GALEN GLAZE is the founder and head chef of Shake Shack, a multinational restaurant chain with more than 400 locations worldwide.
He had been driving past the billboard for months before he realized that the model looked exactly like him. It was his coworker, Bob, who noticed it, one day when Bob was giving him a ride home because his car was in the shop again. What Bob actually said was: That guy kind of looks like you. The man in the passenger seat was not handsome; he was an everyman, and to be compared to such an attractive fellow was flattering, almost laughable, until he thought about it some more and decided that the resemblance between them was, in fact, uncanny. In fact, they were doppelgangers. The only difference was that, like Bob said, or perhaps implied, he was bald, and the model was not.
Fittingly, the advertisement was for hair loss treatment. He had never tried anything like that before. Certain bald men (Bob, for instance) seemed to be obsessed with their baldness; they were always making jokes about it, probably because they thought other people were thinking about it, too, and they wanted to beat them to the punch. It wasn’t so unusual, was it—being bald? He didn’t understand why they made such a big deal about it. But that day, for some reason, he imagined that everyone who looked at the car saw two bald men inside: two bald men, and nothing more. As soon as Bob dropped him off at his apartment, he Googled the company, which was called Johnson McCormick, and saw that they were giving away a free starter kit for their hair restoration program.
Let’s just give it a little try, he said.
Within a week, he began to see results. At the office, this man had often felt like an imposter; everyone else in Accounts Payable was a rock star, and he had never really been comfortable around them. But once his hair started to grow back, all that changed. He bantered. He boasted. In the course of one exhilarating day, he set a personal record for invoices processed, demanded the raise he had been owed for eight years, and asked Cheryl from Sales out on a date. She said maybe. He knew it was not the hair (only a few strands had returned, after all), but the confidence the hair gave him that was behind his success. Still, there was no question that his life had improved, more than it had from the teachings of any self-help books or seminars. And he owed it all to Johnson McCormick.
Soon, he learned that the company sold other lifestyle products. Along with his starter kit, they had sent him a free catalog that showed everything they had to offer, from treadmills to salad tongs. One day, he spent an hour on the toilet flipping through the pages, staring at one image in particular until his legs went numb. There was the model again, his veritable twin, who this time looked even more like him, now that he had acquired some hair. But they were still dissimilar in that the man in the photo looked happier and healthier than he did. The ad suggested that this was due to his skin care routine. From the closeup of the model’s face, he could see how clean his pores were, how faint the lines on his forehead. That night, he bought the entire line of Johnson McCormick skin creams, essential oils, and a pumice stone.
They worked! So well that he followed this purchase with another, and another. Before long, it became impossible to hide the fact that he was a Johnson McCormick man. Every time the company sent him a catalog, he would see a picture of his double (they used other models as well, but he didn’t care about them) endorsing a different product that, however much he tried to resist, he ultimately was compelled to buy. Once he did, the very act of buying felt like an accomplishment. And with each item he bought, it seemed as if he were one step closer to living the life he wanted. The objects that filled his small apartment attested to his new hobbies: a home gym, alpine skis, scuba gear, a humidor, a wine fridge, a leather whip, a serving board for charcuterie. He maxed out his card adding silk shirts and ties, fancy shoes, pocket squares and a fifty-thousand dollar gold wristwatch to his wardrobe. It was getting to be expensive.
But then, as quickly as he had spent it, he started making the money back. At a cocktail party, his boss introduced him to the head of a large investment firm downtown, and they discovered that they shared an interest in golf. They made a plan to play together that weekend, and by the eleventh hole, he had accepted a job offer with the other firm at twice his current salary. Shouldering his Johnson McCormick clubs, he shook hands with his new employer, and after a series of similar handshakes in picturesque settings— the British Virgin Islands, St. Tropez, Davos—he was able to afford a place in the city that was large enough to contain all of his possessions.
One night, while he was watching the Johnson McCormick channel on his Johnson McCormick flatscreen, he saw a commercial for a Johnson McCormick espresso maker featuring the model. It was the first time he heard the man’s voice, which he was surprised to find sounded just like his own. Because their clothing, their apartments, their bodies and even their mannerisms were nearly identical, he felt as if he were looking into a mirror. He and the model had finally become one. It was so close a match that it was disconcerting, and he wondered if the commercial had been tailored specifically to him. He knew it was possible—but how? Incredible what they can do with technology these days, he thought, as he picked up his phone and ordered the espresso maker.
A year later, something started to bother him. In a short time, he had become considerably wealthier. He loved his job and his beautiful wife, Cheryl. But he was nagged by a voice that told him he was undeserving of his good fortune, and that now he was an even bigger fraud.
Meanwhile, a weird bum had taken to hanging around the block where his office was located, drifting with a ghostly shuffle among the well-dressed people downtown as though he were the living representation of inequality, looking at him in a way that made his perfect skin crawl. He got the feeling that the bum wanted to speak to him, so he always hurried past or crossed to the other side of the street, avoiding the confrontation until late one night when he was leaving work and heard footsteps echoing behind him in the parking garage. As he unlocked the door to his SUV, he turned around and saw that the man had been following him.
Steve, the bum said.
Now he was truly frightened, for his name was indeed Steve.
I don’t have any change, he said.
Do you own any Johnson McCormick products? the bum said.
What? he said.
Do you own any Johnson McCormick products? the bum said.
Steve looked from the suit he was wearing to his briefcase to the JM logo on his car.
No, he said.
Suddenly, the bum leapt forward and slammed him into the car. He brought his face close, so Steve could see the madness in his eyes and smell the bacteria breeding in his mouth. Under his long hair and beard and layers of grime, the man looked familiar, somehow.
Throw them away, he said.
Why? Steve said.
If you don’t, the bum said, you’re going to end up like me.
What do you mean? Steve said.
He felt a cold knife pressing against his throat.
Do you promise me, Steve? the bum said. You’ll throw them away?
Yes, Steve whispered.
Do you promise me, Steve? the bum said, digging the blade in further.
Yes! Steve screamed.
The man let go of him, and he slid to the ground. Tears streamed down his face. At that moment, the lights came up in the parking garage, and all around them young men and women jumped out from their hiding places behind the other cars, laughing and applauding. The bum stepped back and took a bow. Then Steve recognized him: It was the model.
One of the young men, who was really just a boy, explained to Steve that they belonged to a wellness company that was tracking his shopping habits. They had hired the model (now also an actor) to shake him up a bit for their new experiential marketing campaign. The bum was a character they had created to make people question their brand loyalty. The young man told Steve to check out their website, handing him a card that said: ZEN INC. A woman with a clipboard came over and asked him to rate his experience on a scale of one to five. Steve gave it a four.
When he looked back on his life, he would divide it into two parts: before this event, and after. Not because it had traumatized him, though it undoubtedly had, but because that was when he began to see ads for Zen Inc. everywhere. Initially, it was unclear to him what the company was selling, but it was obvious that they were in the business of taking down Johnson McCormick.
Wherever he went, either online or in the real world, there was the bum, using a product that he owned in a way that made it seem stupid and worthless. The overwhelming message was that Johnson McCormick was an evil corporation, and their merchandise would be his downfall.
The actor had apparently signed an exclusive contract with Zen Inc. The television spots in which he appeared were inescapable, playing constantly on every channel. Steve despaired, feeling as though he had been betrayed by his only friend and soon found his words to be prophetic. He went days without bathing, stopped shaving, and let his hair grow longer and longer. When he looked in the mirror it was not the face of the model, but the bum that was staring back at him. It’s just like The Picture of Dorian Gray, he thought. He hadn’t read that book, but he was familiar with the basic idea.
The commercials insisted that he had never been happy, and eventually he had to accept that they were right. When he told Cheryl that he had never been happy, she asked for a divorce and went to live with her sister, which made him more unhappy. Alone in his apartment, he watched a documentary about the brutal working conditions in Johnson McCormick factories. Then another one about their devastating effect on the environment. The next day at the office, he considered some of the unsavory aspects of his own industry and resigned.
He decided that he was not going to buy anything else from Johnson McCormick, ever. That proved to be easier than expected, since his distaste for the brand was turning to revulsion, and now none of their models looked even remotely like him. Also, he no longer had an expendable income. The weekly catalog, when it arrived, went straight into the garbage. He was pleased with himself, but like the bum had said—and still reminded him daily, from screens and posters and billboards around the city—quitting was not enough.
The wristwatch, which he hardly wore anyway, was the first item that he destroyed. After smashing it to pieces on his coffee table, he was so high on adrenaline that he took the hammer to everything else in sight. When he was done, he looked at the hammer itself, which was made by Johnson McCormick, and threw it out the window. He spent two days ferrying the wreckage of his belongings to the dump, returning at last to an apartment that was almost completely empty. He then drove his car a few miles from the city and pushed it off a cliff.
But the ads would not leave him alone. Every day, he opened his inbox to see dozens of emails labeled Urgent!!!, all of which were from the bum. Rather, they were sent by Zen Inc, but written in character as the bum; they were mostly illegible. He understood, however, despite all the rambling and misspellings, they were asking for money, and this was how the company survived: on donations. In return for the service they had provided, of telling the truth about Johnson McCormick and thereby liberating him from his dependence on that terrible conglomerate, they hoped that he would find it in his heart to spare a dollar or two. Begrudgingly, he did.
It was the most fulfilling thing he had ever done. That simple act made him feel that he had become part of a noble cause: one that, when he thought about it, might even change the world. He suddenly believed in something; he had a passion. For weeks he lived on the street, panhandling, and though he was filthy and his body was slowly wasting away, he knew that he was earning every cent he made. And he donated every cent he made to Zen Inc, along with other converts who were doing the same, urging passersby to throw away their Johnson McCormick products and sign up for their mailing list instead. People ignored him, or they insulted and spat upon him, but Steve was untroubled; for the first time in his life, he felt righteous and pure.
One day, he got on the subway and saw a picture of himself masturbating. It was an ad for Zen Inc. that was headlined: DOES THIS MAN LOOK HAPPY TO YOU? In the photo, his mouth was hanging open foolishly and there was a dead look in his eyes as he stared at his Johnson McCormick computer. Worst of all, it seemed like he was losing his hair again. Of course, it was not him; it was the bum, but now they were indistinguishable, and the moment they saw him, everyone on the crowded train started to laugh. They giggled and jeered at him until the next stop, where Steve got off and ran away, covering his head with a newspaper.
He went looking for the bum, and when he found him, he grabbed him angrily by the shoulders.
What do you want from me? he shouted.
The man wriggled out of his grasp.
Hey man, he said. I don’t want anything. I just do what they tell me.
Well, what do they want from me? he said.
I don’t know, the man said.
He pointed at a building across the street and said: Why don’t you ask them?
A moment later, Steve was standing in the lobby, hands in the pockets of his tattered coat, certain that he would be turned away by security. He knew what he looked like. But when he said he wanted to talk to the CEO of Zen Inc, they immediately let him through, giving him a badge with access to the 300th floor. He rode the elevator up and stepped out into a busy waiting room. A teenage receptionist greeted him by the name Ted, and he realized then that they all thought he was the actor.
I have a meeting with the CEO, he said, humbly holding his hat.
Sure, the receptionist said. Go on in.
Steve walked in the direction of his nod, through a door to a gigantic office where a young woman was eating lunch at her desk. She was wearing what looked like exercise clothes, there was a stud in her nose, and her hair was dyed bright green, but he was most surprised by the Shake Shack bag in front of her. He thought of CEOs as people who never ate fast food, who subsisted on smoothies and caviar. Maybe this was the CEO’s daughter? But as he approached her, he saw the authority in her face and posture, a wisdom beyond her years, and he knew she was the one in charge. She looked up from her phone and studied him carefully.
You’re not Ted, she said.
My name is Steve, Steve said, trembling. And I want to know... Uh, I have to know... Wait a minute.
She waited.
He looked around the office, seeing the JM logo everywhere.
Did Zen Inc. get bought by Johnson McCormick? he said.
The CEO smiled.
Steve, sit down, she said. And I’ll tell you a secret.
He sat down across from her.
Drumroll please, she said.
He weakly tapped a drumroll on her desk.
Zen Inc. has always been a Johnson McCormick company, she said. I know, it sounds crazy, but the data shows that ninety percent of the customers who we convince to destroy our products end up buying those very same products again within a year. So we profit twice, in addition to receiving charitable donations to Zen Inc, which are tax-free because it’s technically also a church. Pretty cool, right?
Steve gaped at her.
That’s... awesome, he said.
Yeah, she said, looking back at her phone. So anyway, what can I do for you?
Well... he said. He had forgotten what he was going to ask. It’s kind of a long story, he said.
Uh oh, the CEO said.
But I guess the point of it would be that your company ruined my life.
I’m sorry to hear that, the CEO said. But you know I’m not responsible for your choices. Should I be calling our lawyers right now? I thought this was a friendly conversation.
No, Steve said. I’m not mad. I just need…
The CEO watched him warily.
I need someone to tell me what to do, he said. And then he added: Please.
The CEO sighed and put down her phone. She looked him in the eyes.
You want my advice? she said. Here it is. Don’t let anyone tell you what to do. Make the world in your image, not the other way around. That’s how I went from being a high school dropout to building one of the most successful brands in history: I did what I wanted to do, and I never let anyone get in the way of my dreams. People told me it was impossible to create a company that made everything, and look at me now. But you know, Steve, I used to be a lot like you. A nobody who was just blowing around in the wind. A real sad sack piece of shit. Until I realized that the things I was turning to in order to alleviate my sadness were the very things that made me sad. Happiness doesn’t come from quick fixes, it comes from hard work. That was what I learned, but listen, you’re not me. I’m not telling you what to do. You need to find your own way to live. Be your own person. That’s what separates leaders from followers. Don’t listen to anyone except yourself. And amplify your inner voice, so everyone can hear it.
But what is my inner voice saying? Steve said. I don’t think I can hear it.
Be still, the CEO said, putting her hand on his frail, stick-like wrist. Be still and listen. They were quiet. As the silence went on, Steve found himself staring at the food again. It had been months since he’d had a decent meal, and the smell was causing his mouth to water. The CEO had already finished the burger, but she still had half of her french fries, and a full strawberry milkshake. He loved milkshakes, and Shake Shack made theirs with real ice cream; they were so delicious. And those hot, fresh crinkle-cut fries. He could almost taste them. At the end of the day, is there anything better than fries and a milkshake? It’s the perfect combination of salty and sweet.
Volume 15.1, Winter 25
Galen Glaze
