Everyday Psychopaths Read online

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  It's no lie that my job has taken up most of my life and still does. I used to live and breathe advertising and the ad agency I founded six years ago has made me half-famous (in some circles at least), pretty well off financially and maybe also a bit crazy. When I enter the lobby of our prime location office, I almost always feel pride and excitement, because I built this company, I made it what it is.

  Or at least what it was.

  The agency, my life work, has caused me much happiness and success, a boatload of stress, a pretty grave unwillingness to commit to relationships, and lately also some anxiety. During the years I've sometimes asked myself, is it worth it? Is it worth coming home late at night, eyes red and stomach rumbling after another round of overtime, over and over again? And every single time the answer has been a resounding “Yes!”. Nearing my seventh year on overdrive, it's time to ask myself that question again. Will the answer be the same? For once I’m not so sure and it scares the shit out of me. Because if I'm not who I am at work, then who the fuck am I really?

  My three-year younger sister thinks I have an unhealthy relationship with work. She says I only care about money, which is a typical thing to come from someone who's desperate to call herself an artist. I don't know if it's the money, fame or success I crave or just a sense of accomplishment, but she’s right in saying I'm not the most spiritual, inward-looking guy. We're very different, my sister and I. Raised the same, but very, very different. She's the aspiring artist and I'm the businessman, her New York is not mine. We’re talking Brooklyn studio versus Upper East Side penthouse, art exhibitions in the Meat Packing District versus champagne get-togethers in the Hamptons, and flea market searches versus expensive super-brand stores.

  Yeah, you wouldn't think we're related.

  I'd like to say something about having an “unhealthy” relationship with work. What's unhealthy really? Your career is a BIG part of who you are. When you spend eight or more (a lot more in my case) hours a day, five to seven days a week doing it - you need to do something you care about. You've got to feel passion, commitment, and desire - otherwise it's just waste, right? Are you willing to spend all that time just making a living? Waiting to really live in the weekends? That life isn't for me. So I worked my ass off, saved money, started an agency with my business partner Nicholas and over the years I‘ve made it hugely successful. I wanted to achieve greatness and prioritized accordingly. Relationships were contra-productive to my career. Starting a family wasn’t in the equation. Keeping up with friends didn't really make the list - hell I didn't even know who my real friends were! I wanted to hang out with people who could be beneficial to my career and it turns out they wanted the same. It’s a scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours-world. I'm sometimes thinking how I could’ve done some things a bit differently and still accomplished great things, and I'm actually surprised some people have decided to stick by me, despite my emotional absence, my fanatic work situation and the person I sometimes become when I don't get my way. I ought to thank my lucky star to have a friend like Mike, but instead I give him shit. Man, I'm sounding negative and sorry for myself. My father always says feeling sorry for yourself is the road paved to hell, advice I’ve tried to heed all my life. But lately I haven’t been so successful.

  My own personal road to hell is currently walking through the corridor on the way to my office. I look down at my Blackberry because I don't want to be forced into small talk with my likely disgruntled co-workers. I don't want them to see my discontent and insecurity, and what I'm slowly realizing is fear - the fear of failure.

  I manage to raise my head enough to say hi to my loyal secretary and assistant, Angela, before I open the door to my office. Angela has her hair done up in some kind of knot, which is sad, because her hair is maybe her greatest asset. When she lets it out you see how thick, dark and wavy it is, it makes you want to grab it, play with it and run your hand through it. I slept with her once, but I was too drunk and horny to think of running my hand through that beautiful thick mane and I regret that now. The “incident” occurred after a work dinner where I was celebrating a successful campaign, leading to a major account signature, by ordering plenty of shooters. After a while I was intoxicated enough to see no harm in doing my secretary. She’d just started and I can't really blame her for wanting to bed her boss either - actually I don't disapprove of anyone who wants to sleep with me, I congratulate her on a good choice. Sex is a power thing and women like powerful men. Anyway, we've never spoken a word of what happened between us, which tells me Angela is exactly right for the job. You need a hundred percent professional to trust them with your deepest secrets and I feel I can do that with her.

  Stepping inside my large and luxurious office immediately makes me feel a tiny bit better. It's supposed to be the warmest welcome you can get to your workday and it's somewhat comforting it still gives me that feeling, a few years down the road. You see, I was always a sucker for the Wall Street movies, from Gordon Gekko to Patrick Bateman (yeah, although he's a psycho, you've got to admit the guy's got class) and I always wanted a nice Manhattan skyscraper office with floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows, big expensive art on the walls and a large dominating desk, giving you the feeling that here works one of the most powerful men in the city. The view from here, on the 34th floor, is breathtaking. Everything in it is carefully thought out, has a price tag that blows your mind and screams POWER. If you're in a salary discussion with me and you're not intimidated - then I am.

  My dream office was designed by my Korean interior designer Kim Song (yeah, that's his real name) after Nicholas referred him to me, following a release party for some new brand of vodka. I don't remember the brand, but I do remember having plenty of it. During the party, I told Nicholas I wanted the best and since he knows pretty much everyone worth knowing in the city, he of course had a guy in his mile-long iPhone contact book who could do the trick. Nicholas is a social beast and a great right hand man for any business, as he hangs out with the New York elite on a day-to-day basis. He sends text messages to Christina Aguilera, plays squash with Matthew Broderick and goes on weekly lunches with Anna Wintour. Nicholas gets our name out and the contracts signed, while I deal with the operations. It's a setup that has worked well. At least until I started to losing my bearings.

  So after I got Kim Song's number from Nicholas, I called him up, told him I'd heard he was one of the best in the business and asked him if we could meet up to discuss my new top-of-the-line office. Our initial meeting was really a meeting of minds. I was always impressed by Asian simplicity and neatness, but at the same time I wanted it to be boastful. Not exactly an easy combination to achieve and that's why I needed Kim Song. We started by catalog browsing for materials, inspiration and furniture. At first I had the feeling he was hitting on me, being overly eager to touch my shoulder when we agreed on something, but when I got over that I realized the guy was a true pro and actually pretty much tuned in to what I wanted. In the end he came up with a masculine mix of technology and rustic materials like wood and stone. I can sit in my leather chair, sip on a glass of brandy, watch my Asian stone waterfall and still be able to control all the important functions, from LCD screens to window blinds, with just the touch of a button. And you’ll have to look very hard to find a wire.

  Describing my office to you makes me think about Nicholas and I realize I haven't seen him in a while. He’s always involved in at least five different projects at the same time and doesn’t fret half as much as I do over the agency's recent problems to keep major clients. Nicholas was always more of socialite than an advertising man and he probably has enough trust in me to think I can turn the ship around, which is a pretty scary thought for a guy who's at an all-time low on confidence and energy.

  Nicholas and I were never close friends outside of work - he has his life and I have mine (which has turned out to be mostly work), but I'm thankful he’s my partner because without him, his social networking and supreme ass-kissing skills, w
e wouldn't have gotten this far. I sometimes wish we had more of a friendship, but on the other hand I don’t think Nicholas is as interested in making friends as he's into knowing the right people.

  I sit down in my handmade state-of-the-art office chair, which set us back more than most people make in a month's salary and take out my little laptop and turn it on. The computer looks pretty innocent with the glowing apple on it (fruit often does), but lately it hasn't been kind to me. Most e-mails I get these days have some kind of problem in them.

  I'm going through my inbox, replying to some, forwarding others and chucking some in the trash, when I find a message which makes my heart stop in its tracks. It seems we're about to lose another one of our biggest clients, a huge moneymaker for us and a soft drink maker for others. The campaign we did for them did not go according to plan, they feel we've abused their brand and they want compensation (we have a “if we don't sell, we'll work for free” guarantee - a great gimmick I came up with, which has now turned out troublesome). I feel my pulse race and then explode. “Fuck!” I shout out to no one and close the laptop lid with a slam. It's quite a smack and something definitely cracks, but right now getting a new computer is the least of my concerns. I spin my chair around and face the wall of windows. This would be a good place to commit suicide and a truly spectacular way to go - just throw myself against the glass. It would turn a few heads, stop some people in the street, make some people's talk for the lunch hour, but then it would fade, the glass would be replaced, a new executive hired, the incident forgotten and New York would move on with its business. I breathe in and out deeply and close my eyes. I need to have a whisky, something, to calm myself down. I turn around and open the left desk drawer to find Bowmore, my liquid friend from Scotland who has helped me still my nerves on numerous occasions. I grab a glass, pour myself a healthy dose and empty it in one sweep. It stings the back of my throat and almost makes my eyes water, but it does the trick - I'm instantly feeling slightly more relaxed. I have another one, thinking I'm like one of those 60's ad executives who always had a few glasses of whisky to get through the day. I understand them completely – the ad game can be pretty unsettling.

  My minute of tranquility is disturbed by my phone alarm going off, reminding me it’s a day of interviews. We're replacing one of our copywriters and being the control freak I am, I still like to meet all the new people we take onboard, again a testament to this company being a bit like my own personal baby. Besides, I love the interview process as it makes me feel powerful.

  I put away the whisky glass and head over to the en-suite bathroom. I rest my hands on the sink and look into the mirror. Still beautiful, still powerful, I tell myself, but honestly, I have a hard time believing it.