Mat Johnson - Drop

‘Lie down with me,’ I said. Alex kept staring back. ‘Just lie down with me for a second. I’m tired.’ I reached out my hand and walked to her and Alex reached back for me slightly. I tried to keep holding hands as I put myself on the mattress, but lost balance and couldn’t.

We lay on our sides together for a while. I put my arm over her waist and it sunk lightly into the softness there. I was no longer part of the room; I was something inside it. Alex drifted off and I leaned in closer to her so I could touch her warmth. Her shirt hung open and I could feel the flesh of her stomach in my palm. As she adjusted her body, the edge of my hand slipped in the front of her pants, feeling heat and fabric. Pinkie finger brushed against her pubic hair and I let it rest there, waiting for Alex to tell me to move it. When she didn’t, it twirled her tight black curls. Floating between us, my dick filled and hung firm and disembodied. I felt its heat rising over my belly, she felt it climbing the line of her spine. It was the only movement between us as it beat with my heart until, growing complacent with its own presence, it subsided. Alex leaned her back closer into me. David would have liked her; they would have had fun. David would have liked all of this, even the electric company. I could see that. In minutes, Alex’s breath became heavy and steady with dream; I could feel her sound through her back. An oblivious whisper underneath the growl of cars, the pop-pop of local guns, the sustained thunder of jet planes trying to distance themselves from this ground.

Straight up, I was getting the fuck out. I borrowed thirty bones from Alex, a small enough sum that I could pay her back if I didn’t miss any days before the next check, and I knew I wouldn’t because Mrs Hutton said if I did, I’d be fired automatically. ‘House rules,’ she dismissed. For lunch, I cooked ramen noodles in an electric kettle plugged in underneath my desk, three bags at a time. Cindy complained about the smell, but how else could I patch my gut for sixty cents? After work I didn’t even go home, walking instead in the opposite direction into the city and started researching.

My plan was practical: hit every bookstore in Philly, get as much information on the current state of the British advertising industry as possible. Target a new location every day, head over with a pen and pad in pocket, ready to work. Claim a chair or corner and inhabit it. Even in Philly, British business and advertising magazines were available for my perusal. Their covers ripped from the rumpling of too many hands, but still there for me to search articles and ads for the name of firms that seemed viable.

Information copied, the next step was to call the following morning, setting my alarm for six-thirty to do so. Get the number from BT, then tell the secretary that I was calling on behalf of an American business interest. Yes, we’re planning on expanding into the British market and we’re looking for an advertising agency to assist the transition. Could you send a portfolio over, a client list and such? That’s attention C. Jones, Suite 4, 213 W. 46th Street, Philadelphia, PA 19146, USA. And could you tell me the name of the head creative? Thank you.

Every day a different bookstore, every morning more calls made. New agencies I’d never heard of, bigger agencies that had turned me down before. When I ran out of places to contact, the next step was the rebuilding of the great portfolio. I called every company Urgent ever made a dime off of, begging them to send me samples of my work. What had I been doing since David died? Freelance projects, Stateside. But I’m returning to London soon and will be making myself available. If you hear about something promising, you can pass my number on.

Then it was waiting time. The apartment was clean, so I didn’t want to hang about and mess it up. There was work to be done, places to be walked to. It was June, summer had arrived again, a year had moved forward without me. My brain had congealed like cold grits and I needed to warm it up, to get ready for the stunt that would get me out of here. Whatever it was, it had to be now: my lease would be up in two months. I knew there was no way I could re-sign it. That I would not survive another twelve months here was undeniable.

I would come up with some new ads, something fresh to bring back from the colonies. I would pad my portfolio with imaginary commissions from fictional American companies. Or even better, I would create my own ads for brands so well known that even in Britain they would be common knowledge. Concepts without the limitations of client approval: unhampered, they would be the best I could conceive of. I just wouldn’t mention that I hadn’t been hired to do them. I would never get caught. These were different worlds, I could get away with almost anything. The air was barely the same chemistry in these two lands.

With all the clippings I could muster collected, I made copies of my portfolio and sent them out. I could only afford six books, instead of the nine I wanted, but didn’t it feel good writing London, U.K. on something, knowing that in a few days these pieces of me would be there as well?

After mailing them off at 30th Street, I was so excited I walked over to the Borders at Rittenhouse Square. It was there, browsing British magazines to prepare my mind for the culture shock of reimmersion, that I saw her on the cover of the latest issue of AdForum . Plaits poking around her head like an asterisk, barefoot and dressed only in a burlap sack. My Fi. Look at her there, that face I used to kiss and put food in — and singing, no less. The headline said ‘ Making Yourself Heard .’ Her mouth was open so wide she could have swallowed herself, or anyone else foolish enough to get too close to her.

The article barely had anything on Uncle Tom’s Cabin: The Musical; it was focused on West End and theater advertising in general, but it did have a sidebar that mentioned the show. The smaller article was about the importance of shying away from the use of individual members in promotion, due to the reality of rotating casts. ‘This April, Apricot Advertising learned this rather painful lesson when the visual focus of much of their print advertising, Topsy, portrayed by actress Fionna Otubanjo (see cover), was replaced by Alice Collins, who held the role the previously.’ I was smiling. Big. Not because I was happy for Fionna’s misfortune, but because I didn’t seem to care at all. With that knowledge, my smile grew grander. If the silence of books wasn’t sacred, I might have screamed my joy aloud. Then, when I saw what was across the page, I almost did. What I took at first to be another random ad turned out to be much more. A contest. My sign had been delivered.

It was Lionskins, the condom company, trying to expand their market to the next generation of fornicators. The challenge was to come up with an innovative campaign of print ads to be aimed at the male 16–34 demographic. The sole qualification necessary was that you were a member of an independent British advertising firm. The award was £4,000 and the celebrated glory of public victory. Finally, something worth contacting Margaret for. I would ask her for the permission to use her address and the name Urgent. It was on.

Alex said I could borrow her camera equipment; it wasn’t like she was getting any opportunities to take it out. I would still need to pay for film, development, scanning, and the rental time plugging away at a computer to get the job done. If I stayed on the ramen diet, I could make that happen with the next check. Those damn noodles had proved particularly cost effective: not only were they providing a cheap lunch, they were also ruining my appetite for dinner as well. But for anything to happen, I needed my money. My check had to clear.