Tonight marks the TV debut of the Delmont commercial. The moment the crew wrapped, Landon raced back to the apartment, dying to see the finished spot.
Though Delmont ranks among the top canning giants, its brand core has always revolved around fruit, vegetables, and tomato products; tinned meats are only an extension. This year, however, Delmont plans to pour far more money into canned meat.
The field is cut-throat, and Delmont faces several heavyweight rivals.
Hormel's flagship, SPAM, is the undisputed king of canned meats in North America, practically synonymous with "luncheon meat." Its brand loyalty and market share are miles ahead of Delmont's.
Libby's, like Delmont, is famous for canned produce—especially pumpkin—but its corned beef is its signature meat item, ruling that niche and posing another formidable challenge.
Then there's Armour, a classic heritage label built around canned hams and luncheon meats (think Armour Star). Its Potted Meat is a staple, the brand is old-school and affordable, and it enjoys fierce loyalty among traditional shoppers.
ConAgra, Campbell's, and others also compete, directly or indirectly, with Delmont's luncheon meat.
After news broke of Landon hurling a can to save a life, Delmont's marketing team seized the moment and signed him to star in a campaign, hoping to crack the luncheon-meat segment wide open.
For a rookie actor like Landon, it was a windfall from heaven.
The fee couldn't match what A-listers command, but for a newcomer exposure trumps paychecks.
Once the spot airs, nearly every American viewer will know Landon's face—and crucially, it's scheduled to run in the slots before season-six episodes of Friends, though not from the premiere.
Twelve episodes of Friends season six have already aired; the ad will debut with episode thirteen, which hits screens at eight o'clock tonight.
When Landon stepped inside the apartment, the scene stopped him short.
Tracy was carrying a salad bowl from the kitchen, wearing Rachel's sunflower-print apron. Rachel, up on tiptoe, rummaged through the cupboard, muttering, "I know we had a few blue ones left…"
Back!" Tracy spotted him first, face lighting up.
She set the salad down and hurried over, slipping her arms around Landon.
She wore a beige knit today, hair loosely twisted up, a faint scent of perfume rising from her skin.
Before Landon could speak, Rachel peeked out. "Hey! Perfect timing—dinner's almost ready."
She came over too, hugging him a fraction longer before letting go. "How was it? Exhausting?"
Pretty smooth," Landon said, circling her waist, breathing in the fresh scent of her hair, feeling the day's fatigue melt away.
He rattled off the day's on-set anecdotes and the director's praise.
Rachel's eyes shone as if the compliments had been hers: "I knew you'd nail it! You must be magnetic on camera, Landon."
Landon tossed his jacket over a chair. "Tracy, when did you get here?" he asked, eyeing the two who might as well be sisters.
Honestly, he still found the whole thing surreal.
Tracy—his Agent—was professional, sharp, and moved like lightning, plus they shared a certain undefined chemistry.
Rachel was already living with him, and now she'd signed with Tracy too.
By rights the dynamic should have been messy, yet somehow the women acted like lifelong sisters.
When Rachel inked her acting contract last week, Landon had braced for awkwardness.
Instead, Tracy whisked her off to a department store; they came back loaded with bags, Rachel sporting a new hairstyle.
That night they'd laughed in the living Room until two a.m.; Landon could hear them from his Room.
Go wash up," Tracy nudged him. "Forty minutes till the ad. We made pasta—Rachel swears you love her Bolognese.
Secret family recipe," Rachel boasted, chin lifted, ducking back into the kitchen.
Landon grinned and headed for the bathroom.
Passing the dining table he spotted three place settings, scented candles,
and a small bouquet stuck in a glass jar.
All this… he shook his head. It's just a commercial premiere.
Dinner felt so relaxed they forgot the day's grind. The Bolognese was legit—Rachel had a knack, or maybe her mom had taught her well. Sweetheart of tomorrow, wizard in the kitchen.
Somehow the talk turned to makeup.
I told you that new foundation's garbage," Rachel waved her fork. "It separates in two hours. My old pick is still the best."
But my skin runs dry," Tracy countered. "Your pick flakes on me. I've been using this—" She fished a tiny bottle from her tote. "Try it; the hydration's amazing."
Landon ate in silence, lost in talk of coverage, wear-time, oxidation—no entry point for him.
He glanced at Tracy's bag—Goodfellas, a veritable treasure chest: cosmetics, contracts, spare batteries, chargers, even a protein-bar box once.
He might as well have been furniture.
After dinner Rachel cleared dishes while Landon and Tracy settled on the couch. Tracy kicked off her heels, tucked her legs up—suddenly looking years younger.
Oh, heads-up," she smoothed her hair. "The Marie Claire proofs should arrive the day after tomorrow."
Landon nodded. He remembered the shoot—eight hours, seven outfits, face frozen from smiling.
So… just the stipend? No other fees?
Fashion mags work that way," Tracy shrugged. "Especially a cover-tier shoot. But exposure's priceless. Fifty grand isn't huge, but it's solid for where you are."