The Private Diary of Rayne Maker: "The Price of Spice"

Monday

Welcome back, Heide Vertig! The former superstar analyst now with added HBS patina rejoins the Armadillo Group (now a sub of mega-agency Tulip Walter). Three months at BCG has given her good basic training and she's raring to go. I convince Ken to put her on my case team helping Finnbox sort out its media campaigns — as if anyone bought a plastic box because of the dancing girls in its ads, but hey, they're paying our rent. By lunchtime, Heide has a whole new angle for us: Get the Spice Girls to endorse Finnbox and have each type of box get its own special personality. No wonder she was a Baker Scholar.

Tuesday

Morale problems getting worse. Tulip has canceled bonuses, rescinded promotions, instituted coach-class travel on all flights, got rid of the cappuccino machines, put us in an HMO, moved us to unreserved parking, gone to double-occupancy offices, and forced us to dial some elaborate phone code to get a special Norwegian rate. Frankly, the place is going to the dogs. My attribution: Make life hell, and maybe enough people will quit so they don't have to do RIFs, with all those costly severance bennies. Have to admit that even I scan the jobs section of the Globe, such as it is.

On the other hand, our new work is much easier than our complex old competitor gaming, NPV analysis, and needs-based segmentation. Now all we do is sit in on media sessions and opine. Anything I say is automatically perceived as "strategic" commentary, even if I'm just saying I like blondes better than brunettes. For Finnbox's ads, I mean — nothing personal. I checked with the other surviving Armadillo partners (eight of us now — down from 52 eighteen months ago!), and they all say the same thing: None of us is bothering to create hundred-slide analysis packs anymore. We all simply opine. We are oracles.

Wednesday

Furious row on the phone with lawyers for Hertz who are still after me to pay for a rental I totaled in Houston last year. It actually was entirely my fault — I was so frustrated at our failed pitch for Rodent Oil's business that I drove my Taurus into a hearse — but I'm determined not to pay them a dime. That's what the CDW is for, right?

Finnbox update: Heide has spoken to the Spice Girls' agent, and they don't come cheap. But the client is salivating. Can they go to the photo shoots? Can the Girls sing at the shareholder meeting? Are any of them still single? Our Tulip VP pokes his head through my door, winks, and says that Ms. Vertig could go far in this organization.

Stomp down the street to buy a cup of coffee, freezing in the arctic air. Tulip's sheer meanness is galling. No wonder we all go home at 4:30 these days. You reap what you sow.

Thursday

Ken calls a Gang of Eight meeting. The old Armadillo desperadoes, all a little jowlier, a little grayer, but just as feisty and acidic as ever. Ken, being in the senior Tulip management sessions, has the scuttlebutt and it's not good. Gio Van Bronkhorst, the Regional MD who championed our acquisition, has just lost a beauty contest to be the next worldwide CEO. He's out. What does this mean for us? Ken shrugs. Be on the lookout for white knights, he says. We haven't been Tulip people for six months, and already we might be chopped liver. Risky business being an oracle.

Friday

Hertz sends a Fedex to announce that they're taking me to court. Apparently the funeral we hit has sued them for $20 million for pain and suffering, so they're passing the blame to me. My position is that the Taurus had faulty steering, and my fallback is that I used an Armadillo credit card, so this would ultimately be a Tulip liability, not mine.

Spend the morning watching Spice Girls videos, trying to match each girl with a different type of box. More challenging than I would have guessed. Sporty, posh, scary, baby. Large square, long thin, translucent with a hinged lid, and foam insulated. I take a break from the alluring but aging foursome to sip a Pepsi One. Ruff! If only Britney were available.

We're still at it late in the day. The sun is setting behind the flashing Citgo sign. Out on the Charles River, a couple of eights are braving the cold. Heide is up at the whiteboard redrawing our girl/box matrix for the twentieth time, this time in 3D.

Then there's a commotion outside, raised voices. I recognize him in my gut, before I can put a name to the sound. I turn and stare as the conference room door is flung open and someone stands silhouetted in the entrance, brandishing a laser pointing stick. No one moves. Heide gives a short shriek of recognition.

"Honey, I'm home," says the intruder. It's John Bonanza, of course.