But the guy on the left spoke first. His voice was slightly nasal and he paused in the wrong places between…words: I asked for you to come into…the room because it…was important to…me that you…join our campaign and see eye to eye with…us. No wisecracks, the kind ad…agency people like. You understand what I’m…saying?
Completely. What do you think about seeing heart to heart? I asked.
The room suddenly filled with a should-we-laugh-or-cry silence.
Good one, Yoram Sirkin said, touching the bridge of his glasses lightly. Taking their cue from him, his two escorts nodded.
The thing about a political campaign—I continued as if I were an expert on the subject—is to arouse the voters’ emotions. To find the right buttons and press them. Over and over again.
What did you say your name was? Sirkin asked. And before I could reply, he turned to the boss and said, I want this kid to…be with us at every meeting from now…on. I like the way his mind…works.
—
The official purpose of the next few meetings was to learn our candidate’s agenda, to find out what he wanted to promote, what he believed in, and what his plan of action would be—if he won the election. But Yoram Sirkin answered almost every question we asked with the same question: What do you think would go over well with the voters? I believe that, with the exception of his intense desire to be elected, he had no other clear aspirations. We replied cautiously that we should wait for the reports of the focus groups, and until we received them, anything we said about voters’ preferences would be guesswork.
Yoram Sirkin nodded, and then, for the first time, made the gesture that would become the trademark of comedians imitating him in political satires on TV years later: rubbing his hands together as if he were performing the commandment of washing his hands before a meal.
The focus group concluded that the residents were quite satisfied with their city and more than anything, were afraid that a new mayor would change the way things were being done.
If that’s the situation, I said at the next meeting, let’s go all the way with it. Let’s tell people to vote for our candidate because he’s the only one who definitely won’t change anything.
Good one, Yoram Sirkin said.
We flooded the streets with billboards that showed a large, nicely photoshopped picture of him—the glasses were gone and his evasive glance became an intense, direct stare—along with the fruit of my keyboard: Sirkin. Only he can preserve our city.
At the same time, we hired a language coach to teach him how to speak before an audience. We didn’t delude ourselves that he would become a firebrand overnight, but we asked her to work with him on his…pauses. Polls all over the world show that candidates who win elections are those who know how to pause in the right places.
When the campaign opened, the polls gave Sirkin four to five percent of the vote. But he was faithful to the list of messages prepared for him, and repeated them like a parrot in a cage: We love our city the way it is. Every change is risky. The risk is greater than the chance of success. If it’s not broken, why fix it? If it’s fixed, why break it?
Meanwhile, the candidate leading in the polls, a brigadier general in the reserves, was accused of sexual harassment and dropped out of the race.
We eliminated a third candidate with a negative campaign that placed in voters’ minds the totally fabricated notion that he had ties with real estate sharks and would push for construction that would change the character of the city and lower property values.
From week to week, Sirkin’s numbers rose another little bit in the polls. And another little bit. What is known in the professional jargon as gathering momentum. At the same time, and to our great surprise, his body language changed. Suddenly, he walked briskly, suddenly, his movements were sharp. Suddenly, he banged on the table: Get me the ultra-Orthodox!
And the ultra-Orthodox came to the office and closed a deal to support him in the election in exchange for future budget allotments.
On election night, at our headquarters and in the presence of a modest audience that included mostly members of his family, we celebrated Yoram Sirkin’s victory in the mayoral race, never suspecting that it was only the first stop in his meteoric rise in politics.
The agency’s subsidiary was dissolved immediately after the municipal elections.
A month later, I received a call on my personal phone from the new mayor.
Listen, kid, he said, I have to give a speech at the municipal education conference.
Okay.
I thought maybe you could…write a…few points for…me. A few killer sentences.
But…I thought our office doesn’t handle your account anymore.
Tell me, kid, why should they make any money on me…or you? Work directly with me. As a consultant.
Let me think about it, Yoram, okay?
Okay. But the education conference is…tomorrow. Don’t think too…much.
—
I always knew that copywriting was a hollow profession. Only when my path crossed Yoram Sirkin’s did I understand that it was also corrupt. That I myself was already corrupt from so many years in the profession.
But I didn’t know how to do anything else.
I hoped that Uncle Michael from America would rescue me from the predicament I was in. I waited for his e-mails the way children wait for the Independence Day fireworks. And he wrote the same reply every time: Of course, the minute I have a job to offer you, I will. Let’s meet and talk about it the next time I’m in Israel.
—
We met when he came to Israel to run his workshops. We walked along the beach promenade from the InterContinental David, to the
