Quick note: I always (well, you know, relatively speaking) wondered what it would be like for a client to ask Conrad to do a job for them. So, here is the result.
Don't Trust the Designer
John was new at his job. His boss had said on the very first day that he wanted a damn good piece of advertisement for the new line of ties coming out for Christmas. It was November now, and John was desperate. It wasn't his fault that his predecessor had quit unexpectedly and left him with this client, and nothing else –not even a name for a good advertiser or –or what were they called? Designers. Graphics artists. Graphic designers? Had he just made that up?
Lucky for him, he knew a guy who knew a guy. Now, the guy his guy knew was a bit of an eccentric, he heard. Oh, he did a good job, to be sure. A bit pricey too, so you knew you were getting your money's worth. But the guy wouldn't answer his phone during the day and requested meetings via e-mail or in person, and then only at night. John understood that skype was fairly new and this guy that his guy knew was maybe a little behind the times. Not that he was tolerable of this decision. It was going to be a lot of trouble, but he couldn't see any other options.
It was… inconvenient to try and explain what he wanted through the e-mails he had sent –he didn't really know what his boss wanted and hell if he knew how to advertise for a tie –so he had requested the odd nightly meeting with Mr. Atchinlick. (Or however it was said. Probably Polish. Not that John knew anything about the Polish, of course.) Wednesday evening, around 7, at one of those hip coffee shops trying very hard not to be the new Starbucks.
John made it there early, his briefcase full of materials and ties gripped tightly in his hand. It seemed like a pretty safe neighborhood –very artsy, very ritzy –and it wasn't like he was expecting to get mugged at brush-point. But still he gripped the handle like a life preserver, and he couldn't quite explain why.
It wasn't long before the designer showed up. Mr. Poland was tall, his hair gelled, his clothes meticulously pressed. He tugged at the collar of his turtleneck (what kind of man wears a turtleneck?), and looked around the nearly full room, spotting John pretty much immediately; there were mostly students and, ah, artists present, and John was the only one who bothered with a business suit.
John was told as a kid by his father that you could tell a lot about a man by his handshake, and so John presented his hand. The designer –who, now that he was much closer, seemed far too pale which was made all the more obvious by the black of his turtleneck (Seriously. Turtleneck? The only thing worse would be a sweater vest) and the black of his hair –glanced at his hand almost uncomfortably before taking it and giving it a quick shake. John's eyes widened at how cold the other man's hand was but did not comment on it. He was a professional, dammit.
"John Finch," John said, making sure he made eye contact. His heart skipped a beat when he looked into the other man's eyes, but what it was that caused it, he couldn't really say.
"Conrad Achenleck."
There was an accent involved there. Definitely not Polish. British? John's subconscious immediately alerted his consciousness of the joke about the tall, pale, well-dressed Brit.
"I reserved a table in the back," he said, businesslike. "Away from all the… noise."
The designer looked around. While, yes, there were certainly people there, it was pretty quiet, but he didn't argue as John led the way. He must've had a million clients and knew when things were to remain "on the down lo".
John ordered a coffee. No cream, no sugar. Mr. Achenleck, surprise, surprise, ordered tea. It didn't matter which, he told the waitress.
"I thought the British were particular about their tea," John said, in an attempt at joking. He wasn't good at it. It was something he did when he was nervous. And for whatever reasons, he was feeling horribly nervous.
There was a pause in which Mr. Achenleck slapped a tightlipped smile across his face. "I suppose I've been in the States long enough to make it all taste the same."
Was that sarcasm? Dry British humor? An actual, serious answer? John cleared his throat and, not knowing what else to do, placed the briefcase on the table in between them. Mr. Achenleck simultaneously pulled out a sketchpad and pencils from his own… satchel (purse).
"What's the product?" he said, getting straight to the point. That was fine with John. The sooner this was over, the better. He was starting to feel sweat trickle down his back. As someone who rarely perspired, it was uncomfortable. To say the least.
John cleared his throat again, snapping open the buckles. "Ties. Giovanni Line. Mr. Giovanni would like this out by Christmas. So it requires some immediate attention." (Emphasis on immediate.)
"Hmh," hummed Achenleck to himself. He peered inside the case, lifting his glasses to take a closer look. "What sort of mockups have been done for it so far?"
John only just managed not to shrug or grimace. "Nothing yet. The man who was in charge of this project before me suddenly upped and left. He didn't leave any notes." For a moment he was worried that the designer would become outraged and leave. He had to remind himself that Achenleck was a professional and was probably used to work under pressure. Maybe. Hopefully.
And while his eyes did narrow a little bit, the designer didn't say anything. He jotted down some notes, made a few quick sketches. John wanted to ask if he was familiar with this particular brand of tie but refrained. The man made advertisements for a living. He must know. He wanted to ask some other things too, but he was afraid to interrupt Achenleck's concentration. He had no idea what a designer's train of thought was like and he was a little worried that, if it were to be broken, an excellent idea would be lost. And that would be bad for his –John's –career.
The waitress, in the meantime, brought over their drinks. John instantly made a grab for his, trying to seem nonchalant as he downed half of it before his mouth could register that his coffee was only a few degrees colder than hell. Fortunately for him, he had enough buck to keep from choking it all up in front of the man who could be saving his job. Fine. His tongue and throat would heal.
It was only a minute more before Achenleck looked up from his work. "Did you have any ideas in mind?" he asked. "Were there any particulars to address with this?"
John blinked as he tried to remember if his boss had said anything. "Mr. Giovanni hates blue," he said. "And he said he hated the font of the, ah…"
"The logo?" Achenleck supplied.
"Yes," replied John, wondering how that word had escaped him. It was nerves. It had to be nerves.
And then something happened to make the hairs on John's arms stand on end and turn white at the roots: The designer smiled.
"It'll be extra," he said, (in so nonthreatening a manner that John couldn't really understand why he was being reminded of a snake) tapping the logo on the tie with the eraser of his pencil, "to redesign the font. I'm assuming he would like something a bit… classier, than this."
John cleared his throat, but that didn't work. It was like he had forgotten how to speak. He took another long gulp of his coffee instead, wishing it was something stronger. He'd never felt so… afraid.
"That is, ah, not a problem, Mr. Achenleck."
"Please," said Achenleck, the smile (thankfully) gone, like it had never been there at all. "Call me Conrad."
They negotiated his fee –steep, of course, but John had been expecting that. Achenleck –Conrad –took a few more notes, filled a couple more pages with sketches. He asked a few more questions, some specific, some that seemed random. More notes, more sketches.
It must have been an eternity later that they were packing up to go. John paid for the drinks (two coffees for him and one untouched tea for the designer).
"I'll e-mail you a few mockups sometime tomorrow," Conrad said as he tucked his things into his satchel. "Let me know which you prefer, and I can get started on the final pieces for the following day."
That was good news, that he would get it done so quickly. And of course, with such a price –but John didn't feel up to congratulating himself just yet. He was feeling far too antsy.
"Sounds excellent," he managed to say.
They exited the café to go their separate ways. Conrad didn't offer a hand for a parting handshake, and John certainly wasn't going to. He waved a goodbye instead. Conrad may have waved back, but he was disappearing into the shadows so quickly that John couldn't be sure. Not that he cared. As soon as he could no longer make out the designer in the dark, he made a dash for his car, his heart beating wildly. He wanted to be safe at home, nursing a glass of whiskey or, or anything. Anything.
He wanted that very badly.