From the Black Book
I step out from the office and, upon crossing the street, I am a copywriter again. This of course, is true for a limited time only. I rush to have a coffee meeting with new clients who’ve called from out of the blue.
They turn out to be a brother and sister tandem, too young it seems, to be commercially viable. But they are—they’ve inherited a successful furniture export business. A hundred container vans annually. Between them they push to modernize the family owned corporation and spend a lot of time convincing people that they are legit.
Ah, to be young and flush with ready-made success. To live a predetermined existence and be agreeably happy with it. Nothing much by way of complaints. He just says he gets “stopped at airports.” She tells me bluntly, “I’m only 28.”
Throughout the interview, I carefully affect a show of rapt attention, making sure to appear as though I’m taking copious notes. But oh, I know full well that I need not scribble to fill the pages. I have them both memorized.