Assignment:  Location:  Advertising Agency; Object:  Satellite Dish, Genre: Drama

 

 

Floating Toward Change

 

 

 

A successful advertising executive enters a dangerous personal space.

 

 

            Tom Connors sits in his leather chair, at his mahogany desk, at the penthouse offices of Murtaugh & Connors Advertising. A brass lamp shines softly on his workpapers in the dark office overlooking Lake Michigan.  Tom leans forward, hands clasped, staring at distant waves cascading below a burnt orange October sky.

 

            His thoughts spiral downward. “This office used to comfort me; it was fun. No more.  The office is crackling without me – all three conference rooms are audience testing Alphaderm  – my God!   Mary’s left, and Joe only cares about TV time and ad campaigns. He can’t understand why I don’t chase Mary down again.  “Strike Three,” I told him.  “She’s out, and I don’t care.” Tom tightens his grip until his arms shake.

 

            All I want to do is put up that stupid satellite dish.  “It’ll ruin the look of the neighborhood,” and, “What will the neighbors say!”  Crap.  She walks out on me again.  For once, I want to have something for me.  You’d think she’d be okay with that.  She calls me selfish.  I give her the world, her freedom to shop, her freedom to decorate, to do whatever.  I’m sick of this life. I’m history as soon as everyone’s out of here. She’ll miss my money.”

 

            Lamplight shines on his forehead and his silver tie. Tom lays his head down on his arm. 

 

            Joe, races in landing hard on his chair.  “Hey, Tommy, you got Jack’s presentation approved for tomorrow?”  He flicks on his desk lamp.

 

            “Who cares.  Why don’t you finish it up.  I’m getting ready to kill myself.”

 

            “Why don’t we go out for a few quick ones at Halliday’s?” Joe puts his feet up on his desk.

 

            “I’m way beyond Halliday’s, Joe.  I’m sick of this mess – the job, Mary.  No one gives a shit.  Don’t worry, I’ll have it on your desk for the morning. You run the show tomorrow okay?  I don’t plan on coming in.”

 

            “Yeah! Okay Tom.  I’d be happy to – especially if you’re planning a make up session with Mary!”  Joe smiles and winks at his old friend.

           

            “Right.   Thanks for everything – you’re a great partner,” says Tom, managing a tight smile.

 

            “Okay pardner – see you soon!  I’m heading to Halliday’s, so come and join me.”

 

            Tom thinks, “I feel crappy leaving Joe, but he’s better off without me.”

 

            Women’s testing ends.  Participants leave chatting. The receptionist hands each of them product samples.  A few wait for husbands or children from the other audience rooms. 

 

            Almost alone, Tom notices someone turning off lights.

 

            “Nite now!” he hears Kevin, the security guard, say. 

 

            Tom gets up, turns off both lamps.  He lands back in his chair like a rag doll, feeling faint, and his thoughts arise in crystal ball fashion: 

 

            Mary’s smile, her beautiful figure, her gifts – even with her shop-a-holic tendencies, he appreciated them. 

 

            The times she left him:  when he asked her to give up shopping for a while, just to see if she could; when he wanted to entertain friends.

 

            Each time floated up reminding him of her unfaithfulness:

 

            When he wanted to start a family; when he thought she might like to find a job. 

 

            She wants to shop, decorate, and be with him.  She doesn’t want anything or anyone more.  She is addicted.  Every penny he earns goes to her.  He is trying to buy a satellite dish, but she isn’t the one spending.  That’s all it is. 

 

            The phone rings. He decides “What the hell,” and picks up. 

 

            “Tom, Honey, I’m sorry.  I brought you home a present today. I can’t wait to see you.”

 

            “Mary.  No.   I want you –and you only want shopping.  You just want my money.  I’m finished.”

 

            He hangs up, places a presentation on Joe’s desk and goes to the elevators, pushing “Up.”.  He thinks “At least Joe should care enough about me to see how bad off I am.  I’m so screwed up I don’t blame him for leaving me with my soap opera problems.”

 

            “Hi, Tom!  Workin’ late this evening?”  Kevin walks to the elevator bank, and notices the “Up” button is lit.  “You going to enjoy the view up top?  A bit windy, but the lake air is great.”

 

            “Hi  Kevin.  Yeah.  Think I’ll take in some fresh air – everything seems stale to me tonight.”

 

            “Mind if I join you?  I just made my rounds and everything’s quiet.”

 

            “Well, suit yourself.” Tom says, hoping he’ll decide against it.

 

            The men enter the elevator, and Kevin lays his thumb on “Rooftop.”  The roof is devoid of summer furniture or décor.  In July, however, there might be a few from the agency downing a few beers at this time.

 

            “So, Tom, what’s up?  You look down.  Did today’s tests flop?”

 

            “No.  The truth is, I’m tired of my problems.  I guess life sometimes doesn’t seem like it gives enough in return for breathing the next breath. No one seems to care.”

 

            “I hear ya.”

 

            Tom looks down over the edge of the building.  He barely hears Kevin.

 

            The cars are zooming along Lake Shore Drive.  The lake breeze is strong, and the wind whips at his suit jacket.  He climbs up the stairs leading to the workladder, noticing the huge satellite dish above the ladder.  It makes him laugh, and then he begins to weep.  He notices Kevin right behind him.

 

            “Hey, Kevin, be careful, two of us shouldn’t be up here at the same time.  It isn’t safe!” He yelled through the wind.

 

            “Here, take my hand,” Kevin ordered.  “Joe told me to watch out for you. He says to go join him at Halliday’s.  Why don’t I take you over there.”

 

            Tom takes another look down, and accepts Kevin’s helping hand.