by Don Potter
They were both fixed in place.
“Good night, kids. Thank you for your concern about your mother. Now my wife and I are going to bed,” I said as I put my arm around Ginger and led her out of the room. They did not see my tears. But Ginger did.
63
The ten-year civil war ends in El Salvador. Former Indian Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi is assassinated. The US recession ends after one year. R.E.M. releases Losing My Religion. And Rob causes pain.
* * *
Ed Gardner and I met for lunch at the California Club. He was there early and looked tired. We shook hands before sitting at the table. I thought that oddly formal because Ed was always a big hug, backslapping guy. He also leaned back when he spoke.
“Sh-Boom!” he said and clapped his hands. “Only you, Rob Fleming, could come up with a name like that and get away with it.”
“Thanks, Ed. Not sure if we’ve gotten away with it yet.”
The waiter came and I ordered, “A glass of water, please.”
“No,” Ed interrupted. “I’ll take the water. But he’s an adman so get him a martini. A dry one. And keep ‘em coming.”
“Ed, it’s OK,” I reached out and tapped his hand. “I don’t want to drink in front of you now that you’re sober.”
He spread his hands wide. “Hey, no problemo, Rob. I’m good. Drink away.”
When the drinks came he grabbed his glass of water and watched me pick up the martini. “We had some pretty wild times, though, when we were pounding them down, didn’t we?”
“We did. Not a virgin or an olive left in the five boroughs.” It tasted good and I wondered what Ed had found to replace the sensation of that first sip of a martini.
“Now, what you got for me?”
“Direct response and infomercials.”
“I’m your man, you know that.”
“We’re just starting out so we can’t pay what you’re used to.”
“I’ll live on sunshine. Lots of it here. When do we get the ball rolling?”
I almost said tomorrow, but something was wrong. What it was I didn’t know, and then I did. I leaned across the table, kept my eyes locked on his and quietly asked him, “Ed, are you drinking again?”
Ed suddenly became two-dimensional, a haunted, frightened man. His mouth opened but he said nothing. He nodded his head.
“Oh, Ed.” Not you, not you.
“I’m sorry, Rob.”
“What happened. What went wrong?”
He shook his head. “Nothing went wrong. It, it, it just seemed like a good idea at the time.” He sat upright in an abrupt movement. “But I’m going to be going back to those AA meetings.”
Be going, not going. “Ed, we can’t work together like this.”
“It’ll be all right. Promise.”
“Tell you what, get ninety days in Alcoholics Anonymous without a drink and we’ll talk.”
“But the infomercial thing will be up and running by then. You won’t need me.”
“Ed, we can work something out,” I said and glanced at my watch. “I’ve got to go.”
I stood and Ed got to his feet and hugged me. I smelled alcohol and knew I was leaving but he was staying, and not to drink water. I put out my hand. “Car keys, Ed. Take a cab home when you’re done.”
He was crying as he gave his car keys. “I’m sorry, Rob. I’ll change things. Ninety days, you’ll see.”
“Ninety days it is, Ed. Adios amigo.”
I drove home wondering if this is what happened when you got older. One by one, people you knew and loved fell away and you never could tell who would go or when. My brother Jimmy, Charlie O, Mom and Dad, Ginger and now Ed. I thought about telling him I’d help by going to an AA meeting with him, but let it lie. If he wasn’t going to make it through those doors on his own, I couldn’t help him.
Ginger was asleep when I got home and I crept into bed next her. I felt old.
The phone rang at two in the morning, and that is never good news. “Hello,” I said, still half asleep.
“Rob.”
“Kathy?”
She was sobbing.
“What’ wrong?”
“Ed. He-”she sobbed harder, unable to get out a word. Then blurted out, “An accident. A really bad one.”
“Where are you, Kathy?”
“Saint John’s hospital in Santa Monica.”
“I’ll be there.”
I dressed, told the caregiver I had an emergency, kissed Ginger and left.
Kathy sat alone, weeping. I sat next her, took her hand and asked, “What happened, Kathy?”
“He was so excited.”
“What happened?” I asked again, but she didn’t hear me. Kathy wasn’t there, she was living back to a few hours ago, in a safer past.
“He was going to have lunch with you. He hadn’t been so happy in ages.” The tears slowed as she surfaced, coming closer to the present. “Lunch with you.”
“Yeah, we met. It was good to see him again.”
“He’s dead,” Kathy said with cruel simplicity. She was present. “Ed was drunk.”
“I knew he was going to get drunk. I took his car keys and told him to take a cab home.”
“He always kept a spare in his wallet in case he lost the keys. Ed was careful that way.”
“Did-”
“He was driving fast with the top down.” She interrupted me and now the words came, expelling the pain. “His car crossed the road, hit a tree, and flipped over. They say he was killed instantly.”
I had no words, there were no words. Listening was all I had to give her.
“He called me to say you were not going to hire him.”
“I couldn’t, Kathy, not while he was still drinking. I told him things would be different if he got ninety days in AA.”
“He tried that, but those meetings didn’t work for him.”
“We were friends for more than thirty-five years.”
“The sale of Carlson made him very anxious and fearful. He was just holding on.” Her tears flowed again, unchecked. “It’s not fair, Rob, is it? Not fair at all.”
I drove home. There was nowhere else to go.
64
The Warsaw Pact is scrapped. Time Magazine takes on The Church of Scientology in an article. The Angolan civil War ends. Michael Jackson releases Black & White. Rob, Ginger and family face facts.
* * *
Ginger and I were invited to stay with friends in Malibu for the Labor Day weekend, but we left early because the sound of crashing waves frightened her. That night we had dinner at Spago in Beverly Hills. It did not go well. She was silent, introverted, and nothing I said would stop her from fidgeting with anxiety. I ordered for her when she got lost reading the menu and when we got home I decided to make the phone calls that needed to be made.
Two later Doctor Scanlon’s nurse squeezed extra chairs into his office and he sat back to look at me, along with Stevie and Beth. “A fine family you have, Rob.”
“That was all Ginger’s doing.”
“Then she did well,” he said. “Now, what questions do you have?”
“What’s going to happen to my mother?” Stevie, always blunt, asked. “That’s what I need you to tell me.”
“I don’t want my mother locked up,” Beth said, as ever her emotions were running close to the surface.
“We don’t lock people up, Beth,” Scanlon said. “But we do want to ensure people get the care they need, and if that means living in a secure facility then it should be done.”
Neither of my children was convinced. But Scanlon, although he did not persuade them, did even better. He enrolled them in the task of finding a safe place for Ginger.
“Your father has seen several facilities and likes the Sunrise community in Studio City.”
“Do you?” Stevie asked him.
“Yes, I do and I suggest we go, with your mother, take a tour and have lunch there.�
�
“And after that?” Beth asked.
“If you like the place, and if Ginger feels comfortable there, she goes for a day and comes home again at night. We’ll see how she manages that before trying any overnight stays.”
“Why can’t she continue to live at home, we have trained people there?” Stevie asked.
“Your mom needs a calm and safe environment where she can be professionally monitored day and night. She will also need to be given medication and have a proper diet,” Scanlon’s voice softened. “Ginger is not my first patient, Stevie. I have travelled this road many times before.”
Stevie sighed, scratched at his hair and said, “Okay. We’ll have a look at the place.”
“Good,” Scanlon said, rose and shook hands with my children. He let them leave and asked me to stay. “I thought you might like this,” he said and handed me a small box. “Open it.”
I opened it and unwrapped the tissue paper. Inside was a perfectly detailed model of a 17th Hussar. “This is beautiful,” I said. “Thank you.”
“It’s a reminder in the time ahead not to find too much solace in a martini pitcher. Put him somewhere where he can stand guard over you when you’re under stress.”
“I will, thank you, and paint another one to stand guard over you.”
Sh-Boom now had several accounts but that didn’t mean we were safe from going belly-up. Money was still pouring out the door daily, and in large amounts. I spent too much up front to get the people I wanted. On the other hand, getting a client, servicing that account and then being paid for work is a long process. We were job-rich but cash-poor and I would have to pour more of my own money into the company at a time when Ginger’s care was about to get much more expensive. I hope I budgeted for her long-term expenses wisely. I think I did.
Direct response and infomercials were a high profit endeavor that could deliver a swift financial return, but we had lost our expert, Ed Gardner, and had not yet find a replacement. So going that route would have to be put on the back burner for now. The plucky little Sh-Boom boat was battling the waves with no dry land in sight.
What we really needed was one big, tent-pole client with a solid ongoing budget around which we could build our business. Gary Phillips was short and round and about as unlikely a tent-pole prospect as could be imagined. He had worked for Carlson in Chicago and was the guy responsible for getting some of the Kraft business a few years back. Gary left to work for another shop that handled most of the Kraft account right after the ConCom buyout. I was surprised when he called.
“Sh-Boom, Sh-Rob, how goes it out there?” he said.
I was constantly amazed at the words folks could derive from our company name. I liked it, though, because it kept the agency in their minds. It also emphasized our fresh difference from established agencies, just saying it conjured up the notion that we were indeed different. “Good to hear from you, Gary. How’s it going back there?”
“You sure sold Trip Wilson a pig in a poke with Carlson.”
“He’ll probably survive, especially with Nancy Gates in command. What can I do for you, Gary?” He seemed reluctant to state the purpose of the call.
“I’m calling from home,” he said, which meant this wasn’t about straightforward business. “My home in Chicago.”
“You moved to another agency. Right?”
“Well, yeah,” he said and didn’t sound at all happy about it.
“Is the transition working all right?”
“Not really. Saying it’s chaotic there would be a gross understatement.”
”Why? Your new Chicago agency is one of the best all-around shops in town, just behind Burnett. And, you’re overseeing most of the Kraft business, except for the piece that Carlson has and that’s sure to move over eventually.”
“Maybe so, but it’s not a happy place.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said and was about to ask if I could help but judging by the tone of Gary’s voice saying nothing and letting him talk seemed to be the wise choice.
There was a long pause as though he was making up his mind about what to say. Finally he broke the silence. ”I thought maybe we could help each other.”
“How?”
“You don’t have any big, visible clients, do you?”
“We’re a new agency and don’t have anything like—“
“Like Kraft,” he interrupted, blurting out a secret he could no longer keep to himself. “How would you like to have Kraft in your client stable?”
“Who wouldn’t? But Sh-Boom Advertising doesn’t have a Chicago office, and we don’t intend to. Our plan is to manage one office and do it well.”
“I read about your one office philosophy in an Ad Age interview: close management means better internal communications, which produces better advertising.”
“Let’s hope so because that’s where all our time, money and efforts are going.”
“I had the feeling my days here are numbered, so I took a chance and talked with Daniel Lewis at Kraft about taking some of the business to another agency.”
“That’s what I call chutzpah. What did he have to say?”
“Daniel said he was always open to suggestions. I told him you started an agency in LA and Vince D’Angelo has joined you. In my book, that makes Sh-Boom the best packaged goods agency in the country.”
“Thank you, but we need some success stories to back up such a bold statement.”
“Daniel’s a risk taker. He’s ready to talk with Sh-Boom.”
“What about you?”
“I’m divorced, my wife got the dog, no kids and I’ve come to hate the cold. So why not LA?”
“Sounds good.”
“I better warn you, Daniel Lewis can be an asshole. He is demanding and you’ll end up working all the hours God made, and then some, to give him what he wants.”
“My people can handle that.”
“Not the agency, Rob. You. He’ll demand all of your time.”
“I’ll do my best, but I’ve got an agency to run and people depend on me to do just that.”
“Let me talk to him. I’ll get back to you. In the meantime, go ahead and order me a surfboard, one with the Chicago Bears logo and a beer can holder on it,” Gary said and hung up.
If all went well, we might soon have our tent-pole client, one around which to build our agency’s reputation; and one that would demand a lot of our time, mine included. I was used to that, but now I had a wife who needed me to be her advocate and a family that was only just getting around to trusting me. Something would have to give. I hoped it wouldn’t be me.
65
NAFTA becomes a reality. The Mall of America, the country’s largest mall, opens. Kriss Kross releases Jump. Rob and Ginger prepare to live separately.
* * *
Linda McCadden had a constant empathetic smile and a name tag that indicated she was the head of marketing at the Sunrise Senior Living facility. She proudly showed us a room in the secure memory unit; they called it the Reminiscence Community. She let all four of us enter while she stood at the door. It was empty and the size of a suite in a mid-level hotel; clean and modern, with a view of the courtyard below and a row of palms and other trees in the near distance of this quiet residential neighborhood. “This is considered a suite and accommodates two occupants.”
“My mother is not sharing anything with a stranger,” Stevie said.
“Of course, as you wish,” Linda said diplomatically without alluding to the fact that this would cost more money. “As you can see, it is light, airy and comfortable. The colors used throughout are-”
“Can’t compared this with Mom’s home in Bel Air.” It was Beth’s turn to make her presence felt.
“We can bring her furniture, right?” I asked, knowing the answer might get things back on track.
“Oh, yes, Mister Fleming. We recommend that. Anything that will help your wife feel at home.”
�
��Pets?” Stevie asked.
“Yes,” Linda said.
“Good, my mother has two large kangaroos.”
“Stop it, Stevie,” I cut in. “Linda’s trying to help and you’re not. What do you think, Ginger?”
“Why?” she whispered. “Why?”
“Because Doctor Scanlon believes this is where you’ll get the best care, Sweetheart,” I said and turned to Linda. “What’s next?”
“How about some lunch?”
The main dining room, which I half-expected to resemble and smell like a school cafeteria, was actually quite pleasant. But Ginger would be taking her meals in the memory unit, which served the same menu. When family and friends visited, they could eat with Ginger downstairs for a nominal guest charge. The main room was tastefully furnished and decorated. There were fresh flowers and tablecloths on every table and artwork on the walls. It could easily have been mistaken for a dining room in a hotel or a cruise ship, except for the diners; most of them were past eighty. One or two had difficulty feeding themselves and were attended to by one of the staff.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Stevie said.
Beth shivered, “Me too, and I hate the locked doors on this floor. How can Mom ever fit in here?”
“Look at her,” I said. Ginger sat opposite me. She was happily eating everything that was placed in front of her. She did not make a sound and we might as well have not been there. To Ginger, at that moment, we weren’t there. She was one of them.
66
Yitzhak Rabin is elected Prime Minister of Israel and promises peace talks with the PLO. Mobster John Gotti is convicted of murder, no more daily haircuts. Johnny Carson hosts The Tonight Show for the last time. And Rob is pulled in all directions.