This is a true story. Descriptions of companies, clients, schools, projects, and designers may be altered and anonymized to protect the innocent.
Editor: Where we last left off, “Family Man” and his wife decided to give up their safe life and move their brood to where they really wanted to live. To get there, Family Man needs to chase down what might be the most unusual industrial design job we’ve ever heard of—and he’s got to prove that he’s got what it takes to design Batcopters for Liberace. Does he? And how much money does it take to feed four mouths?
I e-mailed my portfolio to Liberace Batcopters, Inc. that very next morning. I wanted to do some more research to try to find out what that other ID firm was, the consumer products one that shared the same address as Liberace Batcopters, but I didn’t have the time; I had to get to work.
Where I worked back then was clean and air-conditioned, a prerequisite in this hellhole of a hot state, but it was kind of soul-crushing. We’re talking an aluminum warehouse, maybe 60 by 200 feet, filled with cubicle farms. Industrial lighting. Concrete floors that I was pretty sure would ruin my knees for snowboarding.
The design group was pretty small and I shared a cubicle cluster with a fellow industrial designer I’ll call Rick. Rick was the only good thing about this mediocre job; he was a talented designer, a funny guy, never got stressed out, and we could talk motorcycles, guns and snowboards all day when the boss wasn’t around. (And that was a lot, since our boss had quit two weeks ago and they hadn’t found a replacement yet.)
Rick and I had grown close in the years that I’d been there, we were both present when our sons were born, we’d gone on hunting trips together, our wives got along (important!), that kind of thing. I was tempted to tell Rick I was applying for a job at Liberace Batcopters because I knew he’d think the vehicles were cool, but something told me to hold off on that. And anyways, it would probably be days before they got back to me, and there was no guarantee I’d get the job.
Well, I wasn’t at work for more than an hour before my cell phone started vibrating. Rick hadn’t heard it, so I put a cigarette in my mouth like I was going out for a smoke break, scooped up the phone and made for the door, to take the call out in the parking lot.
By the time I’d made it out there, I’d missed the call, so I dialed it back. It was from an area code I didn’t recognize. “Hi, this is [Family Man], I just missed a call from this number,” I said.
“Hi, [Family Man],” said the male voice on the other end. “This is [Batcopter Boss] of [Liberace Batcopters]. We got your book this morning, do you have a second to talk?”
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