Man of the Year. Lisa Ruff
thanked her and walked behind the wall into “Never-Never Land” as her employees called it. Most of the back half of the business had no walls, cubicles or other hindrances to carve up the space. Only Samantha’s corner office was enclosed. The walls were frosted glass for an illusion of privacy, but her door was nearly always open. Illustrators and copywriters were free to toss ideas back and forth—or erasers, spitballs or rubber bands, if the whims of creativity so required it. The front office decor flowed back to this area, but in a more lively fashion. Where the entrance to Emerald Advertising inspired business, the working area inspired creativity. The colors were bolder and brighter, the energy level higher.
The clutter in this creative room was terrible, which was mostly Samantha’s fault. She encouraged her employees to hang personal art, current projects, comic strips on the walls—anything pertinent to their work, and things not so pertinent, whatever generated fresh ideas and imaginative thoughts. It was an idea factory where slogans, logos and images for products from detergent to auto parts were crafted. The waste from this process littered the tables, desks and floor.
One of four walls was entirely devoted to Emerald’s competition. Ads for lingerie, espresso, software, oil-and-lube service and more were plastered one atop another. Comments were scribbled across them. Just above eye level to the left was a small banner that read Worst. To the far right was a similar banner with Best. Under these headings were the ads that had won either award that week. For each ad pinned to the wall, Samantha wanted a critique. Did it succeed in promoting the product? Why did it fail? How could Emerald do it differently? How would they do it better?
Better was always what Samantha wanted from her company, her employees and herself. Because of this, Emerald Advertising had earned a steadily increasing reputation for fresh, offbeat campaigns in the marketing world. It was a reputation that Samantha worked hard to cultivate. Staying on the cutting edge of advertising was a continual challenge. That’s what made the work so interesting. In time, Samantha hoped to turn Emerald into one of the leading advertising firms in the city—and the nation. The contract with the Seattle Rainiers was a critical step toward fulfilling that dream.
She stopped to greet Stuart and Lane, one of her best creative teams.
“How’s it going, guys?”
“Pretty good, Ms. Boss-lady,” Lane answered playfully. “We’ve got the storyboards ready for Big Snot Auto Parts. I think they’ll go for it.”
Samantha laughed at Lane’s irreverence. “Good. When do you meet with them?”
Stuart answered. “Next Tuesday.”
“I’d like to see what you’ve got planned.” Samantha glanced at the clock. “Not this afternoon. How about first thing tomorrow morning?”
The two men agreed, and Samantha moved on to her office. She smiled, thinking about Stuart and Lane. As a creative team, they worked together beautifully, though she sometimes thought that they shared the same mind. Often you’d ask a question of one, and the other would answer. Or one would finish the sentence that the other had started. Nice guys, but odd—perfect for advertising and her company.
As she went through the door to her office, Samantha noticed a short, blond spike of hair peeking over the top of her blue swivel chair. Those pale spikes could only belong to Brenda Miller, Samantha’s right-hand woman. Brenda kept Samantha’s world organized. She followed the progress of current projects, passed on the information she thought needed to be heard, and filed the rest for future use. Samantha was certain Brenda could do at least seven things at once. Besides all that, Brenda was Samantha’s closest friend.
“Hey, what is this? Some sort of coup?” Samantha teased. “I’m gone for two hours, and you’ve already taken over.”
“Samantha!” Brenda spun around in her boss’s chair, ignoring her teasing. “How did everything go? Did you meet the team?”
The question was laced with more excitement and zest than Brenda usually mustered for business. She and her husband, Craig, a lawyer, were dedicated Rainiers fans. She had made Samantha promise that she would get autographs of any new players for Brenda’s collection.
“It was fine.” Samantha dropped her briefcase to the floor and perched on the edge of the desk, flipping through the mail piled on it.
“Come on, Samantha,” Brenda begged. “Fine cannot describe a trip to a locker room full of half-naked, gorgeous hunks of male flesh.”
Samantha laughed. “Why do you think they were half-naked?”
“Wishful thinking.”
Samantha chuckled at Brenda’s wistful look. “Well, I might have noticed one or two that were wearing less than the regulation uniform.” An image of Jarrett Corliss wrapped in a damp towel popped into her mind, as if it were a jack-in-the-box that had wound itself up, springing into her head unannounced. Samantha blinked, pushed the image back into the box and slammed the lid tight.
“What do you mean? Or should I say who do you mean?”
“No one,” Samantha denied firmly.
“Bull. You met someone.”
Samantha shook her head. “I’ll tell you later. What’s happened here at the factory?”
Brenda allowed the subject change without comment. “Running wild and crazy as usual. If there are any problems, everyone seems to be handling them on their own and not sharing them with me.” She levered herself out of Samantha’s chair with some effort. “Boy, that gets harder to do every day.”
Samantha reached out and helped her friend to her feet, steadied her, then patted the protruding stomach. Six months pregnant, Brenda had started to waddle a bit. “Junior giving you problems today?”
“Only when he does a tap dance on my bladder.” She sighed. “Now, the urgent mail is on the left, the not-so-urgent is on the right, the important messages are here, I fielded the rest. You want a cup of coffee?”
“I can get one myself. I thought the smell made you nauseous.” Samantha sat and looked over the piles Brenda had indicated.
“Not anymore,” Brenda said with a grimace. “Now cat food, that makes me green.” Both women laughed at that.
“Then, yes, thank you. I’d love a cup. And if you’ve got time, I’d like to go over the material I picked up at the Rainiers today. I think I have a campaign just about figured out.”
“Jeez, you’re quick. Stuart and Lane will be disappointed. They want to come up with all the brilliant ideas.”
Samantha wiggled her eyebrows and did a poor imitation of Groucho Marx. “I had a lot of inspiration while I was there.”
Brenda groaned. “Okay, I’ll get my notepad and the coffee and be right back.”
Samantha pulled a thick file from her briefcase. She took an envelope of photographs from the file and went to the large worktable just outside her office door. Around her, activity buzzed. Stuart and Lane took turns shooting a foam basketball through a hoop over the windows. Samantha didn’t ask what that had to do with auto parts. A printer hummed, spitting out paper. Carol hunched over a computer, composing a layout. Somewhere in the back Pam argued on the phone.
Samantha spread the photographs out before her on the table. Eight-by-ten headshots mingled with the “action” poses that she had always found corny. She pulled out the headshots and lined them across the table. Players were identified by name across the bottom of each photo. Other personal data, vital statistics and averages were listed on the back. None of the official information said much about the individuals. Samantha recalled her conversations with the players: their jokes, their quirks, their stories all came back to her.
“So this is the new team.” Brenda peeked over Samantha’s shoulder. “Here’s your coffee.”
“Thanks.”
“Not bad.” Brenda picked up a photo. “Hey, this is José Alvendia.