By the time I’m ready for a break, it’s ten thirty.
Man, I love traffic days. Makes the hours pass by so much faster.
When I stand to stretch my legs, I find Meg working away at her own desk, doing whatever media buyers do. Negotiating contracts with stations. Being rockstars. That sort of thing.
When she catches me peering over the low wall like a meerkat, she tosses her headphones aside. “Good morning, busy bee. I was going to say hi earlier, but you looked like you were in the zone.”
“I really was.” Most days are laid back but not traffic days. “I have a lot of spots to send and wanted to get an early start so the reps can get back to me before the end of the day.” There’s something so satisfying about crossing off all the confirmations, mostly because it means I don’t have to worry about chasing them down tomorrow.
Her chair squeaks as she leans back, twisting from side to side. “Speaking of reps, do you think you could talk to Holly about the importance of confirmations? She doesn’t seem to be grasping the concept, and I can’t ask for any make goods if the stations never verified receiving traffic.”
Make goods are kind of like reparations for when a station doesn’t run the correct commercials. Basically, the client gets free exposure in exchange for the station’s screw-ups. At least that’s my newbie take on the whole process.
All I know for certain is that we’re supposed to have written confirmation from all reps that the commercial spots were received and will be updated on the requested date.
That’s Traffic 101.
“No problem.” I need to stretch my legs anyway.
Meg thanks me and then throws her headphones back on. I grab my empty travel mug and fill it up in the break room before heading over to Jolly Holly’s desk.
She’s probably the nicest woman you’ll ever meet, thus her nickname. Not that anyone else calls her that. It’s a little trick I’ve come up with to help me learn names. Like Carson “the Librarian” Cooper or the IT guy, Marty “the Gray Ghost” or just “Ghost” Simpson.
That guy really loves the color gray. Meg and I have tried to determine whether or not his shirts were once white and just faded into gray, but the results from our observations are inconclusive.
Jolly Holly is at her desk, humming as she munches on one of those granola bars that are so dry, they turn to sand in your mouth. “Hey, Holly.”
Her smile lights up her whole face. “Good morning, Loren. What brings you all the way over here on this lovely day?”
“All the way over” being four cubicles away and “lovely day” meaning wind and rain battering the windows. “I just wanted to check in. See how you’re doing.”
“Just peachy because it’s traffic daaay!” She does this little shimmy and ends up spilling crumbs from what’s left of her granola bar all over her khaki pants, which sends her into a fit of giggles as she shakes her head and swipes them onto the floor.
There are rumors that she drinks on the job, but I’ve never smelled alcohol on her, so I figure that’s just folks trying to make sense of her general jolliness.
Holly hooks her fingers through her own mug and knocks it against mine for an enthusiastic toast. “How areyouuudoing, Loren?”
It sucks being the one to pop her happy little bubble.
Maybe there’s a way to broach this subject without making her feel bad. “I’d be better if these dang reps would get back to me. I’ve sent out almost all my spots this week and have only received confirmation from one station.” It’s only a little lie.
She takes a big gulp of her coffee before setting it back down next to the framed photo of her pug named Doug. “Oof. I hate it when that happens.”
“Do you have any problem stations?”
“No, thank goodness. My reps are all incredibly sweet and confirm receipt the moment I call them.”
Oh, Holly… No wonder Meg is frustrated. “You call your reps?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
“Only as a last resort when I can’t get them to email me back.” Like we were instructed during orientation. “I always make sure to get written confirmation to cover my own butt. I’d hate to get into trouble if the client doesn’t receive the spots they’ve paid for.”
For the first time since I met the woman, her smile falters. “Huh. I guess I should probably do that too.”
Not probably. It’s her freaking job. She should know this; she started the same week I did. Went through the same training.
She frowns down at her mouse. “But email feels so impersonal.”
