The Deluge, page 31
I smiled. Like any artist, I viewed past hits with some amount of embarrassment.
“Keep an open mind about this one,” I said, and I liked the expression he gave me: reassurance, confidence, with a skewed smile that seemed to acknowledge what a grand, fine joke this all was. As if he knew the only people who actually believed in the power of public relations and advertising were the troubled boardrooms that thought it could save their skin. One had to play into the myth of the fixer. The puppeteer. Merlin.
Yeats began the meeting by introducing our team, his fingers twiddling; Beth McClann then took center stage, sucking the presentation into the vortex of her rigid bearing. She sat in every chair with her legs crossed, hands clasped, hair wound into a bun so tight it straightened her posture.
“Though what we will outline for you is an all-of-the-above strategy,” said Beth, “we want to highlight the ‘persuadable special public’ or the ‘persuadable middle.’ Now that the House has passed legislation, the persuadable middle has crossed the Rubicon, and you and your clients cannot waste another day. This is happening. And while your lobbyists will attempt to introduce every rider and poison pill on the menu, what you need more than anything is an open revolt of public opinion. Without further ado…”
Gruber activated the 3D projector, and it cast the image of a hipster hoverboarding into a glass door, coffee splattering across his shirt as he sprawled onto his butt. Genuine laughter. This corporate meme of starting high-pressure meetings with a gag projection had gotten a little rote for my taste, but the room liked it.
I smiled at the clients, looking each of them in the eye. Through the windows, the evening light was burning away. New York’s cityscape lay beyond, winking to life.
“There’s bad news,” I said. “There’s more bad news. And finally, there’s desperate news—where should I begin?”
Mild laughter. The Asian woman, Emii, didn’t so much as smirk, and I suspected she might be a secret fulcrum of power within the client.
“Your organization sees what’s coming. Perhaps at some point you harbored fantasies that a Randall administration wouldn’t pursue legislation to restrict greenhouse emissions. When A Fierce Blue Fire and the Clean Energy Labor Coalition remained neutral during the early stages of the election that should have raised a red flag. When FBF endorsed Randall at the last second, well, they bet on her, and they bet on transformative policy. Let’s just say there are now quite a few members of Congress who are risking their careers if they vote against this legislation. Furthering the bad news, what you’ll be facing will not be a reasonable cap-and-trade scheme, but a law that could be further-reaching and more invasive than anything American business has seen since the New Deal. In other words, you’re right to be worried.”
Wimpel rested his chin in the ninety-degree angle of his thumb and index finger. The glowing projector cycled through images of pipeline protestors and oil-soaked birds. A man with dreadlocks and a septum piercing marched across the table pumping his fist.
“Your coal, oil, and gas members have long been suffering from deep reputational crises. They’re the supervillains of public opinion, and others, such as the utilities and agricultural producers, are feeling the heat as well. Make no mistake, we cannot misdiagnose this as a ‘communications problem.’ This threat is structural, and we cannot do much to change that structure. Oil companies profit from selling oil. And now their conventionally weaker adversaries suddenly have enhanced influence. Ben.”
Gruber tapped for the next hologram. The room faced the miniaturized image of an earthy woman standing on the boardroom table, arms crossed, blue flames burning behind her.
“Morris and FBF are the culmination of a long trend in which credible, law-abiding institutions have become vulnerable to an agenda-driven, organic disruption. Morris has become such a force so quickly, she almost counts as a conventional power herself now. Her ruthless attacks on your members, her tactical acumen politically, her attractiveness as a spokesperson and cultural figure—all this has shifted the political economy. Coupled with the surprisingly effective advocacy of the CELC”—the image switched to Tracy Aamanzaihou in all her frumpy, jowly glory, forming a picket line with other workers—“not to mention a series of weather-related disasters that can be easily scapegoated…” Images of people scrambling out of the ruins of Hurricane Alberto, of homes burned to the ground in California, of a flood ripping buildings from their foundations and carrying them downriver. The 3D projector fritzed on the image of a weeping Black woman standing waist-deep in water, trying to lift her child to a man in a helicopter. Finally, scenes from the massive Thanksgiving dust storm of 2028 rolling east, blanketing cities, in this case Pittsburgh and fans looking up in Acrisure Stadium as the football team exited the stadium under a red-brown blizzard. “Suddenly what seemed impossible just a few years ago now seems likely.”
Duncan-Michaels, the oil tycoon with a stye on the ridge of his eyelid, took a sip of bottled water, and some of it dribbled onto his chin and then his tie. Gruber’s eyes were sleepy slits that never blinked. He looked bored and Gen Z, which was what I’d wanted.
“The response from industry has been familiar, straight from the playbook: Use backdoor groups to continue casting doubt on the science, question the cost of taking action, debate the motives of those demanding action while facing outward with a pro-environmental agenda. The disutility of denialism was revealed by Russ Mackowski’s presidential bid. The conversation has changed, and you must change with it.”
Yeats coughed.
“Never once has climate been a first-tier campaign issue. Yet in the past election it sometimes felt as if it was the only thing anyone was talking about. Impassioning hard-core resistance will be a given, but it’s that persuadable middle this campaign must rally. We’ve spent two months analyzing strategies in four test markets: Chattanooga, Champaign-Urbana, Flagstaff, and Columbus. I’ll tell you what we found: People like Kate Morris. They like her message, her optimism, her spirit, her bluntness. Most of all, they like that this attractive young wildwoman worked to help elect a moderate Republican administration that seems to want to do something about this issue. Where does that leave us? I’m sure some of our competitors have told you that you need to reposition this choice as being about freedom. Keep the heavy hand of government away from my SUV, et cetera. Well, my father had this expression: ‘Kid, that dog won’t hunt.’ ”
McClann had her lips pursed in an excruciating pucker. She looked like she was watching her cat burn to death but had been told if she intervened, her other cat would get it as well.
“What is the alternative? The key is for you and your members to charge the problem head on.”
At this cue, Gruber flipped to an image of young, diverse workers erecting carbon capture devices.
“For a public that has stopped trusting these companies, you must now say…”
I read the caption aloud as it floated in misty block letters on the table.
“We are faced with a challenge unlike anything in the history of the human race.”
An image of Obama at his inauguration. The next, of children planting trees in a barren landscape.
“We are told calamity will be impossible to prevent.”
An image of doctors and nurses administering to patients during the Covid-19 pandemic, followed by another of wind farms and solar panels.
“We are told there is no hope.”
An image of a coastal town laid waste by a hurricane and a family in silver foil blankets, a woman weeping upon finding her home burned down to the foundation.
“We say: Not on our watch.”
Gruber ripped through the rest of the 3D slides: forests, oceans, mountains, Black Lives Matter protests, hard-hat workers erecting wind turbines and lowering solar panels onto roofs, a majestic humpback whale, a multicultural cast of students working diligently in labs, a woman carrying a sign that says WE DEMAND A FUTURE and a face mask that reads HOPE, followed by a coal plant with the words CARBON CAPTURE FACILITY.
“From scientists to teachers, engineers to urban planners, students to community organizers, we are coming together to face the incredible challenge of climate change. Joined by millions of activists across the country, the Sustainable Future Coalition is an unprecedented collaboration of over one hundred major American companies pursuing one goal: the transformation of the American economy to a zero-carbon future. Together, we can win the battle against climate change and ensure generations of Americans a brighter, healthier, happier future. We are stronger together. And together we are the Green New Deal.”
Beneath WE ARE THE GREEN NEW DEAL, spaceship Earth spun against the black tapestry of space.
I waited in case anyone felt like applauding. They did not.
“The message,” I went on, as if I’d always planned to explain, “is one of inclusiveness, of working together against impossible odds. The heuristic is that industry is not just embracing the Green New Deal—you are the Green New Deal.”
I felt myself wanting to ramble, to add one weak, pleading explanation, but Linda’s gaze kept me straight: Stop punching, the bell has rung. I closed my jaw with a smile. A phone buzzed in someone’s pocket.
“The approach is strategic accommodation,” said Darnell, cracking the silence. “But it’s also bold—”
“Oh, it’s bold all right,” said Duncan-Michaels. He looked to his team. “I’m not going to lie, I have a lot of skepticism about this approach.” The minions nodded. My stomach fell.
“My first thought,” said a man with hair so white, it glowed a powdery blue, “is that this is very similar to what BP tried decades ago with ‘Beyond Petroleum.’ At the end of the day, no one bought the rebrand for a second. Then they dumped two hundred million gallons of oil into the Gulf of Mexico.”
“I have to push back against that,” said Linda. “This is more than greenwashing. Polling tells us this message resonates and that people are less likely to support Randall’s legislation if they believe industry—”
“Green New Deal? Why in the hell,” Duncan-Michaels slapped the table, “are we reanimating that goddamn term? We killed ‘Green New Deal’ deader than a doornail. We hung so much baggage around that watermelon bullshit it immolated on its own, so why are we trying to claim it now?”
“Because,” said McClann, her voice eking between her teeth, “that term was once the vanguard of the climate movement. It’s now been supplanted by a more complicated notion, this Climate X thing that Morris can never actually explain, which makes it difficult to get lead on the target. Resurrecting the Green New Deal on our terms means we can co-opt the political center while inflaming the passions of the Right and hard Left.”
I found myself speaking. “Our aim is not to rebrand any particular company but to create a compelling case for your members to maintain the social license to operate.”
“We shouldn’t have to beg for the social license,” said Emii, her voice and face passionless. “There is no economy without our members. What about expanded Arctic drilling? The new energy horizons? You haven’t addressed that.”
“You’re on defense right now,” said McClann. “Once we get the ball back, we can go on offense again.”
“Why not stick with what works? That this stuff is all watermelon bullshit?” Duncan-Michaels repeated. “Green on the outside, red on the inside. It’s the Left cramming a socialist agenda down our throats.”
“Because that argument has no weight,” I said patiently. “A plurality of young voters under thirty-five are happy to identify themselves as socialists now.”
Emii absently tugged at a tight black braid, pulling it over her shoulder and fiddling with the tip. She exchanged a glance with Duncan-Michaels. He said, “And what do we do when SFC members don’t want to endorse the goddamned Green New Deal?”
I couldn’t keep the annoyance from my voice. “The Green New Deal will be whatever we say it is. This includes solar radiation management and other geoengineering techniques that, according to studies, could allow your members to continue exploiting their reserves well into the twenty-second century. There are sub-strategies as well. You get on board with renewable deployment as panacea and shift the attention and passion to environmental justice by highlighting diverse hiring practices in minority communities. The polling on this is impressive.”
“We want a candidate, a spokesperson,” said Emii, ignoring everything I’d said. “Someone beyond the political arena to advocate for a carbon-fueled future.”
“But that’s not what you need,” I protested, hearing the wheedling in my own voice. “You have the Mackowskis and conservative media making that argument already. You need this new angle.”
I could feel the meeting growing combative. The client hated the pitch, and they weren’t even being polite about it.
“Yes, but this means we’re admitting that it’s real.” Duncan-Michaels brought his hand down on the table in a karate chop, and with each phrase chopped again. “That has always been our last line of defense, and then it’s only a matter of time before we have nowhere left to retreat.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling the room’s gaze as my tone gained a blade. “Why are we even here then? Did you want us to tell you that all will be well if you just keep running ads extolling the virtues of algae fuels? You’re looking at the birth of a revolution.”
“But we don’t want to simply delay the birth,” said Emii, each word carrying the bite of a snapping turtle. “We want to strangle it in the womb. By the time we’re through, we want this issue to be a political albatross so heavy, no one ever tries it again. And if that means cratering the Randall administration, so be it.”
“I’m sick of these fucking rope-a-dope strategies.” Duncan-Michaels blinked hard, and I could almost imagine the wet sound the stye made as it slid across his eyeball. “We built this fucking world, and now these ungrateful idiots want to dismantle it, and you want to hand them that ammunition.”
Fred Wimpel, who sat to Duncan-Michaels’s left, placed his hands flat on the table. “If I may.” Everyone in the room turned to him. He looked me in the eye. “This is excellent work, Ms. Shipman. I want to make that clear. And I know it’s good”—he looked at his clients, specifically Emii—“because it makes you all uncomfortable. Ms. Shipman’s correct, I’m sorry to say. Your members had no idea how dangerous this new iteration of the climate movement really was until last year, and you’ve been caught flat-footed. Those other multinational advertising conglomerates want to sell you what you want to hear. Safe ideas that won’t get anyone fired.”
As he spoke, I felt the thrill of the embattled boxer striking back.
Yeats was nodding along. He pointed two thumbs at his chest. “And hey, not all multinational advertising conglomerates are so bad.”
There was tepid laughter. Duncan-Michaels, Emii, and the minions looked like they knew they were about to eat their own intestines.
* * *
At the hotel bar, Gruber ordered our drinks. Yeats had gone home to his penthouse and Darnell left to catch his flight back to Chicago. The rest of us were out the next morning.
“We’re either fucked or we got it with that meeting alone,” Linda decided.
McClann looked at me. “You were good, Jackie.” I felt a bit of the tension between us that had built over the last six months deflate.
“We’ll see,” I said. “If even a few of their members have doubts we’ll be dead in the water.”
“Yeah, but the more I think about it,” said Linda, “the more I take Wimpel’s point. They’ve probably met with four or five other agencies, and I’m sure they’re all saying play it safe.”
Gruber returned to the table with overpriced cocktails. We cheersed and practically chugged our first drinks. By the second, Linda was saying, “C’mon, doesn’t good ole Duncan-Michaels just look like a guy who jets off to Thailand to buy child prostitutes?”
We laughed, ridiculed the minions, drank more, and ate a dinner of appetizers. I watched to see if Gruber would get on his phone, possibly to scan the hookup apps for local tail, but he remained with the old ladies. Around nine o’clock, Linda announced she had to call her husband and get some sleep. McClann seconded the motion and came around the table to hug me. “Great freaking job, Jackie.” And she lowered her voice to say, “And I’m so sorry about everything you’re going through with losing your dad.”
“Thank you, Mac,” I told her, feeling a genuine affection that wasn’t entirely the alcohol. They both tottered toward the elevators.
Gruber ordered us each another drink, then the bill. When he tried to pay for it, I snatched his card away and inserted my own. “You don’t make half my salary.” He smiled, held his drink lazily in two fingers, one of which had a tattoo of the Star of David on the knuckle.
“Would you want to come up for one more drink?” he asked.
I was tipsy and still buzzed on the energy I’d summoned for the pitch.
“That’s probably not the best idea,” I said.
He nodded. “Will it be a good idea ever again, you think?”
“You’re fifteen years younger than me. And my employee. So I’m going to say probably not.”
“Yeah, but fifteen years is…” he flipped a hand. “I’m roughed up from alcohol and occasional intravenous drug use. You still look younger than me.” He waved this away. “I’m just saying if all you want is the night, all it has to be is the night.”
