by Alan Glynn
“Oh … good.” Sweeney is not sure he can add anything here that won’t reflect badly on Matt Drake, so he just shrugs. He glances down at his notes, eager to get back to them.
“Come on,” Blanford says, rapping the door with his knuckles. “Let’s go to lunch. I want you to meet someone.”
* * *
Initially, Sweeney is reluctant, frustrated, but he snaps out of this pretty quickly and by the time they’re downstairs and hitting the sidewalk, he’s puzzled by how wrapped up he got in all of that stuff.
Carpets? Pet food? Girdles? It suddenly seems insane to him that so much time and energy could go into devising an ad campaign for any of these things. Girdles? He gazes upward, at the side of the building they’ve just come out of—twenty floors of frenetic activity in various ad agencies, law offices, accounting firms, with most of it, he has to think, being utterly inconsequential.
Listen to him. Is he going to repeat any of this to Dick Blanford? And over lunch at 21 Club? He doesn’t think so. Though he suspects that if he’d taken even a slightly stronger dose of MDT this morning he already would have. There was an ineluctable forward momentum that first time, something reckless and immune to reason that he’s not detecting now. Which is probably a good thing, because he needs this job. He can’t just throw it away. Nevertheless, in the cab on the way to 21, as Blanford talks in detailed, almost rhapsodic terms about the future of television and advertising (the guy they’re meeting for lunch, apparently, is a big-shot producer at CBS), Sweeney stares out the window and silently formulates elaborate counterarguments to every single point Blanford is making.
At 21, they’re greeted like movie stars. It’s clear that Blanford is a regular here and they’re shown to what Sweeney assumes is his usual corner booth. As they’re settling in, Mr. CBS shows up.
“Hey!” Blanford says, stretching out his hand.
“Dick!”
“Bob, I want you to meet Ned Sweeney, he’s taking over for Matt.”
“Ned, Bob Saunders.”
They shake hands.
“Pleased to meet you,” Saunders says. “We were all cut up over what happened. It was so … senseless.”
There’s a bit of business with the waiter. Blanford orders a fruit juice, Saunders a martini, and Sweeney gets a seltzer water. Then the two big shots get into some small talk about their wives.
“You got kids, Ned?” Saunders asks after a few moments, turning to Sweeney.
“A boy, Tommy. He’s six.”
“Ah. You’re lucky. I got three girls.”
Sweeney is about to ask him why that makes him lucky when the waiter arrives with their drinks and the conversation moves on. Saunders is fortyish, slim, and of medium height. He has the looks of a slightly shop-soiled matinee idol, but his eyes are alert and he has an easy, confident way about him. He takes out a cigarette case, flicks it open, and offers Sweeney a smoke. Sweeney tells him no thanks, that he’s quit. Saunders lights one up himself and takes a deep drag from it.
“So, what am I dealing with here,” he says, waving his free hand in the air, “a couple of goddamned choirboys? No one drinks or smokes anymore?”
“I can’t speak for Ned,” Blanford says, “but there are other vices, you know. Slim ones, blond ones.”
Surprised by this, Sweeney studies Blanford for a moment.
Of course.
Patrician, aloof Dick Blanford—he’s actually an old dog who chases secretaries, typists, and hat-check girls, just like any other old dog of his vintage or privileged position. In fact, in a disconcerting flash, Sweeney can suddenly account for three recent employees, now ex-employees, of Ridley Rogan Blanford, two secretaries and a junior copywriter, whose brief sojourns at the company, whose trajectories there (he sees these mapped out like flight paths on graph paper), must each have ended as a result of unwanted contact with Blanford—disastrous collisions they certainly wouldn’t have seen coming. It then occurs to Sweeney that in different—in other words, normal—circumstances, he’d be pretty intimidated right now himself. He’d be out of his depth and trying to come up with a good line, just to fit in with these guys. But as it turns out, Sweeney is not intimidated. If anything, he’s bored.
“You bet,” Saunders says, as if on cue, and holding up his martini, “and don’t forget those fiery little redheads, either.”
“Ned?”
And it’s showing.
“Yes?”
Blanford shoots him a look.
“Oh … right.”
What Sweeney should probably chime in with at this point is something like, I’m strictly a brunette man myself, but the actual words that come out of his mouth are, “So, Bob, Dick tells me you’re putting a new show together at the network, a playhouse theater kind of a deal, and you need a sponsor. That’s great, but as I see it, there’s a fundamental problem here, and if we’re going to collaborate on one of these things, it really needs to be cleared up in advance.”
Saunders looks puzzled.
“Let me explain,” Sweeney goes on, avoiding eye contact with Blanford. “Because it’s very simple. All the dramas we’re seeing on TV these days, on Philco Playhouse, on Kraft Television Theatre, on the U.S. Steel Hour, they’re great. I mean, Marty? Oh my God. My Brother’s Keeper? Fantastic. But you know what? In a way, they’re too good. They examine why people fail in life or can’t find love, why they’re lonely or alcoholics. And whatever the issue is, they drill down on it, they expose it, but they don’t provide solutions, they don’t offer any hope. And here’s the problem. Then the commercials come on and what happens? We show up with more solutions than you can shake a stick at—a shiny new pill or hair tonic, a better toothpaste, a bigger car, and none of it adds up. The contrast is too stark. People are going to notice that. Then they’re going to resent it.”
Saunders leans forward. “Oh, now hold on a minute, I don’t accept—”
“Ned—”
“Listen to me, Bob, all I’m saying is that you’ll need to be on the same page as us when the inevitable happens, when some writer who should be aiming for Broadway turns in a script that we’re uncomfortable with. Maybe it has a story line that’s too overtly political or it deals with a controversial social issue, whatever, but one way or another it’s going to have an effect, it’s going to start making our ads look fraudulent—”
“Oh, that’s—”
“What? I’m wrong? People enjoy having their noses rubbed in it? Being reminded of how shitty their lives are? I don’t think so, Bob—and Dick here agrees with me. Right, Dick?”
Blanford looks annoyed. He does agree, because he’s smart, but this isn’t how he saw lunch turning out.
“I might have taken a different approach, Ned,” he says quietly, an edge to his voice. “I might have gone at it a bit more diplomatically, and chosen a better time, but yes, it’s not an incorrect analysis.”
“Jeez, fellas,” Saunders says, taking a long sip from his martini. “Take it easy. What is this, an ambush?”
“We’re just thinking ahead, Bob,” Sweeney says, adopting Blanford’s quiet tone. “We’re being realistic. This will eventually become a problem, so doesn’t it make sense to head it off at the pass? I mean, we’re not saying every show has to be I Love Lucy or You Bet Your Life, but the picture has to fit the frame, so to speak, and like it or not, we’re the frame.”
Sweeney is aware that Blanford’s growing unease here may be more than that, it may be actual panic. He’s about to say something when Saunders holds a finger up to silence him.
“How long has it been, Dick,” he says, “you and me, here at 21?” He gives a little wave of his hand to indicate their surroundings. “How many lunches? How many meetings? Quite a few, I’d say, and yet, never once have I been spoken to this way.”
Blanford almost audibly deflates.
Sweeney stares at his glass of seltzer water.
“But you know what?” Saunders continues. “It’s very damned refreshing. People these days
are too afraid to speak their minds, in case the other fellow disagrees with them or they somehow get it wrong.” He looks at Sweeney. “So I appreciate how frank you’ve been about all of this, Ned, and I … I guess you might actually have a point. I’m certainly open to discussing it.”
* * *
By the time they’re heading back to the office, Blanford has not only come around to Sweeney’s “way of seeing things,” as he calls it, he’s talking about instigating a new “honesty is the best policy” policy at RRB.
Though, to be really honest about it, this is not Sweeney’s way of seeing things at all, and he doesn’t understand why he said what he did to Saunders. He certainly doesn’t believe any of it. The more difficult and controversial a TV drama can be the better, as far as he’s concerned—and to hell with the sponsorship and advertising. He thinks he just got caught up in the rhythm and flow of that particular argument and could have been equally persuasive making the opposite case.
On reflection, this is somewhat alarming. Over a four-hour period a tiny dose of MDT has given him the energy and confidence to sway the opinions of three major clients, to plan meetings with several others that could conceivably yield similar results, and to inject a new enthusiasm into the very veins of the company. The only problem is, he’s not in the least bit interested in any of this—in client meetings, in the company, in advertising, in his job. He can fake it, very clearly, and could go on doing so, but is there any compelling reason why he should?
By mid-afternoon, an oppressive cloud has settled over him. If he stays here in the office, he’ll have no choice but to attend to whatever work comes his way, and any work that does he’ll no doubt attend to with extreme diligence and pinpoint focus. But his impulse is simply to leave, to go and engage in whatever random way he can with the world outside.
What he’s beginning to realize is that he actually shouldn’t have come to work in the first place—because his suspicion is that whatever energy MDT releases in the brain, it needs to feed on what it’s exposed to, and so far all he has exposed it to are the mundane and the pedestrian. So what did he expect?
And it’s not as if the day is over. Just after three o’clock, he gets a call from Jack Rogan asking him to swing by his office if he has a minute. Rogan would like him to sit in on something—a pitch he and his art director are putting together for a big presentation tomorrow.
Sweeney tells him sure, and immediately heads down the hall to his office. Rogan is one of the few account executives in the business who works closely with his art director and has the personal confidence to share credit on a project—something that should be automatic, but isn’t. Art directors and copywriters have their place in the hierarchy, like in a rigid class system, but it’s obvious that that’s bullshit and can’t last—just as the exclusive, WASP-y nature of the major Madison Avenue firms can’t last either. What about all those talented Jews out there, all the Italians, the Greeks, the Armenians, this great tidal wave of résumés and portfolios, this persistent—
“Ned?”
“Huh?”
He needs to focus. He’s standing in the doorway of Rogan’s office. “Sorry, Jack,” he says, giving his head a little shake. “Mid-afternoon slump.”
He steps inside and Rogan closes the door behind him.
“I think you’ve earned it, Ned. You want a drink?”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
He glances around. The venetian blinds are closed and the atmosphere is dense with smoke. Rogan’s art director, Dale Porter, is sitting back on a couch with a glass in his hand, and next to him, looking a little uncomfortable, are two copywriters. Sweeney nods at everyone.
“We’re pretty much done,” Rogan says, “but I’d love to hear any thoughts you have.”
It’s a pitch for Kokomatic Electrics and their new line of “bigger, better” refrigerators. The main artwork is set up on a stand next to Rogan’s desk. Sweeney walks over to take a closer look. The illustration is of a spacious, sparkling suburban kitchen, at the center of which stands the Kokomatic 2000. This enormous refrigerator has been left wide open, its green and gold interior proudly displaying a multicolored treasure trove of enticing foodstuff—a gallon carton of milk, two dozen eggs, items of fresh produce, a chicken, a casserole dish, bottles of beer, some chocolate cake, Jell-O molds, strawberry salads, and, at the bottom, a pull-out section stacked with frozen TV dinners. Visually, the ad is rich, almost garish, but it gets its point across. The copy is simple and strives to be clever: “The Kokomatic 2000—Abundance, in Abundance.”
Without looking away, he takes a few steps back.
“Well?” Rogan asks.
Sweeney turns around. Everyone is staring at him. He gets the impression that he’s been talked about quite a bit today, and he can’t pretend he doesn’t know why. But he’s starting to feel tired and a little less sure he can meet what now seems to be a palpable sense of expectation. Still, there’s something about this artwork that’s not right, and it’s bugging him.
Then he sees what it is.
He looks over at Rogan and shakes his head.
Rogan flinches. “What?”
“That’s not going to work,” Sweeney say. “Not as it is.”
Dale Porter sits up straight on the couch. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Well, it’s because…” Sweeney hesitates to point out what now seems so obvious to him. “There’s no one there. The kitchen is empty.”
“Oh my God, that’s deliberate. Foreground, background, the contrast, the pure lines—it’s a statement.”
“I get that, Dale, but your average housewife is going to look at this and be appalled. You leave the refrigerator door open? With all that food exposed? You walk away? It’s what she’s going to think. It’s all she’s going to think. It’s a distraction. She’s not going to see any statement.” He pauses. “But it’s an easy fix. You just need to drop her in there. In a housedress and apron, her long, slim, bare arm holding the door open.”
Dale Porter is ashen.
Jack Rogan looks at Sweeney in disbelief, his brain almost audibly processing what he’s just heard. Then he looks back at Porter. “Holy shit, Dale, he’s right.”
* * *
A while later, sitting on the train, his mind slowing down, Sweeney starts to feel anxious again. This substance, whatever it is, and however it works, seems to make you smarter. Is that possible? He was more efficient and creative at work today than he’s ever been, and he’s not stupid to start with. He can do his job. But this was ridiculous. And it wasn’t just being able to race through paperwork and influence clients. The job itself was almost beside the point. His mind was on fire with ideas. He could remember stuff he’d read in a book maybe ten years earlier and then make a connection with some article he saw in a magazine last week. He understood concepts he hadn’t even been aware of before. He had insights. Who has insights on a Monday morning?
Sweeney doesn’t know whether to be excited by this or afraid of it. Because he doesn’t know what it means. He doesn’t know what it’s going to make him do. At one point he finds himself thinking about how beneficial MDT could be for Tommy. It could help him with his grades at school and boost his prospects for the future. And then he’s thinking, really? He’s going to give his six-year-old son a powerful drug he knows absolutely nothing about, a drug that may even, at this very moment, be causing permanent and irreversible damage to his own brain?
How irresponsible would he have to be to do that?
Then he thinks about Laura. Couldn’t she benefit in some way from MDT? Maybe find a route back to the energy and ambition she had when she first came to New York?
He stares out the window of the train.
Laura would think he was out of his mind for even suggesting such a thing. Also, and not unreasonably, she’d want to know where he got this stuff in the first place. Who he got it from. How would he explain that to her?
By the time he gets home, the effects of the MDT
have worn off and he’s exhausted. He helps Tommy with a little bit of homework, but it’s a struggle to concentrate. Over dinner, Laura is keen to talk through her day, and he listens, but again, it’s a struggle.
Lying awake in bed later, Sweeney wonders if he’s going to be tired like this at work tomorrow, making mistakes, firing creative blanks. Are Jack Rogan and Dick Blanford going to be scratching their heads and wondering if they’ve made a mistake?
10
On my way back to the apartment, I stop at a coffee shop and scribble down a few notes. There are too many weird angles here and I don’t want to forget any of them—that little jeremiad Proctor delivered, for example, the thing about Stephanie, the qualified confession … then Dean, the wristband, and, of course, MDT-48, whatever the hell that turns out to be.
It hasn’t escaped my notice that Proctor’s behavior in general is fairly eccentric. There’s a real possibility the old man is nuts and that out of some dark stew of experience and information, accumulated over so many years in secret, he has conjured up a twisted, alternative version of the past and is now imposing it on people around him.
Still, I’m not buying it, and for a few reasons. One is that Proctor’s actual past was sufficiently dark and twisted all on its own. Another is the elaborate pretext for our meeting. Another is simply my gut. I believe Proctor. There’s something authentic in the old man’s tone, a sense of guilt, of torment, even.
And I want it to be true. I sense there’s something here, a long-buried version of events struggling to find some light—an alternative version certainly, but not a twisted one, maybe the right one.
Back at my desk, I open the file on Clay Proctor that Jerry Cronin sent me, most of which is a tedious catalog of the various positions Proctor has held in his career, from his days at RAND, then at the Pentagon, to his time in government, and later in the corporate sector. Next, I start my own search, using my own methods, and soon I’m building up a picture of Proctor’s personal life—his three marriages, his health, his finances, his investments, his real estate portfolio. It’s all fairly bland and gray, though—this life of a civil servant, a politician, a businessman. Proctor was a public figure during the Nixon administration, but only briefly, and he was never a “celebrity.” There are no interviews or biographies, he hasn’t written any memoirs, there’s no gossip. And yet, he has been around for all of these decades, around and presumably doing stuff. So there must be something—unexpected alliances maybe, secret intrigues, boardroom dust-ups. At the very least, those three marriages must have generated a fair amount of drama.