The W pulls on 42 St. and I take a deep breath. Then it begins, the mysterious jingle that can only be heard when you warp yourself to the world of Times Sq.
http://www.wdell.com/music/Super%20Mario%20Bros%201.mid
Zigzagging for my life, I outflank some Koopa Troopas from Oregon and some Goombas from Zimbabwe which saves me from certain delay; I light my Fire Flower, but the Hammer Brothers from the Bronx are too rash, and I lose it on a sewer grating. Time's up, game's over, I must find my castle now. And then I see it; 220 West 42nd. Who knew? That a place where dreams come true should stand where I've had so many pedestrian nightmares... but I enter.
I announce myself and head towards the elevator for the 12th floor; a burst of adrenaline, of thrill pumps through my veins. Everything that I've ever done has brought me to this elevator, and I feel like in a launching pad, ready to eject out into the world. Indeed. 42 West is one of the premier PR firms in the world, and their job is to human cannonball me into the fabric of pop culture itself. The doors open. I'm at the offices, buzzing phones all around me, a girl whose eyes look quick witted stares at me as if trying to seize my whole immediate future; she smirks.
"Javier? Come please"
She leads me through a corridor; assorted movie posters and pictures of celebrities hang in the walls as decor, but only to the naked eye. They are frightful and powerful war trophies; the placement and recognition which my brain assigns each and every one is living proof; "Charlie Wilson's War", "The Departed", "There will be Blood"... they got into my rebellious psyche surreptitiously, neverminding the fact that their greatest ally, television, is not used by me; other means were carefully harnessed; the internet, magazines, posters... slowly, but surely, creeping into the inner cortex of my unconscious in every tactful repetition, and then....awakening curiosity, deepening interest, arising desire. Next thing I know, I can't wait to see these movies in the silver screen, I talk about them, I google them, I pay my tribute at the box office. They have won me and countless of others by a smart and careful campaign. War trophies.
My thoughts are interrupted as I see an angel walking by me. "Was that??.... Charlize Theron?" . It was. I keep my composure, but the surreal quality of meeting figures that exist only on paper and the screen never ceases to impress; they are strangers which you know very well. Could 42 west turn me into one of them?? Yes they can.
I enter a conference room and I meet them; Leslee Dart founder and CEO of 42 West, and Allan Mayer who heads the strategic communications division, we are here to talk about my future as an author, and my sense of fear outweighs my excitement. How can I keep my cool when I know what I know? That these ppl have keys to the doors of every single major media or entertainment outlet; that she has over 300 movie publicity campaigns under her Marni belt, that Allan could, by a sway of his crackberry, place me in a Newsweek article; that ppl like Woody Allen, Clive Owen, and the late Sidney Pollack, calmly placed themselves in 42 West's capable hands. I shall do the same.
We sit down and as Leslee is about to talk, she is interrupted by a loud keystroke. We all look around confused, and when I try to let out an ironic comment, an even louder keystroke chokes my vocal chords. It is as if someone connected an amplifier to an Underwood typewriter. Allan opens his mouth "CLACK", I mutter something back: "CLACK-CLACK"... "CRACK-CLACK-CLACK-SHIIISHIiiiiNG--"
"Where--??"
Eyes are shut, my fingers are moving, the computer screen illuminates the dark room; there's no conference room, no Leslee Dart or Allan Mayer. Before I know it, I have clicked the red button: "Post a review"
Great, now I'm a damned sleepwriter. read more