Truth in Advertising by John Kenney Page A

God’s sake . But I continue to hesitate. Because it’s Eddie. Because of who Eddie’s become. Because it’s about my father. And maybe he’s alive and maybe he’s dead and there’s a one in a million chance he’s come back to beg forgiveness but I’m sorry, old fella, there’s a statute of limitations on forgiveness. At least with the Irish.
    The ringing stops.
    I go back to the obits and read about a pioneer in DNA research who won a Nobel Prize. I read of an economist who was noted for his “mathematical rigor.” I read of the inventor of the Bundt pan. Unlike the other two men, there is no photo of him. Instead, there is a photo of a Bundt pan. He was eighty-six. This is how he is remembered tothe world. I wait for the red light on my phone that signals a message but it never appears.
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    An e-mail informs me that there is a problem with Doodles.
    Doodles are a chocolate candy with toffee in the center. They are one of the oldest candies in America. Chances are good that you have eaten them. We have been their ad agency for many, many years. Doodles and Chew-gees and Gooshy Gum. One of the company’s newer products, Joy-Jellies, which is selling very well, is handled by an agency across town. We would very much like that business. Last year alone, those four products earned two-point-eight billion dollars worldwide. The Chinese love Doodles and they love Joy-Jellies but they detest Gooshy Gum, whose name, we learned not long ago, is roughly the equivalent to the Chinese word shit . People here take Doodles very seriously. The company needs a new rip. (A rip is a rip-off of video footage from other TV commercials and sometimes movies that we share with the client at the start of the production process as a guide to the kind of thing you’d like to shoot for them, or sometimes just to make them happy: “Hey, look! We stole these images from an award-winning Nike commercial and from Mission: Impossible III, among many, many others to show you how great your candy is.” We also steal music we could never, ever use. U2, Coldplay, The Rolling Stones. It’s akin to me sharing The Great Gatsby with someone as a guide to my writing.)
    Another e-mail—agency-wide—reminds us about the holiday party, which this year is being held . . . next year! In another time, in a far different economy, long, long ago, the company holiday party was a special affair. Not so this year. My admittedly unscientific poll has shown that people have laughed it off but one gets the sense they’re hurt. People work hard. There are many people here for whom a party is a nice thing, a special thing, a thing to get excited about, perhaps an excuse to wear a pretty dress. It shows that the company you work for—that you invest so much of your life in—cares just a little bit. I do not generally think of a Tuesday morning as a great time for a holiday party, but our parent company does. There are severalreasons they think this way. One is because the cost of renting a greasy-smelling banquet hall in a Times Square hotel at this time slot is far less. Another is fewer people will drink at a party at 10:00 A.M., limiting any potential liability when, say, a male employee, perhaps after six too many Stoli-and-tonics, “accidentally” pulls his penis out of his pants and runs around screaming, as was the case last year. Less alcohol means less cost (a theme?). And, perhaps most importantly, fewer people calling in sick the next day. The e-mail reminds us that the party begins at 10:00 A.M. with speeches by Frank, Dodge, Martin, and a special keynote by Keita Nagori, the aforementioned son of the agency’s new owner. Brunch and dancing to follow.
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    Later in the morning the office fills with the hum of the workday: the R2-D2 of electronic phones, the light tapping of laptop