SINergy Chapter 1 Day 1, 7:17 AM—Monday The number twenty–seven bus rumbles to a halt with prehistoric flatulence and a dust cloud that makes me believe in global warming. It sighs and sinks with depressed moans as the gathered crowd stumbles forward, a group unified by their hatred of groups. I recognize everyone and don't know anyone. The nearly mummified woman with the yellow saran–wrap skin and the wicker basket gets on before me. I clutch my briefcase as the tattooed man presses past me. The geriatric pedophile. The jet-black woman wearing an apron. The toothless mother of two. I know them all the same way I know paparazzi pictures. Holding my breath from the hot, thick fumes and the stench of baby–powder formaldehyde, I climb onto the bus. I feel like Forest Gump looking for a seat and end up hanging on to the handle for nineteen stops until Spring Street. Flashbacks of grade school wrack my body when I ride buses, but I have no choice. Employees of Brand, Inc. are not allowed to drive to work. Company policy. We are one with the proletariat. Six years of school I sat in the faux leather hells of the greenhouse effect, watching as all the fat kids turned greener and greener—Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sans shells—until one would finally lean over in the crash landing position and spill his bacon and eggs onto the black rubber floor. It's always the fat kids. I have no idea why. Like clockwork, every week some corn–fed boy would throw up and we would sit in that steam room of intestinal fortitude, watching the puke streak up and down the aisle with every break and acceleration of the bus. Like the bus itself was trying to vomit, the gorge rising higher and higher, reaching more and more people, transferring the smell of this kid's stomach acid to the air of the bus. It would heat and it would move, stirring up, sending particles of his chunky breakfast into our noses and mouths. And someone else vomits from the smell. And the sound of that makes another kid vomit. And the aisles run with vomit like the floors of the Coliseum, and we who are about to blow salute you, and I swallow my own bile, leaning my head out the window, plugging my ears and breathing in through my mouth. I don't like buses. But I follow company policy because I have a job coveted by every marketing exec in my demographic. The number twenty–seven always stops at every block, even if no one pulls the string. This is because the number twenty–seven is the geriatric express, and like most things in our society, it caters to those who are incapable. We don't raise the bar, we make sure the bar is totally accessible. That's our definition of progress. And by bar, I mean floor. I have to leave at 7:15 to get to my 8:00 job. Moving At The Speed Of Business. My name is on the board as I walk into the office, after riding the elevator to the third floor. We aren't allowed to take the stairs because the average consumer doesn’t take the stairs. Company policy. Just Do It. I stare at the dry erase board covered in bright red letters: ZACK MORRIS. Yes, my name is Zack Morris. Yes, I know. I rack my brain and clench my briefcase like a stress ball. I have to start the game today. Riding the bus, games and names on the board. Sometimes I think middle school prepared me better than college. Dustin Hoffman? Too easy. Giovanni Ribisi? Too hard. Laura Linney maybe? “Zack!” “Richard—good morning!” I say, glancing down from the board. Richard Palomar makes me think of John Stamos with a melanin problem. He's also one of the richest men in the world according to Fortune and one of the most powerful people in the world according to Entertainment Weekly. The former, we are not allowed to read. The latter, we are required to read. I've never seen him wear the same outfit twice, but all of them look similar. Variations on a theme. Continuous remixes of the same song. Today it's a dark blue collared shirt with a logo I’ve never seen, but will pretend I have in case it's a test. Dark khaki cargo pants from The GAP. I'm wearing Banana Republic olive khakis, a button-down, cross-hatched American Eagle long-sleeve and Doc Martin form-fitting sandals. All company issue. “It’s just like the ocean under the moon, Zack,” he says. “Ummm...Smooth, by Santana.” “And?” “Rob Thomas.” “Who was?” “The lead singer of Matchbox 20,” I say. “Great. So how was the bus this morning?” Teeth stare at me with a shade that would be glaring even to the color white itself. He's only three years older than I am. “Same ole,” I say. “Good,” he says with a wink. “That's the way, uh–huh, uh–huh, we like it, right?” “Yes, sir.” “The group is all there, so head on back.” “Sure thing, Richard.” “Oh, Zack? Are you going to start the game off?” I glance back over my shoulder and say, “Reservoir Dogs.” Hip, trendy, urban. I listen as he grabs Deanna and says, “Reservoir Dogs, Harvey Keitel.” And then I am out of earshot. The first thing I had to learn here, or in life I guess, is that nothing is ever what you expect it to be. Girls are boys, the wealthy are bankrupt, and intelligence is weakness. This office, a raging river where well over two billion dollars flows yearly, has only six rooms and a few cubicles. Brand, Inc. is only six rooms and twenty-four employees. Advertising Tip: Always repeat your message. More on that later. Josie walks by holding three copies of People, drinking a cup of coffee, and wearing a push–up bra from hell. Maybe for research if they're in fashion, maybe because she has become enamored with her own breasts. Everything's a company expense these days. The layout of the floor is pretty simple. The front door opens out to the left onto the control center where there is a network of phones, wires, and computers that sit, literally, under the constant supervision of Richard Palomar. He didn't get to be the youngest self–made billionaire in history by shirking his job responsibilities. He sits alone in his office of glass walls and Plexiglas floors with a vantage of every dust mote on the premises. I don't even think he'd be offended with a Big Brother reference, because he knows that no one really considers that a negative anymore. Walking to the left, there are file cabinets overflowing with reference materials and three computers with hook–ups to every marketing database imaginable. Timothy and Jordan sit at these from eight am until four pm every day, keeping abreast of current trends and marketing strategies. You think the stock market fluctuates, you should try predicting style trends in the 12–16 demographic. Or music trends. Or public opinion. Or technology. Nostradamus had centuries for his predictions to come true. Advertisers have to be accurate to the month. There’s no room for people who are too progressive or too behind. The secret, since this is a tell–all exposé, is that advertisers buy themselves time by creating as many trends as they report on. It’s the chicken and the egg controversy all over again, in spades. Is it cool when someone says it is? Or does someone say it's cool because it “is?” Tip says that this is where Americans place their abandoned spirituality, into this black hole of cultural zeitgeist. Unseen, mystical forces driving the masses, understood by a few elect who then pass on the information to the rest of the crowd. Priests or marketers? We all have to believe in something. I wave to the guys in the reflection of their computer screens and they wave back without turning around. Perfect scores on their SAT's. The best and the brightest of America used to go into politics or literature. Now, they create pithy ad campaigns or write copy for The Simpsons. Further ahead, there is a hall that opens onto five rooms: three on the left and two on the right, directly under Richard's office. There's something religious about leaning back and seeing the underside of your boss. Monday, Monday, Monday. A note on company policy: Brand, Inc. never takes on more than three megabrands in a single semester, thus giving full attention to building the brand connections worldwide. Brand, Inc. never takes on more than twenty-four employees. This creates a situation where everyone is getting as rich as he or she wants, and both employers and employees are always beating down the door. Advertising Tip: Make sure no one is ever completely satisfied with what they have.