To Know Your Target Audience
Kevin J. Binder
Three pairs of expectant eyes follow me into the team room, although Uptight Coworker looks like she’s expecting a root canal, while Slacker Coworker is expecting to leave as soon as possible. For what it’s worth, Flirtatious Coworker greets me with a knowing smile; if I do well in this meeting, she too will consider it a win. At least I have a third of the audience on my side. Besides, I’m wearing my favorite button-down and have approximately a metric ton of vitamin-enriched corn flakes coursing through my veins. Let’s dance.
“Well, you said you had something?” Uptight Coworker’s tone is dripping with so much smoldering anger that I almost burst into laughter. Look, I know we’ve never been on good terms--our first conversation ended with her calling me a “womanizing, classless, yuppie Neanderthal”--but if she’s going to consider my success such a disappointment, the least I can do is savor every last crumb of her displeasure.
I smile but worry it may resemble a smirk. “Yeah, I think so.”
She jumps in again. “You know we were supposed to work together on this, right? I think we all know how much you want to claim the glory for the supposed success of this project, but an inability to work well with others doesn’t exactly scream ‘upper management material.’ ”
She tries to maintain eye contact throughout her self-righteous snipe, but I catch her gaze wandering toward Burnt Out Middle Manager’s soon-to-be-vacant office. I nod at her, to signal that I understand the implied threat, and don my team-player face.
“I get it. I get it. You’re worried that I’m just trying to steamroll my idea through. It’s nothing of the sort, though. I promise you. I can’t help it if I stumbled on a great concept, can I? And it would be ridiculous to throw it away just because it wasn’t the product of group collaboration. It’s also possible that my pitch is total garbage, but even then, it might start a conversation that leads to a better thought.
“Either way, I need you guys. After all”--I lower my voice and tilt my head at Burn Out’s office--“with a certain manager being as hands-off as Captain Hook lately, I couldn’t pitch him this idea if I slipped it in his pre-lunch whiskey. And I can’t go above him without your complete buy-in. You know it. I know it.
“We’re all on the same team, and we’ll all get credit for this project, whether we crush it or Hindenburg it. So bear with me, because I have a feeling that this idea could be a great thing for all of us.”
Uptight crosses her arms, unconvinced. A reasonable reaction, because my assurances should carry less weight than a malnourished pack mule. It’s as if she could hear the simultaneous diatribe that raged in my mind, beneath those soothing words:
Do you not understand what this opportunity means to me? Have you not seen how I flush away at least sixty hours a week to make sure each client has the perfect carefree jingle for every animal-tested product? Is it not obvious how I’ve grown to despise this entire existence of mine as a copywriter-turned-corporate-pawn? To you, this promotion may be a mere pay raise, but to me, it’s the only visible path out of a wasteland of anxiety and futility. My best chance to rise above the ranks of nine-to-five sheep and finally start calling some shots around here.
I’ve dedicated my mind, body, and spirit to this idea. I’ve barely slept for the better part of two weeks. Hell, I haven’t spoken to my live-in girlfriend for days. (It’s okay; she’s busy too, I think.) So, if you try to sabotage me now, I will run you over. I may look like a harmless office try-hard, but this past year of modern serfdom has warped me into a Russian nesting doll of emotion. And you do not want to witness the layers of angst and rage that boil beneath this calm, easygoing shell. Trust me.
My public unmasking can wait until another day, however, because my heartwarming speech appears to have convinced Flirtatious Coworker, at least. She turns to me with a smile. “What’s the pitch, then? You’ve got a campaign idea?”
“Yes.” I’m performing the mental equivalent of deep breathing exercises to calm my inner fury. “But I can’t just say it.”
Slacker groans. I watch him recalculate how long the meeting will last.
“I have to walk you through the logic behind the idea,” I say.
“So?” asks Uptight.
“So, let’s start simple here. Why would someone buy an SUV like the Precissa TL9?” I motion to a poster of our client’s product and its specs, resting on a stand to my left. “After all, we know all about its flaws, don’t we?”
Nameless voices cast answers into the room. Even with only four of us present, I can’t keep track of who’s saying what.
“A resale value that plummets the second it leaves the dealership.”
“And a tendency to roll over after the slightest impact from the side.”
“Fuel efficiency ratings that OPEC would consider ‘erection-worthy.’ ”
“Precissa’s history of recalls for faulty batteries and brake pads.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Based on actual performance, I wouldn’t feel comfortable selling a new TL9 on a used car lot. But that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? So, what do we have to work with? Where does it actually lead its category?”
“Insane sound system.”
“Voice-controlled everything.”
“The horsepower of a Mongol horde.”
“Zero to sixty in much-faster-than-the-competition.”
I laugh. “That’ll do. I love how accurate you all are when listing product specs. Okay. So. Again. Why buy the thing?”
“Status symbol,” replies a faceless member of the audience.
I gesture toward him/her/it. “Aha, see that--that is what we’ve come to consider the norm. But in fact, there’s something else. Any ideas?”
“Driving performance?”
“No. It’s something much deeper. More psychological.”
“A need to stand out?” That voice belonged to Flirtatious. Good to see her contribute to the conversation. Though we’ve never been physically intimate, most people in the office would consider the two of us “close.” “Friends.” She’s convinced that I’ll vouch for her later on if I can earn this promotion. Of the three other people in this room, she’s the one I can trust.
“To stand out? No. In fact, almost the opposite.”
Silence. And then, Flirtatious looks up at me, light dawning on her face. “You buy it to escape.”
“Yeah.” I stare right through her, forgetting to elaborate for the others. They search the two of us in confusion. I gather myself and continue. “Let me explain. So imagine that you’re a member of Precissa’s target audience. He’s what? In his thirties or forties, we said? Mid-level manager in corporate America? Let’s go through a typical day of his, shall we?”
I take a deep breath.
“All right. He wakes up before 7 a.m. Earlier than he would like. To follow his company’s dress code, he puts on clothes that most people consider uncomfortable. He eats a breakfast that doesn’t taste particularly good, but his doctor tells him that he needs to lower his cholesterol, so that’s what he has to do.”
I punctuate the last few words with tight circular hand motions for viewing pleasure.
“Then, he drives to work. Likely spends most of his commute in traffic. When he gets there, he’s already drowning in emails from his clients and superiors. They’re not happy. They’re demanding things. In most cases, he has no power to do anything except what they want him to do. He has little room to push back because money and shit flow in the same direction. Downhill.
“Here’s the problem, though. He’s not always able to do what they want. He’s getting fucked on both ends.”
Slacker perks up like a prairie dog. I was losing him, but I’ve worked with him enough to know how to snag his attention: conversations involving sex, violence, or violent sex.
I turn to him. “Speaking metaphorically, of course.”
He grunts and glowers at me, but I ignore him.
“Because he isn’t directly responsible for the vast majority of the work the client sees. The team under him actually does ninety-five percent of it. Sure, he checks it over and ultimately signs off on it, but if those guys give him shit on a silver platter again and again, he can’t fix it himself because he doesn’t have time for that. He’s managing at least three or four different teams. He’s so busy supervising projects and attending meetings that he can’t get to the actual work himself. He’s trapped in the middle. Just a cog in the machine. So, when the client calls and is pissed because somebody messed something up, there’s nothing he can do besides apologize and tell the same incompetent somebody to do it over.”
As I finish this last sentence, something catches in my mind, like I’m beginning to feel a mental muscle tear. A warning light somewhere in my head urges me to stop this speech right now, to pack up and go home. The slightest twinge of nausea swirls within me. This shirt collar’s rubbing my neck raw. As much as I’ve practiced this exact pitch, this is the first time I’ve experienced these sensations.
I shake it off, resuming my speech and its slow crescendo. “Okay, so when work’s over, he gets to take a break, right?”
I insert a split-second pause, for effect only.
“No! He drives home and now has to fulfill the needs of his wife and kids. You’ve got soccer practice, laundry, dinner, PTA meetings, gardening, roofing, dishwashing, et cetera, et cetera. Then he goes to bed and gets to repeat it all the very next day!” I trace a large circle with one finger.
Uptight is giving me a suspicious stare, so I mollify her mistrust. “Look, that’s not a jab at the wife or the kids. Because the wife also has a job that she hates, and she’s stuck with more of the housework than he is. That’s why she’s also fitting into this demographic more and more. Meanwhile, the kids are getting picked on in school because they’re all into cosplay or some shit, and their classmates still remember that time the oldest one farted really loudly in the middle of the school musical.”
I’m receiving quizzical looks now, so I rein everyone back in with some spirited hand gestures.
“So, when they all get home, it’s a catastrophic clusterfuck because they’re demanding stuff from each other and nobody has any time to do what he or she actually wants to do.”
I pause to let that last part sink in, using the break as an opportunity to regroup. My delivery seems a touch off, partly because a portion of my mind is holding me back, attempting to derail my tho ughts.
“Now, back to the dad. Where is the one place he can have some time to himself?”
Both women reply in unison: “the car.” I think I hear Slacker mumble, “the masturbation station,” but I keep ignoring him.
“Exactly!” I shout at everyone besides Slacker. The size of my gesticulations increases as I reach the speech’s climax. “This man that we’re talking about, he buys this car”--I stab at the TL9--“because for that hour, half-hour even, that he spends in it and is allowed to adjust everything from the A/C airflow to the contours of his seat, all while feeling the world shake as he throttles the gas in his luxurious beast of a ride, he is the one who controls the system, instead of it controlling him.”
They all totter forward in their seats.
“He buys this car to shake off his shackles and lose himself instead in a different universe, where the sights, sounds, and sensations are all his doing.”
Something’s not right. As I approach the finale, my voice grows too loud. My actions become too primal. My words mean too much.
“He buys this car because, during those fleeting moments when he’s strapped into the driver’s seat, he can actually convince himself that his life is even remotely similar to what he thought it would be. Before this world began playing all of its sick games. Before he discovered what a fool he was to believe that he could ever change anything that matters.”
I stop, arms halfway raised in some ludicrous, uncompleted gesture. The next words fail to come. I’m breathless. Out of breath. Can’t breathe.
I take a step backward and look down at my clothing. Its starched fabric chafes my skin. My stomach feels hollow; the cereal I ate only an hour ago must have dissipated into vapor. My eyes return to my audience. Their expressions beg me to continue, but I don’t know if I can.
Finally, I muster the willpower to conclude my unintentional prophecy. A foreign, deadened voice drifts from my mouth. “He… He buys this car in an attempt to escape the farcical puppet show his life has become.”
Stunned silence. I almost whisper the coup de grâce. “That’s why the central campaign idea should be, ‘On the road, behind the wheel, you’re in control.’ ”
No response. The others are frozen in space and time. The entire building is devoid of sound. In the hush, I discover that Burnt Out Middle Manager is suddenly on my mind, so I scan the floor for him. I find him shuffling about his office, packing up his belongings. His office’s fluorescent glow appears as heavenly as always, but beneath it, he looks more like a tortured ant than an enlightened mystic. The lighting seems to accentuate the pallor of his skin, the hunch in his shoulders, the fatigue that’s afflicted every sagging muscle in his face.
Before I can catch his eye, though, my coworkers cascade back to life. Contemplative frowns lead to guarded murmurs of approval lead to wholehearted endorsements. And then, before I can interject, Flirtatious is gushing about my idea, Slacker has come to the cheery realization that it takes most of the work off his plate, and even Uptight is offering me tepid praise. Within minutes, everyone has agreed to move forward with the campaign idea, with the caveat that I should “ditch the Razzie-caliber histrionics in front of the client.”
But I’m no longer paying them much mind. Instead, I keep glancing back at Burn Out, like this is my first pitch all over and his opinion is the only one that matters. Which I suppose is somewhat true, seeing as how, well, he understands my target audience better than anyone else.
Eventually, our eyes do meet across the office, causing him to stop in place, turn to me, and straighten, a box of his things still in his arms. Though the glass walls between us prevent him from hearing what anyone in this room is saying, he can see everything: my coworkers’ excited gestures; the poster of the TL9; me, standing next to it, staring at him. All I can do is watch him piece the scene together, see it unfold through his eyes.
And so, it isn’t my peers’ reactions that tell me the promotion is as good as decided now. It’s the way I see them filtered through Burn Out’s expression: How his face falls as he comes to understand what’s going on. How he shakes his head in a slow, lugubrious cadence, reminiscent of a doctor who’s come to deliver a bleak prognosis. How his mouth breaks into a pitiful, pitying half-smile just before he turns away. That’s how I know for sure--that’s when I know--that everything I wanted will soon be mine.
Kevin J. Binder
Three pairs of expectant eyes follow me into the team room, although Uptight Coworker looks like she’s expecting a root canal, while Slacker Coworker is expecting to leave as soon as possible. For what it’s worth, Flirtatious Coworker greets me with a knowing smile; if I do well in this meeting, she too will consider it a win. At least I have a third of the audience on my side. Besides, I’m wearing my favorite button-down and have approximately a metric ton of vitamin-enriched corn flakes coursing through my veins. Let’s dance.
“Well, you said you had something?” Uptight Coworker’s tone is dripping with so much smoldering anger that I almost burst into laughter. Look, I know we’ve never been on good terms--our first conversation ended with her calling me a “womanizing, classless, yuppie Neanderthal”--but if she’s going to consider my success such a disappointment, the least I can do is savor every last crumb of her displeasure.
I smile but worry it may resemble a smirk. “Yeah, I think so.”
She jumps in again. “You know we were supposed to work together on this, right? I think we all know how much you want to claim the glory for the supposed success of this project, but an inability to work well with others doesn’t exactly scream ‘upper management material.’ ”
She tries to maintain eye contact throughout her self-righteous snipe, but I catch her gaze wandering toward Burnt Out Middle Manager’s soon-to-be-vacant office. I nod at her, to signal that I understand the implied threat, and don my team-player face.
“I get it. I get it. You’re worried that I’m just trying to steamroll my idea through. It’s nothing of the sort, though. I promise you. I can’t help it if I stumbled on a great concept, can I? And it would be ridiculous to throw it away just because it wasn’t the product of group collaboration. It’s also possible that my pitch is total garbage, but even then, it might start a conversation that leads to a better thought.
“Either way, I need you guys. After all”--I lower my voice and tilt my head at Burn Out’s office--“with a certain manager being as hands-off as Captain Hook lately, I couldn’t pitch him this idea if I slipped it in his pre-lunch whiskey. And I can’t go above him without your complete buy-in. You know it. I know it.
“We’re all on the same team, and we’ll all get credit for this project, whether we crush it or Hindenburg it. So bear with me, because I have a feeling that this idea could be a great thing for all of us.”
Uptight crosses her arms, unconvinced. A reasonable reaction, because my assurances should carry less weight than a malnourished pack mule. It’s as if she could hear the simultaneous diatribe that raged in my mind, beneath those soothing words:
Do you not understand what this opportunity means to me? Have you not seen how I flush away at least sixty hours a week to make sure each client has the perfect carefree jingle for every animal-tested product? Is it not obvious how I’ve grown to despise this entire existence of mine as a copywriter-turned-corporate-pawn? To you, this promotion may be a mere pay raise, but to me, it’s the only visible path out of a wasteland of anxiety and futility. My best chance to rise above the ranks of nine-to-five sheep and finally start calling some shots around here.
I’ve dedicated my mind, body, and spirit to this idea. I’ve barely slept for the better part of two weeks. Hell, I haven’t spoken to my live-in girlfriend for days. (It’s okay; she’s busy too, I think.) So, if you try to sabotage me now, I will run you over. I may look like a harmless office try-hard, but this past year of modern serfdom has warped me into a Russian nesting doll of emotion. And you do not want to witness the layers of angst and rage that boil beneath this calm, easygoing shell. Trust me.
My public unmasking can wait until another day, however, because my heartwarming speech appears to have convinced Flirtatious Coworker, at least. She turns to me with a smile. “What’s the pitch, then? You’ve got a campaign idea?”
“Yes.” I’m performing the mental equivalent of deep breathing exercises to calm my inner fury. “But I can’t just say it.”
Slacker groans. I watch him recalculate how long the meeting will last.
“I have to walk you through the logic behind the idea,” I say.
“So?” asks Uptight.
“So, let’s start simple here. Why would someone buy an SUV like the Precissa TL9?” I motion to a poster of our client’s product and its specs, resting on a stand to my left. “After all, we know all about its flaws, don’t we?”
Nameless voices cast answers into the room. Even with only four of us present, I can’t keep track of who’s saying what.
“A resale value that plummets the second it leaves the dealership.”
“And a tendency to roll over after the slightest impact from the side.”
“Fuel efficiency ratings that OPEC would consider ‘erection-worthy.’ ”
“Precissa’s history of recalls for faulty batteries and brake pads.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Based on actual performance, I wouldn’t feel comfortable selling a new TL9 on a used car lot. But that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? So, what do we have to work with? Where does it actually lead its category?”
“Insane sound system.”
“Voice-controlled everything.”
“The horsepower of a Mongol horde.”
“Zero to sixty in much-faster-than-the-competition.”
I laugh. “That’ll do. I love how accurate you all are when listing product specs. Okay. So. Again. Why buy the thing?”
“Status symbol,” replies a faceless member of the audience.
I gesture toward him/her/it. “Aha, see that--that is what we’ve come to consider the norm. But in fact, there’s something else. Any ideas?”
“Driving performance?”
“No. It’s something much deeper. More psychological.”
“A need to stand out?” That voice belonged to Flirtatious. Good to see her contribute to the conversation. Though we’ve never been physically intimate, most people in the office would consider the two of us “close.” “Friends.” She’s convinced that I’ll vouch for her later on if I can earn this promotion. Of the three other people in this room, she’s the one I can trust.
“To stand out? No. In fact, almost the opposite.”
Silence. And then, Flirtatious looks up at me, light dawning on her face. “You buy it to escape.”
“Yeah.” I stare right through her, forgetting to elaborate for the others. They search the two of us in confusion. I gather myself and continue. “Let me explain. So imagine that you’re a member of Precissa’s target audience. He’s what? In his thirties or forties, we said? Mid-level manager in corporate America? Let’s go through a typical day of his, shall we?”
I take a deep breath.
“All right. He wakes up before 7 a.m. Earlier than he would like. To follow his company’s dress code, he puts on clothes that most people consider uncomfortable. He eats a breakfast that doesn’t taste particularly good, but his doctor tells him that he needs to lower his cholesterol, so that’s what he has to do.”
I punctuate the last few words with tight circular hand motions for viewing pleasure.
“Then, he drives to work. Likely spends most of his commute in traffic. When he gets there, he’s already drowning in emails from his clients and superiors. They’re not happy. They’re demanding things. In most cases, he has no power to do anything except what they want him to do. He has little room to push back because money and shit flow in the same direction. Downhill.
“Here’s the problem, though. He’s not always able to do what they want. He’s getting fucked on both ends.”
Slacker perks up like a prairie dog. I was losing him, but I’ve worked with him enough to know how to snag his attention: conversations involving sex, violence, or violent sex.
I turn to him. “Speaking metaphorically, of course.”
He grunts and glowers at me, but I ignore him.
“Because he isn’t directly responsible for the vast majority of the work the client sees. The team under him actually does ninety-five percent of it. Sure, he checks it over and ultimately signs off on it, but if those guys give him shit on a silver platter again and again, he can’t fix it himself because he doesn’t have time for that. He’s managing at least three or four different teams. He’s so busy supervising projects and attending meetings that he can’t get to the actual work himself. He’s trapped in the middle. Just a cog in the machine. So, when the client calls and is pissed because somebody messed something up, there’s nothing he can do besides apologize and tell the same incompetent somebody to do it over.”
As I finish this last sentence, something catches in my mind, like I’m beginning to feel a mental muscle tear. A warning light somewhere in my head urges me to stop this speech right now, to pack up and go home. The slightest twinge of nausea swirls within me. This shirt collar’s rubbing my neck raw. As much as I’ve practiced this exact pitch, this is the first time I’ve experienced these sensations.
I shake it off, resuming my speech and its slow crescendo. “Okay, so when work’s over, he gets to take a break, right?”
I insert a split-second pause, for effect only.
“No! He drives home and now has to fulfill the needs of his wife and kids. You’ve got soccer practice, laundry, dinner, PTA meetings, gardening, roofing, dishwashing, et cetera, et cetera. Then he goes to bed and gets to repeat it all the very next day!” I trace a large circle with one finger.
Uptight is giving me a suspicious stare, so I mollify her mistrust. “Look, that’s not a jab at the wife or the kids. Because the wife also has a job that she hates, and she’s stuck with more of the housework than he is. That’s why she’s also fitting into this demographic more and more. Meanwhile, the kids are getting picked on in school because they’re all into cosplay or some shit, and their classmates still remember that time the oldest one farted really loudly in the middle of the school musical.”
I’m receiving quizzical looks now, so I rein everyone back in with some spirited hand gestures.
“So, when they all get home, it’s a catastrophic clusterfuck because they’re demanding stuff from each other and nobody has any time to do what he or she actually wants to do.”
I pause to let that last part sink in, using the break as an opportunity to regroup. My delivery seems a touch off, partly because a portion of my mind is holding me back, attempting to derail my tho ughts.
“Now, back to the dad. Where is the one place he can have some time to himself?”
Both women reply in unison: “the car.” I think I hear Slacker mumble, “the masturbation station,” but I keep ignoring him.
“Exactly!” I shout at everyone besides Slacker. The size of my gesticulations increases as I reach the speech’s climax. “This man that we’re talking about, he buys this car”--I stab at the TL9--“because for that hour, half-hour even, that he spends in it and is allowed to adjust everything from the A/C airflow to the contours of his seat, all while feeling the world shake as he throttles the gas in his luxurious beast of a ride, he is the one who controls the system, instead of it controlling him.”
They all totter forward in their seats.
“He buys this car to shake off his shackles and lose himself instead in a different universe, where the sights, sounds, and sensations are all his doing.”
Something’s not right. As I approach the finale, my voice grows too loud. My actions become too primal. My words mean too much.
“He buys this car because, during those fleeting moments when he’s strapped into the driver’s seat, he can actually convince himself that his life is even remotely similar to what he thought it would be. Before this world began playing all of its sick games. Before he discovered what a fool he was to believe that he could ever change anything that matters.”
I stop, arms halfway raised in some ludicrous, uncompleted gesture. The next words fail to come. I’m breathless. Out of breath. Can’t breathe.
I take a step backward and look down at my clothing. Its starched fabric chafes my skin. My stomach feels hollow; the cereal I ate only an hour ago must have dissipated into vapor. My eyes return to my audience. Their expressions beg me to continue, but I don’t know if I can.
Finally, I muster the willpower to conclude my unintentional prophecy. A foreign, deadened voice drifts from my mouth. “He… He buys this car in an attempt to escape the farcical puppet show his life has become.”
Stunned silence. I almost whisper the coup de grâce. “That’s why the central campaign idea should be, ‘On the road, behind the wheel, you’re in control.’ ”
No response. The others are frozen in space and time. The entire building is devoid of sound. In the hush, I discover that Burnt Out Middle Manager is suddenly on my mind, so I scan the floor for him. I find him shuffling about his office, packing up his belongings. His office’s fluorescent glow appears as heavenly as always, but beneath it, he looks more like a tortured ant than an enlightened mystic. The lighting seems to accentuate the pallor of his skin, the hunch in his shoulders, the fatigue that’s afflicted every sagging muscle in his face.
Before I can catch his eye, though, my coworkers cascade back to life. Contemplative frowns lead to guarded murmurs of approval lead to wholehearted endorsements. And then, before I can interject, Flirtatious is gushing about my idea, Slacker has come to the cheery realization that it takes most of the work off his plate, and even Uptight is offering me tepid praise. Within minutes, everyone has agreed to move forward with the campaign idea, with the caveat that I should “ditch the Razzie-caliber histrionics in front of the client.”
But I’m no longer paying them much mind. Instead, I keep glancing back at Burn Out, like this is my first pitch all over and his opinion is the only one that matters. Which I suppose is somewhat true, seeing as how, well, he understands my target audience better than anyone else.
Eventually, our eyes do meet across the office, causing him to stop in place, turn to me, and straighten, a box of his things still in his arms. Though the glass walls between us prevent him from hearing what anyone in this room is saying, he can see everything: my coworkers’ excited gestures; the poster of the TL9; me, standing next to it, staring at him. All I can do is watch him piece the scene together, see it unfold through his eyes.
And so, it isn’t my peers’ reactions that tell me the promotion is as good as decided now. It’s the way I see them filtered through Burn Out’s expression: How his face falls as he comes to understand what’s going on. How he shakes his head in a slow, lugubrious cadence, reminiscent of a doctor who’s come to deliver a bleak prognosis. How his mouth breaks into a pitiful, pitying half-smile just before he turns away. That’s how I know for sure--that’s when I know--that everything I wanted will soon be mine.
