So Bob Begin put all his eggs in Harold May’s basket. It was risky, but, as Begin saw it, the odds favored the bet.
Thus, Begin pulled all the necessary strings and set up the presentation. William J. Doran himself sat in-though not without trepidation- that day. It was a double-header! Not only was Harold’s head on the block, so was Begin’s.
Success!
The collective noses of just about everyone below the level of creative supervisor were bent. Harold, in short order and with few stops in between, rose from the bullpen to the post of associate creative director on the strength of-what else-the International Motors account.
Harold was not yet “there.” But he was getting there.
He was being sought out. No longer was he the one who wandered the halls looking for something to do, searching for a break. Deferentially, people came to him. Nor was he standoffish. He treated others generously, even those who had treated him patronizingly during his apprenticeship in the bullpen.
Lunches-with his peers, superiors, clients-became elongated. Harold found that food was becoming less and less important. It didn’t really matter whether he had a salad, a meat, or a fish dish; all that counted was the quality of the martinis. He joked that lunch time was his attitude adjustment period of the day. He never ceased to be amused when in the company of anyone being exposed to hard liquor for the first time. The pinched face, the shudder, as if the neophyte were tasting poison. Harold had never experienced a single negative reaction to booze. From his very first drink, it had been as mother’s milk to him. Some were born to drink, others not, he concluded.
Years passed. Harold’s position in the agency grew ever more secure.
Everyone was given to know that, for all intents and purposes, the International Motors account was his baby. But his sphere of influence spread well beyond that single account no matter how important it was to the agency. He had been given several bonuses and merit increases. He was being openly touted as the next creative director, a position that would put him virtually a heartbeat away from the presidency.
But something was happening to Harold and his favorite pastime-lunch. It had to do with his “attitude adjustment” period. The triple martini no longer sufficed to adjust his attitude. He was developing an ever higher tolerance. It happened by gradations. Gradually, he became aware that the pleasurable floating feeling was eluding him. He missed the sensation, but would not admit, even to himself, that he felt desperate about the loss.
He had become celebrated for his daily luncheon procession of martinis. Two before solid food, one during the meal. He did not want to adjust his routine. He did not allow himself to reflect on the fact that he needed, really needed, more.
Initially, he solved his problem by having a martini alone in his office before going out to lunch. It worked for a while. Then he found that four wasn’t doing the trick. As far as he was concerned, this indicated nothing more than that his storied ability to hold his liquor had built up. The only obvious problem was how he could add enough booze to adjust his attitude without revealing this need to others. They would never understand.
The solution was easy enough. He heavily stocked the wet bar in his ample office, and instructed his secretary to schedule no appointments after 4:30 p.m. By that time he would have had enough to drink that he wouldn’t remember any business that he’d discussed.
Sobriety of sorts would return to Harold early in the evening. It was a state he learned to try to avoid. So he drank through the evening hours until he slipped into a dreamless, nonrefreshing sleep. He continued to get to work at approximately 9:00 in the mornings, but wasn’t able to accomplish much until near noon when he had his single preliminary-to-lunch martini. This preluncheon drink was always the first of Harold’s day; he convinced himself that as long as he didn’t drink any liquor before 11:30 a.m. he remained in control.
Of course his altered behavior became obvious to just about everyone in the agency. All the subterfuges he thought hid his nipping at the bottle couldn’t possibly do the trick. He became the subject of disrespectful jokes. Among the younger employees he became known as “42” because he visited the “21” restaurant twice a day.
Somehow, perhaps because he had organized his affairs so well before he tobogganed into what everyone else knew as his problem drinking, his work did not unduly suffer. During his increasingly rare clear-headed intervals, he was still able to be creative, sometimes brilliant. And, because he was still productive, his peers and superiors could wink at his self-destructive behavior, which, left unchecked, would probably one day be the cause of his downfall.
Ironically, many years later, a smashingly successful television ad campaign would be built around a pirate-eyed dog who would drink but always “remain in control.”
All were willing to look the other way except Bob Begin, his original guardian angel. Again, Bob’s motives were mixed. On the one hand, Harold’s present course very definitely was not leading to the presidency, which track Begin had been depending on for his own future security. On the other hand, a talented person was throwing his life away. For both reasons, Begin decided to get involved. It took every last ounce of emotional and psychic strength he possessed, but eventually he prevailed upon Harold to attend a few meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous.
At first, Harold resisted all efforts to get him to realistically assess his personal condition. He was willing to admit that AA was not all bad for those who needed it. He didn’t need it. He was still steadfast in his resolve not to drink before 11:30 in the morning.
Harold was blessed that Begin continued to urge him to be faithful to the meetings and that several members of that group were tenacious in their invitations to join them. Gradually-very deliberately-Harold began to see himself in the admissions of the others.
He learned that the natural ease with which he first adapted to liquor, far from indicating immunity from addiction, suggested an alcoholic tendency. The others’ repeated confessions of loss of control brought home to him the helpless feeling he habitually denied. Alcoholic after alcoholic admitted, “When I start drinking, I have no idea, I can’t predict, what the outcome might be.”
The final nail of self-revelation came when others confessed their dependency: “I need booze just like other people need food and water.”
The recovering alcoholics listened patiently as Harold pleaded his nonaddiction-since he was able to abstain until 11:30 every morning-although they scarcely could control their laughter at his naivete.
In time he became a full-fledged member of Alcoholics Anonymous. The easiest of the famous twelve steps for Harold was admitting the existence of a power greater than himself. If Harold believed in anything, he believed in God. Indeed, it was his belief in God that sustained him through the agony of withdrawal, in and out of the William J. Doran Advertising Agency, and led him into the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance, or Trappists.
He chose the Trappists for several reasons. He felt he needed plenty of penance, and the Trappists, at least when he first joined them, were rigorous: prayer and work and little else. The renowned Thomas Merton had just made the order popular if not illustrious. And entering the Trappists was an excellent way of disappearing into a community where, save Merton, there was little if any individuality. Harold was, among other things, trying to lose his notoriety.
However, it was not long after he had met “Father Louis” (Merton), and shortly after the famous priest’s weird death, that Harold decided he was destined to become the next Merton.
Meanwhile, back on Madison Avenue, the fate of Harold May was the subject of animated conversation and debate in advertising circles and over leisurely lunches until, after a reasonable interval, the advertising career of Harold May and its possibilities was laid to rest.
Raquiescat in pace.
Only in one person’s mind did the memory of Harold May not fade. Robert Begin never forgot Harold. Begin felt somewhat like the young Catholic woman engaged t
o a young agnostic man. She desperately wanted unity of religion in her marriage. To humor her, he took instructions in the Catholic faith-and was so influenced by them he became a priest.
Similarly, Begin had introduced Harold to Alcoholics Anonymous with the hope that the group could help him off the road to self-destruction and back on the path to the presidency with its perks for both of them. But, along the way, Begin lost Harold to God.
Harold-first Brother, then Father, Augustine-threw himself wholeheartedly into the religious life. He did well as a Trappist. That he was a gifted writer had been proven in his secular life, and his abbot knew it. So Augustine soon was assigned the duties of a scribe. He meticulously researched, then wrote treatises that were published in academic journals. Because they appeared in such scholarly publications, no one expected Augustine’s pieces to be so interestingly and imaginatively written. So, few readers recognized that he was several cuts above the ordinary.
In addition to this writing ability, Harold’s ease and skill in allocution in the monastery also were soon noted. That marked the beginning of Harold’s “outreach” assignment: to spend weekends outside the monastery helping in nearby parishes, thus creating a greater sense of presence and opportunity for recruitment for the order.
At first, Harold was reluctant to leave the monastery and its shelter from the world. After all, he hadn’t left the world only to return to it. Then he began to enjoy the camaraderie of the parish priests he met on these assignments.
Parish priests, in turn, generally enjoyed entertaining visiting priests, and did well in offering quality bed and board, especially board. While the visitor’s accommodations might be spartan-frequently an afterthought in the rectory’s architecture-food and drink were usually topflight.
Harold was to learn that he hadn’t learned much. He’d never bought the AA maxim, “Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic.” He held himself to a couple of drinks before dinner on Saturday parish assignments, but it was extremely difficult.
After evening confessions, he drank himself into oblivion. If Sunday morning duties had not been so strictly routine, he would never have been able to carry them off. After his final Mass on Sunday, he would demonstrate once again that AA saying, “One is too many and a thousand are not enough.”
This led to quite a few altercations with Massachusetts Highway Police except on those Sunday afternoons and evenings when he was lucky enough to get back to the monastery safely without encountering the law. In all his run-ins with road cops, one thing and one thing only saved him from a ticket, the drunk tank, a trial, probation, or imprisonment: He was a priest-and police were notoriously slow to ticket the clergy.
Then came the book.
The plot came to him in dribs and drabs, mostly during private prayer. At first, he thought he was undergoing a chronic failure in his prayer life: distractions. He confessed them as such-until he was able to see the gold at the end of the rainbow.
It was a believable plot, with three-dimensional characters, complete with a surprise ending. Conscientiously, he brought his new project to the abbot, who at first was cool to the notion of a contemplative dabbling at a mystery novel. But, persevering, Augustine finally convinced Father Abbot of the good that could accrue to the order, and the potential added income for the monastery.
The book was written in what was-if anyone kept statistics on how long it took to write a novel in a monastic setting-probably record time. Everyone in the monastery was impressed, especially when it was accepted for publication on the very first submission.
There was an author’s tour, agreed to most reluctantly by the abbot- “Ad majorem Ordinis gloriam” (“for the greater glory of the Order”-and the monastery). At least Augustine thought there had been a tour. Being outside the monastery with liquor readily available, he largely lost those weeks to memory. Augustine himself would have been literally lost had he been on his own. Fortunately for all, his publisher had arranged for a driver in each city, who shepherded him from one interview to the next.
Augustine was assured that in most of these interviews he had performed admirably. That he had to take on faith. Most of the time, he was deeply, gravely under the influence.
But never before 11:30 in the morning.
It was after returning to his monastic routine and enforced sobriety that the first invitation from Klaus Krieg came to join P.G. Press. And then a second and a third. Each offering something more than the previous offer.
Then came Augustine’s conversation with his former colleague at the agency, and his conversation with his abbot. There followed Augustine’ final rejection of any possible offer Krieg might make.
At least Augustine considered his rejection final.
It was not long ago-Augustine would never forget the day-when Krieg visited the monastery and made a proposition he felt sure could not be rejected.
In a former day, Krieg would have experienced great difficulty getting permission to visit one of the monks. With the strict rules regarding silence and cloister, Augustine might have been well beyond Krieg’s ability to reach. Now, with more relaxed rules, it was relatively easy for the two to meet. It was made even easier since Augustine did not object to Krieg’s request for a meeting. Augustine began to regret that decision as soon as Krieg started spelling out the terms of what was actually an ultimatum.
Quite simply, Krieg knew all there was to know about Augustine’s drinking problem. From his college days-when no one seemed to sense any problem at all-to the ad agency, to AA, to the weekends away from the monastery, to the book tour-Krieg knew it all. And, quite simply, everyone would know it all unless Augustine signed with P.G. Press.
Augustine was not stupid. He knew immediately what such a revelation would do to his present and future life. There was the distinct possibility that he might be expelled from his treasured monastic life. But even if not, his freedom to go and come, the weekend respites he so enjoyed, all would come to an end. Perhaps the greatest blow, his dream of becoming the second Merton would disintegrate into a nightmare. The most dissolute sinner could become a saint by, at some point, reforming his life and turning to virtue. As was the case with-among many-the original Saint Augustine. Indeed, Merton had sown his wild oats before becoming the saintly monk. The reverse procedure was not allowed. Father Augustine, outside of drinking, had sown few wild oats. The drinking, however, qualified as vice enough.
Now he was supposed to be beyond vice and embarked on a life of unmitigated virtue. It just wouldn’t work. Exposure of his past-and especially his present-drinking bouts would send crashing every hope he had.
A dilemma! But one that was not immediately pressed by Krieg. He left the monastery that day without exacting a commitment from Augustine. The ultimatum was there, without doubt. But it was not dated. Krieg had given Augustine time to stew and fret. Augustine was unsure if it was not kinder to a condemned man to just take him out and shoot him rather than keeping him on death row for an unspecified time.
Then the invitation came to participate in this writers’ seminar at Marygrove. Immediately he saw Krieg’s name and the description of his role in the workshop, Augustine recognized that this was not an invitation. It was a summons. A summons he could not refuse to an offer he could see no way to refuse.
In the weeks between the mandatory acceptance of this invitation and the start of the workshop, Augustine thought of little else but his position between a rock and a hard place.
In Augustine’s mind, this was a desperate problem. Reluctantly, he concluded that any possible solution would require desperate means. For the very first time in his life he was forced to consider the ultimate act of violence. He surprised himself with how naturally, logically, and practically he was able to consider doing great harm to another person. Was it the compelling predicament in which he found himself? Was it his new familiarity with the murder mystery genre? Was it the gross evilness of Klaus Krieg?
Slowly, Augustine came to believe that the world wou
ld be better without this impostor, this gross creature who debased the nature of religion.
Gradually, Augustine began to form a plan. The methodology was not far different from the way he had formed the plot for his novel: distractions during prayer-in both instances most practical distractions. It was a simple plan, based mainly on a few traits and habits he’d noticed in Krieg during their visit together.
By the time he arrived in Michigan for the workshop, Augustine’s plan had been refined to the utmost degree. His only question was whether he possessed-what was it: sufficient courage or malevolence? — to pull it off. For reinforcement, he brought with him some liquor. He fully expected that to carry out his plan, he would need a gigantic “attitude adjustment.”
Then came interference from that foolish David Benbow.
Just after his arrival at Marygrove, Augustine found a cryptic note slipped beneath his door. It was from Benbow. It contained a subtle suggestion that it would be beneficial to meet. The wording of the note was veiled. If one did not know what Klaus Krieg was up to, it would have been impossible to make any sense of the communication. However-and this was the single touch of brilliance to the note-if one knew what was on Krieg’s mind, the message was clear enough.
Thus, Augustine, whose signature on a book contract Krieg coveted, was able to recognize that Benbow was in the same fix. And from the wording, that, perhaps, so were the rabbi and the nun. In any case, if Winer and Marie were not among Krieg’s coveted few, the note would be harmless if unintelligible gobbledygook.
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