Father and I arrived in the Forsyth Building only a couple of mere hours after our conversation. When we entered, Father took a seat in the lobby, and told me to do what I must do. Ignoring the receptionist, I entered the closed off area very quietly, and went to find Mr. Edwards and Mr. Peterson. It did not take long, for they actually found me.
"Ms. Richards, it's great to see you again!"
Mr. Edwards said in a voice as if he was high on caffeine.
As they were almost pushing me into the studio, and blurting out their ideas for the latest ad, I barely got in the words that I wanted to tell them from the beginning, since I got there.
"Mr. Edwards and Mr. Peterson, as much as it hurts me (Yeah right.) to tell you this, I want to quit."
"Ms. Richards, you cannot be serious? I mean you are the toast of advertising on television!"
As they said this, I observed my surroundings. I saw right behind me was a soda vending machine that happened to have a can in its opening. Coincidentally, this was a can of Schwippes.
"Sirs, I just can't go on being someone I am not. It is because of your ads people now perceive me as a snob. It is because of the ads that women play "copycat" in the fashion world with my dress. And, it is because of the ads that I cannot go out in public without an ungodly large crowd following right behind. Now don't you think this is a little ridiculous for just a little ad?"
"Look Miss, I am afraid that is what you have to put up with in the world of being a celebrity." Mr. Peterson snapped.
"Well for your information Sir, I was already a celebrity before this ad campaign. A well respected one I would like to note." I continued.
"For both of you to understand what I have been through, let me tell you a story from when my stepfather and I used to live in California. The neighborhood we lived in was full of rich people. Some who were snobs, and some that were just nice, ordinary people like my stepfather and me. Anyway, there were these new neighbors who moved into the house across the street from us. It happened that they were from Arkansas, had a huge oil find there. So in other words, they were your typical, sensitive country bumpkins. I'll never forget the day they first laid their eyes upon my stepfather and me. We simply smiled at them, and before we knew it, they were trying to start a fight with us for doing nothing but greeting them in a quiet way."
As I told them this, I was slowly shaking the can behind my leg.
"Ms. Richards what is your point with this story?" Mr. Peterson asked rather irritated.
"My point is Sir that back then, my stepfather and I did nothing to cause the trouble we got into with our neighbors across the street. A very similar situation compared to the sticky one I'm in now with the public. All I did was help promote my favorite beverage in the way that Schwippes saw fit. And now, people think of me as one who flaunts her riches about everywhere, and only cares about herself. Just think, if this is the result of what just one ad does to my reputation, there is no telling what future ads can do. And let me tell you something else, you know an ad is sickening when even I, the endorser is sick of her own voice and face on the television, and her former favorite beverage."
"OK, BE SICK OF IT! WE CAN FIND SOMEONE ELSE!" Mr. Peterson hollered.
"Well, I wish you the best of luck in finding that someone else. And before I go, here's a little something to help you assess my sticky situation in public relations in a more literal way."
With that said, I quit shaking the can of ginger ale, and aimed it right at Mr. Edwards' and Mr. Peterson's faces. Then, carefully and instantly, I sprayed the can's contents all over the two sleazes. Father would probably get a phone call about this I figured, but I would take a slight punishment any day over the torture advertising had caused me. With that little deed done, I exited the office/studio, and went out into the lobby. There I found Father sitting patiently, reading a National Geographic, unaware of what just happened.
"Well Father, say good-bye to my short-lived television career."
"Did it go well?" He asked.
"They took it very sweetly." I replied as we went through the threshold of the lobby.
"Ms. Richards, it's great to see you again!"
Mr. Edwards said in a voice as if he was high on caffeine.
As they were almost pushing me into the studio, and blurting out their ideas for the latest ad, I barely got in the words that I wanted to tell them from the beginning, since I got there.
"Mr. Edwards and Mr. Peterson, as much as it hurts me (Yeah right.) to tell you this, I want to quit."
"Ms. Richards, you cannot be serious? I mean you are the toast of advertising on television!"
As they said this, I observed my surroundings. I saw right behind me was a soda vending machine that happened to have a can in its opening. Coincidentally, this was a can of Schwippes.
"Sirs, I just can't go on being someone I am not. It is because of your ads people now perceive me as a snob. It is because of the ads that women play "copycat" in the fashion world with my dress. And, it is because of the ads that I cannot go out in public without an ungodly large crowd following right behind. Now don't you think this is a little ridiculous for just a little ad?"
"Look Miss, I am afraid that is what you have to put up with in the world of being a celebrity." Mr. Peterson snapped.
"Well for your information Sir, I was already a celebrity before this ad campaign. A well respected one I would like to note." I continued.
"For both of you to understand what I have been through, let me tell you a story from when my stepfather and I used to live in California. The neighborhood we lived in was full of rich people. Some who were snobs, and some that were just nice, ordinary people like my stepfather and me. Anyway, there were these new neighbors who moved into the house across the street from us. It happened that they were from Arkansas, had a huge oil find there. So in other words, they were your typical, sensitive country bumpkins. I'll never forget the day they first laid their eyes upon my stepfather and me. We simply smiled at them, and before we knew it, they were trying to start a fight with us for doing nothing but greeting them in a quiet way."
As I told them this, I was slowly shaking the can behind my leg.
"Ms. Richards what is your point with this story?" Mr. Peterson asked rather irritated.
"My point is Sir that back then, my stepfather and I did nothing to cause the trouble we got into with our neighbors across the street. A very similar situation compared to the sticky one I'm in now with the public. All I did was help promote my favorite beverage in the way that Schwippes saw fit. And now, people think of me as one who flaunts her riches about everywhere, and only cares about herself. Just think, if this is the result of what just one ad does to my reputation, there is no telling what future ads can do. And let me tell you something else, you know an ad is sickening when even I, the endorser is sick of her own voice and face on the television, and her former favorite beverage."
"OK, BE SICK OF IT! WE CAN FIND SOMEONE ELSE!" Mr. Peterson hollered.
"Well, I wish you the best of luck in finding that someone else. And before I go, here's a little something to help you assess my sticky situation in public relations in a more literal way."
With that said, I quit shaking the can of ginger ale, and aimed it right at Mr. Edwards' and Mr. Peterson's faces. Then, carefully and instantly, I sprayed the can's contents all over the two sleazes. Father would probably get a phone call about this I figured, but I would take a slight punishment any day over the torture advertising had caused me. With that little deed done, I exited the office/studio, and went out into the lobby. There I found Father sitting patiently, reading a National Geographic, unaware of what just happened.
"Well Father, say good-bye to my short-lived television career."
"Did it go well?" He asked.
"They took it very sweetly." I replied as we went through the threshold of the lobby.