by Don Potter
American music was changing, cultures were suddenly thrown together and those of us listening seemed willing to change with it. I would tap the steering wheel as I listened and sang along to Rock Around the Clock, Shake, Rattle and Roll, Sh-Boom, and many others.
Before Debby left for college, we pledged to be true to each other, even though our summer romance was not like the year before. Once we both got situated into college life in Boston and here in Pittsburgh things were bound to improve, I hoped.
To keep the fires stoked, I wrote to Debby several times a week and called her on weekends. She was not much of a letter writer, so this effort soon petered out. I kept calling Debby, but the conversations were one-sided with me doing most of the talking. It seemed as if we were through, but I did not accept it until she came home one weekend and gave me the official word. An unexpected benefit to this withered romance was that my mind was suddenly free to focus on other things. Getting my health back and then going on to Columbia were my top priorities for now, and nothing was going to distract me from achieving my goals.
The weekend Debby told me it was over, I took off the fender skirts, chrome hub caps and other accessories that I thought customized my ’41 Ford and brought attention to me. I kept the whitewalls. Other than that, the car looked like one any other freshman at Pitt might drive. I started to make friends, both male and female, before the Christmas break and was invited to several parties over the holidays. This, along with the fact that I was feeling healthier, was a positive end to what had been at best a most interesting year — a year in which I had far too many maturing experiences for a kid my age. You could say I was humbled without having to be totally humiliated.
6
“Rock n’ Roll” is all the rage. Color TV makes its debut. Rob is healing, meets a new girl, and gets a taste of what it’s like to work for an ad agency. But there’s disturbing news about Debby.
* * *
Pittsburgh’s Renaissance project was well underway. Dad brought home a Westinghouse color television set. And I had my own plans, since I was feeling a whole lot better. The treatment along with food, exercise and sleep regimen were paying off, but my social life needed help. I needed a girlfriend.
While deciding how to meet girls on campus for someone who was a townie, I ran at my old high school’s outdoor track and worked out at the school’s gym. One day I met a couple of attractive senior girls jogging around the track, Nancy and Carol. And while the thought of dating someone in high school had not occurred to me because I was a college guy, they seemed impressed by my university status.
I offered to drive them both home after my workout, and we stopped for cokes on the way.
Carol lived closer to my house, so I said, “If you have time want to ride along while I drop off Nancy then I’ll take you home?”
“Sounds great,” Nancy answered for Carol. “I already have a boyfriend. She doesn’t.”
Carol and I both blushed.
“Don’t mind her, she’s always trying to fix me up,” Carol said with a smile.
“She must be a good friend.”
“The best.”
On the ride Nancy told me about everything happening at my old high school. She knew everything about everybody and saw no reason to keep any of this information to herself. After dropping her off, I tried to play the “Joe College” role but it felt phony, so I simply asked Carol, “Would you like to go out sometime?”
“Sure. When?”
“Uh, how about Saturday?”
“That would be great.”
“Good, I’ll call you,” I said when I dropped her off. As I was leaving she tapped on the window.
“Don’t you want my phone number?” she asked and wrote it on a slip of paper.
I drove away thinking what a dork I was.
Saturday went well, and soon Carol and I were seeing each other on weekends. Nothing steady, just Saturday nights with an occasional Sunday afternoon drive thrown in. She was different from Debby, not as much kissing and hugging and definitely no sex. That was okay since I wasn’t ready for that kind of relationship quite yet. I had learned that getting too close hurt too much at the end.
One date night we were having a burger and a shake after a movie in town, and she hit me with a question from left field. “Did you and Debby ever have sex?”
“What brought that on?”
“Well, did you?”
“Debby and I are history. So, why would you bring up something like that?”
“Because she’s “PQ.”
“What?”
“PQ. The rabbit died. Knocked up. Pregnant.”
“Who told you?”
“Nancy Gates. Who else?”
“Yeah, she seems to know everything about everybody.”
“Her mother is good friends with Debby’s mother. They were at some affair and Debby’s mom got a little drunk and told her all about it. Debby is getting married next month and will be living in Boston with her soon-to-be husband.”
“There goes her dream of being a doctor.”
“That’s unkind. Don’t you have any compassion?”
“She didn’t have any compassion when she dumped me for the other guy.”
“Could the baby be yours?”
“Debby and I haven’t seen each other for many months.”
“So you two did do it.”
“What difference does that make?”
“I just wanted to be sure. She was pretty hot stuff. Her reputation was one of being fast and loose.”
“Never heard anything like that.”
“You weren’t listening or were oblivious to what was going on.”
“Hey, she was good for me at the time.”
“Did she teach you a lot?”
That question rang a promising little bell in my head. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just curious.”
“Why just curious?” The bell was louder and the promise stronger.
“I just want to make sure you know what to do before we do it. It’s time to stop being ‘Miss Goody Two-Shoes.’ There’s only thing nobody, that’s me, gets pregnant. Understood?”
“And I guess your friend Nancy put you up to this too.”
“Of course. They don’t call Nancy Gates ‘Swinging Gates’ for nothing,” Carol said with a wicked smile.
The relationship changed once sex was introduced into the equation. Carol became clingy and, although I always used protection, something I was not diligent about with Debby, now I was afraid of the pregnancy possibility, even with a rubber.
Carol’s parents were taking her on a tour of Europe in the summer before starting at Skidmore in the fall, and I had nothing to do all summer. The prospect of working at the supermarket was pretty dull, but it meant money even though I would have preferred something better.
One night during dinner, Dad asked me, “Do you have plans for the summer?”
“I was thinking of seeing if Thorofare was hiring.”
“How’d you like to work at an advertising agency?”
“You mean write ad copy?”
“I doubt if you’ll be doing much of that, but you could learn how it all works.”
“How much does it pay?”
“That’s the rub. It’s an unpaid internship.”
“I can’t afford to work for nothing. I need some spending money.”
“Westinghouse has an intern scholarship fund. I submitted your name and you were one of those selected. They’ll pay you forty dollars a week for ten weeks to learn about advertising,” Dad said looking pleased that he was able to help me.
“What agency?”
“Pittsburgh’s best, Carlson/Andrews. They do the ads for Westinghouse as well as many of the other companies in town. So what do you say?”
“Wow. This could be fun. Thanks, Dad. Who knows, maybe I’ll like being an adman.”
It is amazing how things turn out
if you stop messing with them long enough to let all the elements fall into place. My first day at C/A was filled with anticipation. Dad dropped me off at Gateway 2 where the agency occupied the top two floors. He planned to pick me up after work since his office was in another Gateway Center building.
First stop was the personnel department. After filling out some forms, I was given a book about the agency and escorted to meet a Miss Roman at an office located at the other end of the floor. To get there I was escorted by a string of offices where writers with typewriters and artists with drawing boards sat. Some were working, others were talking with people or on the phone, and a number of them where just gazing out the window. I assumed the latter were probably trying to get inspired by the view of the Golden Triangle and the confluence of the three rivers, which was a spectacular sight.
Miss Roman stood like a sentinel at the door of the corner office beyond the maze of workers. The greeting from her, a schoolteacher-like woman in her fifties, was more correct than cordial.
“You, Mister Fleming, will first learn how to move the work between the account group and the creative department. If you can master that, the next step will be to act as a substitute for people in the traffic department who are on vacation over the next ten weeks. I will introduce you to Mister Gardner, your summer supervisor. Please come with me.”
We walked back down the hall and into an open bullpen area. She made a quick introduction to my new boss and left without saying any more.
“Call me Ed,” Gardner said. “Rita Roman is old school; always goes by the book. Don’t let her see you putting the make on any of the secretaries or she’ll explode and you’ll vanish.”
“Is she the creative director?” I asked.
Ed let out a deep laugh. “Are you serious? She’s old man Carlson’s secretary and the agency’s chief of police. All new hires get to meet her before starting to work. If she doesn’t scare them off, they get to stay. Do they call you Robert, Bob, or what?” he said while looking over my personal information he retrieved from the envelope Miss Roman gave him.
“Everyone calls me Rob.”
“I won’t break precedent and call you Wilbur, so it’s Rob as you prefer” he said with a chuckle.
The contrast between Ed and the not-so-friendly Miss Roman was like day and night. I had no desire to have any run-ins with her.
“Let’s go downstairs to the coffee shop and have a cup of something they try to pass off as coffee. I want us to get to know each other a little before getting into the nuts and bolts of the business.”
I was disappointed that I would not be writing copy, but Ed assured me that working in the traffic department was the best way to learn how an advertising agency functions. The rest of the conversation became a learning session about Ed Gardner. Ed was twenty-two, not married and lived with his parents. He was committed to pursuing a career in advertising but could not afford college, so he was taking night classes. Ed hoped to be an account executive some day by being the best traffic guy, right now. I was impressed.
Ed was always helpful and a good teacher because he taught by example. He also had an unwavering positive attitude. If I did not learn anything else, this would have been worth the entire summer experience.
Just before the ten-week internship ended, I was asked to stay on for three more weeks to cover for the shorthanded staffing situation. This time the agency was paying me. The people in the personnel department told me the caliber of my work, along with Ed Gardner’s sterling recommendation were responsible for the offer. I gladly accepted.
I had a non-existent love life with Carol gone for the summer. I met a couple of girls at the agency, but they were too old for me. Besides, I did not want to incur the wrath of Miss Roman, so I remained the friendly summer intern and did my job.
Our family doctor suggested that my acute hyperglycemia might have been brought on by my teenage body’s chemistry changes and compounded by some self-induced stress. But I was progressing and this encouraged me to re-apply to journalism schools. It would remain my secret until one or more of the schools accepted my request for transfer.
The only issue was ex-girlfriend Debby, whose name came up while having dinner with my parents. “I was having lunch at the country club recently and your ex-girlfriend’s name came up,” Mom said.
“Oh,” I said, trying to be uninterested, knowing she usually started off slow and built up momentum when trying to get to the bottom of something that was troubling her. I sensed what was coming and braced myself for lots of probing, uncomfortable questions.
“Word’s going around that Debby is pregnant and that’s why she was in a hurry to get married. Since she has not been seen around here in months, this can’t be confirmed, but no one’s denying it either. What have you heard?”
“Nothing. Who would talk to me about it?” I thought answering a question with a question was a pretty slick way to avoid the issue.
“The rumor, which may actually be news, has traveled from her parent’s club to ours and now it’s all over Fox Chapel. Since you two were an item for a couple of years, I’m surprised the story hasn’t reached you.”
“I’ve been busy at the agency.”
“Come on,” my father chimed in. “No one’s accusing you of anything. Should they?”
“Hey, we broke up last year. Or I should say she broke up with me. I had nothing to do with her, ah, her condition. What brought this on?”
“Debby’s life has changed forever, because she put the pleasure of the moment ahead of the unintended consequences her actions could bring,” Mom said in an unsteady voice.
“Your mother’s right. A foolish moment can dash all your dreams, all that you have worked for, and all the sacrifices that were made.”
Dad seemed to be reciting something he had read and they were both being too dramatic for me. I had to get out from all this weight, so I responded as strongly as I could. “Is this about Debby being pregnant or is it about me?”
“Don’t try to turn things around. This is simply a family discussion,” Mom said, looking as though she was about to cry.
“It’s about you,” Dad said. “We’re not asking what went on with Debby, but we’re saying you should always be selective as well as careful. That’s all for now.”
I took the hint, beat it out of there, and headed for the racquetball court. On the way, I concluded I was too old to be living at home and that going away to college was the answer. After all, my nineteenth birthday was coming up in November.
I was scheduled to start back at Pitt a week after my last day at the ad agency. On my final day at Carlson/Andrews, they asked if I would like to come back and be on their payroll next summer. My answer was an enthusiastic yes. What a terrific send off!
My birthday and Thanksgiving came and went without incident. Everything was on track at school, so the only thing causing any angst was waiting to hear about the status of my college transfer applications. At the same time, an interesting story hit the news in a big way. I wrote about it in my journal, which I had been doing since a professor I admired reiterated what a high school teacher said about how important it was to record one’s thoughts, observations, and feelings on a regular basis.
On December 1, in Montgomery, Alabama, a Negro, Rosa Parks, refused to give up her seat on a bus to a white person. The city had a segregation system that required Negros to enter buses by the rear door and sit in the back until there were no more empty seats. If a Caucasian boarded a Negro must relinquish their seat and stand. The forty-two year old seamstress was arrested, appeared before a judge four days later and was fined $10 plus court costs of $4, which was appealed.
On the drive back to Pitt, I was listening to Joni James singing I’ll Remember Christmas and You. I was lonely and yearning for some female companionship. I was invited to a slew of holiday parties, some at school and others in Fox Chapel. I went to several of them, hoping to meet someone. No such luck.
> Joni’s song was over and the next tune was Fats Domino’s, not Pat Boone’s cover version, Ain’t That a Shame.
7
The nation’s largest labor unions, AFL and CIO, merge. President Eisenhower signs the Interstate Highway Act. Elvis Presley’s Heartbreak Hotel soars on the music charts. And Rob must face his parents about going to an out-of-town college.
* * *
Christmas vacation was over, it was 1956 and I was back in my college classrooms all too quickly. The big thing on the horizon was the disposition of my transfer requests and how I was going to sell my parents on going away to school, since they had settled into the notion that I would be home throughout my college years, and maybe beyond.
Then an envelope from the University of Pennsylvania arrived at the house. It was waiting for me, unopened, when I sat down to eat with my parents that night. I had no choice but to open it. I nervously slid my dinner knife across the flap.
“Were you expecting something from Penn?” Mom asked.
“As a matter of fact I was,” I said as I unfolded the letter, and decided valor was better than discretion. “And from Columbia and Northwestern, as well.”
“Already considering graduate work possibilities?” Dad framed the question in a way that gave me some wiggle room, which might be needed.
I read the short letter and said, “No, I’m looking forward to transferring to a university with a journalism program. And Penn has accepted me.”
“But your illness,” Mom was quick to say.
“I’m fine and my stress has been under control for the better part of a year. No reason for me to be locked into Pittsburgh for the rest of my life.”