Indecent Proposal

by Jack Engelhard

  Harvey Lint, the lobby newsstand man, now welcomed me back by offering me a free Hershey bar. He said his girl was still sick, out of commission as he put it, and that he still needed something temporary. Perhaps, Harvey said, from my office. But “quality.” She had to be “quality.”

  “In Philadelphia,” I said, “there is no quality.”

  Harvey laughed.

  “Don’t laugh,” I said. “Have you ever seen a pretty face in this town?”

  I took the elevator up and Helen Smith, the receptionist who had aged with the company, said, “Well, well. Look who’s back. How was Atlantic City?”

  “Nice,” I said. “Did I miss much?”

  “Everything’s the same, Josh. You know how it is.”

  I made straight for the bathroom to wash up, as always after the bus and subway ordeal. Just as I was finishing up a man from one of the other offices--where they sold communications systems--stepped out of a toilet cubicle and walked right out.

  I thought, How come people don’t wash their hands after taking a shit anymore? When did this begin? Lately I’d noticed this more and more. Maybe, I thought, they ought to teach this new generation less about computers and more about washing hands after a shit. Only that separated us from the four-legged animals anyway.

  As I moved around the corner to my office, I said, “What am I doing here?”

  Gloria Indoza, the secretary I shared with three other speechwriters, said, “You have a nine-thirty meeting in the conference room.”

  “Good to see you again, Gloria.”

  “I’m on a rush job.”

  Rush, rush, rush, as my father used to say. America is rush, rush, rush.

  Myer Lipson walked into my office and sat down.

  “Are you in on that meeting?”

  “Hello, Myer. Did you miss me?”

  “The place wasn’t the same without you, Josh. Are you in on that meeting?”

  “So I hear.”

  “They want you for the job.”

  “What job, Myer?”

  “We got the account.”

  “What account?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I’ve been away, Myer.”

  Myer knew that, of course. Myer knew everything. But Myer had games to play. Straightforward was not his style, due to the fact that when God gave out ten measures of paranoia, Myer took nine. As for being insecure, he took the entire portion.

  “We got the Friedrich account.”

  “They make soaps and detergents,” I said, playing dumb.

  “Plus everything else.”

  “The German company,” I said.

  “Ya Vol.”

  “Nazis.”

  “Now, now, Joshua, not all Germans are Nazis.”

  “They make soap. Out of what?”

  Myer, of course, knew that they used to make soap out of Jews--the Nazis did. One could not be sure about this Friedrich. But one could suppose.

  “Their CEO is going to be at the meeting,” said Myer. “Flew in from West Berlin. Adolph Friedrich. Jules talked you up big, I understand. This Friedrich wants you and only you to write his speeches. This could be your big move, Josh.”

  Myer’s envy was showing. He was terrified that I’d get to be vice president ahead of him. He was actually terrified of everything, Myer was. He so wanted to please and be loved. He was the perfect company man.

  “It’s all news to me,” I said.

  “I understand the account is worth a million dollars.”

  A million dollars again. Wherever I went, it seemed, a million dollars was sure to go.

  “You’re bound to get a raise,” Myer said.

  That also terrified him.

  “If I accept,” I said.

  “You have to accept.”

  “I don’t have to do anything.”

  “What makes you so cocky all of a sudden? Hit the jackpot in Atlantic City?”

  “I’m a free man, Myer.”

  “That’s the biggest joke of all. Who’s free?”

  “Myer,” I said, “what are we doing here?”

  “That’s what I keep asking you.”

  “Me, I’m just here to make a living. You’re ambitious, Myer. You care.”

  “I’m just like you, Josh. I don’t care about anything.”

  “Myer, you care about everything!”

  “I’m a family man.”

  “So, do the job, but don’t care so much. Or you’ll die by the time you’re forty-two.”

  “I’m forty-three.”

  “So maybe you’re dead already. Did you ever wonder about that?”

  He would.

  At nine-thirty we were all in the conference room, vice president after vice president, followed by me and then Myer. We were the only people here who were not vice presidents--including Jules Corson. He was the president.

  He sat at the head of the long table and said: “Good morning. Thanks for being here.” As if there were a choice. “Mr. Friedrich will be here shortly. This is a very big opportunity for us. The big one, in fact. Friedrich Corporation is a multibillion-dollar outfit. Their American subsidiary, headquartered in Milwaukee, is set for a major image blitz, if you know what I mean. Sales here are lagging. Morale is low. That’s where we come in. Mr. Friedrich wants us to boost morale in this country, and we’re to provide him the means to achieve his goals. This will be a total campaign--PR, publicity, collateral and all the rest. You know what I mean? First, though, we’ll be writing his speeches so that he can pep up his key executives here. He’ll be touring each plant. Joshua, you’ll be heading the speechwriting team. Any questions?”

  Of course not. Nobody ever had questions.

  “Jules,” I began.

  “Josh,” he said. “This is a great opportunity for you.”

  “I know, but does he speak English?”

  Jules had a temper.

  “Of course he speaks English.”

  “No accent?”

  “Of course he has an accent. He’s German.”

  “German accents can be...”

  “Can be what?”

  “Suggestive.”

  “Suggestive of what?”

  “Harsh. Let’s say harsh.”

  “In what way harsh?”

  “In a militaristic way, Jules. How old is he?”

  “I don’t know, Josh. Why are you asking these questions?”

  “You asked for questions,” I said.

  “Not stupid questions.”

  Myer was smiling. I could not see the smile, but I could feel it on my back.

  “If I’m going to work with this man, shouldn’t I know something about him?”

  “Are we having a problem, Josh?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I’m not nuts about Germans.”

  “So? I’m not nuts about Japs, but I drive a Japanese car. Since when does nationality have anything to do with business?”

  Jules had fought the Japanese in Burma. So he had once told me. Now he drove a Japanese car. He had made his peace. Now I had to make mine. For business.

  Adolph Friedrich arrived with an assistant. He shook hands all around. Adolph was about thirty-eight. He was cheerful, friendly and an all-around pal. His face glowed from excessive good health. He had the complexion of a woman or even a baby. But his eyes were tiny and dull. There was something about his eyes.

  “So,” he said. “We have a nice family.”

  Why, I wondered, did his name have to be Adolph? Maybe if his name were Hans or Otto or Ludwig or Gustav I could stomach him. But Adolph was too much. Even for business.

  His flunky--Otto, by the way--gave an hour’s spiel on the history of the company, how it got started in 1923 as a small soap producer in Hamburg and then expanded its product line and grew throughout Germany and then the world. Slides and a short film showed the whole thing, including founders, Grandpa and Grandma Friedrich. Everything was here in this presentation excep
t for one thing. There was no mention of the years 1939 to 1945. What happened to those years?

  Strange, I thought, that those years should be omitted. Hadn’t there been some sort of disturbance during that time? Even a war?

  Following Otto’s presentation, Adolph got up to make some closing remarks.

  He said: “Today is the beginning of tomorrow. The future is where we are going. The opportunity is knocking for good and better business for us, for you, for everybody. Let us march forward to success. I am very gay.”

  This man--this man needs a speechwriter all right.

  Jules Corson then got up and said, “Any questions?”

  I raised my arm and Jules’ face turned ugly. His lips snarled up as he said, “Yes, Josh.”

  “What I’d like to know...”

  “Later, Josh. This meeting is over.”

  Myer smiled. He too was very gay.

  * * *

  Later, as threatened, I was in Jules’ office. He had summoned me. He was on the phone, but that did not deter him from talking to me. In fact, Jules was incapable of holding one conversation at a time. He needed two.

  “You need a vacation,” he said.

  “I just had one.”

  “Maybe something more permanent,” he said.

  “Jules, are you firing me?”

  “I’d love to. But I can’t. You’re the best speechwriter I’ve got--which isn’t saying much. But what the hell has gotten into you?”

  “You know I’m not good with clients.”

  “But not like this. I’ve never seen you like this.”

  “What did I say?”

  “It’s what you were going to say.”

  “What was I going to say?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I was merely going to ask how they made their soap.”

  “That could have killed the account. A million-dollar account.”

  “Jules, I can’t write speeches for a Nazi.”

  “He’s no Nazi, damn it, Josh!”

  “His name is Adolph.”

  “That’s unfair.”

  “I know, Jules. I’m not a fair person.”

  “He’s too young to have been a Nazi.”

  “So his father was a Nazi. By the way, what happened between 1939 and 1945?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you notice how those years just disappeared?”

  “I don’t care. We’re not at war with Germany anymore.”

  “You’re not. I am.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Josh. That will make it difficult for you to work on this account.”

  “So take me off.”

  “I can’t. You’re committed. It will do you good. Teach you forgiveness.”

  End of discussion. When I got back to my office, Myer was there, pretending to be thrilled over me.

  “Myer, I’m not in the mood.”

  “What were you talking about in there with Jules?”

  “About you, Myer. I talked him out of firing you again. This comes up every day, you know.”

  Myer knew I was kidding, of course--but he could not be absolutely sure.

  “Did Jules make you a vice president?” he asked.

  “Of course he did.”

  “Are you getting a raise?”

  “Naturally--plus a bonus. There’s no stopping me now, Myer.”

  “Jules really likes you.”

  “I know.”

  “He doesn’t like me.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “Why doesn’t he like me?” asked Myer.

  “Because you try too hard.”

  “No I don’t. I can be as easygoing as anybody.”

  I had already seen Myer be easygoing. At that too he tried too hard.

  “Don’t be so gullible, Myer.”

  “Was he actually going to fire me?”

  “No, he was actually going to fire me.”

  “You were a bit out of line, you know. But he likes that--your chutzpah. Let’s have lunch.”

  We had lunch at the deli on Chestnut, the same group of five speechwriters. For none of us was this a profession of choice. No, it just happened. What was that line? Life is what happens to you while you’re making other plans. Well, that was us.

  Now I listened to the table talk. What had I missed during my absence? Not much. Amazing, I thought, how nobody changed. Bob Porter still hated Republicans. Morris King still thought Israel was wrong about everything. As for Fred Manning, he still had the perfect filing system, which he himself had devised. If only Jules Corson would listen and adopt it for the whole company. But he refused. Fred was thinking of taking his perfect filing system elsewhere. Quitting. Myer? He was still worried about getting fired. Me? I had nothing much to say.

  “What’s the matter, Josh?” somebody asked. “You seem distant.”

  I should be less critical, I thought. Be more forbearing. These were my peers. I was no better. I was no worse. What’s wrong with me? I asked myself. What do you want? I want this: something different. Doesn’t even have to be better. Just different. Like what? There is nothing different. This is it, boy. You come in by bus, by subway, do some work, have lunch with the guys, work again, and again take the subway, the bus, get back, have dinner, watch TV, go to bed, and the next morning start all over again.

  Doesn’t anything change? Over and over and again and again it’s the same thing. Thirty more years of this?

  Chapter 15

  NOW JOAN was nested in. Again the house belonged to her as a house could only belong to a woman. A man was only a visitor, even in his own home. She had made lunch plans for the week with Tilly, Bobbi and Sandi, all from the Main Line, and tennis plans for the weekend with Vera--also, of course, from the Main Line. She had been to the Acme, done three loads of wash, made an appointment with Roberto her hairstylist, and vacuumed and dusted the apartment. She was back in the center and life could revolve around her again.

  Now--when I arrived home from work--she was in the kitchen preparing dinner. I had once told her that that was my second favorite moment, coming home and finding her in the kitchen. She was sure enough about herself to understand that as praise.

  I took a quick shower and didn’t bother to get dressed. I dashed for the kitchen and stripped her as she was mixing vegetable soup. Then I led her to the bedroom and we made love. This was a good one, with all the appropriate sighs, whimpers and then the big yell. I made love to her this day as a reaffirmation of ownership, because I knew that I did not own her.

  I was finally beginning to realize that two people could never be one.

  We showered together and then started dinner.

  “How was it at work?” she asked.

  “The same.”

  “That’s good.”

  “It is?”

  “Some things should be different. Some things should be the same.”

  “Well--not everything was the same.” I told her how the bus cost me ten dollars this morning, and how I hit a guy on the bus.

  “So you smacked him?” she said.

  “He had it coming.”

  “That’s not like you, Josh.”

  “I had a tough day, actually.”

  Now I told her about the Friedrich account.

  “I should have known,” she said. “You always get horny when something goes wrong.”

  “Passionate, Joan. I wish you wouldn’t say horny. It’s not a Main Line word.”

  “Please don’t write my lines, Josh. I don’t need a speechwriter.”

  Somehow you know it’s coming, another quarrel, and you also know it can’t be stopped. You want to stop it but you can’t. It has its own power. It is fueled by who knows what pains and frustrations. The quarrel may have nothing to do with what you are quarreling about. It may be a memory of something else. But all the same it’s a quarrel. One remark leads to another. Accusation follows accusation. Nastiness turns to meanness.

  “Maybe you don’t need me,” I said--and
this just after we had made love.

  “Let’s not talk anymore,” she said. “I know what’s coming.”

  She did. She had that sixth sense.

  “Maybe,” I said, “what you need is an Arab prince.”

  Now why did I say that? There must be another person inside all of us who says these things.

  “Oh, so that’s what this is all about. Well, sweetheart, maybe what you need is a million dollars. Fix you right up.”

  “No, I’m not the one who said let’s do it.”

  “But you’re the one who thought it and don’t tell me otherwise. You were willing. You still are. Listen to you go on about Philadelphia, and now this Friedrich. You think I don’t know what that means? You want out, Josh. Say it, Josh--say you want the money!”

  “Let’s stop this, Joan, before we do permanent damage.”

  “I never started.”

  “Stop it, Joan!”

  “You actually struck a man today. What does that tell me?”

  “It tells you I’ve had enough. Okay?”

  “You need another vacation.”

  “That’s exactly what Jules said.”

  “Well he’s right.”

  “Is he also right about me working for a Nazi? An Adolph yet?”

  “That doesn’t make him a Nazi. Adolph is a common name in Germany.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “Josh, you’re looking for an excuse.”

  “An excuse for what?”

  “To quit your job.”

  “That’s no secret.”

  “So quit!”

  “Then what?”

  “You know darn well what.”

  “Send you off for breeding?”

  “I see no other way out. We’ve only been back a few days and it’s already tearing us apart. Think what it’ll be like in days to come?”

  “It’ll get better.”

  “It’ll get worse. I know you, Josh.”

  If only, I thought--if only I hadn’t stopped in at the Versailles. If only I hadn’t responded when he had called me over for good luck. If only we hadn’t had dinner with him. If only I hadn’t gone up to see him later on. But I had. The answer was yes to all the above. The trap had been set and I had stepped right in. Hello, I had said, did you advertise for a sucker? Well here I am. But really, who had set the trap? Maybe it had been me. After all, I knew what I was doing. All along I knew what I was doing. I had set the trap.