career hari kari

I was a jr. account executive on Evian. I actually witnessed this. It was awesome. I wrote it up as a short story cause I thought if might be entertaining. What the hell. I should mention who it is. But I won't. Call me a pussy.

Career Hari Kari

‘Never over estimate your own worth’.
It’s the biggest mistake an ad guy can make. And the guys that did where always easy to spot. The key was expensive Italian loafers worn with no socks. One particularly arrogant guy who worked at our agency left for a higher paying job. A much higher paying job. So much higher paying that his already inflated ego swelled to a bursting point in spades. His expensive suits and of course the loafers and no socks projected an air of confidence that fooled the agency owners who hired him into believing he had client diplomatic skills to match that ego.
Now often times a small time client would actually be intimidated by such a character. But not this time. Because at last he had met his match. The French. Parisian to be exact. Evian. And for close to 50 years they had seen agencies come and go. And today they would see another one go.



Now sometimes there are events that can start the downward spiral of any adman.
This was one of those times. The adman let’s call him Mitch was on his way into freelance oblivian. Mitch had been in a car accident with his Ferrari, yet another expression of an ego run wild.
He had broken his leg in three places. And while his cast was off he was still on a cocktail of painkillers that Elvis would have envied.
When the day of the meeting came, the agency owner said to Mitch ‘are you sure you’re o.k.?’.
Mitch responded ‘hey man, I lived in, I know these guys better than they know themselves’.
The agency owner fell for it like a first year art student getting ‘special’ attention by her professor.
The client came in, and being French, the agency had a little ‘cocktail party’ before the meeting.
Platters of cheeses and caviar were served along with a fine array of Whites, Roses and Chablis. Mitch made small talk like a pro. Even throwing in a spattering of French to boot. The agency owner relaxed like a sumo getting a rubdown after a shoving match.
The client’s cheeks were soon flushed with warmth and a feeling of security and actual fondness for these American Pig Dogs.
Now meanwhile all the percoset, darvon and codeine that had been coursing through Mitch’s bloodstream began to mix with all that fine French wine.
He soon felt a warm afterglow. But this was only the start of something far more serious. For as the ‘cocktail’ of narcotics and alcohol passed through the blood brain barrier in his cerebral cortex his judgment just floated away. He felt like a Ad God. It wasn’t just his account. It was his agency. In fact, Evian was his company. In fact, he himself had single handedly discovered the Evian ‘source’ while hiking with Hilda his leiterhaused valkyrian goddess who he met daily to play hide the salami while in art school. When he closed his eyes, sunflowers and clear, gurgling, mountain streams flooded his noodle.
As the meeting started Mitch leaned back in one of the agency’s $900.00 black leather chairs and his lids began to get heavy.
The agency owner noticed this and whispered ‘Mitch Mitch!’
Mitch didn’t even acknowledge him.
The French client then took out a huge breathtaking $4000.00 photographic photo of the French Alps, with an Evian Bottle in front of them. It took three secretaries to hold it up. All eyes were upon it. The French were smiling. The unspoken message in the room was ‘if you understand the photo you understand us’. And if the agency did that they would be graced with their 30 million dollar account. With the further honor of constantly licking those French bastards arses as well. But it would be worth every penny. It was so silent in the room, you could have heard a pin drop. The agency owner let the beats pass and then gracefully made a slight pre speaking whimpering sound. And then he did indeed kiss some French ass big time. He spoke with pride of Evian’s proud heritage with the Alps. An icon of purity, unspoiled beauty and the ‘source’. The very spot where Evian’s nectar flowed from.

The French clients nodded their heads and whispered in French ‘at last we have found the right American pigs that understand our brand’.
Silence reigned except perhaps for the occasional slurp of wine. Then the agency owner spoke the last four words that would guarantee that house in the Bahamas he had been planning to buy slipped through his hands forever.
“What do you think Mitch?”
Mitch opened his eyes startled. The client had taken his closed eyes as a sign that he too was moved beyond words. That he was having a transcendent experience of brand love.
Mitch stood up. He gripped the table to steady himself, swaying slightly. By now he had gone completely bananas. All eyes were upon him.
The client’s eyes quickly darted over his Armani suit, his Hermes tie and his impeccable Euro sabqufare. His rosy cheeks, which were the result of their fine French Rose he so greedily imbibed. Added to his picture of Ad success. He paused.
Then he spoke slightly slurring his words.
He spoke in the arrogant manner of a prep school dandy, drunk and trying to impress all around him.
“Listen man. The Alps don’t mean shit. I mean who the fuck cares?....”
Before Mitch could finish his sentence the agency owner was on his feet talking a mile a minute. Verbally backing up at light speed, explaining how Mitch was new to the account, but that perhaps they had seen his award winning work on Renault (throwing in any French car he could think of even one that had gone out of business years ago).
But indeed the guillotine had dropped. The French began to rapidly talk in their native tongue between themselves. Making no eye contact with anyone from the agency at all. And to top it all off, no one from the agency actually spoke French.
They quickly got up and headed for the door. As the last client left, the agency owner ran up to him and said ‘let me explain! You’re unhappy. I can see that. But we love the Alps. Why just the other day I was saying to my wife, ‘gee honey, we don’t get to the Alps enough’. ‘Please don’t leave’. ‘We can fix this’. ‘We loved the photo’ in a panic he turned to the assistant handing the clients their coats. ‘Didn’t you love the photo?’ ‘See he loved it’ ‘we all loved it’. And with a whoosh they were gone from the room. It was silent again. All eyes turned to Mitch.
With everyone staring at him he muttered ‘fucking French’ and fell back into his chair.
One by one everyone left the room. And there was Mitch all alone, slumped in his chair snoring across from the giant photo of the alps.
Mitch spent the rest of the day sleeping on his black leather couch in his corner office. At 5 when he staggered out of the agency with a pounding headache, his town car wasn’t waiting for him. When he got home he fell into bed. The next morning when the alarm went off there were already 5 messages from the agency owner who screamed the same six words into the phone.
‘We lost the account you fuck ’.
Mitch didn’t have to go into work that day. Or the next or ever again. The story spread all over town like wildfire.
By the end of the week Mitch couldn’t have gotten hired art directing coupons at Safeway. So he did what anyone who wears Italian loafers without socks would do. He went to Italy on vacation.
When he returned it took him 9 months to get a job. And two things happened. He became a tad less arrogant. And he always wore socks with his imported Italian loafers.