Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [94]
P.R. As in public relations. This man has a way of making every sentence sound like a steel cable being stretched to the point of breakage.
Greer kicks me under the table, turns her head and gives me the eye.
Barnes starts the meeting. “Well, we’re -here today to show you the cut. Let me just say that we’re all very excited about this commercial. We think it came out great. And the goal is for you to sign off on it today, so we can get it to the networks in time to make our air date.” He claps his hands together as punctuation.
The Nazi is taking notes, of what I can’t imagine. His scowling face is bolted to the pad of graph paper, fingers gripping his mechanical pencil so tight his knuckles are white. “Ya, go on, I’m lizzening,” he says, not looking up.
“So . . . then . . . I’ll turn the meeting over to Greer and Augusten, our creatives. Guys?” And he makes this presentation motion with his hand, like he’s a game show hostess displaying a twenty-seven-inch flat-screen television.
The Nazi doesn’t look up, but continues to write.
Greer rolls her eyes.
Barnes looks at her and motions for her to go ahead by giving her the international hand symbol for “hurry up”—rolling his hands around each other in midair—while mouthing the words, Let’s go.
Greer simply places one hand on the table before her, then places the other neatly on top. When Greer wants to, she can be hypnotically sexy and captivating. And she wants to. “Hans?”
The Nazi looks up immediately.
Greer smiles her Meg Ryan smile. “Hi, I hope I’m not bugging you. You look so busy there taking notes.” She gives a subtle, practiced laugh. Though he’d have no way of knowing it’s practiced.
I could be imagining it, but I believe he blushes. Or perhaps it’s merely capillaries bursting in his forehead, as a result of his anger at being interrupted. The equivalent of a smile crosses his lips and he dramatically slams his mechanical pencil down onto the pad of graph paper, folds his arms on the table and says, “Guten morgen, Greer. I’m sorry if I vas rude. Please, go ahead.”
“Great. I just wanted to move things along because I know you have somewhere important to be.” She’s still doing Meg Ryan. She does a great Meg Ryan. I know Greer, and I know that inside, she is thinking, I would like to chop you up into small, manageable pieces and grill you on a hibachi, then feed you to my shar-pei. But all that comes out is Welcome to moviefone!
Greer and I rise together. We are performing the Ballet of Two Who Pretend to Actually Give a Shit; a private performance for our client. Greer steps aside and motions for me to go to the video player. She does this because Greer couldn’t so much as find the power switch if her life depended on it.
I slide the tape into the machine. It makes a whirrrrr sound, then a ker-chunk, then a buzz. After you hear the buzz, you can push PLAY. But I wait.
The tape in place, I now face my client to give my little previewing speech. “Now, Hans, as you know, this is a rough cut. The picture hasn’t been color-corrected yet, the titles aren’t perfect, so what you’re seeing is a very rough cut.”
Greer, ever the flawless professional, is already standing across the room beside the lighting control panel. “Ready?” she chirps.
“Greer,” I reply.
And with her seventy-five-dollar manicure, she depresses the LIGHTING ALL button. Smoothly, the lights above us fade from bright to medium through dim, past faint all the way to darkness.
I push PLAY. The machine makes a deep, throat-clearing sound. The monitor displays some video crackling, then immediately the familiar countdown: 5–4–3–2–1. A beat of blackness. Then our horrible, cheesy commercial.
Shots of beer bottles being pulled from icy coolers.