A BIRD IN HAND

     “So?  How’d it go with the curd nerd?” Juniper asked on Monday morning as we rode up together in the elevator.  “Was it a complete waste of mascara?”
     “Definitely not,” I said.
     Juniper looked disappointed, her schadenfreude shining through.  “Don’t forget.  You have to go to Diana’s product meeting this morning,” she said. Systems was launching a new skincare product called Bird Bath.  It was a multipurpose
“3-in-1 rejuvenator” which in layman’s terms meant a whitening, anti-aging, and cleansing wipe all in one.  Bird Bath was positioned for the fluttery, fast-paced girl-bird who desired that all her skincare needs be managed by one easy pad.  The wipes fit into a small compact that fit neatly into a purse, pocket or diaper bag.
     Diana Duvall, the pregnant Systems P.R. director, was in charge of the launch and she was holding a groupthink to try and brainstorm a compelling “theme and delivery system” for the Bird Bath press kit, i.e., how it would be uniquely presented to the beauty editors.  She wanted the theme and delivery system to be one – form and function seamlessly merged. 
     Press kits were a sore spot with the magazine beauty editors.  The original point of the kits was for editors to receive information about a product, sample it and then hopefully write a story or blurb in their magazine about it.  There were countless beauty products on the market and with new ones coming out practically every day, the wooing was ongoing and neverending.  The editors received handfuls of press kits from every imaginable makeup, skincare and perfume company.  It had gotten back to LeVigne P.R. that the spoiled editrixes didn’t want sample size products and boring press releases.  Their idea of a rousing press kit was a high-end designer handbag stuffed with full-sized Chanel product, or if you were the low-rent Revlon, then a high-end designer handbag stuffed with fancy sunglasses, jewelry, or a gift certificate to a fancy spa.  Anything less fabulous was tossed in the trash or passed around the office and viciously gossiped about. 
     Diana had asked that Connie sit in on the Bird Bath groupthink and in turn, Connie had me and several marketing people sit in on it too.  Diana’s assistant, Winsome, came in carrying a tray of Diet Cokes and everyone but me grabbed one and cracked it open.  Diana shoved a straw in her soda can and took a long, ravenous sip.  She looked down at her baby bump, and her frozen Botoxed mouth struggled to form a tiny frown. “Do I look fat?” she pouted, cupping her hands on her little bowling ball of a stomach that couldn’t have housed more than a couple of embryonic kittens.  “I’ve worked all my life to be thin and look what’s happened.  Why couldn’t I have been born a seahorse where the males carry the babies?”
I wondered what a steady stream of Diet Coke and Botox was doing to her developing fetus.
     “Don’t say that, Diana.  You look gorgeous!  Simply luminous!  Skinnier than Mary-Kate!” were the comments that the group beatifically uttered.
     These comments seemed to soothe Diana’s outsized ego and she was ready to get down to business.  She closed her blepharoplasty-ed eyes.  “I am vividly seeing white for this launch, so I’d like to pose the following question,” she said, holding up a box of Bird Bath wipes.  “What to you is white?”
     There were a flurry of answers from the marketing team.  “Noguchi lamps, non-fat yogurt, the new Balenciaga coat, Carr’s table water crackers, my Bichon Frise.”
“People,” said Juniper.  “People are white.  You know, like, white people.”
“My Adderalls are white,” someone muttered.  Everyone nodded in agreement.
     Diane spoke again.  “And what is beauty to all of you?”
     No one spoke.  To them, that was way too obvious a question. 
     I thought about the Bird Bath product.  I thought about what was truly beautiful and suddenly a magnificent image of a soaring white dove popped into my head.  Say something, Marnie.  No one else was speaking.  Just say something. Anything.
     “Doves have a special kind of beauty,” I said sheepishly.
     “Doves,” repeated Diana robotically, not really paying attention to me, focusing more on draining her second can of Diet Coke.
     I looked at Connie.  She nodded in the affirmative, as if to say ‘go on’.  I cleared my throat and continued.  “Doves are white and pretty and pure.  Doves are beautiful,” I said.
     Diana looked up.  The second caffeine boost must have centered her.  “Yes, how right you are.  Doves are pretty and white and pure.  They’re aspirational, really.  Yes.  This product story is about doves!” 
     “Atta girl, Marnie,” said Connie, slapping me on the back, right on a tender eczema patch.
     “How silly that I didn’t think of this days ago,” Diana cooed.  “After all, the product is called Bird Bath.” 
     I smiled, pleased that I was able to impress the seemingly impenetrable Diana.
Suddenly, with Diana’s sanctioned enthusiasm, everyone else became alert and hyper-interested.  A marketing woman piped in.  “I have an idea for the launch.  What if we send a dove in flight to each editor?”
     Another marketing person continued the thought.  “And we attach a packet of Bird Bath wipes to a chain around its neck.”
     “I got it!  A Tiffany necklace that the editors can keep,” said Winsome.  “Monogrammed, of course.”
     “I’ll do you one better,” said Connie.  “With the press release miniaturized and tucked inside the locket.”
     Diana closed her eyes in thought, popped them open and spoke.  “This is it.  A dove will land on the windowsill of every New York beauty editor and they will be so enthralled by its white, avian splendor, they will throw open the window, take the Bird Bath wipes, and the Tiffany necklace, of course, and send the dove back to its roost.”  
     “An even exchange between a bird and a bird,” said Connie with a complicitous wink.
     Diana trained her eyes on me.  “Very cutting-edge, Marnie.  It will be the talk of the town,” she said. “I want you to check our press launch database to make sure this concept has never been actualized by us or a competitor.  Oh, and Marnie, since this was your smashing idea, you will be overseeing it.”
     She couldn’t possibly be serious, I thought.
     Winsome gave me a death glare, probably upset that Diana was singling me out rather than asking her for assistance.
     Diana continued.  “Oh, and Marnie, would you be so kind as to do some research in an effort to find out where we might locate the highest quality, most angelic doves to deliver Bird Bath to the editors.”
     “Excuse me for saying so, Diana,” Connie said, “while I do think it’s a great idea, I don’t think doves are capable of performing such a complex task.”
     “Excuse me for saying so, Connie, but this is LeVigne and we are known as a company that raises the bar.  If we don’t aspire, astound and astonish, then we are not worth our bath salts, now are we?  I am requesting that Marnie access these doves and find a way for them to appear on the editors’ windowsills, even if she has to crawl out on the ledges and put them there herself.”
The thought of pulling a Harold Lloyd, dangling from the side of a skyscraper made me shutter.  I shot Connie a panicked look.
     “Marnie,” Diana continued.  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.  You realize I am putting you, a fungible floater, in charge of a very important product launch.  Do you have any idea how many full-time P.R. assistants would jump at the chance to do this?”
     Winsome smiled broadly when she realized it was better me than her.
With the task at hand, I trudged back to my desk and made a couple of reluctant calls to pet shops.  “Got doves?” I asked, explaining my situation.  I was laughed off the phone.  Connie must have smelled my abject panic because she beckoned me into her office.
     “Diana must be joking,” Connie said, absentmindedly throwing a series of Nerf balls into a hoop that hung over her plasma TV.  With the blinds drawn and a game blasting, her office had the dusky feel of a sports bar.  “Everyone knows doves can’t fly distances and they have no homing abilities.  And even if you were somehow able to crawl out and place them on the window ledges, that would be extremely dangerous.  What if you fell off?  Do you have any idea what kind of lawsuit we’d have on our hands?”
     Thanks, I thought.  I wasn’t a viable person whose life mattered.  Just a nameless, disposable temp whose dead body splayed out in front of the Condé Nast building would just create bad press and a wrongful death suit initiated by my family.
     “Diana’s pretty adamant about this.  What should I do?” I asked. 
     “For the life of me, I can’t figure out those P.R. heads.  One of the reasons Sidney hired me was to rein in the escalating budgets.  Get them to cut back on their launch expenses, but they just won’t budge.  Jacquie wants to do a big splashy media event on the Mount Everest summit.  FiFi wants to rent out Madison Square Garden and have Elton sing at one of her Siesta launches.”  She sunk a Nerf ball into the hoop.  “By God, I think I’ve got it,” she continued.  “What about pigeons?”
I almost choked on my Chiclet.  “Dirty, filthy pigeons? 
     “Yes.  Pigeons.”
     “Diana will freak.”
     “Aren’t pigeons really gray doves anyway?” she said with a devilish grin.
I smiled in complicity.  “Or are doves really white pigeons?”
     “I like the way you think,” she said.  Connie got up from her desk and paced the room.  “You could use carrier pigeons to fly to your editor locations.  Kris and I once went whitewater rafting and they used pigeons to ferry down film that a photographer had taken of the group.  When the trip was over, the pictures were already printed and waiting for us to purchase.”
     “But what about the gray factor?” I asked.
     “Gray is the new black is the new pink is the new white is the new gray.”
      She kind of lost me there.  “But Connie.  You heard Diana.  She wants white doves and only doves.”
“Let me think.  Just let me think,” Connie said, squeezing the life out of a Nerf ball. 
“Maybe we can dress them in little white outfits,” I said jokingly.
      Connie had a sinister gleam in her eye.  “That’s it, my friend.  Bingo!  We’ll bleach them.  We can smear the pigeons with Paparazzi Sno-White whitening cream.  That stuff could bleach an Angolan white.  We’ll do it on the q.t.  Diana won’t find out.  The editors won’t know.  It will be our little secret.  Pinky swear,” she said, hooking her ringed pinky finger around mine and yanking it like a wishbone.
      “Okay,” I said meekly, not knowing what I was getting myself into. 
      “And best of all, there will be considerable cost savings to this approach,” she said, slamdunking another ball into the hoop.
      “Like how American Airlines got rid of the olives in their cocktails.  They saved millions,” I said.
      “Exactly,” said Connie, tossing the ball to me.  I aimed for the basket, but it hit Kris’ photo and knocked it to the floor.
       “More wrist,” said Connie.  “Always go for the box.”
She should know. 
       God help me.  If Holly found out that I was bleaching pigeons, she’d have me arrested.  But if whitening cream was the hottest-selling product in Asia, how bad could it be?  If I succeeded at pulling this off, maybe I’d get some r-e-s-p-e-c-t around here.