straight and masculine. “I used to be a model,” she said, “back when I was a kid in college, but twenty-five years and three kids later I just … that’s life, I guess. I just wish it didn’t have to be.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “I just wish there was some way I could get that back. I wish there was some way to look like a model again.”
Decker/Lyle leaned forward, peering around the curtain. If this next part worked, it would blow their socks off.
“House lights up a bit,” said Hannah. “Cue the spot on dream girl.”
A woman walked onto the stage: tall and striking, with long legs, a rich mane of honey-colored hair, and a body that looked like it had been poured into her tight red dress. She smiled and waved at the audience, and Decker/Lyle heard a murmur of recognition; this was Victoria Carver, the model from the still photos at the beginning of the presentation. She was stunningly gorgeous, but more than that the buildup had conditioned the audience to see her as gorgeous—it had defined her as the ideal to which the other women aspired. Her red dress sparkled subtly in the spotlight. She took the center of the stage and called out energetically.
“How about those women, huh! Aren’t they beautiful!”
The audience cheered, eating out of her hand. She smiled devilishly, clapping with them until the applause died down.
“Those women are America,” said Vicky. “In an industry defined by fashion models and skinny actresses and rugged, hard-bodied men”—her eyes twinkled—“those ten women are the real customers. They are the ones who buy our makeup, they are the ones who buy our clothes, and they are the ones we think about when we design our products. How can we help them? What can we do to meet their needs?” She took a few steps, engaging the audience casually as she spoke. “Did you know I had the chance, thanks to NewYew, to meet each and every one of those women, and do you know how much they spend on health and beauty products in a single year? You have hand lotion, eye cream, shampoo, conditioner, body wash, facial cleanser, foundation, lipstick, eye shadow, eyeliner, blush, lip gloss, a hundred other makeups and colors and haircuts and lip waxes and other waxes, and that’s not even mentioning the exercise bikes and the treadmills and the gym memberships and the tucks and the nose jobs and—I’m running out of breath.” The audience laughed, and she milked it with an expert pause.
How much did we pay for this girl? Decker/Lyle wondered. I haven’t seen a model this charismatic in … ever. She’s almost as good as the woman Ibis hired last year for the trade show, and she was the … wait. He closed his eyes and listened to her speak.
“So what’s the point, you’re saying, get to the point. We’ve already seen the women and we’ve already seen the products in the little light show, and we’ve been here for how long now and still no one’s just come out and told us what this ReBirth thing is.”
Decker/Lyle’s jaw dropped. That is the woman from the trade show. It’s the way she talks—the voice is new, but the cadence and phrasing are all the same. He opened his eyes and peered at her. She’s a Vicky now?
The woman continued. “So what is ReBirth? I’ll tell you: ReBirth is the future. ReBirth is the answer to each and every one of those women’s problems. I went and talked to them, like I said, and do you know what I told them? I told them that with one single application of ReBirth, they could look like me. Hair, body, lips, everything. And I think I look pretty good, don’t you?” She held out her arms and turned around, giving everyone a perfect view of her legs, back, chest, and butt. The audience clapped appreciatively.
“Ready on kabuki,” said Hannah. “Light presets for 15:30 on my mark.”
“Just one product,” said the Vicky. “Throw away all those other things and replace them with one simple product. Do you think it could work?” There was a scattering of hesitant applause, and Vicky smiled broadly. “Not sure? ‘Who is this crazy woman on-stage?’ You’ve seen enough of me—I think it’s time we bring them out. Ladies?”
“Go!” shouted Hannah, and abruptly the massive theater screen dropped, a vast white wall disappearing to the floor in the blink of an eye, and the lights came up on ten more Vickies, each with identical wavy hair and identical long legs and identical red dresses. The sound system roared to life, blasting Aerosmith’s “Sweet Emotion” as the women stepped out, perfect in their practiced synchronization. Even in the theater, live, just a few feet from the audience, they looked like a special effect. And then the guitars crashed loudly into the song’s main verse and the synchronized line broke step, exploding into a flurry of action—each woman alternately waving at the audience, or posing for the cameras, or dancing to the music. Eleven gorgeous women, all perfectly the same, each completely different.
This is it, thought Decker/Lyle. This is where they stare in silent shock, or charge the stage in revolt, or maybe, if we’re lucky, clap their hands a little.
What’s it going to be? Outrage or joy?
The audience cheered like mad.