once they were home). Although she’d been working on a very interesting theory that the findings could be an early sign that an entire generation would eventually lack all spontaneity, the funding for the project became a fatality of the new economy.
Jobs in sociological research weren’t exactly clogging the want ads. But consultants were in vogue for everything from jury selection to shopping for birthday presents. So when a friend from college contacted her about a consortium of consultants he was putting together, Hannah decided she’d been unemployed long enough. Granny’s Grains was her first client as a sociological consultant.
Pollard ended his call. His chair creaked ominously as he leaned back in it and folded his hands over his protruding belly. “Well, Miss Ross,” he said, “I hope you have something for us.”
“Something we can actually use,” the new head of marketing added cynically. It was no secret that he’d been against bringing in a scientist.
“I think you’ll be pleased with my results,” Hannah said as she opened her briefcase, took out a small stack of spiral-bound reports, and stood to hand them out. “The good news,” she said as the men opened their reports, “is that the new slogan is right on the money. If you’ll turn to page three you’ll see that my research numbers show that Americans really do want to come back to the breakfast table. The cocooning that started in the nineties has spilled into the new century. On page five, you’ll see that polls show a conservative shift in the nation and—”
Hannah spouted statistics and quoted studies until she noticed the CFO checking his watch. She decided it was time to lighten things up a bit. “So, in many ways, your new slogan is right in the ballpark.” She smiled brightly. “Or maybe I should say backyard.”
Nobody laughed at her little joke. Not even a tiny smile out of any of them. Which was a shame because it was the only joke in her entire presentation. Instead, Pollard threw his copy of the report on the table in front of him. Hannah winced as it slithered off the glossy surface and onto the floor. “These numbers mean nothing to me,” he said. “What I want to know, Miss Ross, is why aren’t the boxes moving off the shelves?”
This was the part that Hannah dreaded most. She was a good researcher and she was confident in her findings. But she didn’t feel at all confident in how the client would react to her findings—or in her ability to deal with the reaction.
Hannah had never pictured herself in the corporate world. In the movie of her life that had played in her head, she’d never been a number gatherer for middle-aged corporate types who were going to use her findings for advertising. In the rarefied theater of her mind, her work not only had purer motives but she’d also been wearing yoga pants and cross-trainers, not confining tailoring and pumps that pinched. But it was more than just her yoga pants she missed. Face it, analyzing the cereal-buying habits of Middle America hadn’t been anywhere at all on the preview reel.
But this was real life and the corporate types weren’t expecting an intermission. She took a deep breath and gave them what they paid for. “I’m afraid it’s partly because of the box itself.” Hannah nervously gestured toward the oversized rotating cereal box hanging from the ceiling, hoping that no one would ask her what the other part was. She’d hate to have to totally alienate her first consulting client by telling him that his product tasted more like the cob than the corn. “The current box,” she went on, “depicts an ear of corn wearing a superhero cape.”
“We know that, Miss Ross,” Marketing assured her with a long-suffering air. “Except for a brief period, it’s been on the box since the early sixties.”
“A classic, true,” she said, quite pleased with the diplomacy of her ad lib. “But in today’s world, your flying ear of corn isn’t the image the consumer wants in a product.”
“If you’re talking about modernizing it,” said the CFO, “that’s been tried. To disastrous results.”
“That’s because the consumer group you need to target wants to buy a product that speaks of stability. They want a product that makes them think that if they use it their family will become what they wish them to be.”
Mr. Pollard frowned, sending his jowls to a new low. “And what do they wish their families to be, Miss Ross?”
“Normal, Mr. Pollard.”
“Normal?” The head of marketing spat out the word as if it tasted bad.
“Yes,” Hannah said emphatically. “Normal. Simply, perfectly normal.”
The three men at the table looked confused. Fortunately, Hannah was not confused. She knew all about what normal was supposed to be.
“Today’s parents are older, more educated, more sophisticated than ever before. But society is coming full circle, gentlemen.” This was more like it, thought Hannah. She was beginning to sound as though she knew what she was talking about. “What they want is really very simple. It used to be referred to as the American Dream. Picture, if you will,” she said, pacing the length of the conference table, “front porch swings and backyards full of toys and rosebushes. Pies cooling on the windowsill in summer and jack-o’-lanterns glowing from front porches in the autumn. Snowmen in front yards in the winter and Christmas trees winking in frosted windows.” As she paced, Hannah rhapsodized about tree forts and vegetable gardens, neighborly neighbors and Sunday picnics, painting the kind of picture that might be found in a 1950s magazine ad. And painting it well because, although she usually talked in statistics and averages, this was a subject close to Hannah’s heart.
As a girl, Hannah had wished for normal on stars like some girls wished for boyfriends. She’d pined for pastel painted houses with ruffled curtains in the windows. Craved cozy family meals and story time before lights-out.
“Women today—and my statistics show that women still do the majority of the family grocery shopping—want a safe, happy home and family. And if they thought there was a cereal on the shelves that could inch them any closer to that image, you wouldn’t be able to restock the shelves fast enough.”
Hannah took her seat again while Marketing rolled his eyes and the CFO checked his watch again. Reluctantly, Hannah looked down the table at Mr. Pollard, expecting to see his jowls hanging an inch or two lower in disappointment. Instead, he was rubbing his pudgy hands together with relish.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “I see what you mean. Splendid idea. Really splendid. My grandmother made this company a success on just such family values. She always said that the family was the backbone of America. So why not put the great American family on our box of cereal? We’ll base a whole ad campaign on it. We could even do seasonal boxes. All featuring the same family.” He turned to the head of marketing. “Call the modeling agency. We need to start searching for the perfect models immediately.”
“No!” Hannah said with perhaps a little too much urgency.
“No?” Pollard said with the kind of tone that made her think the simple word was seldom said to him.
“What I meant to say was, models would be a mistake. Today’s consumer is too savvy to fall for a cardboard retread of Norman Rockwell. They want the real thing. This is, after all, the age of reality television. I think the only way this idea will hit home with consumers is if you put a real family on the box.”
Randall Pollard slammed his doughy hand on the table. “By George! That’s it!” he yelled, his jowls quivering in excitement. “We’ll put a real American family on the box. From a real American town. The most perfectly normal family from the most perfectly normal town,” Pollard gushed like an old-time politician. “We’ll make it a contest. Yes, a contest! And you, Miss Ross, will run it.”
“Me? But—” Hannah’s mind reeled. She’d never run a contest before. She’d never even entered one. She didn’t have a clue. “Surely there is someone else who—”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Pollard cut in. “Who better to choose our perfect family than a sociologist? We’ll continue to pay your consulting fee, of course,” he added, “plus, there