Sh-Boom

by Don Potter

  * * *

  Sh-Boom won the Carl’s Junior account next. It wasn’t McDonalds, or, heaven forbid, Burger King, but having 500 outlets established throughout the west, they were ready to expand nation-wide with the guidance of a new, cutting-edge CEO looking for some equally edgy creative from a new agency. That sure as hell sounded to me like Sh-Boom was what he needed. And, after fierce competition that included Carlson Communications, still trying to get back in the fast food business, it was ours and we hoped to continue to grow along with them. The cash flowing out of my personal account slowed to a trickle and finally my financial input was not required anymore, which was good for my overall attitude.

  Ginger and I went alone on the next trip to Sunrise. I had already paid a deposit and the first month’s rent and service fees. We entered her suite and I waited for her response. There was none. A week earlier I had some of her favorite furniture and pictures moved in and the closets were filled with her clothes. But she made no bond with its familiarity. It meant little to her.

  Linda appeared at the door. “Mister Fleming, does Ginger like music?”

  “Depends on what kind,” I answered. “She kind of lost interest in popular music after the Beatles.”

  “I understand that. We have a small band in the community activity lounge, just a duo really. They play mostly songs from the fifties.”

  “That she would like, I think.” I took Ginger’s hand and followed Linda. She escorted us to the third floor lounge, found us a couple of seats and left.

  A couple of kids with guitars, a young man and a woman who had not been alive the ‘50s, were setting up their microphones as we sat down. The room was filled with about thirty people, mostly older women and a few men, some dozing.

  “We’re gonna start with an easy one so we don’t blow your pacemakers,” the young man said to deafening silence. Good try, wrong audience, buddy.

  “First song is called Singing the Blues,” the young woman said and saved him as she launched into the opening chords. He shrugged good-naturedly and caught up with her. They were good.

  I watched Ginger. The music flowed over, around and past her. It left her unmoved. Next they played Memories are Made of This, perhaps not the wisest of choices considering the audience and location, segued to Bye Bye Love and slid effortlessly into Elvis Presley’s Love Me Tender. After the first verse Ginger shifted in her seat and her fingers twitched as the music trickled into her senses. Her head began to move with the music, almost in rhythm. God bless the King, Elvis Presley, wherever his tortured soul was performing in heaven. The day he has no effect on a woman is the day this country dies. Nothing seemed to get through to my wife, but he did, if only for a verse or two. Once the music ended I took her back to her room. We sat in the little living room and she submerged into her silent world again.

  I stood up. “I have to go, Sweetheart. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She looked up at me and said, “Why?”

  “Because, Ginger, because I want what’s best for you.” I left her with the caregiver and another one unlocked the outside door to let me out. As I waited for the elevator, I could see Ginger trying to open the security door. A moment later the caregiver took her hand and they walked together back to the lounge to be with the other residents.

  I got home but could not sleep and wandered up and down the stairs. The house was huge without her, but more than that it was dead. Whatever life existed when she, Stevie and Beth lived there was gone. It would be a sacrilege to stay here alone. I packed a suitcase, called the Beverly Wilshire Hotel and reserved a room for a few nights. When I go to the office tomorrow I’ll phone the realtor and put the house up for sale. This was no longer my home. Neither was it Ginger’s.

  67

  The Catholic Church admits Galileo was right about the earth revolving around the sun. Cost of a Super Bowl TV spot is $850,000. A judge bars Doctor Kevorkian from assisting in suicides. And Rob learns to live a different life.

  * * *

  Daniel Lewis lived up to his billing. He was quite demanding, meticulous, and a bit of an asshole. But as Gary Phillips pointed out, if he gave us a portion of the Kraft business, which was likely, he would be our asshole. A tall, lean, sharp-edged man with a dry sense of humor and an awareness of his importance to us, Daniel missed nothing. To give us some privacy, we were sitting with Vince and Gary in the lunch room, which had been scrubbed and scoured until everything gleamed, including Vince and Gary. The toaster shone and the fridge interior had been emptied of any radio-active food containers and given a thorough cleansing. Vince poured coffee for everyone and opened a fresh box of donuts sitting in the center of the table.

  “I see you squandered money on office furnishings at IKEA, Rob, or was it Goodwill?” Daniel said, his keen eyes scanning the room.

  “Goodwill,” I answered. “The one in Beverly Hills. IKEA’s out of our league.”

  “There’s one in Beverly Hills?”

  “No, but I’m too ashamed to say Van Nuys,” I said and Daniel laughed. It was a surprisingly deep laugh from such a slender frame. “Billy Wilder used to fight with the studios about money being wasted when it could be spent better on his movies. He demanded the money go on the screen, not on fancy nonsense. Your money, Kraft’s money, goes on the TV screen or magazine page. We put the money into good people not marble-top counters or fancy leather chairs. Have a donut.”

  “Do I have to share?”

  “No. Even if it means the kids going without shoes this coming winter. At Sh-Boom, clients come first.”

  Daniel took a donut with multi-colored sprinkles and we all chose our own favorites. “Do you think you can handle Kraft, Rob?”

  “No,” I answered. Gary made a strange noise and went white, while Vince nearly choked on his donut and looked at me as though I had just shot his grandmother.

  “I wasn’t expecting that answer,” Daniel said.

  I suppressed a smile. It was an unexpected answer because it was meant to be. I didn’t want him thinking we were a bunch of scared lightweights begging for scraps and prepared to jump through hoops whenever he commanded. “I don’t think we can handle Kraft, I know we can, but not all of it at once. I want to keep this agency client-focused and that means knowing our limits, expanding though they may be.”

  Lewis fixed his eyes on mine.

  “As we grow I’ll be happy to take everything you send us, but only with a team I handpick. No weary old pros looking only for a paycheck, Vince and me excluded. Sh-Boom demands enthusiasm and commitment,” I said and slid a sheet of paper across the table to Daniel and tapped it. “That’s a list of your products we can effectively manage right now.”

  Daniel read the list. “More than I expected.”

  I said nothing, knowing the first one to speak when a deal is on the table loses.

  “But I don’t see why not. I like Vince’s creative and Gary is one hell of an account service guy. Plus, I like you, Rob.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Good donut too,” Daniel licked his fingertips clean and stretched. “Now that I finished my donut, do you think we might have lunch away from the office to discuss details? In keeping with your financial restraint philosophy I suppose that would be at McDonalds?”

  I pretended to fumble in my pockets. “I have coupons from our client, Carl’s Jr., somewhere.”

  Before Vince and Gary expired of apoplexy, we went to lunch at Musso & Frank where we discussed details, something Daniel very much enjoyed.

  I was late getting home and it was quiet. No, not quiet, silent, a suspended animation silence. I suppose everyone went to bed early, since the kids were bringing Ginger home for the evening. I tapped on the master bedroom door and eased it open. The room was dark and Ginger was sitting in her comfortable chair staring at the television. The sound was low and she did not notice me as I entered.

  “Hi, Sweetheart,” I whispered and kissed her cheek.

  She di
dn’t answer, hypnotized by the movie running on the television; a documentary about animals. I sat on the sofa near her and flinched as a voice said, “You’re late.”

  Beth appeared out of the darkness. “We thought you’d be here right after dinner.”

  “New client,” I said. “They’re always—“

  “She sang today.” Beth interrupted, her face was tight.

  “Sang? Ginger sang?”

  “They had this woman pianist who played and sang. Mom just sat there and listened, until she played-”

  “An Elvis Presley song?”

  “No. Patsy Cline, I Fall to Pieces. She was way off-key and so quiet I could hardly hear her, but she sang.” Beth wiped away a tear and sang, “I fall to pieces.”

  “I fall to pieces,” Ginger sang in a quavering, meandering voice. She faded away into silence and stared at the television again.

  “If you had been there, you would have heard her.”

  “I told you, Beth, I-”

  “I know, Dad. New client, old client, the client always comes first. She glared at me through her tears, swiped at them, leaned over and kissed Ginger. “Love you, Mom. See you tomorrow.”

  She brushed past me and left.

  68

  The Nokia model 1011 cell phone is introduced. Whitney Huston marries Bobby Brown. And Rob tastes success mixed with ashes.

  * * *

  Vince wanted to talk about Clorox and nothing else. I understood why, because his concepts were good. We also had Carl’s Jr. in development. The meetings to present the creative concepts for both were only a few days apart. Unfortunately, Carl’s Jr. was in LA and Clorox were based in Oakland, which meant everyone working in high gear and me clambering aboard airplanes. If that wasn’t enough, Gary was getting nervous because Daniel Lewis was asking for a progress report on Kraft, and expected me to call with the information he was seeking. And, to make it all truly a ball buster, I was moving into a condominium in Studio City while the realtor was pestering me about documents for the Bel Air house. My dance card was full, or so I thought.

  “Call on line two,” my secretary said over the intercom.

  “Take a message,” I replied.

  “It’s your son.”

  I snatched up the receiver. “Stevie.”

  “That’s your talk fast use short words I’m busy voice,” Stevie said.

  “There’s a lot going. What do you need?”

  “To talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “Face to face.”

  “Come to the office.”

  “No. I don’t want to be sandwiched between a storyboard conference and a budget meeting and interrupted by a dozen important phone calls.”

  I exhaled a tight breath. I did not need this. ”Let’s have dinner.”

  “Okay. I assume Musso & Frank, ‘cause it’s close to the office and you can continue working until the last minute. What time?”

  “Seven?”

  “See you at seven.” He hung up.

  Vince swept into my office with a secret all over his face. “Research says your frequent customer is a younger man with a big appetite and a small bankroll.”

  “Obviously you’re not talking about Clorox.”

  “Carl’s Jr. Look at how we analyzed the research put a fine point on it to develop a solid creative platform.”

  “Good start.”

  “I hate that phrase. It means you don’t like it.”

  I shrugged. “Or, Vince, it could simply mean it’s a good start. You gave me an analysis of the research. What about the creative concept?”

  “Problem is families are more likely to go to McDonald’s, Wendy’s, or Burger King than Carl’s Jr. Not forgetting In-N-Out. This is a tough one to position.”

  “Beer,” I shouted after pondering the problem for a couple of minutes.

  “They don’t sell beer.”

  “I know that, but if we don’t differentiate Carl’s Jr. from all the other burger chains, we’ll never be able to crack new markets. We need something brazen, something to tickle the fancy of young men, something memorable.”

  “Where does beer fit in?”

  “Remember when we stopped promoting beer’s ingredients and the magical brewing process, yaddah yaddah yaddah, and went to sex?”

  “It was great. Lots of pretty women prancing around in skimpy bathing suits grinning and having fun with the guys who drank whatever brand of beer we were selling.”

  “Do it for Carl’s Jr.”

  “Will it sell burgers?”

  “Sex sells anything to young men. Try it.”

  “I tried it a couple of times. I like it.”

  “Get out of here. Come back tomorrow with some concepts.”

  A droning sound grew louder and filled the room. I pulled aside the shades and looked out to the hills. A formation of World War II aircraft, AT-6s, was flying above the Hollywood sign. Today was the 50th anniversary of December 7, 1941, Pearl Harbor Day.

  I was five on that Sunday when the whole world changed. Growing up during those four intense years when the country battled evil on two fronts shaped my thinking, which remained with me throughout the years. There were memories, both good and bad, of how the war affected our community, but I never forgot the people’s singleness of purpose to win and bring our soldiers home. The joy that prevailed when the war ended was something I never experienced again. Unity was the commitment everyone made.

  I watched the planes disappear over the hill and wondered if it were possible to capture some of that unity within our agency. We had talented people working here and it crossed my mind that as the business grew and prospered, so too should they. Over and above their wages, they deserved to be part of the agency, to own a part of the agency. I would talk to Vince about it, but first I would have to listen to what was bothering Stevie.

  69

  Women are allowed to pilot U.S. Air Force warplanes. Beavis and Butt-Head premieres on MTV. And Rob learns a personal lesson.

  * * *

  Stevie looked around the restaurant and watched me take the first sip of my martini. “I’ve heard that martinis always taste best in dark places, like this one,” he said.

  “I suppose so,” I answered. “Never really thought about it. What’s on your mind?”

  “That’s my Dad. Right down to business. No, hey how are you, how are things going? How are you feeling? Time is precious, keep moving.”

  I put down the martini glass. “Is this going to be another fight? Is that why we’re meeting? To spill blood again?”

  “No.”

  “All right, let’s start over. How are you, Stevie?”

  “Fine, Dad. How are you?”

  “Good, Dad says pleasantly in reply, knocking the ball back to his son.”

  “I’m quitting school. The MBA program is not for me.”

  “What?”

  “I’m done.”

  “Have you-” I stopped with the thought already atrophied. I was about to ask him if he had spoken to his mother about this. That part of the family territory still existed but was walled off now. Another country, not mine or his. “Tell me why.”

  “Because I don’t want to do what you do.”

  “Exactly what is that?”

  “Being excited about selling stuff nobody really needs and being absent from home to do it.”

  I sat back against the comfort of the leather booth, weary. “We’re going to do battle again over old ground?”

  “No point. I know the weapons. I complain about you never being there and you fire back with how your work fed and clothed the family, and allowed us to live in high style.”

  “Sounds like you can have this battle all by yourself. You don’t need me.”

  “Haven’t needed you, or at least haven’t relied on you, for a very long time.”

  “I’ll remind you of that the next time college bills need to be paid.”
r />   “Didn’t you hear me? There won’t be any more college bills. I told you, I’m leaving school.”

  I felt angry and behind that, pushing to be noticed, was despair. Why was it impossible to keep everything together all the time? “To do what?”

  “The military.”

  I closed my eyes. What do I say? “What brought this on?” That’s not what I meant to say.

  “I already told you, I don’t want to do what you do. I’m going to do something meaningful. I’m going to be a Marine.”

  “Officer training school, I presume”

  “I’m going to be a plain-old enlisted man rather than an elitist.”

  “Shit, what a waste,” I said without knowing I said it. I tapped my glass to signal I wanted another drink.

  “What waste? Serving my country, or college?”

  “Stevie, I am so damn tired. You do what you think you need to do. I won’t try to stop you.”

  “You couldn’t. I wouldn’t let you.”

  There it was, the unbridgeable bottomless chasm, dug over decades to separate me from my family. I was beyond weary when the waiter brought me another drink.

  I was twenty minutes late getting to Sunrise and already the residents had moved to their rooms and the night’s hibernation had begun. I tapped on Ginger’s door, got no response and asked a caregiver to open it. It was dark and quiet, with just the glow of the television outlining shapes and reflecting off picture frames. There was no Ginger. I took a few steps farther into the room and tilted my head to one side to look into the bedroom. Ginger was on her knees at the bed, her hands clasped in prayer. She said nothing and did not move. It was not a prayer in the truest sense, because for that she would have needed some cognizance of what she was doing. This was purely a historical motor reflex. Her memory held this ritual and nudged her to perform it. It could not connect with her consciousness, though, because that no longer existed in a way I could understand. I leaned back and took one silent footstep after the other until I reached the door. I was a trespasser here, an intruder, in another world, one that was not mine.