Tullamarine Airport, Melbourne
Tuesday, 25th September 2001
Tullamarine is mobbed with the early morning business class even though the sun's barely up. I've lost an hour I'll never get back standing in this queue. With the plebs of course; good old Columbus Advertising and its tight purse strings. The muppets in charge never cease to amaze me. This is a million dollar account we’re talking about here, and basically keeps the fucking place afloat.
Now I’m finally getting my stuff checked in. Some old nark behind the desk fakes a smile. Why even bother love. I smile back.
Richard, the big boss, had asked that I wait for Brayden so we can check in together but if he’s old enough to come along on these trips he’s old enough to check himself in. Fuck him; I don’t know why he’s had to come along. ‘Succession planning’, was Richard’s blunt explanation when I enquired.
I had to bite my lip there. I wanted to plead my case, tell him that Brayden was a lick-arse little dick weed who was surely years away from being in the same sphere as me, let alone replacing me, but, as Richard had told me after another apparent misdemeanour, I was ‘skating on thin ice’. Fuck Richard and his ancient metaphors. I would have thought a man so learned, so cultured, would have come up with something new. It should be part of his job description. I think he may have mumbled the word 'cunt' under his breath as I walked out the door after that encounter but I let it slide. He'll get his one day.
So I make my way through the security gates, cursing the amped-up security because of September 11 as I am forced to empty my pockets. A heart-racing panic sets in as I consider whether I have left my bag of charlie at home. In the blur of last-minute packing I had it hidden pocket in my suit jacket, and then changed my mind. A quick line and Charles was in charge again. In and out of my pocket it went. I didn’t fancy shoving it up my arse. And now, in the giddy high that followed, with the downright impatient beeping of the cab and my thoughts scrambled like paper on a windy day, I remain unsure if I’ve left it behind or not.
As I approach the scanner, I realize it is too late to check. I’m trembling but I feel a rush of excitement as I go through undetected. The security officer looks at me strangely but I smile at him like I would at a new business associate and I walk on. My excitement quickly turns to despair as I feel the empty space in my pocket. What a waste of emotion.
I get to the departure gate feeling agitated and notice a smug looking Brayden sitting there. He looks just like all the other young upstarts in the room. Dark grey suit, spiked hair, bright tie, man bag, brief case, opened newspaper and coffee. Can’t this new generation come up with something new? I was doing all of this nearly a decade ago, but I had two qualities that these little shits could never begin to comprehend: genuine class and exuberant originality. I had it in immeasurable quantities then, and I still do now.
Worst of all, though, is that the little twat is wearing a pair of fake John Lennon glasses. I don’t know what planet he’s been living on if he thinks this look is fashionable, but it’s certainly a long way from here. He gazes up at me as I approach him.
- Ah, the great Gav Nicholls… how art thou?
I have to fight back the urge to spit in his face.
- How the fuck did you get here so early, I ask. Did you sleep here last night?
- Nah, the old man gave me a lift. Check-in was 5.15am, I got here then.
I stare at him briefly, noticing a few puss-filled zits on the side of his nose. What a filthy little bastard, he can’t even keep his face clean.
- So you got here on time? Early even? Were you first in the queue?
- I was actually. It was pretty quiet here for a while!
I laughed, trying to find a happy medium between my disdain for this juvenile and the fact that I actually found him funny at times.
- Young man, only ill-informed squares get to the airport on time. Have you ever heard of being fashionably late?
- Yeah, but it’s my first business trip; I wanted to make sure nothing went wrong.
I shake my head.
- Fuck that shit. Take my word for it: it’s a lot cooler to be running along the tarmac, trying to get into the plane as it prepares to take off. And, if you’re in any way like me, you’ll always need that extra hour in bed... And please refrain from using the word ‘venture’, it makes my skin crawl.
He stares at the floor, considering this for a second, and then looks back up at me, his youthful eyes fluttering naively under the Lennon glasses. He still has the face of a teenager, no doubting that, and all the geeky mannerisms under the sun to accompany it. He opens his mouth to say something but I walk off in the direction of the coffee shop, my brain a whirl of thoughts. Work is actually high on the Gav Nicholls agenda today. This promises to be a strange trip.
Today we are meeting Jack’s Juice, a key client in Sydney. We’ve had same great success together over the last few years, with their range of revitalizing juices now available everywhere – ‘the product that sells itself’ - and our skill for advertising the crap out of it. Both parties know the score, so negotiations are a dross-free zone. This is why they’d forced me to bring Brayden along. It was, in Richard’s words, a ‘nice, gentle introduction to the often cutthroat but ultimately satisfying world of business advertising‘.
Talk about Cliché Central. What a tosser Richard is. You only have to abbreviate his name to see it.
The anxiety I feel has nothing to do with the business side of things, however.
It was in a meeting with Jack’s a few months back that I first met James. We had a productive meeting and I suggested going out for dinner and drinks. Show him a few hidden spots in my hometown. He agreed without hesitation and so later on, after hoovering a few coarse lines of Lou Reed and drinking our bodies' weight in alcohol, we ended up getting it on a bit. Kissing in the bar. Fondling in the alley way. I chickened out on going any further, much to James's dismay, but I am ready now. I'll take whatever he's offering with a smile, and then give my own back twofold.
All going to plan, we’ll hopefully get all the formalities out of the way this morning, allowing almost two full days of, well, catching up. Kings Cross will take a pounding. My only concern is that he recently accepted a promotion as Jacks' National Sales Manager. He replied to my meeting invitation, with a brief explanation that some other smarmy arse has taken on his old role and will be meeting with us, but he did add, just above his sign off: I am looking forward to doing business again.
This is the main reason I don’t want Brayden tagging along. I’m thinking that maybe I could lose him after the meeting, give him a list of things to do around Sydney, and then meet him on the plane for the trip home. That’s the sketchy plan for now, anyway.
Brayden shakes his newspaper and then folds it in half as I walk back to him. A voice over the loudspeaker announces first calls for flight 506 to Sydney. Brayden stands up, looking anxious.
- Should we board? he asks.
- We’ll give it a few minutes yet.
- No worries. I’m in no hurry. He raises his arms and yawns as if to prove his point.
- So is it work, work, work for the next two days, or can we explore a bit of Sydney? he asks, the high-pitched, ineffectual tone in his voice somehow more prevalent than usual. I weigh up his question and try to answer it as civilly as I can. I don’t want the little shit following me everywhere, but at the same time, I can’t tell him what I have planned as it’d get back to Richard. Perceived spontaneity was my go.
- It depends on how today’s meeting goes. These guys have a habit of dragging things out. Do you have any friends in Sydney you’re planning to meet up with?
- Nah… I mean I do have a few friends there but I don’t think I’ll bother. Will we be taking the client out for dinner tonight?
I sighed. The way he said ‘the client’ made my stomach churn. I was going to have to tell him straight.
- What do you mean ‘we’? I have the Amex card, so I’ll be the one taking them out if we go out with them at all. And anyway, I have made plans to visit a sick friend in Sydney hospital this evening. That’s why I thought if you could meet up with someone you wouldn’t get bored.
- Oh, he says, smiling sheepishly. I might give one of them a call then.
He takes his mobile out of his pocket and starts flicking through his phone book. This has worked out far better than I had planned. The hospital angle came from nowhere, but was executed brilliantly. I inwardly congratulate myself on another job well done.
Everything is again rosy in the world of Gavan Nicholls, high-flying entrepreneur. The meeting will go to plan, with me steering our department towards a new record profit, and I’ll do it all with our so-called rookie, the boy most likely to take over the reins when I move on, as witness. Well, he can have my job, but I’m not going anywhere. I’m going up, up, up, resuming my steep climb up the ladder after a sluggish twelve months. Richard’s stale, old school methods will soon find him out and I’ll have his job. Then I’ll continue stepping over all the little people on my way to the top. Columbus Advertising will be a worldwide phenomenon when I’m finished with it, and I will be a star.
I spring to my feet.
- Let’s go, young man. We don’t want to miss the plane.
