by Don Potter
“What will you do?”
“I have almost a year worth of ideas that ended up in the trash can. Aside from some of the bank stuff, I don’t have much that’s good enough to put in my sample book or add to my reel.”
“Then quit.”
“Just like that?”
“How good an adman are you, Rob? And no false modesty.”
“Pretty damn good.”
“Then you’ll be snapped up.”
“But just leave without a job to go to?”
“I repeat, how good an adman are you?”
“Pretty damn good.”
I stayed through the summer and into the fall. None of the job interviews ended with offers. Going to the office was in some was worse than the fighting back at C/A. But I hung in remembering what my dad said, “Don’t quit your job until you have a new one.”
22
President Kennedy is assassinated. George Wallace promises segregation now, segregation tomorrow, and segregation forever. Betty Friedan publishes The Feminine Mystic. Johnny Carson is a hit on the Tonight Show. And Rob goes job hunting.
* * *
Shelly’s parents had a party every New Years Eve and we were expected to attend, although I wanted to spend a quiet evening at home or at her place. Being out of work and pretending to celebrate was not what I had in mind, but tradition prevailed.
The Sterns lived in a beautiful brownstone on a tree-lined street in the most fashionable part of the Upper West Side of Manhattan, not far from the Columbia University campus. The home was in the perfect setting and the inside looked as if it was the home of a noted and independently wealthy Ivy League professor, which it was.
We were in the library having a drink when Shelly said, “There’s someone I want you to meet. Don’t move, I’ll get him and be right back.”
She hurried off and returned with a slightly overweight artsy looking guy of about forty.
“This is Steven Snyder,” she said. “Steven, I want you to meet Madison Avenue’s next great copywriter, Rob Fleming.”
Without allowing either of us to say a word, she continued, “Steven is an art director turned associate creative director at Doyle, Dane, Bernbach. He’s won lots of awards for VW, Avis, Polaroid and other clients. I told him about the things you did when you were at Carlson/Andrews and that you’re ready to move from Bates to a super creative shop like DDB.”
“Guess my agent gave you the elevator pitch about me. Nice to meet you, Mr. Snyder.”
“Steve, please. Shelly has a high opinion of you, and I of her.”
“Talk to each other about advertising,” Shelly said. “I need to get Bubbe drunk. Maybe that will quiet her down.” She left us in search of alcohol and her grandmother.
“Quite a woman you’ve got there,” Steve said.
“I think so.”
“Let’s not mix business with a good party,” Steve said and handed me a card. “Call me. I’d love to talk further with you.”
“I will.”
And I did. We set up an appointment to meet at his office the end of the week.
At DDB I was greeted by Steve and immediately ushered into Bill Bernbach’s office. He was the head of the agency as well as the top creative guy there and something of a living legend in the business. I was more enthralled than nervous. However, when Steve left us alone, I was suddenly scared to death.
“I am familiar with some of your work. It’s very impressive,” he said.
“There’s more,” I said pointing to the material I brought in my sample case for the meeting.
“Don’t need it. Mary Parsons is an old friend. She says you are going to be one of the best. And the Stern family vouches for your personal integrity. You ready to move to another agency?”
“I want in here.”
“You’re in. Steve will go over the details with you – salary, account assignments, those sorts of things – and you can join us two weeks from Monday. I look forward to working with you.” He rose and took me to the door. Steve Snyder was seated in the waiting area leafing through a copy of Life Magazine. He grinned.
In less than an hour I was officially hired with a fifteen percent salary increase over what I was making at Bates and assigned to Lever Brothers’ Wisk, Ward Baking’s Tip Top Bread and Liebmann Brewery’s Rheingold Beer.
It was gratifying when Tip Top Bread approved my concept of the two kids (one white, one Black) swapping sandwiches. And things got better, because the New York Chapter of Racial Equality convinced Lever that they needed to produce a TV commercial for network airing with a white and Black kid at play. The client selected Wisk liquid laundry detergent as the brand for this experiment. I was pushed into action because of my apparent sensitivity for dealing with integrated situations in commercials. Within days of this decision, the agency got tons of publicity and my name and photo appeared in several articles, as did a couple of my carefully rehearsed quotes.
At the next Passover Seder, I was treated almost as one of the family. Even though Shelly’s Bubbe was on her good behavior, I caught several of her disdainful looks and recognized a couple of slurs thanks to my recently purchased Yiddish dictionary. Throughout the gathering the family talked about the Black struggle around the world, the danger of nuclear weapons, and the impact of Betty Friedan’s book. There was also a brief exchange about my job.
“I hear you are doing well at DDB,” Professor Stern said when he and I had coffee alone in the library after dinner.
“Shelly told you?”
“No, Bill Bernbach did.”
“You know the head of the agency?”
“I know the heads of several ad agencies, but Bill has been a personal friend for many years. He has been a guest lecturer for me at Columbia, even though Bill’s alma mater is NYU.” This was as close to a joke as one could expect from Shelly’s father.
“Glad he’s pleased with my work.”
“He says you have a natural flair for telling the simple truth in your copywriting. Are you happy there?”
“Very happy. The agency’s creative climate brings out the best in everyone.”
“I read the Times article about the breakthrough you made using inter-racial situations in ads. Nicely done. I would like to know how well this translates into positive consumer attitudes on behalf of the clients. Perhaps you might speak to my students about it someday.”
“I would like that,” I replied, thinking someday could be a long way off.
Independence Day found Shelly and me relaxing while floating in a rowboat on the lake at the Sterns’ Catskill cabin. We drifted to a quiet cove, unfolded a blanket and ate a picnic lunch. I lay back next to Shelly, closed my eyes and listened to the wind murmuring in the trees.
“I love this place,” she said. “And I love you.”
“I love you, sweetheart. What do you say we get married?”
She turned toward me and peeled open one of my eyelids. “What did you say?”
“I said I wonder if you know the name of a good proctologist.”
“Rob!”
I opened both eyes and grinned at her. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes, oh yes.”
“Okay.”
“There’s something we need to talk about first.”
“The Jewish-Goyish thing?”
“No. The Stern finances.”
I sat up. “Explain what you mean.”
“Our family inherited a large amount of money. It’s in a trust fund. I got a lump sum when I turned twenty-one and I get a monthly allowance. That’s how I can afford the apartment, the clothes, and all the good things in life – none of which would be possible on a school employee’s salary.”
“You talking about a pre-nup?”
“I’m not, but our attorney will want you to sign a prenuptial agreement.”
“You mean your father will ask the lawyer to ask me to sign it. Right?”
“Sounds like you
’ve been through this before,” she said and offered a nervous laugh to break the growing tension.
“Not before, and I don’t want to be going through it now. I love you; and if you love me, then let’s get married. We’ll work out the details as we go along.”
“If just the two of us were involved, I’d say okay. But I come from a family steeped in tradition, and we can’t treat the situation lightly.”
“Or you’ll be disinherited.”
“That’s unkind.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“Yes, I would be totally disinherited, but more importantly I would be disowned as if I never existed and that would kill me.” Shelly began to cry.
“We’ll make it work,” I said and took Shelly in my arms to comfort her. When the tears stopped, I kissed her on the cheek and asked, “Is there anything else you need to tell me?”
“Yes. I love you.”
I called my parents as soon as I got back to my apartment. “Don’t make plans for the weekend before Christmas. I’m getting married on that Saturday.”
“To Shelly?”
“She’s the lucky lady.”
“Isn’t she Jewish?” Mom asked.
“What difference does that make?”
“I didn’t think that Jewish people married on Saturday.”
“Come on, Mom, what’s the rest of your question?”
“Are you converting?” Dad asked.
“No, I’m still a loyal Presbyterian.”
“What happens if you have children?”
“They will be your grandchildren,” I said.
“Oh.” She stopped the interrogation for the moment but we both knew there would be more to come.
“Isn’t anyone going to congratulate me?”
“Of course, son. If you’re happy we’re happy.”
“Yes, best wishes. Now tell us all the details,” Mom said sounding as if she partially accepted the situation, at least for the time being.
President Kennedy was killed by a gunman while visiting Dallas, Texas with his wife, Jackie. My boss and I watched the reporting on the TV in his office. We then wandered from bar to bar and got quietly drunk. That Sunday we had brunch at Shelly’s parents’ house and had the television on just to see if there were new developments in the assignation story. Suddenly a second gunman came out of the crowd of reporters in the Dallas jail and killed Lee Harvey Oswald, the man who supposedly killed JFK. The nation was in mourning, and the pain continued well beyond the funeral.
On the evening of December 21st Shelly and I became husband and wife. The wedding went well and I was impressed by how many influential friends the Sterns had invited. After a week in Jamaica, we returned to the city tan and generally radiant. I went back to the office. Shelly had the school holidays off, so she tried to get the apartment in order. Her place was bigger and better than mine, so she had my things and the wedding gifts to deal with. Hopefully that would be completed before she returned to work.
Pittsburgh, being a working town, was heavily Democratic, while my family, except for Grandpa, voted Republican. We rarely discussed politics. Not so at the Stern home, there everything was discussed with great passion. They especially felt the time was long overdue to solve the plight of Black-Americans. Four in ten Americans were poor and nearly a third of all poor people were Black. The Sterns believed getting Blacks out of poverty was a good start, and education should be the next priority. Not being as up to date on the issues as the Sterns and their friends, I kept my mouth closed, except for offering an occasional smile or a nod of my head.
Shelly kissed my cheek and leaned her head on my shoulder on the cab ride home. “Wasn’t that a great discussion?”
“It was more like a political rally.”
“You can expect a lot more of those in future.”
“Politics is not my thing.”
“Now that you’re in the Stern family, it will be.”
23
Beatlemania arrives in the USA. President Johnson announces his “War on Poverty”. The Post Office drops Zones in favor of ZIP codes. Hello Dolly hits Broadway. Candy bars and gum cost a nickel; soft drinks, phone calls and newspapers a dime. And Rob gets political.
* * *
I just got home when Shelly burst through the front door. She was disheveled and had a cut over one eye. I followed her to the bathroom as she washed her face and cleaned the wound.
“What happened to you?”
“Half the city’s Black and Puerto Rican students boycotted classes to draw attention to de facto segregation in New York City public schools.”
“One of them hit you?”
“No I was at City Hall demonstrating.”
“That’s when you got hit?”
“We were peaceful.”
“I saw it on the news. It didn’t look all that peaceful to me. So tell me what happened to you?”
“A gang of boys came running through the subway station and knocked me down.”
“Were they Black or Puerto Rican?”
“Why would you ask something like that?”
“Some people go to protests just to make trouble.”
“These boys were white.”
“Doesn’t matter a troublemaker is a troublemaker. Let me look at your eye.”
She leaned back as I reached for her. “It’s just a scratch. I’ll be fine. Stop worrying,” she said.
“Okay, then, what do ya say to a little lasagna over at Frankie’s?”
“Let me repair my face and get comfortable. I won’t be long.”
We ate dinner in silence, until I asked her, “Why put yourself in harm’s way like that?”
“Because I want to. It’s my duty.”
“Shelly, you’re an ardent civil rights supporter and work hard for your students’ every day. Isn’t that duty enough?”
“I can always do more.”
I hesitated. “There’s something I don’t understand. You fight to alleviate suppression in this country but don’t see the need for our sending troops to Vietnam.”
“That’s not the same thing, and you know it.”
“My brother Jimmy thinks it is. He put in for a tour of duty over there. Got this letter from him today. He says keeping Communism from stealing people’s freedom is as important as civil rights are here at home.”
“There’s no way you can compare the United States being in a shooting war in someone else’s country to the war on poverty and the equal rights problem in our own country. You should understand that by now.”
Things were not too busy at work and there was a school holiday, so Shelly and I went to Pittsburgh for a few days. It was the first time we could spend time with my family since the wedding.
My parents were always proper and tried to be nice to others, while approaching life with a tight set of personal behavior and moral rules. Grandpa, however, was predictably unpredictable. All the cajoling in the world could not keep him from espousing his unfiltered opinions, especially after a couple of drinks. This year we were lucky to have Jimmy home on furlough. Dad’s brother, Uncle Wayne, and his wife were also scheduled to join us for dinner so they could meet my new wife.
The table conversation was pleasant and we stayed away from controversial topics such as religion, politics and the war. Unfortunately it was Grandma who inadvertently got things going in the wrong direction when she asked Jimmy, “Are you ever going to get married?”
“A military man’s life and marriage don’t go together, especially now that I’m shipping off to Vietnam,” he said. “The war is heating up and I want to do my part. My fighter group is scheduled to be deployed within a month.”
“We’re all proud of your service and look forward to hearing about how the war’s going when you return from your tour of duty,” Dad said.
“What are yinz flying over there?” Grandpa asked.
“F4B Phantoms. It’s a great attack
plane. Rockets, bombs, napalm, white phosphorous, you name it.”
Shelly excused herself and left the table. I followed her to our room. “What’s wrong?”
“You can’t figure it out?”
“Not everyone shares your feelings about the war or nuclear weapons, for that matter. My brother is a graduate of the Naval Academy, a Major in the Marines, and a fighter pilot to boot. He is going over there to risk his life to fight a war that he and many others believe in.”
“Do you believe in it?”
“I believe in Jimmy. That’s what matters.”
“That’s a convenient non-answer.”
“It’s my answer, and I wish you would cut out the high drama.”
We went downstairs. It was obvious to everyone what happened, even though they had been warned to stay away from the touchy subject of the war. It went okay, until dessert and coffee were served.
“Been reading about them race riots over in Philly,” Grandpa said. “Hope we don’t have any problems here what with all those coloreds on the hill and in Homestead. Yinz had some of that in Harlem, right?”
Shelly darted from the table and this time I stayed. As upset as she appeared to be, it would do little good to chase her, so I let everyone know how I felt by saying, “Why don’t we discuss the pros and cons of ferrous versus non-ferrous metals and how they affect modern man? That ought to be a safe topic of conversation.”
Jimmy laughed, remembering how these dinner table conversations always ended. The others sat in silence, still stunned. Grandpa looked as if he were ready to follow up on my suggested topic, unaware his words upset my wife.
24
The New York Jets sign the University of Alabama quarterback Joe Namath. On television a little girl pulls petals off a flower until a nuclear weapon explodes. Sir Winston Churchill dies and Malcolm X is assassinated. And Rob is having marital troubles.