Two Weeks' Notice

“What the hell was that back there?” Toriyama asks.

I can’t look at him.

“You waltz in an hour late, without briefing me…”

Not because I feel unhappy about ruining the presentation.

“Did you even shave today? You look like shit.”

I can’t look at Toriyama because frankly, I couldn’t care less.

“We need that account, and I can’t help but feel like you sabotaged that presentation.”

I hate this place and what it has become. I realize that now. It’s destroying me.

“Drake? Look at me.”

I’ve been caught not caring. I look at up Toriyama and try my hardest to contain the not give a fuck look on my face.

“Y-yeah?” I stutter.

He raises an eyebrow, puts his hands in his pockets and paces across my desk.

“And what’s going on with your speech? What did the doctor say?”

Just like that he transitions from chewing me out to displaying an altruistic regard for my wellbeing. This man used to be my mentor. He saw talent in me where others saw anarchy. He’s forgotten that. They got to him, too.

“When it resurfaced, um…I thought I’d had a stroke or something. I even went to the ER. I was sent home with a case of the crazies.”

“What did they really say? Didn’t you go that specialist my wife suggested?” Toriyama asks.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“You know how I feel about doctors.”

Toriyama rolls his eyes.

“You just told me you went to the ER.”

“B-because I told I’d had a stroke. That’s…um, that’s serious.”

“I don’t understand you sometimes, Drake.”

I smirk.

“I did end up going to a doctor after my ER visit. She thinks its stress…um, uh s-stress related.”

It isn’t the stuttering that frustrates me the most. It’s losing words mid-sentence. I know what I want to say and how I want to say it, but the connection is lost somewhere between the brain and vocal cords.

“Let’s see, What could possibly have you stressed out?” Toriyama circles back to chewing me out. “Could it be the fact that you’re slacking at your job they we pay you so well for? Could it be you just don’t give a fuck about your job and the person who stuck his neck out for you so many times? Could it be that you’re ungrateful? Could those be the reasons you’re so stressed out?”

“…Those sound like reasons you would be stressed.”

Toriyama Stops. I can almost see shavings of his teeth fly from his mouth as his teeth grind. I see lines on his face that I’ve only seen in cartoons. His eyes concentrate on me, and he slams his fist down on my desk. He doesn’t see the papers jettison upward and crash down like a failed shuttle launch. All he sees is me. His eyes say it all. You ungrateful little shit.

He doesn’t say anything else as he walks out of my office with his head down. He shuts my door a little too hard. My instinct is to laugh. But then I realize I was wrong. Guess I found that fuck to give after all.

***

In all honesty, I’m not upset with Toriyama. Not just him, anyway. I’m upset at corporate greed and what it’s done to my friend and mentor. I can’t blame him. He has a family to think about now. He has to make a living. Even if it compromises everything he believes in. Or, used to believe in.

I’m furious at what greed has done to this firm. We used to be about traditional practices with modern application. That’s why we still wear suits to work every day. Fuck casual Friday. Although, I have been dressing pretty casual these days. Besides the point. We did important work. Most marketing and advertising firms are more concerned with being trendy and social media perception than actually doing good work. In the process, they lost the personal touch. How can you convey emotion and purpose through an emailed presentation? No power point can take the place of human interaction. That’s what we were about. We take clients out to lunch, discover their needs and work hand in hand with them to accomplish the ultimate goal. To increase brand awareness. If profits come from that, so be it. We built brands. At least we used to.

Then we got too big, too soon. Toriyama brought me in after conversing at an art exhibit that our respective girlfriends drug us to. He walked up to me randomly, and asked what I thought about some drawing, if memory serves. I was honest with him. Told him how I saw it and what I would have done differently. I don’t consider myself an artist in the literal sense, but I have an eye for it. He saw that in me, told me what he did, and offered me a job on the spot. The kind of shit that only happens in movies. And for a while, that’s what it was.

I was brought in as a fresher voice for a fresh company. My parents had recently died, and they had left me a pretty decent inheritance so, at the time, I didn’t work. Before I met Toriyama, I was spending my twenty’s exploring the world. So when I took this job it wasn’t about how much they could pay me, it was about the art and the challenge. Helping companies find the right customers. Anyway, I was Toriyama’s golden child. I helped him move up the ladder. And he brought me with him rung by rung. I feel bad about today. I shouldn’t take this out on him. I’m fed up with the system we operate in.

I keep getting off track, things have changed at this firm and, regrettably, I’m partly to blame. Toriyama and I took on this campaign for Scrilla Killa Music Group’s newest artist, Guac Thug. His music is questionable at best, but this was the kind of work we love. Artists helping artists. We suffered through his music trying to find an entry point. Something outside of the box. Or cup as the case was. Toriyama and I noticed that Guac Thug talked a lot about dirty Sprite in a styrofoam cup. I won’t get into the contents of the concoction but what if we focused on the cup? We derived a campaign around Guac Thug and Styrofoam cups that changed the industry, no matter how silly you think it may sound. We even were able to get his logo, social media info and mixtape download link put on styrofoam cups all over areas that were in his demographic. Radio stations, party stores, sneaker boutiques, he was everywhere. Our firm and styrofoam cups helped build the Guac Thug brand, and elevated the firm to new heights.

We were interviewed by every important blog in our industry and even the traditional publications. With the spotlight came pressure from the top. Misters Taylor, Knudson and Meyers (the guys who started and run this firm) got drunk off of the attention which quickly became a form of alcoholism. They courted more attention and to get it they offered up more money. If we didn’t perform and keep the company name in the spotlight shit hit the fan. Creative meetings turned into profit meetings. If you didn’t make profit and garner mainstream attention you were made to look like a fool or worse, fired. The staff has trimmed so leanly you’d think we were venison. The ones who did their jobs—even though the nature of those jobs changed rapidly—were more than fairly compensated. Myself included. At that point the money I was receiving from my inheritance had slowed to a crawl so I my salary came in handy but now I’m not so sure.

I can’t do this anymore. The fun, the challenges, and the creativity have been shown the door in favor to profits and notoriety. If a strategy is too radical, the suits upstairs shut it down. They don’t want shock the clients. They’ve forgotten what made us-us. I tell them that every time I get a chance and I can tell they aren’t that inclined to entertain a dissenting voice. Toriyama used to agree and fight the good fight with me until that girlfriend I mentioned became a wife and then that wife became a mother of two and then that mother became a stay at home mom, and Toriyama became the sole bread winner. I can’t blame him for putting his family first, but I put the fight first. I can’t be held down by these corporate shackles. I can’t do this anymore.

Over the hours that follow, I contemplate my next move. I can’t work. I just stare at a blank computer screen. The phone rings. I ignore it. I get up from my chair. I walk around my office to try and clear my head. Doesn’t work. I walk over to my door as the phone rings again. I open the door and take a peek out. All I see are sheep. I shut the door and lock it. The phone stops ringing. I go back to my desk and continue my staring game with my blank computer screen.

After a while, I’m in a trance. I can’t move. I’m lost in the blank screen. I hear ringing, but it doesn’t register completely. What does register is the reflection staring back at me from the blackened computer screen. My hairline is receding more. I wonder if people notice. I look like I need sleep. Shit, I look like I need a coma. The bags under my eyes are heavy and wide. I could go for forty, and I’m not even thirty. This isn’t how things are supposed to be. The phone rings again. I ignore it. I stare back my computer and notice strands of hair on my keyboard. My hair.

I slide over to the phone and unplug it from the wall. I slide back to my computer and wiggle the mouse bringing my computer out of deep sleep mode. I’m perplexed by a screen of unread emails. Most of which from this morning and all from Toriyama. I start a new a new email and paste all of the partners and higher-ups in the TO line. The words just flow. When I finish I feel like I should hesitate more before I hit the send button, but I don’t. I print off five hard copies and pick them up at the other end of my office. I place one on my desk and place the rest in a folder and gather all the important things and walk out the door. I hear people call my name as I walk by, but I ignore them. My only stop is at the reception desk.

“Going out to lunch, Mr. Drake?” Bridget, the receptionist, asks. I’ve always had a crush on her. If I didn’t have rules about office flings, I would have asked her out.

“Uh…yeah. I’m leaving, and I’ll probably get food at some point.”

We laugh. She has no idea what I’m talking about.

“Mr. Drake, I think someone’s calling you.”

I don’t even look to see who it is.

“Bridget, could you do me a huge favor?”

“Of course, Mr. Drake.”

“It’s Jonothon, but call me Jono…”

I hand her the folder with the hard copies.

“Make sure all the partners get this? I emailed it, but I want to make sure they see it.”

“Of course Mr. Dra—Jono,” she says.

I smile, and I wave bye not only to her but at the company that made me lose my soul.