Mat Johnson - Drop

‘Close your eyes. I’m serious.’ I closed them. In my darkness, I was sure he was either going to punch or kiss me.

‘I’m going to put something in your hands. Don’t open your eyes until I say, right?’

‘Right.’ I heard him open up a drawer, pull out something crinkling, and then felt the thin plastic membrane in my fingers. Inside was some type of tightly wrapped cloth. I could feel the hard edge of the cardboard giving it its form.

‘OK. It’s some type of clothes, probably. What is it?’

‘It’s your first customer. Open your eyes and tell me what it is.’ The packaging was black and white, utilitarian. You could see the product through the clear parts and it had a cheaply illustrated sample of a guy wearing some.

‘Underwear.’

‘What kind?’

‘White. Cotton blend, probably. A three-pack.’

‘Cottonal Y-fronts. What do they make you think of? What type of person would wear them?’

‘A dad, probably.’

‘Your dad?’

‘I don’t know. Probably. I didn’t know him.’

‘He took off?’

‘No, he died.’

‘What was it, a gang fight? A drug overdose?’

‘He choked on a plum.’

‘All right. Look, Chris, what you’ve got to do is see this product. See it like it was just invented, see it like its time has just come. Figure out who this product is perfect for, whose needs it best meets. Think of the client who has to sell these things, who wakes up every morning with images of Y-fronts intertwined with their personal ambitions and anxieties, how do they want to see this product? And then, when you know all of that, I want you to come up with an idea that will grab, make them understand the necessity, almost force them into the stores to buy some. You know what I mean?’

‘Yeah. I can do that.’ They were a pretty plain sight, these drawers.

‘Now, when I was at the Patterson Group we might have put two, maybe even four blokes on something like this, given them maybe three to five days to brainstorm ideas. I want you to do this a bit quicker. You have the time it takes me to go meet the client for lunch in the West End, talk it up a bit, and come home. That gives you about two hours to get sorted. Understand?’

‘Yeah,’ I said, laughing along with his smile.

‘I’m not joking, Chris,’ David said with a face that went quickly straight again.

I spent the next three hours trying to think of something, staring at the dull package, and then staring at the room around me thinking about dreams. I could see the place full, people in every available space. The floor matted with cords, phones ringing, people laughing, a small radio playing in a cubicle. Maybe a basketball hoop tied to that big rafter in the middle of the room. Then I checked out David’s trophies, picking each one up and inspecting them (the earliest date was damn close to my date of birth, the most recent just six-years-old). I took care to place them back into their previous precarious position without making too much noise. As quiet as this place was now, with just me in the corner of an empty, cavernous room, I knew someday I would hear the sounds of the office that would be alive around me.

Three and a half hours later I heard David thumping up the steps. It had just gotten dark outside, and I felt, in my period of note scratching and false paths, that I had come to something that was a good thing.

‘Well, first the news. The Cottonal bastards are interested; they’re at least going to let me come in there and pitch them next week, next Thursday. I worked on a campaign for the athletic gear segment of their product line, the junior sports kits they were pushing a few years back, made them some dosh. They knew to listen. The geezers understood what I can do for them,’ David nodded to himself, confidently. ‘So, what you got for me?’ In response, I cleared my throat.

‘Well, I don’t know if this is any good. I don’t know if this is just awful, so I guess I’ll just throw this out there and you’ll tell me if it’s stupid,’ I began. David actually started cringeing. ‘I’m just saying this because, y’know, I don’t want to disappoint you but here it is: I was thinking about what we were talking about, about this being a product that, with the popularity of boxers and designer briefs, has probably seen its best day. And then I was thinking maybe, if the product is in some way stylistically obsolete, could that mean that it could make some kind of revival? That might be a good way to make what may be conceived as a dated, dull product into one that might imply individuality and a minor rebellion. So this is sort of what I was thinking — and if it’s bad, y’know, just tell me, but I just thought I’d say it, okay? Okay. Wedgies. Maybe we could do a series of ads, I don’t know, print, video, whatever you think is better, where the focus would be seeing these really cool or weird people from all walks of life, like street performers, skaters, musicians, world leaders, and then when you look closer you can see the waist band of their underwear, the client’s red and black brand strip, peaking out. And the copy I tried to come up with for the slogan is, “Did you know?” Of course that could be totally changed. Really that’s the whole idea, and you can tell me if this is the wrong direction, but I kind of figured that might be good, might make it look like there was a whole “in” crowd who wears these, because no one really knows what anyone else is wearing down there, right?’ David sat staring blankly back at me.

‘Is that okay?’ I asked. David continued staring.

‘No. That’s shite,’ he said.

‘Excuse me?’

‘It. Is. Shite. Shit. It’s no good. Actually, I’m sorry, it is good. Stop looking like I just kicked you in the bollocks. But good isn’t enough, y’know what I mean?’

‘Yeah, I do. You’re right, that was awful. I’m so sorry. I’ll try harder, I can do better, I’ll stay up on this. I know exactly what you mean.’

‘No, you don’t. I’m sorry, but I really don’t think you do. And we can’t have that, can we? Especially right here, in the beginning?’

‘David, I can do this, man. Shit, give me twenty minutes, I can do this thing.’

‘You got any ID on you?’

‘Yeah, I got my passport.’

David grabbed his keys and headed for the stairs. I asked if I should follow and he yelled for me to bring the bags of Cottonals. Next thing we were in his car, driving. Neither one of us talking all those minutes we sat there as the road beneath us evolved from one lane to two lanes to three and we were on a highway, speed increasing steadily until David made a right turn at an exit marked Gatwick Airport.

‘This is an airport,’ I told David, but he just nodded. I’d failed; I was being returned to Philadelphia. David parked the car. It was quiet for a moment, the both of us sitting there, staring at a concrete wall sprayed with a green number 087. I wasn’t surprised. A fraud is never surprised when he is revealed, he is only relieved that the act is over. David pulled himself out of his seat and slammed the door behind him. I didn’t want to get out, but I unhooked my seat belt and followed him anyway because he wasn’t pausing to wait for me. I was too ashamed to apologize. At an elevator, we got on with others and their bags, their conversations about flights, food, and gates. David stood on the other side of the box, separated from me by a woman holding something large wrapped in white grocery bags. The doors opened and we all walked out, pouring like the twelve tribes into whatever direction pulled us. Finally David faced me, staring with his mouth open for a second. ‘Give me your passport.’ It was in my back pocket, already bent to the contour of my ass from the flight the days before. David took it from me without looking at my face and then walked away, leaving me standing by a cardboard donation placard for burn victims.