Body Copy - Michael Craven [27]
Michael Craven
ing with another company. The piece all but came out and called him a poseur.
Tremaine wondered why Tyler would have this magazine on display. No such thing as bad publicity?
He finished the article and was sort of half-reading the rest of the magazine when he heard, “Are you Mr. Tremaine?”
Tremaine looked up to see what can only be described as an absolute vision of a young woman. Shockingly, dis-tractingly gorgeous. Playboy Bunny, but better, more sophisticated. Tremaine thought, how could one describe this woman and do her justice? Got it. Long blonde hair, big tits, perfect ass. Crass, maybe, but there was simply no other way. How can you have that up top and that down there? He was asking himself this seriously; he really wanted to know. This one, she simply defied physics. She was a work of art. Tremaine was trying desperately not to just stare. Or run, headfirst, into a wall. But it was hard.
She was incredible, magical, standing there, black pants, black shirt, big white smile.
“Yes,” Tremaine said. “I’m Donald Tremaine.”
He stuck out his hand and stood up. She shook it and smiled. Tremaine felt her hand in his. Soft, a little cool.
Man, this woman was incredible. Tremaine was entirely polite. Again, just making an observation . . .
“I’m Heather,” she said. “Tyler’s assistant.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said.
“Tyler is ready to see you. I’ll take you to his office.”
The two walked into the agency. Donald looked around and again noticed the similarities between Think Big and 84
B O D Y C O P Y
Gale/Parker. The fact that the aesthetic of this shop was an imitation of Gale/Parker was just plain obvious. No wonder everybody said it. It was true. It was the stepchild version of Gale/Parker. The open spaces weren’t quite as open. The exposed steel was painted an oddly depressing bright green.
And, off in a corner, there was, almost unbelievably, one of those basketball shooting games you see in bars. It all contributed to an ersatz feel, like it was trying to be hip.
Granted, the Gale/Parker space was itself a bit contrived, but it was really good contrived. Really well done, impressive, and, above all, original. This place just missed. Like a knockoff of a popular brand. Close, but no cigar. It reminded Tremaine of his surfing days when a company would rip off a shaper’s design. The board would basically look like the custom-shaped one, but if you looked close you could tell.
And if you took it for a ride, baby, it was night and day.
They arrived at a big, centrally located office, very similar to the awards room that used to be Roger Gale’s office at Gale/Parker.
“Here we are,” Heather said.
Tremaine looked in Tyler Wilkes’s office and saw Tyler wearing an outfit that resembled the one he had on in the picture on the cover of ADWEEK. Except this time he had red-tinted sunglasses on. Tyler was on the phone and he held up a finger indicating to Tremaine and Heather to hold on a sec, he’d be off the phone in a minute.
Heather went back to her desk, a few feet away from the entrance to Tyler’s office, and sat down. A young guy with a shaved head slowly slid by on a skateboard, the skateboard making that great sound on the exposed cement floor. As 85
Michael Craven
he passed Tremaine, he said under his breath, “We call her Drop-Dead Heather.”
“Huh?” Tremaine said. But the skateboarder was already ten feet away, out of earshot.
Then Tremaine looked at Heather sitting there at her desk and thought to himself, oh, right, Drop-Dead Heather.
Tremaine looked back into Tyler Wilkes’s office. Tyler hung up the phone and got up from his desk. Tremaine expected to be greeted at this juncture, but instead Tyler put up his finger again, indicating hold on one more second.
Then Tyler went into a separate, closed-off room that adjoined his office. Probably a bathroom. Tyler shut