In this industry, people want a 'yes sir' attitude. But ad men

Host: The office was a canyon of glass and light, its towering windows overlooking a city that pulsed with neon and noise. It was late — the kind of late where the moonlight and streetlights blurred into one long stretch of silver exhaustion. Inside the advertising firm’s top floor, the air smelled of coffee, stress, and expensive ambition.

Jack sat at the conference table, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, a half-empty whiskey glass near his laptop. Jeeny stood by the window, arms folded, her reflection shimmering against the cityscape. The walls were lined with award plaques — golden, heavy, gleaming — the trophies of a world that worships the art of persuasion more than truth itself.

A large poster on the wall read, in bold letters:
“Say yes first. Think later.”

Jack: “Vivek Agnihotri once said — ‘In this industry, people want a “yes sir” attitude. But ad men usually have a chip on their shoulders. We have more money and are more successful. We call everyone by the first name. My assistants call me Vivek but I don’t care.’”
(He takes a slow sip of whiskey.) “Sounds about right. This whole place runs on ego — and caffeine.”

Jeeny: “You sound proud of that.”
(Her eyes narrow slightly, reflecting the city’s lights.) “But that quote wasn’t about pride. It was about defiance — about refusing the hierarchy.”

Jack: “Defiance?”
(He lets out a short, dry laugh.) “Come on, Jeeny. This industry is built on hierarchy — clients on top, creatives below, and egos fighting for oxygen in between. The ‘chip on the shoulder’ isn’t rebellion. It’s insecurity dressed as swagger.”

Host: The air-conditioner hummed faintly. The city’s lights flickered across Jack’s face, carving lines of weariness and defiance in equal measure. Jeeny turned, her silhouette cutting against the glowing skyline.

Jeeny: “No. It’s rebellion — even if it’s flawed. You think Vivek meant arrogance? I think he meant freedom. The refusal to bow down, even when the industry expects obedience.”

Jack: “Freedom?”
(He gestures toward the glowing slogan on the wall.) “Look around. You think anyone here’s free? Every campaign is filtered through a client’s fear. Every bold idea is softened till it sells. That’s not freedom, Jeeny — it’s commerce wearing cool sneakers.”

Jeeny: “And yet, it’s those same sneakers that let you walk into boardrooms without a tie and call your boss by his first name. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

Host: The clock ticked. The sound seemed too loud for the quiet room. Somewhere below, a taxi horn echoed through the night. The city breathed — impatient, restless, alive.

Jack: “Superficial rebellion. You think using first names makes us equals? It’s just branding — equality as an aesthetic. The system hasn’t changed. It’s just learned to smile.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But symbols matter. Breaking formality — even pretending to — creates cracks. Cracks that sometimes widen. Look at advertising history — in the ’60s, ad men broke rules. They changed how people spoke, dressed, even thought. That attitude — the chip, the defiance — it made culture move.”

Jack: “And it made manipulation an art form. Don Draper didn’t sell ideas — he sold illusions. That’s what we do. We make people believe their choices are free when every color, every slogan, every emotional hook has been engineered to make them buy something they didn’t need.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the paradox — freedom through manipulation. We play gods of desire and still crave authenticity.”

Host: Jeeny walked to the table, her fingers brushing against one of the golden plaques. She traced the engraved letters as though reading a memory she wasn’t sure she believed in anymore.

Her voice softened, almost like confession.

Jeeny: “You know, I once joined this industry because I thought ads could change the world. That storytelling could awaken empathy. Now, half the time, I’m selling toothpaste as if it’s salvation.”

Jack: “And yet, you still believe in the message.”

Jeeny: “No. I believe in the craft — in the idea that words can shift something inside people. But somewhere along the line, that chip on the shoulder — that arrogance Vivek talked about — became the only way to survive. You have to believe you’re better than the system to keep working in it.”

Host: Jack’s expression shifted — a flicker of recognition, perhaps even respect. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, the city’s light glinting off his whiskey glass.

Jack: “So arrogance as survival? You’re saying ego is a shield?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You think cynicism protects you. I think self-belief does. Call it ego, call it madness — it’s the only way creatives survive the noise. It’s the only way they don’t become just another yes-sir.”

Host: The tension between them had changed — from friction to friction-born understanding. The room felt smaller now, their words circling like sparks in a glass box.

Jack’s eyes softened, though his tone remained sharp.

Jack: “I get that. But too much self-belief and you forget humility. You start thinking every idea you touch is genius. And that’s when you stop listening — to the audience, to the team, to reality.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But if you stop believing in your vision, then what’s left? Advertising — hell, art itself — is built on people stubborn enough to say, ‘I know better.’ Without that chip, Jack, there’s no fire.”

Host: The city lights outside pulsed, their glow slipping through the blinds like restless thought. The two of them sat in silence for a moment — the silence of people who understood each other too well to agree easily.

Jack: “You know who you remind me of? Ogilvy. The man built an empire out of ideas, but behind his charm, he was ruthless. He said confidence sells — not just products, but people. You sound just like that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe arrogance isn’t the opposite of humility — maybe it’s the armor humility wears when it’s tired of being ignored.”

Host: Jack laughed, quietly, not mockingly this time. The sound was low and human, breaking through the static hum of ambition. He picked up one of the award plaques and set it down again, gently this time — like a truce.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you? That this chip — this attitude — keeps the soul alive in an industry built on selling illusions?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because sometimes illusion is the only language truth can sneak through.”

Host: A long pause. The clock ticked again. Outside, the first hints of dawn began to touch the horizon, painting the city in faint streaks of amber and steel. The office lights dimmed automatically — as if surrendering to the morning.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, maybe you’re right. Maybe the only real freedom left here is how you wear your chains. Some wear them politely. Some pretend they don’t exist. And some — like you — turn them into jewelry.”

Jeeny: “And you, Jack — you keep them polished.”

Host: They both laughed, soft and sincere. The sunlight broke through the window, washing the glass walls in gold. The city stirred awake — cars honking, phones buzzing, a thousand lives beginning another day of commerce and creation.

Jack stood, gathering his papers, the weariness in his eyes now tempered with a strange peace.

Jack: “Alright, Jeeny. Let’s make the next pitch less of a yes-sir and more of a maybe-not.”

Jeeny: “That’s the spirit. One small rebellion at a time.”

Host: As they walked out of the room, the poster on the wall — “Say yes first. Think later.” — caught the first beam of sunlight. For a brief moment, the word YES seemed to fade, leaving only THINK glowing against the golden light.

And in that fleeting image — that accidental truth — the industry’s arrogance, ambition, and art all found their uneasy, brilliant balance.