Truth in Advertising by John Kenney Page B

keyboards, the quiet buzz saw of copiers and printers, conversations muted by the carpeting. Light days today and tomorrow, the agency closing at noon on Christmas Eve.
    Phoebe comes into my office with two coffees, something she does most days. I am hard at work. I’d begun, but did not complete, my expense report, as I got distracted by a Google search for information about Mexico but somehow find myself reading a long story about Brett Favre’s childhood.
    â€œThere’s a new receptionist on nine,” she says.
    â€œThis is not a great lead sentence,” I say. “ ‘Call me Ishmael’ is a great lead sentence. ‘Mother died today. Or maybe it was yesterday’ is a great lead sentence. ‘There’s a new receptionist on nine’ needs work.”
    â€œShe’s a former Miss Black Deaf America.”
    I say, “Much better.”
    â€œI’m serious.”
    â€œI don’t know what that means.”
    â€œIt means she’s deaf and beautiful.”
    I say, “Would you rather be deaf or beautiful?”
    â€œNeither. Wait. Beautiful.”
    â€œThe other four senses of the deaf are far more highly attuned than the average person.”
    â€œIs that true?”
    â€œI have no idea. I hear perfectly well.”
    Phoebe asks, “What sense would you lose?”
    â€œTouch.”
    â€œYou say that very quickly. You’re sure? Never feel softness, texture?”
    â€œTouch is overrated,” I say.
    Phoebe says, “You’d give up touching the curve of a woman’s hip?”
    â€œOkay. I see what you did there. Umm . . . hearing.”
    Phoebe says, “No music?”
    â€œI want all my senses, but I also want that thing where your other senses are more highly attuned because you can’t see or hear.”
    Phoebe looks at me and says, “Stop.” She says it gently.
    I’m touching my scar, the small one along my jawline. I got it when I was a kid. I’m self-conscious of it. Phoebe knows that.
    She says, “Did you hear about Tom Pope?”
    â€œTell me.”
    Tom is an associate creative director who sits a few offices away.
    â€œI heard from Jackie who was out with Erica at what’s-it-called across the street that Tom was at the bar with that new account girl.”
    â€œThe stunning one?”
    â€œThe stunning one.”
    â€œNot his wife, in other words.”
    â€œDefinitely not his wife. They were making out. At the bar. Like openly making out. This is across the street! Tom gets so drunk that he puts his head on the bar and the stunning one strokes it. People are watching them now. He puts his hand up the back of her blouse. He gets up and walks into the hostess stand, almost knocking it over. The hostess picks him up, asks if he’s all right. He says he’s fine. Then he walks out onto the street and in full view of the entire restaurant, pukes onto the sidewalk.”
    Why is there a part of me that secretly enjoys hearing about this? Why is there a tingle of excitement at someone else’s misfortune, poor decision, emotional duress? Is it because somewhere in my own psyche I understand poor, sad Tom Pope’s actions, his need forattention from an attractive young woman as he grows older? Is it because I recognize this as a cry for help, a longing for something that’s clearly not happening at home? Or is it because it’s just plain funny when a grown man makes a horse’s ass of himself in public and then vomits freely?
    Phoebe says, “Promise me you’ll never be like that.”
    I say, “If he keeps this up he could be a partner in no time.”
    Then Phoebe says, “Would you miss me if I left?”
    â€œYou mean, like, left my office?”
    â€œLeft. Quit.”
    â€œYou thinking of leaving?”
    â€œYes. No. Maybe. I’m getting a little bored.”
    Ian has stuck his head into my office and says, “Can I