Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [79]
Greer coughed. “We were looking into this direction of old German stereotypes, like milk maidens and lederhosen. Making them new and hip.”
“Sort of a ‘Germany isn’t what you think’ kind of thing,” I said.
“I like that concept,” Rick said as I held up the picture of the blonde with double braids.
I studied his annoying face, the ponytail years out of style, the Diesel jeans that no forty-four-year-old should be wearing. He struck me as sad, if not pathetic. I silently willed him under a bus, soon.
“What?” he said pleasantly, catching me staring at him.
“Nothing.”
“Listen guys,” Elenor began, “I don’t think we’re there yet. Keep working. We really want to push the envelope on this one. Think outside the box. Think Nike.”
Greer forced her mouth into a smile. “Okay. We’ll keep going.”
“I agree,” Rick said. “Keep going. But I’d stay away from anything that’s gonna cause problems.” He clasped his hands in his lap. “And stay away from the whole New Germany thing, that’s just not a safe space to be thinking in.”
Elenor glanced at Rick, puzzled. As if to say, What New Germany thing?
I looked at Greer. We hadn’t presented our New Germany campaign. We decided between us that it was wrong. The New Germany campaign existed in only two places: in our heads, and in my backpack in the form of loose sketches.
“Rick,” I said, “how do you know about the New Germany campaign?”
He sat a little straighter and blinked. “You just presented it.”
“No we didn’t,” Greer said quickly.
Rick looked at Elenor who was looking at Rick, waiting for his answer. “What do you mean?” he said.
“How did you know we did a New Germany campaign?” I said. I folded my arms across my chest. My heart was pounding, I was furious.
“Well, I just, you know, I just mean in general,” he said clumsily.
“You fucking asshole,” I said. “You went through my goddamn backpack. You went into my office and you looked at our work.”
“Hold on there a minute, Augusten,” Elenor said.
I turned to her sharply. “He’s been rooting around in my office. He’s been leaving nasty notes and moving my stuff around. He stuck a bottle of booze on the bookcase.”
“Oh, that’s absurd,” Rick said. “Augusten, you’re tense. You’re really being paranoid. I know you’ve gone through a difficult time, but no one is out to get you. Really.”
Greer glared at him and he seemed to shrink into the sofa.
“You’re pathetic,” I spat. “I see through you, you know. You don’t fool me at all.”
Elenor said, “Okay, let’s just move on.” She rose from her chair. “I can’t sit here all day and listen to who took whose crayons. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
Greer and I moved to the door. “When do you want to see another round?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. Tomorrow morning?”
I checked my watch: it was almost six.
In the elevator, Greer stabbed the lobby button. “I hate those two,” she spat. “I can’t believe we have to work all night again. They are so full of shit. Nike! They don’t want anything cool. They want some awful jingle.”
“I wish Rick would get gang-raped by a bunch of Muslim garbage collectors,” I said, fuming. Now I knew for sure. The magazine ads, the bottle and now this.
The doors opened and Greer stormed through the lobby. We walked to the coffee shop next door and ordered two large coffees. In the elevator on the way back up to our office, Greer turned to me. “God, her ugly little daughter must be horribly spoiled and obnoxious.”
“I can just imagine,” I said. “And ad people are so full of shit. ‘Push the envelope.’ It’s like, they think something is cool and edgy if they’ve only seen it a couple of times before.”
“Exactly. I’d like to push the envelope right up her cunt,” Greer hissed.
After work one night, I call Foster. I either have to see him every day or talk to him on the phone. It’s come to that.
“C’mon over,” he says.
When I get to his apartment, I’m shocked by how awful he looks; ragged and red-eyed. He hasn’t shaved for days. “What’s the matter with you?” I ask him.
He walks over the sofa, sits. “I just haven’t felt good this week.