A Winter Dream - By Richard Paul Evans Page 0,3
was inset over a cartoon drawing of a travel trunk plastered with colorful stickers from different countries.
Marcia nodded encouragingly. “Pack your bags.”
Bob also nodded. “I like that. I like the trunk. It’s iconic. We could use it on brochures, TV commercials, tour signage, Facebook, even luggage tags.” He looked at me. “What about electronic media?”
“Like Rupert said, my idea is a bit unconventional,” I said. “But when the competition zigs, you should zag. Since almost all travel commercials are really just video travel brochures, in order to stand out, I think we should create a campaign with a decidedly unique look—something different than what your competition is doing or has ever done. I envisioned our Pack Your Bags travel trunk reproduced in clay animation excitedly bouncing around. Then it falls open and something representative of one of your destination pops out, like the Eiffel Tower, or Big Ben . . .”
“. . . a pyramid for our Egypt tours,” Bob said, catching the vision.
“Or a gong for China,” said Marcia. “Or a panda.”
“No one’s done it before,” Bob said to Murdock.
“Isn’t that clay animation really expensive?” Murdock asked.
“It can be, but the bouncing effect is extremely simple and we’re producing doughnuts: the opening and closing of the spots will always be the same, just the middle needs to be changed, so for one spot it’s more expensive, but for three or four spots it will actually cost less than what you’re currently spending on production.”
Murdock looked pleased. “I like the sound of that. I like the idea. All of it.” He turned to my dad. “Holding out on us, Ace? Or just setting us up with the bad stuff first?”
“It was all good,” my dad said. “It just wasn’t right for you. But I agree, I like the Pack Your Bags concept.” He looked at me and nodded approvingly.
“All right,” Murdock said. “What’s next? Where do we start?”
Rupert clapped his hands together and leaned forward. “If you’re ready to sign on, we’ll sit down with Marcia and Bob and go over your promotional schedule and then we’ll get to work.”
“Make it so,” Murdock said. He stood, followed by the other two. “Keep me in the loop.” He turned and looked at me. “What’s your name?”
“Joseph.”
“Good work, Joseph.” We shook hands. Then he turned to my father. “How’s that pretty little wife of yours?”
“Rachel’s doing great.”
“She’s a beautiful woman. For the life of me I don’t know what she sees in a dusty old codger like you.”
“That makes two of us,” my dad said.
Murdock smiled. “See you on the course, Ace.”
On her way out Marcia said to Rupert, “Give me a call this afternoon and we’ll work out our scheduling.”
“Happy to. Thank you.”
They walked out of the room, escorted by Simon and Rupert. As I gathered up my things, I looked over at my father. His smile was lit with pride.
CHAPTER
Two
It is the nature of the beast—even the best intentioned surprises sometimes go awry.
Joseph Jacobson’s Diary
An hour after the pitch meeting my father called me into his office. He was sitting back in a burgundy leather chair behind a massive desk handcrafted from burled walnut. He was still wearing a proud smile.
“Sit down,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” I said, taking one of the chairs in front of his desk.
“I’m getting too old for this,” he said.
“Too old for what?”
“The dog and pony show. It used to be you could bring in a new client based on reputation alone. Today we have to create the whole campaign. How many thousands of dollars did we spend on that commercial they never even looked at,” he said, shaking his head. “We would have lost Murdock if it wasn’t for you.”
“It wasn’t just me. Everyone had a—”
He held up his hand. “Don’t contradict me.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“I know Murdock. If he hadn’t been an old golf buddy of mine, he would have hightailed it out of there the second he saw that first slogan. The three of them had mentally exited until they saw your idea. You brought them back to the table.” He stood, walking over to a crystal decanter sitting on a credenza. “Want something to drink?”
“No, thanks.”
He poured himself a scotch, then carried his glass back over to the desk. “You have talent. You’re going to take this company far.”
“You’ve already taken it far,” I said. “And the brothers have sailed it well.”
“Yes, they have. I couldn’t be more proud of my sons.” His gaze settled on me. “Especially you.”
Parents aren’t supposed to have favorites