by Don Potter
“It’s worth a shot; nothing else has worked.”
“I’ll pray for you to discover what God’s will is for you.”
“Do I include the business in those prayers?”
“God’s will applies to all aspects of your life.”
We talked more about his thoughts on prayer throughout lunch. It was obvious the man believed in what he told me, but I was raised with the notion of an institutional God rather than a personal one. The prospects for this year were not good and I was fearful that things could get worse at the office as well as at home. I decided to give the prayer thing a try once again but with different expections.
We agreed to talk on a regular basis through the month. Then he suggested we pray together, right then. I reluctantly agreed. We got on our knees. He led the prayer, but I did not remember a word of it. I was too embarrassed.
Committed to the prayer program, I started doing it each morning, usually in the shower, and went about my day as planned but tried to be open to the way it unfolded. My one-month prayer ritual was drawing to an end with no apparent results for the business or on the home front. The ad side of the agency continued to be flat. While now in sole command of Carlson’s PR operation, following David Jennings death, Nancy Gates was molding it into her personal empire.
I flew home, rather I flew back to LA, to learn that Ginger had taken the kids on a little vacation. The house felt empty, huge, and unfriendly. It wasn’t a home for me.
The office told me Jeff Newmar had requested that I meet him for lunch. We met, his choice, at the Formosa Cafe on Santa Monica Boulevard in Hollywood, near the Goldwyn Studios. He did not look well.
“How are you, Jeff?”
“Been better.”
“Anything I can do?”
“Keenan Carpenter.” He had trouble spitting out the name.
“I thought he was long gone.”
“From my business and personal life, yes,” Jeff said. “But this is different. Keenan’s very sick.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Something that’s scaring the entire gay community. It’s called AIDS. He’s part of a study group testing new drugs.”
“How is it going?”
Jeff fought back a tear. “He looks like a refugee from a concentration camp. My big, strong Keenan. He’s not going to make it, Rob.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You haven’t seen him. They say the illness is passed around by gay men having unprotected sex. Keenan was really promiscuous and I’m afraid he might have given it to me.”
Jeff wept. I had no answer for him and I wasn’t going to suggest prayer.
The bed I was lying in, a California king, felt more like a Kansas prairie in which I was a little lost child. The house was even quieter at night with my wife and the kids away, too quiet. The deadly silence made it difficult to read the proposals, statements, and concepts I had scattered around me. The phone rang and I hoped it was Ginger. It wasn’t and instead I heard Nancy Gate’s brassy voice.
“One word, plastics,” she said.
“What the hell are you babbling about?”
“The Graduate, remember. Funny movie.”
“Yuk yuk. Why are you calling this late?”
“New business and new horizons.” Nancy was sounding very pleased with herself.
“Cut to the chase, will you?”
“Washington. Lobbyists. Our next direction.”
“Politics is an ugly business.”
“What business isn’t?”
“We know nothing about lobbying.”
“I know a man who does. You should meet him.”
“I’m in LA.”
“I know, I called you there.”
“Call me when I get back to Pittsburgh.”
“Might be too late.”
“Good night, Nancy.” I hung up, got out of bed and wandered down the hall. The door to Stevie’s room was open and I looked inside. An aquarium cast a purple light and the pump bubbled softly. There were photographs of him with Ginger and Beth on his wall and smaller ones scattered around the room. What was missing was a picture of me.
39
The Home Shopping Network is launched. Comedian John Belushi dies of a drug overdose. Time Magazine’s Man of the Year award is a computer. And Rob looks to Japan again.
* * *
Keenan Carpenter died of AIDS and Jeff Newmar was bereft, unfairly blaming himself for Keenan’s infidelity and ultimate death. He was even more certain that he would be next to die. The sickness had become an epidemic among gay men and there was little I could do other than listen to his fears.
I had my own problems. My marriage existed in name only, the constant flying across country to our various offices was wearing me down, and the recession affecting our business was reluctant to end. Only Carlson Public Relations, under Nancy Gates’ guidance, showed constant profits. As for the rest of the agency, we struggled to keep our heads above water. Yet, Nancy seemed to pluck profits out of thin air. Or so I thought.
Jim Hanson, our contact on the Honda Dealers account, called. Working on the dealer associations around the country was as close to the car business as the agency ever got; we always hoped this would lead to more car business, some day. “I just spent almost the entire month in Japan,” Jim said. “We’re launching a new line of cars in the States. Something that hasn’t happened in the industry since Ford’s disaster with Edsel.”
“Congratulations.”
“Want it?”
“How much of it?”
“All of it.”
“Hai!” I said in the best Japanese accent I could muster.
“What?”
“Yes. What’s the new line called?”
“Tell you later. First, I want you to talk to our people.”
“Sure. When? Where?”
“Next week in Japan. I’ll make the reservations for us.”
On the flight across the Pacific, Jim provided me with all the details.
“The car will be the first luxury car from Japan, with a price tag of $20,000.”
“That’s a big step up the price ladder,” I said.
“Yes, but not too much for the American consumer. We’re going to beat Toyota and Nissan as well as the European brands to the punch with this price point. Honda already has a reputation for quality and service. The Acura is going to emphasize engineering and performance.”
“Acura?”
“It comes from the Latin word accuratus, which means accurate. The logo is great too.”
My previous experience in dealing with the Japanese paid off, and the meetings appeared to go well. Better, in fact, then I realized, because on the flight home Jim told me it was a done deal. We had the Acura account. Perhaps the economy and our business had finally turned the corner. Was this the result of prayer on just a coincidence?
I was too tired to do battle with Ginger and flew from LAX straight to Pittsburgh. I was in a deep jet-lagged sleep in my apartment when the phone rang. I ignored it but rang again and again, until I answered.
“Yeah?”
“Rob, it’s Jeff Newmar.”
“Jeff, it’s late. What’s up?”
He was crying and making sense of his broken sentences was difficult.
“I got it. AIDS. Actually the HIV virus but that eventually leads to full-blown AIDS.”
Now I was fully awake. “Tell me slowly, one detail at a time. What’s the treatment?”
“The doctors gave me antibiotics and some other stuff. It won’t work, though.”
“How do you know?”
“Because of what happened to Keenan.”
“It could be different for you.”
“No. I saw him die, Rob. No one should die like that.”
“Jeff-“ The line went dead and when I called him back I got only his answering machine.
40
Suicide truck bombs destr
oy the French and US Marine barracks in Beirut. Microsoft Word is launched. Billy Idol releases Rebel Yell. Rob and Nancy square off.
* * *
I was busy in Pittsburgh and missed Jeff Newmar’s funeral. He committed suicide not long after we spoke. Two weeks later we lost the Universal account. Guess I could not attribute that to prayer, so I went with the coincidence theory. Acura kept the LA office well in the black and the entire agency afloat, while Nancy’s PR operation steadily increased profits and she was not shy about mentioning it to me. Nancy seemed invincible until Harold Fisher, the company treasurer, came by my office.
“We need to review the PR financials for the last five years,” he said.
“Here, in my office?”
Harold looked uncomfortable. “I thought it would be more discreet here.”
“Why do we need to be discreet?”
He took a spreadsheet from a folder and opened it on my desk. “Since Nancy Gates took over the PR operation income has risen and profits are going through the roof.”
“Nancy’s always been an overachiever.”
“So it would seem. But I am a cautious man by nature, so I dug deeper,” Harold said.
“And found what?”
“I checked PR time sheets and discovered that clients were consistently billed at a ratio of one and a half times the actual recorded hours on the individual time sheets.”
“You’re saying for an average forty hour work week she and her people charged clients for sixty hours?”
“Consistently.”
“Why didn’t we learn about this before?” I asked.
“Because no one questions favorable numbers,” Harold admitted.
“We should. And you’re sure Nancy’s people have been padding time sheets?”
“We have all the proof we need.”
“If the word gets out Carlson Communications will go right down the drain.”
“What shall we do?”
“Talk with Nancy,” I said and called her to my office.
Nancy faced me along with Harold and our legal counsel. It wasn’t the meeting she expected.
“Why the peanut gallery?” she asked, staring at the other men.
“I’ll keep it simple. You’ve been successful because you have been padding employee hours. This could sink our agency.” I took a spreadsheet from Harold’s hands and slid it across the table to her. “No bullshit excuses. You did it.”
“And? You’re firing me?”
“No, not yet.”
“When?”
“If I see these distortions again or have reports of other hanky-panky you’re gone.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it for now, but if one word of this is leaked, in or out of the office, it’s all over for you,” I said. I wanted to say so much more, but that would wait until the proper time down the road. I could not afford to have the PR operation blow up at this fragile time in the agency’s life. At least Nancy’s wings were clipped and she was under control for the time being. Now I needed to get back to LA and resuscitate my marriage and reintroduce myself to the kids, because I was far from being considered a “Model Husband” or a candidate to receive a “World’s Best Dad” t-shirt.
41
Chernobyl nuclear power plant melts down and kills 4,000. LISTSERV, the first email list management system, is launched. Bon Jovi goes to number one with Slippery When Wet. And Rob heads for the Big Apple.
* * *
I pulled into the driveway, killed the engine and stared at the house that was costing me a small fortune. In one corner of the front yard was a playhouse I hadn’t seen before, a Big Wheels lay upside down on the grass, and toys were scattered everywhere. A big house, but not my home, not unless changes were made. What changes I had no idea. I went inside to try to find out.
“Hello?” I called out. Everything looked new, or at least different, unfamiliar.
“Daddy!” Beth’s voice rang out as she raced down the hallway and flung herself into my arms. Such warmth, such softness. My daughter. Mine.
“How long are you going to stay home?” she asked.
“I just got here, honey,” I put her down as Ginger appeared from the kitchen.
“Hi,” she said in an oddly formal voice. “We are having pie. Want to join us?”
“Love to. Where’s Stevie?”
“Staying at his friend’s overnight.”
Beth pushed herself next to me at the kitchen table as we ate pie. I could feel her little shoulder pressing into my arm.
“I like your playhouse,” I said to her.
“Uncle Bevan gave it me for my birthday.”
“Who’s Uncle Bevan?”
“A friend of mine,” Ginger said.
“Friend?”
“A friend. I’m allowed to have friends. And Beth’s birthday was two weeks ago. How long are you staying?”
“We’re finally moving the company out of Pittsburgh to New York. Had a huge Board battle with the establishment guys. Things are firing up in LA. I’ll be here for a couple of weeks to be sure we’re prepared to handle the ton of work being generated for Acura.”
“Uh huh.”
“In New York I’m teaming up with Vince D’Angelo, who has been running a smoking-hot boutique agency.” She wasn’t listening to a damn word I was saying. “Maybe we could talk after Beth goes to bed.”
“Talk, sure.”
“You put me to bed, Daddy,” Beth said and snatched at my arm with her sticky pie fingers.
“After a bath, which Daddy will give you,” Ginger said.
We sat in the living room, each waiting for the other to begin talking. I don’t like silences, especially relationship silences, so I started.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Ginger?”
“Like what?”
“We’re not sitting here winning the ‘World’s Happiest Married Couple’ prize now, are we? Guess that could be behind all the new furniture you bought.”
“That didn’t fix anything.”
“What else?”
“How can you be so clueless? I have a husband who lives thousands of miles away, who forgets his daughter’s birthday, and who turns up and leaves when he likes. Hard to be a happy couple, don’t you think?”
“This is an old story.”
“This is an ongoing story.”
“Who’s Bevan?”
“A friend. I have friends, Don’t you have friends outside business?”
“That’s not called for.”
“Remember the flipping hamburgers promise?”
“Come on, you know that was never going to happen.”
Her face tightened. “Then what’s going to happen? I spend my life never knowing if or when you’ll be here. I keep finding new excuses for you missing your kids’ birthdays or school programs. Is it really so important to you, Rob? Is selling frozen food or Japanese automobiles more important to you than your family? What’s the big prize you’re chasing? What’s at the end of the advertising rainbow? And what will you do if you finally get there?”
“This place we’re sitting in is-“
Ginger suddenly went rigid and her hands jerked. She was weeping and it seemed to happen for no reason.
“What brought this on?”
“I keep forgetting things. Sometimes I can’t put sentences together because the words are in my mind but get all mixed up when I try to say them out loud.”
She looked terrified, a cornered animal waiting to be savaged, and my heart shattered when she looked at me and said, “I’m not me anymore.”
42
Prince puts out his song Sign o’ The Times. Married…with Children debuts on television. Pope John Paul II visits Los Angeles. Rob and Ginger are faced with a frightening future.
* * *
The long journey began, the uncertain exploration, the trudging from one doctor to another, from one specialist r
ecommending another, the search for the answer we wanted while avoiding the reality we didn’t. Early results found nothing amiss, but now that Ginger had revealed her condition it seemed to get worse. She would lapse into long silences, and then utter half-sentences which often made little sense and that frightened her. The true horror was that although she did not know exactly what was happening, she was well aware it was progressing. Her life was forever changed and so too was mine. I prayed for answers.
I shifted to LA, at least for the immediate future, to look after her. My old office was inhabited by Brad Martin, and not wanting to pull rank I took a space on the other side of the building that overlooked the heat-shimmering roof tops of the flatlands of Los Angeles. I wasn’t there for the view anyway, I was there to run the company and try to save my wife. I had left Vince and Nancy, who decided that New York offered more PR opportunities than any other place in the country, to run their respective kingdoms from the New York office, although I knew sooner or later there would be trouble. There was. Sooner. I guessed Nancy would be the first to call. Wrong. It was Vince, a tough bear of a man and action kind of guy that was not one to complain or back away from a fight.
“Hi, Vince. What has she done now?” I didn’t need to mention Nancy’s name.
“She wants to put her two cents worth in on everything we do. Her desire to be heard is relentless. Why can’t she do her PR work and stay out of my area?”
“That’s partly my fault because I want all departments to work together. Guarding personal territory doesn’t get the job done.”
“That’s all fine and dandy, but she’s happy to trample all over my people and their work but won’t let us near hers.”