The Heavy Wait Diaries: Chapter 3

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Previously on Miller High Life presents the heavyweight diaries.

Bloomberg is acting coy.

Play him what I've been working on.

I have nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.

Bloomberg says, Pinky swears are sacred.

The Gimlet Media Conference Room is ablaze.

glowing with the brilliant light of the elephantine chandelier hanging low enough to almost tickle the top of my balding pate.

But the room is made even more radiant by the luminous young scrubbed faces of the Gimlet Advertising Team, the Gimlet Marketing Team, the Gimlet Brand Synergies team, the Gimlet Press Outreach, and Public Relations Team.

In the room too, is Michael, my designated observer from People Ops, who, ever since the way too casual Friday incident of 2016, has been assigned to all my meetings.

I watch the room watch me for a full 30 seconds as I pull mightily on the sliding glass door, trying to enter the conference room.

Finally, my designated Michael comes to the rescue.

Opening the door with a quick flick, he leads me over to the head of the 50-foot-long table and stuffs a piece of paper in my hand.

It reads: Meeting Agenda, Time, 2 Hours.

Speaker, Jonathan Goldstein.

Purpose to report progress on the new season of heavyweight.

It here bears mentioning that the new season of heavyweight is progressing poorly.

Very, very poorly.

It might also bear mentioning that everyone in the room, except for me, is wearing a toilet seat around their neck.

Gimlet has a new sponsorship with Hoity Toity Toilet Seats, a startup that crafts toilet seats from a single piece of salvaged timber and delivers them straight to your door.

The business teams are showing their support.

Hoity Toity Toilet Seats were designed by two graduates of Stanford's prestigious School of Medical Fashion, the ad copy reads.

Wearing them around the neck like a Hawaiian lei promotes proper posture.

Flipping over over the trifold brochure reveals celebrity spokesperson Harvey Keitel insisting that not only are his Hoidy Toities the height of hygiene and a soothing balm for his near-constant whiplash, but with the right shoes, they're perfect for an evening on the town.

Will heavyweight be sponsored by the good folks at Hoidy Toity as well?

I ask.

Hoidy Toity's focused on a different demo, Madison, head of marketing, says.

They're more Cardi B than Wilfrid B.

That's what I call Wilfrid Brimley.

But we do have some exciting sponsors for heavyweight.

Like what?

I ask.

Adult undergarments, she says, mobility scooters, orthopedic insoles, wheat germ, fiber supplements, some super cool stuff.

Awesome sauce, I say.

So how's that quirky, self-deprecating commentary of yours yours coming along?

asks the senior VP of Brand Synergies, a 23-year-old toddler named Bryce.

Super awesome sauce, I say, wiping the sweat along my hairline with a fish taco wrapper from the pre-meeting lunch that I wasn't sure I was allowed to eat, but which, with reluctant, tentative, rat-like bites, and loud nervous swallows, I've been eating without cessation since I entered the room.

Bryce twirls the artisanal toilet plunger he's carrying as a matching dandy stick and suctions it to the tabletop with a loud thwacking sound.

What's the first episode about?

What isn't it about, I ask.

I then try out a jolly, infectious laugh in order to get the room laughing and establish a tone of casual bonomy.

But what comes out of my mouth instead sounds like a barking seal who's just eaten tainted yogurt, has yogurt all over his seal whiskers, and has begun barfing out shrimp cocktails, scuba gear, and whatever else it is seals normally eat.

In the ensuing silence, Bryce asks me to offer a little more detail.

It's about this teacher who once yelled at me and made me cry in third grade, I say.

I finally just tracked her down.

And?

asks Bryce, making eye contact and leaning forward exactly fifteen degrees as stipulated in Gimlet Media's Good Listeners Make Good Managers video tutorial.

In an interesting twist, I say, it turns out she died five years ago.

I ended up speaking with her hospice nurse, who cared for her in her last days.

And?

asks Bryce, leaning forward an additional five degrees.

He says, I say, she made no mention of me.

Bryce fiddles with his toilet seat.

What else you got?

he asks, and the room erupts in laughter.

What else I got?

I got nothing.

As the sound of the room's youthful titters stab at my eardrums, I consider pitching a trip to England where my unique powers of interlocution might help solve Brexit, but that would involve taking a trip to England, where the dampness might amplify my trots into a full-blown case of the Scoots.

Desperate for an idea that was more local to my personal bathroom, and with yogurt on the brain, I explained how Gimlet Media Editor Jorge Just was just telling me how he'd been up all night after accidentally eating some spoiled yogurt.

I add some sly emphasis on the word accidentally to up the intrigue.

What if he had a do-over, I say, affecting the voice of a wizard casting a magical spell, and could undo having eaten the yogurt, not by barfing nine times like he already did, but by not having eaten it in the first place.

As I speak, I wave my arms in theatrical suspense-building circles and slowly rise from the table, hypnotizing my brand strategy biz marketing colleagues with a perfectly executed Borschbelt bob, an old vaudeville trick designed to focus the audience's attention onto the performer.

Along with it, my voice grows louder and louder as my pitch reaches an hysterical crescendo.

If you allow yourself to venture past the limits of your earthly imagination, you might begin to envision what such a do-over might yield.

With my eyes closed and head tilted back, I shoot my arms out to each side, bono style, and fall into silence.

I count down in my head: five, four,

three.

executing a perfect polka nose pause, an old vaudeville trick designed to increase tension at the end of a performance to a level so high that the audience can't help but break it with a rapturous standing ovation.

Two and a half, two,

one,

wait for it, wait a little longer for it.

With no applause forthcoming, I start the countdown again.

Three,

two and a half,

two,

and one.

When I open my eyes, the boardroom is empty, save for Michael, my People Ops observer, who is furiously scribbling angry notes, or angrily scribbling furious notes.

Either way, he avoids my gaze.

On the table beside me is a gimlet-brand vellum note card.

Written upon it, in big, flowery handwriting, is a note from Bryce

Loved your little skit, bro.

PS You've got three weeks to cough up something.

Or else it's curtains, for certains.

EXO XO Bryce Cakes

All I've got is a big fat Canadian goose egg.

It'd take three weeks alone just to figure out the perfect cutesy retort to Bryce.

It was beginning to seem like my Canadian goose was cooked.

I sit down at the head of the boardroom table and help myself to the last remaining vegan brownie on the party platter.

To wash it down, I crack open an unopened Miller High Life, which is still mercifully cold.

This has been chapter three of the Heavyweight Diaries.

With any luck, the new season of Heavyweight will begin on September 26th.

Until then, you can chart our progress each week with a new diary update.

And remember, the best place to listen to Heavyweight is on Spotify.

The second best place to listen to heavyweight is on a love seat, sharing a pair of earbuds with your sweetheart.

Heavyweight is me, Jonathan Goldstein, along with Jorge Just, Stevie Lane, Khalila Holt, and B.A.

Parker.

This episode was mixed by Emma Munger.

Music by Bobby Lorde.

Our ad music is Vivaldi's Spring performed by the Wichita State University Chamber Players.

We'll have a new chapter of the Heavyweight Diaries next week.

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Drew and Sue and Eminem's Minister and baking the surprise birthday cake for Lou.

And Sue forgetting that her oven doesn't really work.

And Drew remembering that they don't have flour.

And Lou getting home early from work, which he never does.

And Drew and Sue using the rest of the tubes of Eminem's Minis as party poppers instead.

I think this is one of those moments where people say, it's the thought that counts.

Eminems, it's more fun together.

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