The Contest - Bad Date : Part 2

Reality Check
By Leslie Carroll

(Page 2 of 2)

I used to get a thrill out of coming up with an ad campaign from scratch, writing clever copy that would hook the consumer. Lately, though, I'd been getting my creative kicks by writing a parody of a Regency-era novel called The Rake and the 'Ho.

"I feel so soulless now, you guys. When I started copywriting, I enjoyed its creative challenges. There was an alchemy to it. Spinning words into gold. Smoke and mirrors. It was rewarding to know that my public service campaigns were reaching other people and perhaps making a difference in their lives. Maybe one more battered wife would seek help. Maybe one more mother would warn one more child about the dangers of ingesting lead paint. But over the past few months, every day I feel more and more like a charlatan. One of our clients - a very big account - household name - launched these little computer screens called 'The Intelligencer,' mounted inside elevators. The screens flash headline news, traffic conditions, weather, sports for the captive audience. A fifteen-word visual bite that changes every five seconds or so. Not even enough time to remember what you read, or enough information to make it truly useful."

"You're on your soapbox, girlfriend. It's just a new form of communication," Jem said. "What's the matter with that?"

"The matter is that I was struck with how useless the product really is. My agency is being paid to pitch something that no one needs or would have even known they wanted if it hadn't been invented. Complete manipulation of the consumer and a totally useless waste of technology."

"So, if you won the contest . . . ?" Jem asked me.

"I'd open my own cutting-edge ad agency that specializes in PSAs - smart public service messages for companies with a conscience. A million bucks would pay for the start-up."

"Makes sense to me," Nell said, dog-earing a page in her Victoria's Secret catalogue. "This bathing suit wouldn't make me look fat, guys, would it?"

Jem and I rolled our eyes.

"Honey, it could be down-filled and you wouldn't look fat," Jem answered her.

"Why would you enter this contest?" I asked Jem.

Jem may be the most hypereducated woman I know, but she's finally - after years of psychotherapy - coming to terms with her name. "How can a black woman name her daughter Jemima?" she used to rant. The true genesis of Jemima's name came when her mother saw the movie version of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang when she was pregnant. She fell in love with the name of the little girl, Jemima, in the film. But Jem claimed that she was stigmatized, traumatized, and every other kind of "-tized" for the rest of her life by the appellation.

Jem laughed. "I think it would be a damn kick, that's why. And kind of an interesting experiment to be part of. From a sociological point of view."

"What would you do with the money if you won?" Nell asked her.

"Get out of teaching apathetic college students who are taking my courses merely to satisfy a requirement. Not have to deal with the unwanted sexual advances of a department head who's a self-professed warlock. I'd bank the money so I could afford to teach inner-city first-graders. Mold their sweet little minds; teach them to read."

"You're incredibly noble," I told her.

"I mean it," Jem said.

And that was how we all decided to shelve our dignity in the name of a commitment to community service and audition for Bad Date, the reality game show.

Copyright © 2003 by Leslie Carroll.

About the Author

Native New Yorker Leslie Carroll is a professional actress as well as a novelist. She has appeared on stage, in short films, daytime dramas, and commercials, and has done voiceovers and talking books. She is the author of Miss Match. Leslie also writes historical and New York noir detective fiction, and is the author of three stage adaptations of nineteenth century/early twentieth century English novels: Ivanhoe, The Prisoner of Zenda, and The Scarlet Pimpernel.