Masquerade

by William Kienzle

  “Not a common virtue, that bit of abstinence.” Koesler was impressed—for the very first time—by Krieg’s apparent thoughtfulness.

  “Gotta see how the troops are doing.” Tully turned abruptly and left.

  Koesler stood for several moments reflecting on all he’d just heard. Then he remembered it was time for the scheduled morning Mass. Celebrating it remained Koesler’s responsibility. He had offered the service to Father Augustine, who declined with little civility. Apparently, he was carrying a grudge from the altercation he himself had caused in the sacristy yesterday morning.

  No one else was in the sacristy. By now Koesler knew where everything was, so he vested quickly. Even at that he was a few minutes late. Pretty good crowd, he thought as he entered the sanctuary to begin Mass. The congregation by no means filled the large chapel, but it was substantially more numerous than yesterday’s skeleton group. He wondered if all these pious souls would have been in attendance were it not for what had happened. There are no atheists in a Catholic college, especially with a murder investigation going on, he thought, and almost chuckled.

  Mass began. Buried in one of the clusters in the congregation was Father Augustine. In black trousers and an open-neck white shirt instead of his religious habit, he went largely unrecognized. He seemed deep in thought as Koesler began the opening prayers.

  Mechanically, Augustine joined the others in prayer: “I confess to Almighty God, and to you my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault. . .” For some reason, these words returned him to the present, then, like a springboard, their meaning drew him back into the past.

  No longer was he a sixty-year-old man, fully formed, with most of his life behind him. In recollection, he was a young man whose future seemed limitless.

  19

  He was in college. If anyone had told him then that one day he would become a Trappist monk, he would have laughed himself silly.

  His name was Harold May. He was the son of a career Army man, so his family had lived in many, many places, on military bases throughout the United States and many other countries. So far, it had been an interesting life, filled with excitement and adventure.

  As he grew up, he watched his father climb the military ladder and he listened as his father explained to his mother, and sometimes to him privately, the carefully made plans for advancement.

  Harold admired his father and was terribly proud of his accomplishments. Harold loved the dress uniforms, the decorations, each more splendid than the previous with each new promotion. Harold was determined to follow in his father’s footsteps. But not in the military. It would be a major disappointment to the father, but the son wanted wider horizons than the military could offer.

  And that was why Harold May was at UCLA, achieving. He was heavily into various Liberal Arts courses, with great emphasis on Journalism and English. His goal was advertising, but not the bottom nor even the comfortable middle rungs of the business. He knew where he wanted to go and he knew what it would take.

  He also knew enough not to waste time in pursuits that would prove to be dead ends. Thus, slight of build and not particularly well coordinated, he participated in no organized sports. Oh, he fooled a bit with pick-up games of Softball and touch football. But his interest in these was no more than social and, worse than being no good at them, he was likely to be injured playing them. He found he could socialize as well or better on the sidelines. For recreation, wisely, he walked, often, far, and rapidly.

  There was no way he could know it then, but this era during which he was attending college would later be known as “The Golden Age of Television.” And he happened to be where the action was.

  Harold was among the first to realize what television would mean to the advertising world. That TV would turn the ad business upside down and inside out.

  A very quick study, he required minimum time hitting the books. He also cut as many classes as he could get away with. A good part of the time he appropriated from studies he spent at the TV studios doing anything and everything he could on the technical side of the lights. So many of the young people who worked with him planned careers in television, but not in the coolie labor demanded of them now. They were going to be dramatic or comedy stars or directors or producers, or in charge of one or another of the technical facets of the business. One day they’d have a shelf full of Emmys. Or so they dreamed. Actually, few of them would achieve any measure of success in an industry where many were called but few chosen.

  Harold, on the other hand, was utterly uninterested in television as such. Although the term “commercial television” was not yet prevalent, that was precisely the designation he foresaw. In this, he was prescient.

  Until the fifties, advertising was pretty well confined to the print medium: newspapers, magazines, fliers, unless one wished to count movie previews, which, then as now, were teasers luring moviegoers to a forthcoming film. And if one wished to count coming attractions as ads, they were ads created by the film industry.

  Hollywood, for all practical purposes, had cornered the market in film-making. That industry knew how to make moving pictures for the big screen, It was a short step from that science to making moving pictures for a little screen. Hollywood had the skills and techniques to blend moving pictures and sound, even animation. And New York’s ad community did not. At least not in the beginning.

  And there lay Harold’s genius. He knew that the two—movies and advertising—were destined to meet. Indeed, at that moment they were on a collision course. The ad community was about to be caught in an embarrassment of ignorance. Not only did they not understand the techniques of film-making, they did not even know the jargon.

  That was why young Harold May spent every possible spare moment on, in, and around the sound stages of Hollywood. He fully intended to combine all that he was learning behind the camera, in the cutting rooms, in the production offices, with his university courses.

  Even with this single-minded dedication to his chosen career, Harold managed to squeeze in a not inconsiderable social life. And this brought to light another of Harold’s talents that surprised him, and amazed many of his friends.

  Harold could drink.

  Harold could not only drink prodigious amounts of alcohol, he had an astounding ability to hold it and not become intoxicated while all about him were drinking far less yet getting falling-down drunk.

  This talent did not go uncelebrated. Several of his friends, both intimate and casual, were heard to say in one way or another, “God, I wish I could drink like Harold!”

  Decades before safety experts urged groups of drinkers out for a night on the town to designate a nondrinking driver, Harold was the designated drinking driver.

  Actually, he was not only proud of this talent, he was even grateful to God for it. Naturally, he had heard those stories of three-martini lunches for which ad people were notorious. He knew it was no mean trick to float through liquid lunches, be a hail-fellow-well-met, and still conduct business soberly.

  It was not unlike a man with a mesomorphic body excelling at a sport such as football. God had gifted such a person with an unlikely body, steroid-free, and the athlete made good use of his gift. So it was with Harold. He believed that, for His own good reasons, God had granted unto him all those special gifts that were aiding him in the preparation for a life of upward mobility in the advertising business. But was it God doing all this? In the end, that was anyone’s guess. However, Harold was a very religious young man. His mother, as often as possible, attended daily Mass. His father, and commandant, enrolled him in parochial school—or, if there were no Catholic school on the base, catechism classes.

  As is often the case in such circumstances, little Harold kept learning the same religious lessons over and over. His formation in morality was shallow but absorbed. Hopscotching from one military base to another, he had the opportunity to meet a vast mix of people his own age, but not necessarily of his religious persuasion. It was a practical
if raw course in comparative religion. From conversations and discussions, he learned that many Protestants believed drinking and gambling were immoral. While Catholics were more cautious: There was nothing wrong with drinking as long as one did not become theologically drunk, which happened when one’s face hit the floor. Likewise with wagering: Nothing wrong with that as long as one did not lose the farm. All was well unless one indulged excessively. Moderation, in all things moderation.

  Except with regard to sex. His Protestant buddies were not nearly as restricted in sexual matters as Harold.

  Harold was taught that sexual expression had two purposes. The primary purpose was the procreation and education of children. The secondary purpose was the legitimate relief of concupiscence. He learned that at least once every year. That old devil concupiscence! He didn’t even know what concupiscence was until about his eighth or ninth year—which was when he learned about the purposes of sex.

  So there the matter stood. Catholics, especially, it was believed, if they were Irish, drank like camels. They also bet on each pitch in a baseball game. Protestants couldn’t wear makeup, play cards, or have more than a rare glass of wine at dinner. But they did fool around.

  None of these religious differences seemed odd to Harold because he had been taught and did believe that the one, holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church was the one, true Church of Jesus Christ. And that pretty well put all the others in their place.

  Oh, yes, Harold was religious. And as far as he was concerned, his life was in sync with God’s will. He would have done more wagering—perhaps a virtue rather than a vice—but that he had little scratch with which to place a decent bet. He dated, but he never went further than necking and petting—worth from five to ten “Our Fathers” and “Hail Marys,” depending on the confessor. Basically, God had given Harold all the tools he needed to score big in the advertising world, his chosen profession. And, as if he needed any further sign in that delicate arena of the multimartini lunch, he could hold his own and then some. Could anything God did be more a sign of Divine Providence!

  Harold graduated.

  He selected the William J. Doran Agency, one of New York’s largest, most innovative ad firms. For years, in his imagination, usually just before sleep at night, he had been drafting a clever query letter to go along with a catchy resume. He sent them to Robert L. Begin, creative supervisor at the Doran Agency.

  The tactic worked. The letter and resume won Harold an interview luncheon with Begin.

  They met at “21,” one of New York’s poshier restaurants. It was a pivotal luncheon that would determine, to a large extent, Harold’s professional future. Begin was relaxed about it. And why should he not be?

  He was in the driver’s seat. It was Harold’s future that was at stake. And it was Begin’s prerogative to recommend the hiring or rejection of this young man.

  The pressure was on Harold. He was on the spot. But no one would ever have known it. The way he saw it, this was the moment for which he’d been born. It was, as they used to say in the Crusades, God’s will.

  After introductions, the two were seated at a preferred table near the rear of the dining area. The waiter acknowledged and deferred to Begin. Harold noticed.

  To Harold, Begin seemed the embodiment of the company man: attired in a light gray suit—appropriate for a warm June day—he wore rimless glasses—bifocals—and expensive cuff links and a trendy wrist-watch. His thinning graying hair lent an aristocratic appearance.

  The waiter took their orders. A Manhattan for Begin; a martini, up, for Harold.

  Begin began to explain the make-up of the Doran Agency. Although Harold had researched it thoroughly, the novice listened with an absorbed expression.

  There were, Begin spelled out, drawing barely perceptible lines on the tablecloth with the prongs of his fork, five departments in the company.

  “The account management division,” Begin said, “provides liaison to the client with regard to current as well as new business. The creative department, which, I take it, is your primary interest, Harold—”

  You betcha, thought Harold.

  “. . . the creative department contains both the art department and the copywriters. Then there’s the production department, the people who put the ad on the printed page. The media department decides where the ad will run: paper; magazines; which papers and when; which magazines. Finally, there’s the research department, which develops strategy for the target audience and tests the advertising concept.

  “The important thing, Harold, is that all this describes the team effort that advertising very much is. To paraphrase, ‘No department is an island.’”

  Begin was interrupted by the waiter inquiring whether they were ready to order. They were. Begin would have the catch of the day. Harold would have the Caesar salad and another martini, up. Begin took note.

  Begin took Harold through much of the ad business history, then focused on the Doran Agency and its six prime accounts. Of course Harold knew who the accounts were, but, again, he didn’t interrupt.

  They were: a major pharmaceutical company; a national brewery; a brand tobacco firm; a cosmetics business; an airline; and International Motors, presently striving to become one of the Big Four auto companies.

  Begin noted the flicker of desire in Harold’s eyes at the mention of International Motors.

  It was a subtle reaction, but Begin had trained himself to be alert to such small signs. He wondered if Harold May had a future with Doran. Judging from his credentials alone, probably yes. Then Begin wondered if Harold had a future in the International Motors account. Likely not for a long while. The level at which Harold would enter the company was light years away from such an important account.

  By the time they had all but finished their lunch, Begin had just about completed his guided tour through advertising in general and Doran in particular. The waiter returned to ask if they wanted coffee. They did. And Harold ordered his third martini. Begin took note. Then he opened the conversation to Harold.

  It was the moment for which Harold had patiently waited.

  While not derogating from anything Begin had said, Harold launched into a flood of knowledge acquired over the years. When he felt that Begin was sufficiently impressed, Harold played trump: Los Angeles, Hollywood, television. “There’s always going to be a place for print advertising, of course, Mr. Begin . . .”

  “Bob, please.”

  “Thank you. Bob. It’s just that, to be effective, print has to have longevity and consistency.”

  “You’re right, Harold. And that’s the way we project at Doran. The client has to be sold on the woodpecker theory.”

  “Woodpecker?” Harold didn’t think he’d missed a term, but this was unfamiliar.

  “The woodpecker, hitting the same spot over and over again, just the same way!”

  “Of course,” Harold agreed. “But something different happens when you get to TV advertising, don’t you think? I mean television imposes itself on its audience—where print gives you the option of looking or not looking.”

  “Keen observation,” Begin commented. “But you mentioned Hollywood, television. I’d be interested in your views of TV as it relates to advertising.” He tried to affect a casual tone.

  Harold caught Begin’s heightened interest. He was not surprised. He’d expected it.

  “From what I’ve been able to put together,” Harold said, “effective TV advertising is going to have emotion, humor, and fancy production.”

  “And print ads don’t?”

  “Not really. The TV medium is, by its very nature, more flamboyant, more flashy than print. The emotion is right on the surface. It can fool with humor in a way that print can’t afford to. Pratfalls, clips of old Mac Sennett comedies, dancing cigarette packs, things like that. And when it comes to fancy production, the print medium simply can’t compete. You’re going from a single picture per page to production numbers staged maybe in Busby Berkeley style.”

  Begi
n could not hide his excitement. He urged Harold to tell him all he knew about this monster that threatened to skyrocket the ad industry. While Harold still had much to learn, he was not the complete innocent when it came to hoarding bargaining chips.

  So, in sketchiest detail, Harold told of his experience behind the camera, building sets, staging, cutting and editing film, even a bout or two in the director’s chair—albeit in extremely small productions. Nonetheless, the sum total of all this hands-on experience gave him a very distinct advantage over the garden-variety creative ad person. A conclusion with which Bob Begin concurred.

  The waiter presented the check. Begin, accepting it, asked Harold if he wanted another drink—one for the road. Harold declined. Begin took note. Three martinis, par for the course. And Harold showed not one ill effect. This one might be a winner.

  In short order, at the recommendation of Robert Begin, Harold was hired by the William J. Doran agency.

  Harold was assigned to the bullpen. The bullpen was christened such by the copywriters who had occupied that position, paid their dues, and eventually escaped it.

  It did not take Harold long to figure out that the bullpen separated the floaters from the self-motivators. Junior copywriters essentially were unassigned. The go-getters would find projects. The others would contemplate the ever-changing universe. There was no doubt that Harold intended to work—and to climb. But no one offered him a project, and he couldn’t find the rope.

  So, in the beginning, Harold spent much more time looking for work than actually working. Timing his entrances carefully so it would not be apparent that he was, in effect, begging for work, he wandered from office to office, asking, “Anything I can help you with?”

  That was how he got his first assignment. It was an “on pack.” One of the agency’s toothpaste accounts was offering a sample-size tube of toothpaste along with a small toothbrush. It was a travel package. All that was needed was filler body copy for the enclosed ad. Harold wrote the copy in about the time it would have taken to dash off a memo. He hadn’t invested all this preparation just to write filler copy.