A Winter Dream

by Richard Paul Evans

  “I didn’t order the—”

  “I know,” she said. “I’m not charging you for it. It’s the end of the night so I was about to throw it out anyway. You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to.”

  “No, it looks good. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She walked back to the counter and set back to work. I slowly sipped my coffee, examining my surroundings. The place was clean, its sky blue walls decorated with simply framed portraits, some black and white photographs, some sketches or drawings. I recognized some of the faces, like Ronald Reagan, John Belushi, Raquel Welch, Walt Disney and Robin Williams. But there were more I didn’t recognize. I tried to figure out what they had in common, but the connection eluded me.

  The diner was quiet. There was no music playing, no noise at all except the sound of the woman putting things away behind the counter.

  I asked, “Are you always this slow?”

  She gave me a strange look.

  “I mean, the shop. Not you.”

  “No. We’re closed.”

  “What time do you close?”

  “Midnight.”

  I looked down at my watch. It was eleven-forty. “It’s still twenty to,” I said.

  “It’s twenty to one,” she replied.

  I looked back down at my watch. I’d forgotten to change it with the time change. “Sorry. I’m on the wrong time zone.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “So it was already midnight when I came in,” I said.

  “I forgot to lock the door.”

  “Thanks for letting me in.”

  “It’s okay.”

  I heard the ring of a cash drawer. “Would you mind paying now so I can close out the till?”

  “Not at all.” I pulled out my wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Five. Two for the coffee. Three for the pastry.”

  “But . . .”

  “I’m just kidding. Two dollars.”

  I walked over to the counter and handed her a five anyway. “Keep the change.”

  She took the money. “A three-dollar tip for a two-dollar coffee?”

  “That’s for staying open late.”

  “Thanks. You said you’re on a different time zone?”

  “I just flew in.”

  “Is this your first time at Mr. G’s?”

  I nodded. “Yes. I just moved here.”

  “How long ago?”

  “About eight hours.”

  “You are fresh. Where did you come from?”

  “The west. Denver.”

  “I’m from Utah.”

  “Utah,” I said. “I’ve been to Salt Lake City at least a dozen times. We had a client there. Beautiful city.”

  “I’m not from Salt Lake,” she said. “I’m from southern Utah.”

  “I’ve been there too. The St. George area?”

  “Not too far from there.”

  “There’s some beautiful scenery in that area, Zion National Park, Bryce Canyon, the Grand Canyon.”

  “Yes there is,” she said. “And lots of tourists.”

  “What brought you to Chicago?” I asked.

  “I needed a change of scenery. How about you? Work?”

  “Yes.” Then I added sardonically, “. . . And family.” I gestured to the portraits. “So, I’ve been trying to figure out what all these people on the walls have in common.”

  “They’re all famous people from Chicago.”

  “Oh,” I said. “That makes sense. But I can’t figure out who some of them are.” I pointed to a picture of a middle-aged man with short auburn hair and wire-rimmed glasses.

  “That’s Robert Zemeckis. He’s a film director.”

  “Right,” I said. “He made Back to the Future.”

  She shrugged. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “You’ve never seen Back to the Future?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “With Christopher Lloyd and Michael J. Fox?”

  She shook her head again.

  I looked at her quizzically. “How could you not have heard of Back to the Future?”

  “I’m not much into movies,” she said.

  “All right,” I said, pointing to another picture. “Who’s that guy?”

  “Edgar Rice Burroughs. He wrote Tarzan.”

  “Do you know everyone in here?”

  “Everyone except you.”

  “I’m Joseph.”

  “Nice to meet you, Joseph. I’m April.”

  I took another sip of my coffee. “April. Were you born in April?”

  “No, but my sister was.” She paused. “Her name is June.”

  I grinned. “And you were born in June?”

  “No, my brother August was. I was born in August.”

  I laughed. “You’re making this up.”

  “Nope. It’s the honest truth.”

  “April, June and August. Any other months?”

  “I also have a sister named January.”

  “It’s a good thing your family isn’t as big as mine.”

  She gave me an amused look. “And why is that?”

  “You’d run out of months,” I said. “There are thirteen of us.”

  She didn’t overreact to the number like most people did. “That’s a big family,” she said.

  “Actually, it’s four families. My father’s been married four times.”

  “Where do you fall in the lineup?”

  “Last wife, second-to-the-last kid. I have a younger brother.”

  “You’re almost the baby,” she said. She glanced over my shoulder. “Your coffee’s getting cold. Hand me your cup and I’ll freshen it for you.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said. “I’m sorry, I’ve kept you late enough.”

  She pulled a strand of hair back from her face. Her eyes looked tired but were still soft and kind. For a moment I just stared at her. “That’s okay,” she said. “I still need to record the receipts. Get your coffee.”

  I retrieved my cup. She dumped out the remaining coffee and filled it again, topping it off with milk. “There you are. And no hurry, I’ve still got at least twenty minutes of things to do to close up.”

  “Thank you. I promise I won’t bother you again.”

  “You’re no bother. It’s nice to have company.”

  I carried my cup back to my table while April disappeared through a back door. I continued looking around the room at the portraits, quizzing myself until my coffee was gone. I returned my cup to the counter. “April?”

  She walked out from the back. “Finished?”

  “Yes. I’d just let myself out, but I didn’t want to leave the door unlocked.” I smiled wryly. “You never know who might wander in.”

  She smiled back. “No, you never know. I’ll let you out.”

  I followed her to the door. She unlocked it, then put out her hand. “It was nice meeting you, Joseph. I hope you come back sometime.”

  “It was my pleasure. Thank you for the . . .” I was going to say coffee, instead I said, “. . . kindness.”

  “Kindness,” she echoed. For a moment neither of us moved. She looked at me intently, then said softly, “Do you know you have sad eyes?”

  Her question surprised me. “No. But it’s kind of a hard time.” I turned to go. “Thank you. Good night.”

  I had only taken a step when she said, “Joseph.”

  I turned back.

  “Besides Robert Zemeckis, do you know anyone in Chicago?”

  I shook my head. “Not a soul.”

  “Maybe I could show you around sometime?”

  Her offer surprised me. “I’d like that. When?”

  “What’s your schedule like?”

  “I’m not sure—I’m just starting a new job, but it’s probably the usual nine to five. How about you?”

  “I work every day, but I have the weekends off. How about this Saturday?”

  “Saturday would be good.”<
br />
  “Do you want the day tour of Chicago or the nickel tour?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  She cocked her head. “About three hours.”

  “I’ve got the whole day.”

  “Then it’s the day tour. How about we meet here at nine. I’ll make you breakfast.”

  “That sounds good. Nine it is. I’ll look forward to it.”

  “Me too. Good night, Joseph.”

  “Good night.”

  Buttoning my coat, I stepped out onto the sidewalk. April locked the door behind me. In the time I’d been inside the diner the temperature had noticeably dropped and I walked briskly back to my apartment. Still, as cold as it was, I hardly noticed it. I guess I was pleasantly distracted.

  Unfortunately, reality was still waiting for me back at my apartment and I tossed in bed most of the night. Too many unknowns. Too much to wonder. Too much to fear.

  I wondered if my father would take my disappearance as betrayal or ingratitude. And I wondered if Ben’s guilt would get the better of him and if he’d tell my parents. As lonely and anxious as I was, I hoped he wouldn’t. My father would be furious with Ben, and considering how ruthless he’d been with my brothers of late, there was no telling what he might say or do to them. After all that had happened lately, this might not just destroy the agency, but the family as well. I didn’t want that for my father or them.

  The best thing—the only thing—would be for the brothers to have a change of heart and bring me back home. As I looked up into the darkness, I wondered if that was even possible.

  After a mostly restless night, I woke to the annoying beep of my travel alarm clock. The apartment’s radiator was more bark than bite, and in spite of its incessant groaning and clanking, my apartment was freezing. I dragged myself out of bed and stepped barefoot onto the cold hardwood floor.

  I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. The showerhead emitted a narrow, unsatisfying stream of tepid water.

  I remembered my high school football coach razzing me with “Jacobson, you’re so skinny, you have to run around in the shower to get wet.” That was almost true in this shower, though my weight had nothing to do with it.

  I had forgotten to buy soap, so I stepped out of the shower, only then realizing that I had also forgotten to pack a towel. I walked to the kitchen dripping wet and grabbed the dishwashing soap and paper towels. I washed my hair with the soap, which worked surprisingly well, then wiped myself dry with paper towels.

  The Leo Burnett agency was located on Wacker Drive in Chicago’s main business district, an area nicknamed the “Loop.” It was also just southwest from Michigan Avenue and what Chicagoans call the Magnificent Mile, an upscale section of the city containing department stores, restaurants and hotels.

  When I had called for information on the apartment, Mrs. Walszak had given me directions to the Leo Burnett office. I was told to walk to the Jefferson Park station and take the Blue Line of the ‘L,’ the elevated train, to the Clark/Lake station, which would let me off just a half block from the Leo Burnett building.

  It took me less time to get to work than I had planned, so I got a coffee in the building’s lobby.

  I felt like a kid on the first day of school in a new town. I hoped they played nice.

  CHAPTER

  Ten

  Last night I had a peculiar but hopeful dream. I was in a photo studio. Everything was white and lit so brightly it was difficult to see. Suddenly there was a man wearing an orange suit, orange sneakers and an orange shirt and bow tie. He was leaning against a black cane.

  “Welcome to the first day of your new life,” he said, flipping his cane. “This is where we play hardball.”

  “Do you think I’ll make it?” I asked.

  He looked at me with a wry grin then said, “You can bank on it.”

  Joseph Jacobson’s Diary

  Chicago is home to some of the greatest advertising agencies and admen of all time—pioneers in marketing like Albert Lasker, Fairfax Cone and the great copywriter Claude C. Hopkins.

  These names may mean nothing to you, but they should. These Chicago men defined advertising before the world even knew what it was. They have influenced your life far more than you know, and likely want to believe. For instance, if you drink orange juice, you’ve been affected by Lasker, because before he sold us packaged orange juice, people only ate oranges.

  These legends of marketing have made household names of brands like Goodyear, Van de Kamp’s, Quaker Oats, Marlboro and Palmolive. The fact that many of the campaigns that defined these brands were designed nearly a century ago makes it even more astounding.

  Leo Burnett, the founder of the agency that had hired me, was also one of the pioneers of the field, and the agency that bears his name is legendary. Burnett, who started his agency in the midst of the Great Depression, understood how to reach people through imagery. He gave us cultural icons that survive today: Tony the Tiger, the Pillsbury Doughboy, Charlie Tuna, the Jolly Green Giant and the Marlboro Man. For a young adman, I was walking hallowed halls where the giants of the industry had walked.

  I was stopped near the elevator by a security guard who walked me to the first elevator and rode it with me to the twenty-first floor. “This is your stop,” she said.

  The reception area was contemporary and hip: frosted green glass panels lined the wall, behind a white reception counter nearly 50 feet long seating nine or ten employees. The ceiling was open, exposing ductwork and lighting fixtures, all of which were painted black. On the far end of the counter, hanging from the ceiling, was a pair of eyeglasses 12 feet long, as iconic to Leo Burnett as the cigar was to Churchill.

  At the reception desk, a young Asian woman with a telephone headset and orange hair even shorter than mine, looked up to greet me. “May I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Peter Potts.”

  “May I ask your name?”

  “Joseph Jacobson.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jacobson.” She pressed a button on her phone. A moment later she said to me, “Someone will be right with you. Have a seat, please.”

  A few minutes later a young woman walked around the corner from the far end of the reception area. She was probably a couple years older than me, with long blond hair. She smiled at me as she approached. “Mr. Jacobson?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, standing.

  “I’m Kim. Mr. Potts has been delayed a few minutes. He’s asked me to show you upstairs.”

  The elevator’s ceiling was paneled in colorful stained glass set in a pattern that looked like a Frank Lloyd Wright sketch. We got out on the twenty-seventh floor.

  “This building is the Leo Burnett Worldwide headquarters. We have sixteen floors and more than seventeen hundred employees. Twenty-seven is one of our creative floors.”

  Kim led me into a large open office space, a jungle of cubicles, each individually decorated to show its tenant’s creativity and personality—the Monopoly guy, a jungle, a collector of superhero figurines, and a Wizard of Oz fan. One cubicle was simply painted with jail bars.

  “Here’s your desk,” Kim said, leading me to a plain cubicle. “I’ll call you when Mr. Potts arrives.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  After she’d gone, I looked over my small, austere cubicle. I sat down and sighed. Back in Denver I had had a private office. One of many changes, I thought.

  Painted in rainbow colors on the wall across from me was:

  We are

  eternal

  students of

  human

  behavior

  “You’re the new guy,” a thin, tinny voice said behind me. I turned around to see a man leaning against my cubicle. He was tall and blond, with a slight underbite. I pegged him at a year or two younger than me. He wore John Lennonish, wire-rimmed glasses.

  “I’m Len,” he said. “Abbreviated Leonard. Senior writer. Call me Len.”

  “Joseph,” I said.

  “No,” he said. “It�
��s Len.”

  “No, I’m Joseph.”

  “Right,” he said. “Joe.”

  I’d never really liked being called Joe, and outside of my father, no one did. “Joseph,” I repeated. “Or J.J.”

  “J.J. What are you, a rapper?” He pulled a chair from an empty desk across from mine and sat down, looking me over.

  “Nice suit,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  “No one wears suits here. Not in this century.”

  “Noted.”

  “Where are you from, J.J.?”

  “Denver.”

  “Go Broncos. I still miss Elway. What agency?”

  “A regional firm. Jacobson Advertising.”

  “Never heard of it,” he said. “So this is your first time adrift in the big sea.” He leaned in closer. “Let me tell you how we sail in the Windy City. If you want to survive, put in your time, keep sharp and stay below the radar. Potts is a beast. Creative, good at his job, but a beast. Have you met him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Be warned, he believes it necessary to sacrifice a writer from time to time pour l’encouragement des autres.”

  I tilted my head. “. . . To encourage the others?”

  “Exactemente, mon ami,” Leonard replied. “You speak French?”

  “Just what I learned in high school,” I said. I looked at him as he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “What if you want to do more than just survive?”

  Leonard shook his head. “Ambitious. Good for you. Get over it. The rest of the writers will hate you and they’ll offer you up to Potts as a sacrificial lamb.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I said.

  “Be careful or be gone,” Leonard said. He grinned. “Not a bad line. I’m going to hang on to that.” Then his eyes flashed and he abruptly stood and walked away. Actually, he fled. I turned back to see a man walking from the main hallway toward my cubicle. He was tall, 6 feet 3 or so, muscular and bald. He wore a black silk T-shirt beneath a silver jacket. His gaze was on me.

  “Are you Jacobson?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Come with me.”

  I guessed he was Potts. “Yes, sir,” I said. I stood and followed him. He walked to a corner office at the end of a long row of cubicles. The walls of his office were decorated with framed print ads. He sat down behind a large glass desk, eyeing me grimly. “Shut the door.”