The Power of Zero

On the benefits of not knowing

Who knows how Helen got my phone number. I never once met her in person. She had a deep, smoker’s voice and a Queens accent, and seemed constantly annoyed with everything. She called at just the right time.

I was 24 and broke, a struggling musician living in a tiny studio apartment in the East Village. I had a deal with myself that if I hit 25 and my band hadn’t made it, I’d have to figure something else out. I had no idea what that “something else” could possibly be.

Helen had a strange but appealing offer. She set up focus groups for ad agencies, and needed people to come into these agencies and give their opinions on new campaigns. Easy money.

She wouldn’t say who recommended me, but whoever it was had said “good things.” On this first phone call, Helen asked where I’d gone to college, what sort of movies and TV shows I was into—firing questions at me like a one-sided speed date.

“You know what?” she told me, blowing out cigarette smoke. “You’re a good talker. I like the way you talk.”

What had I even said? It didn’t matter. She kept going.

“Do you like beer?” she asked me.

“Sure,” I said. 

“Forget the group. I’m going to set you up with your own session. It’ll be just you in a room, responding to ads. Sixty bucks for a half-hour slot.”

I showed up at the ad agency the next afternoon. The office was ultra-modern and pristine, modular cubicles and Herman Miller chairs to the horizon. There was a busy hush over the whole place.

An assistant led me down a hall toward two adjacent, open doors. The left door led to an empty conference room. On the right, sharing a wall, was a small viewing room, like the ones in police procedurals, but fancier. Several rows of movie theater-style seats looked out onto the conference room through a one-way mirror. 

A half-dozen people were taking their seats in this viewing room, a video camera on a tripod up front, against the glass. Someone quickly shut the door, like I wasn’t supposed to see.

I walked into the conference room and took a seat at the table, trying not to look at the mirror. I sat for several long minutes, feeling observed. I suddenly forgot what a normal person might do with their hands, and of course their face, in this kind of situation.

At last, an artsy-looking guy with intentional-looking bedhead came in and sat across from me. He gave a thumbs up to the mirror.

“Alright, let’s get started,” he said.

He showed me a bunch of roughed-in ad campaigns, black-and-white scenes on hand drawn storyboards. People laughing at a cocktail party. More people, giggling conspiratorially at an outdoor café.

He shuffled through these scenes, asking me, “First word that comes to mind. Quick.”

“Dumb.” 
“Fun.”
“Cheesy.”
“Embarrassing.”
“Confusing?”
“Passionate.”
“Hilarious.”
“Happy.”
“Odd.”

I was surely failing at whatever I was supposed to be doing.

I then stammered reactions to a bunch of taglines, and we were done, less than twenty minutes in. The guy slid an ultra-crisp $50 and $10 bill across the table.

“They fucking loved you,” Helen said later, on the phone. 

“Huh,” I said. How? I wondered. 

“Wanna come back on Friday?” she asked, exhaling smoke.

“Sure,” I said.

“Are you a coffee drinker?”

“Not really.”

“But you’ve tried coffee?”

“Yes, obviously I’ve tried it. I like coffee ice cream.”

“I’ll put you down as a coffee drinker, then. 3pm Friday, same place.”

I did a half-dozen of these sessions. All were short, weird, and ended with the crisp $60. I felt flush. I’d been hoisting crates of beer through packed bars for far less. 

Rather than getting used to it, though, with each session, I had even less of a clue what I was doing.

Helen called me one morning, desperate. Apparently the agency wanted even more participants, and if she couldn’t provide them, they were going with another consultant. Did I know anyone? I gave her my friend Geordie’s number. Helen started thanking me enthusiastically, hanging up mid-sentence.

My phone rang that evening, while I was watching TV.

“What is wrong with you?” Helen said when I answered.

“I’m sorry?” I said.

“That guy was a total dud!” she said, her voice rising. “Why would you do that to me?”

“He’s not a dud.” I said. “Geordie’s brilliant. He’s an intellectual.”

She scoffed. “Who wants an intellectual?! I need regular people, like you.”

“Regular?” I said. “Wait. How am I–”

“Whatever,” Helen said. “What kind of beer do you drink?”

“Heineken,” I said. 

“But would you say you sometimes, or even frequently, prefer Corona?”

I knew the drill by now. She booked me in as a frequent Corona drinker for the next day’s session.

I sat alone at the conference table, again. I glanced over at the mirror, wondering who was behind it. 

A man strode in, looking like a stock photo search result for “senior ad exec.” He unzipped a large leather portfolio and unbundled the poster boards for that session. He held up the first scene.

It was a color illustration of a man either throwing a woman into some water, or maybe catching her? Who knew what they were up to. Their smiles were terrifying. Along the bottom, in giant red block letters, it said: LIFE TO THE POWER OF ZERO.

“What do you think?” he asked.

I paused, unsure.

“Roll with it,” he said. 

“Well,” I started slowly, “Anything to the power of zero is… one? So, is it, like, saying that everybody is one? We’re all one?”

The executive looked at me blankly. He flipped over another scene, a small group of people, also worryingly ecstatic, this time in a crowded bar. Same tagline: LIFE TO THE POWER OF ZERO.

“Honest opinion,” he said. “What does Life to the Power of Zero make you feel?”

“I guess I don’t feel anything,” I said. “I don’t know what it means.”

“Hmmm,” he said. “Okay, thank you.” With that he was up and out of the room. 

The assistant re-entered and doled out my cash. Sixty bucks for five minutes. I’d now achieved high-powered attorney rates, but the ultra-short session was obviously not a great sign. 

I remained at the table, mulling things over for a few minutes. 

Maybe they were trying to say it’s all zero, like nothing matters? Ugh. Who the hell knew. I had that helpless twinge I get when my brain fails to do some simple math, like there was something just out of my grasp, and yet obvious to everyone but me.

Helen never called again. She’d always called from a blocked number, so I never learned anything further. Apparently I’d failed on this mission that I’d never understood in the first place. 

Did Helen lose the agency account, as she’d feared? I pictured her stressed, blowing out smoke, alone somewhere. Poor Helen, I thought. 

I left my tiny studio apartment in the late afternoon and walked along Houston Street in a light rain. Taxis and delivery trucks buzzed past, everyone heading somewhere. I noticed ads on bus stops and billboards, feeling hollow looking at all these ridiculous scenes.

The whole phony enterprise filled me with existential dread. Even worse: I was sorry to lose my own pointless part in it, chiming in with nonsense about nonsense.

I walked next to cracked and peeling concrete storefronts, the rain pelting me. I felt like I’d lost track of my own story somehow. 

Dumb, fun, happy, cheesy, passionate, embarrassing. Like the ad campaign scenes, so many moments of my life arrived with an instant, obvious evaluation. Good, bad, great, terrible. But what was this moment? What was happening to my life? I didn’t know. 

For so long, I’d been feeling this not-knowing as a curse of some kind.

I reached a park, and then the East River, now glinting in the late afternoon sun. The rain slowed to a light mist now, blanketing me, the joggers and walkers along the river, the kids playing in the playground, the parents looking on while they chatted with each other.

I joined the walkers and joggers, merging onto the path, the river to my right. Who knew what would come next? I wasn’t even sure how long I’d walk for, or where I was heading. I felt a little thrum of excitement in that.

My band would soon be signed to Columbia Records, but I didn’t know that yet. We would then be dropped almost immediately. So, we made it, but only for a blink. Everything would, of course, continue in this fashion, on and on, as things go. 

As I made my way along the river, everything felt suddenly full of possibility. Like zero and one, at the same time.

Many thanks to

Michael Dean

of

Dean's List

for ultra-helpful feedback on an earlier draft.

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