Subject: Thanks for dinner.
And that kiss.
Looking forward to Saturday.
~Ezra
Chapter Eighteen
The week passedlike a snail—slow and slimy. Even the Black Soul meeting had beena waste ofmy timeanticlimactic. I had been looking forward to representing edgyartists with our branding push, excited about all the possibilities ourmarketing team had to offer. Instead, I’d gotten stuffy suits that were moreinterested in dollar signs than original content.
Considering theclient, Henry was perfect as acting creative director. He pitched to theirlevel, offering overused, dated tactics that wouldn’t do anything for theirimage, reach or business. Even Ethan’s super cool new logos were debated over,deciding at long last that they would take the logo options to a focus groupand see how they tested.
My social mediapackage went about as well as you can imagine—in that itwas a train wreckdidn’t go well at all. There were vague compliments regarding my graphics, butthe majority of the meeting was spent debating the ROI of social media ads andtrying to explain that seventy-one percent of digital minutes were spent onsmartphones—not desktops. Clearly making it pointless, or at least lessrelevant, to target desktops alone.
And yet all of mygolden nuggets fell on deaf ears.
When we got back tothe office, Henry had made us congregate in the conference room for a brand-newstrategy meeting. He wanted to start from scratch. We wouldn’t have to throwout all of our graphics, just one hundred percent of our innovative ideas.
The Black Soulproject, the project that was supposed to launch me into office-wide notoriety,had been about as successful as my previous projects for the Baptist church andthe mowing company. It had done nothing to further my career or cement mystanding at STS. I was stuck on the same rung of the corporate ladder I’dstarted on.
And I hated it. Iwas no longer satisfied with anonymous background jobs and being the suckerHenry got to sexually harass.
However, there wasstill work to be done for Black Soul, and maybe not all was lost. We had beentold at the meeting that two of their marketing experts were in California forthe week. The rumor was that the missing execs were better in tune with whatwas on trend.
I had to keeptrying, right? It wasn’t in me to quit anyway. If my mother had taught meanything in this life it was that you never, ever, no matter how awful orwretched or dangerous, you never quit anything. Or so help me, God.
Other argumentsincluded:Do you want to end up like yourfather? Where would the world be today if everyone just gave up and quit? Oh mygod, you’re turning into your father.And my personal favorite:Quittersquit, Molly. Do you want to be a quitter? Well, do you?
Ahem. Needless tosay, I couldn’t actually imagine a scenario in which I walked away from thisproject. I didn’t want to be a quitter after all. And I really didn’t want toend up like my dad. Or my mom for that matter.
I would continue tocome up with original ideas that would blow their socks off and make them jumpfeet first into this wonderful new technical age. I would continue to pourmyself into this project even though it had lost all its luster and made mefeel sad for the bands that signed with such a backward-thinking studio. And Iwould continue to put up with Henry and his silent staring and not so silentaccidental touching. Although if his hand landed anywhere near my boob again,my knee was definitely going to find its way to his balls. Chuck Norris style.
It all seemedpointless. I realized it was too late to pass the account off to someone else,but I dreamed about doing that every single day. I had been so looking forwardto this account. I’d placed so many hopes and dreams and future shoppingpurchases on it, but when it had come down to it, this was the account thatwould end up ruining the façade that I loved what I was doing.
Because I didn’t.
This was nothinglike painting. I couldn’t lie to myself for a second longer. Graphic design wasthe antithesis of having the freedom to create. Because there was no choice inthis. There was no open-minded thinking or wide space to invent and process andmake. It was all rigid lines and somebody else’s visions. It was people pleasing,mindlessyes sirs, and the corporateworld disguised in a cool office with a loose dress code. I couldn’tfor the life of meremember why I’dwanted to move up in the company so badly. There was no end game to thismadness. Only the constant crazy cycle of pleasing stubborn clients andperverted bosses.
When I finallywalked into Bianca Saturday morning to work on the mural, I took a deep breathand it felt like the first one all week. Ezra had met me at the front door alleasy smiles and sleepy eyes. It wasn’t fair how attracted I was to him. Noteven a little bit.
“Molly,” he’dgreeted instead of a regular good morning.
“Ezra,” I’dreturned, wondering if he was going to kiss me again.
He’d taken myawkward canvas tote that contained all the paint and supplies I’d brought withme. The bag wasoverpackedwith brushes and morebrushes— every kind, size and shape in my arsenal. I’d brought them all. Eventhough I was pretty loyal to my pouncing brush and it was the best choice forwhat I had in mind. But the truth was I’d never painted an entire mural beforeso I didn’t really know what I needed. Better safe than sorry.
After he’d placedmy things on a cloth-covered table set aside just for me, he started diggingaround in my tote. “There are so many brushes.” He looked up at me. “I had noidea there were so many to choose from.”
I shrugged, baskingin the excitement I felt because he was interested. “They all serve differentpurposes.”
He looked doubtful.“If you say so.”
“How many differentkinds of forks are there? Or spoons? How many serving spoons or spatulas,different kinds of whisks, pans, dishes? Knives?” I pointed at my brushes.“Same concept.”
His smile stretchedwide. “You’ve explained this before.”
“Once or twice. Ican provide the same comparison using bike gears, aerodynamic wheels, and toolsif you’d like.”
