Sh-Boom

by Don Potter

  * * *

  DDB continued to be the darling of Madison Avenue. We were not like the traditional big agencies that wined and dined new business prospects and often pitched them with speculative creative work - things my old boss, Mary Parsons, believed were a waste of time and money. We got new accounts based on our reputation, because our work spoke for itself.

  And while I was busy producing concept after concept for clients, Shelly was spending long hours meeting with like-minded people to push for her civil rights agenda.

  “Why don’t you join me at any of these meetings?” she asked one night at dinner.

  “Because this is your cause.”

  “It could be yours too.”

  “I’m not a cause kind of guy.”

  “Don’t you care?”

  “Of course I do, but I’m not a joiner.”

  “There’s no need to join anything; just come with me.”

  “As I said, this is your cause.”

  “Stamping out racial inequality along with ending poverty should be everyone’s cause.”

  “You can’t legislate what cause, if any, people must get behind. Being militant about it is a turn off.”

  “I’m turning you off?”

  “That’s not what I meant. I was referring to the public in general.”

  “Would you mind if I have a meeting here. That way we’ll bring the meeting to you.”

  “Do whatever you like; it’s your place.” I hoped Shelly would not use my comment against me and make an issue over her trust fund paying the freight on the apartment every month.

  “Fine, plan to be home early on Wednesday, March 17th.”

  “No problem. I’ll make a note of it. What time?”

  I jotted down the information and was pleased I had dodged a bullet. But I was certain that sooner or later Shelly’s passion was sure to create another confrontation.

  The meeting fell on St. Paddy’s Day. I came home early and decorated the living room with green crepe paper. There was Harp Beer in the fridge and corned beef and cabbage, fresh from the Blarney Stone bar on Third Avenue, staying warm in the oven. The theme idea, I thought, could add some fun to what might to be a very serious evening. I was wrong.

  “What the hell is going on?” Shelly cried out when she stormed through the apartment door and saw my decorations.

  I came in from the kitchen and said, “You don’t like it?”

  “What’s that terrible smell? I noticed it the moment I got off the elevator down the hall.”

  “Corned beef and cabbage. It’s St. Patrick’s Day.”

  “Get out the Air Wick. I don’t want people gagging, and most of the people coming are Jewish.”

  “It was the Jews who provided corned beef to the Irish when they first came to New York in the late 1800s. I bet that’s something you didn’t know.”

  “It doesn’t matter. This is an important meeting, not a buffet at the corner bar.”

  “Come on, everybody’s Irish on St. Paddy’s Day.”

  “Well, I’m not Irish and neither are you. So I would appreciate it if you don’t try to make a party out of my planning session.”

  “I’ll do better than that. Have a nice meeting.” I went to the front closet, grabbed my coat, walked out and slammed the door behind me.

  The Blarney Stone, being a workingman’s saloon, was packed when I got there. Irish music filled the place. I ordered a draft with a shot of whiskey. After a couple of those, I had a plate of corned beef and cabbage. By this time the patrons were singing Irish songs, very loud and very off-key. I joined in even though I did not know most of the words, no one seemed to notice. For the moment I forgot about my job, all the things Shelly thought I should worry about, and the problems I would have when I got home. I was just another guy celebrating St. Paddy’s Day in an Irish bar.

  I got very drunk and stumbled home very late. While I made enough noise getting undressed to bring someone out of a coma, Shelly did not stir. The next morning she was out the door before I got up. This suggested we were going to have a discussion that night. I was right.

  “How did it feel when you came to and dragged yourself out of bed this morning?” Shelly asked the moment I got home from work about six-thirty.

  “No memory of that, but I’m fine now. Want to have Italian?”

  “You and your Italian comfort food. How am I going to keep my figure eating a high-carb diet?”

  “What would you like to eat?”

  “A salad.”

  “Good. We’ll go for Italian. You can have a salad and I’ll order whatever pasta dish strikes my fancy.”

  “Pretty selfish.”

  “I look at it as a minor victory.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “We’ll talk about it later. Let’s go.”

  We walked the two blocks to Frankie’s restaurant in silence. Before we looked at the menus, Shelly tried to take charge. “All right, what’s bugging you?”

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  “My answer is simple. You and I are from and live in two different worlds.”

  “I’m the same guy I’ve always been. If anyone has changed it’s you.”

  “Who and what I am has never been a secret. You, on the other hand, have a family with racist roots and you are a hawk when it comes to the war. Next, I’ll find out you’re against women’s rights.”

  “How did you come to those conclusions? Is it because my grandfather is from a different generation and has old ideas about the way things ought to be? Does your Bubee get a pass on her prejudices? Or is it because I believe in my brother and the war he’s fighting? As for women’s rights, I learned about the ad business by working for one of the best and toughest women around. So, you’re wrong.”

  “It’s obvious you don’t see what’s going on. You have a passing interest, at best, in civil rights.”

  “The commercial I did with the Black kid and white kid eating lunch together was a breakthrough for civil rights.”

  “You did that for money not for love of a cause.”

  “What are you, a mind reader? You don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “Next you’re going to be claiming that because the agency you work for created the daisy girl ad for LBJ that you’re against war and nukes.”

  “I never said that.”

  “But your agency has been hiring women just out of college or taking them out of the secretarial pool because they’ll work for less money than the men.”

  “I told you more and more women are breaking into the ad agency business in a variety of ways, even if the pay is less, at least they’re getting a foot in the door. That’s anti-women?”

  “My mother thought it was demeaning.”

  “This conversation is over. I’m off to get drunk.”

  “Again,” Shelly said. She got up and darted out of the restaurant, knocking over the old bentwood chair in her haste to get away.

  As I saw it, I could eat alone and try to think through the dynamics of the relationship or call Ed Gardner and go drinking with him. I chose the latter.

  “Rob, old boy,” he answered. “Haven’t heard from you since the move over to that bastion of creativity, DDB. What’s cookin’?”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “How’s married life?”

  “It’s keeping me busy, too.”

  “Marital bless is difficult to maintain.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I’m a student of the game. That’s why I’m still single. Want to tag along while I make the rounds of the local watering holes?”

  “You read my mind.”

  “There’s a great place called TGI Friday’s. You know, like in ‘Thank God It’s Friday.’ Well, every night is like Friday night there. Meet me in half an hour. The bar’s at 63rd and First, near where I live. If you haven’t eaten, they make great burgers.” Ed did a good job of s
elling the place. Then again, he always did a good job of selling something.

  “I’ll be there,” I said.

  The bar would have been difficult to miss with its red and white striped awnings with the TGI Friday’s logo stretched out above them. Inside there was a gathering of young professionals, both men and women, standing three deep at the bar. There was a brass railing at the foot of the bar that ran its full length. I ordered a draft, lit a cigarette and drank in the surroundings. The place had a festive gay nineties look, antique lamps and all, with the atmosphere of a giant party where everyone was getting to know each other in a very modern way. The pretty people moved up and down the bar at will until they met someone of the opposite sex with whom they wanted to connect. Within minutes, I could see this was a place where even a relatively shy guy like me could meet a woman and make an evening or perhaps a night of it. If I were single.

  “Stop panting,” Ed said when he saw me, “Don’t let them see how anxious you are.”

  “I’m not anxious, but I am amazed. Pittsburgh or the other bars around here, for that matter, are nothing like this.”

  “The guy who owns the place figured the best way to build the business was to invite women in the neighborhood, models, stewardesses, and secretaries to a nightly party. And the guys would be sure to show up. Looks like he found the right formula.”

  “This place is packed. Come here often?”

  “That’s the line you use on the babes, but the answer is yes when I’m looking to recruit new talent,” Ed said.

  “Now what?”

  “You said you were hungry, so we’ll put our name in and wait for a table. Tell me what’s really going on with you?”

  I gave him the sanitized story about my home life and the glorified version of what was happening at the agency. Otherwise, there was not much for me to talk about. He reciprocated with a recap of his recent sexual conquests followed by an account of how well he was doing at the agency. The only sour note, he thought, was the continuing war going on between the account service side of the business and creative, due almost entirely to Mary Parsons’ résistance to anything she could not control. He hoped that when Mary’s service contract was up she would sell her shares back and go off and start a new agency, or drop dead. Ed did not place these wishes in any order of importance.

  By the time the evening was over we met lots of women and I was drunk for the second night in a row. I had not done that since Skimmer Day weekend in Philadelphia when I was a junior at Penn.

  Again, Shelly pretended she was asleep when I stumbled home. We barely spoke the next day, or for the next few weeks and she unofficially disinvited me from the weekly dinner at her parents.

  What opened things up was her catching what appeared to be some kind of a flu bug she just couldn’t shake. Just when she seemed to start feeling better, Shelly would revert back to throwing up in the morning. Although by evening she was more or less herself, the process would start again the next morning. I tried to be as caring as possible during her ordeal and suggested she see a doctor. By the night of this year’s Seder we were speaking, albeit with some formality. Since Professor Stern controlled all the table conversation most of it centered on how wrong the Vietnam War was and the upcoming SDS protest march on Washington with 25,000 expected to participate. Shelly talked about the civil rights activities. Her mother said that women’s voices were being heard on all fronts.

  “How do we fix this? How do I make things better?” I asked when we arrived home that night.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing, but would not have said it as elegantly as you,” she replied.

  “Want to talk?”

  “No, let’s just make believe it didn’t happen. Put it behind us.”

  “That’s pretty hard to do since I’ve been in the penalty box for the past month.”

  “A truce for now. And thanks for looking after me when I was sick.”

  “That’s what a husband is supposed to do.”

  “Maybe, but you took better care of me than my mother ever did.”

  “The important thing is you’re better now.” I said.

  “By the way, and I took your advice and saw the doctor.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said I needed some downtime and school’s out next week for Easter vacation. So, I’m going to head down to Puerto Rico for a week of sun and relaxation.”

  “It’s short notice, but I’ll see if I can get the week off.”

  “Who said anything about you? I’m the one needing a vacation. Besides, I need to think about making this relationship work a little better by looking at my part.”

  I did not try to push her. Maybe a week apart would do us both some good.

  When Shelly returned, looking tan and feeling better, the relationship seemed to be more or less on track for the next couple of months, but there was no intimacy between us. At her parents’ summer place over the July 4th weekend Shelly surprised me when she said,” I need to spend the next couple of months up here so I can make some real progress on my book.”

  “You’ve been dabbling with it since we met. Is that what’s needed to complete the project?” I asked.

  “Have you ever tried to write a book?”

  “Don’t get angry. I just don’t like to see you frustrated. Maybe you still have too much on your plate. The civil rights issue alone is a full-time job and your work with the Board of Education seems to be never-ending. Add the book to that and you’ve got a real load to carry. I don’t want you to get sick again.”

  “What I’m saying is you’ll be on your own until school starts.”

  “All right, do what you have to do. I can make it through the summer if that’s what it takes for you to be a happy camper.”

  “Don’t treat me like a child.”

  “I want you to feel good about what you’re doing.”

  “You can come up on weekends, if you want.”

  I stayed in the city rather than going up to the mountains on weekends to visit Shelly. When she came home, she seemed more passionate about civil rights causes and less so about our relationship. I had no idea what to do and tried to immerse myself in work. But it didn’t do the trick. With Shelly being out most every night, I used the time to view all the new shows as the fall TV season got underway. Life was boring and I was afraid I was losing her.

  Shelly and I became more like roommates than husband and wife. There was no single issue to deal with, everything had become a problem. Shelly had her own thoughts about what was important and how to live her life. It did not appear as if I was part of this plan.

  The day before our second anniversary she left for a rally in Washington, so I flew to Pittsburgh knowing I had a caring family that would always be there for me. I thought of Mom’s home cooking and hoped Dad’s guidance could work wonders for a guy in need of real love and inspiration.

  25

  Time Magazine’s cover asks “Is God Dead?” American Bandstand heads to sunny California and the Beach Boys bring the surfin’ sound east. Sergeant Barry Sadler sings The Ballad of the Green Berets. Rob gets bad news about his brother.

  * * *

  My wife claimed a headache and went to bed early, so I welcomed in the New Year alone, in my favorite chair – drinking and listening to Sinatra sing saloon songs while thinking about what happened with Shelly and me. When I woke New Year’s morning Shelly was gone and she left no note about her plans for the day, but I figured she went to her parents’ place. I was on my own. I called Ed Gardner, my fallback guy whenever I wanted to get out of myself and into a drink or two. He suggested we meet at Friday’s at eleven and grab something to eat.

  “Happy New Year, pal,” Ed said when I showed up about twenty minutes late feeling more than a little hung-over.

  “Yeah, same to you.”

  “Wish I had bumped into one of these beauties last night,” he said, surveying the bar area. “I went to a part
y that turned out to be a real drag. Actually it was a drag from the get-go. I should have split instead of hanging in there and getting drunk. Oh well, it’s a new day and a brand new year with nothing but new opportunities ahead.”

  “Your glass is always half full,” I said.

  “It’s better than half empty.”

  “Mine has been half empty for quite awhile.”

  “As I always say, relationships are tough.”

  “More than that, I seem to have lost my creativity.”

  “You’re a good adman. The next idea you have might end up winning a CLIO. Just go into the office next week and put all the problems on the home front stuff out of your mind.”

  “Don’t know if it will be that easy.”

  “Why?”

  “I think Shelly is having an affair.”

  “That’s a big time accusation. Got any proof?”

  “The other day when I was home alone, I needed a scratch pad and went into Shelly’s writing desk. She usually had some paper in the middle drawer. As I was rummaging around, I found some photos hidden in the back. They showed her with the same guy in several candid shots.”

  “Could be someone she’s working with in this civil rights thing of hers.”

  “That was my first thought, but by the time I got to the last photo they were kissing. I recognized him from television as a leader in the New York movement. He’s an assistant professor at CCNY, I think.” I handed him a photo that I confiscated from the stack.

  “Again, this does not constitute an affair.”

  “It does to me.”

  “Why, because he’s Black?” Ed asked.

  “No, because she never mentioned that she knew him. There’s a reason she’s keeping him a secret.”

  “Aren’t you being a little paranoid?”

  “I’m probably a lot paranoid. But it’s not my mind playing games. It’s Shelly who’s playing games.”

  “That’s a pretty big leap of logic.”