Copyright © 2014 by Robert Cormack
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Print ISBN: 978-1-63158-005-5
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63158-040-6
Printed in the United States of America
For Kathryne
“I work each day from nine to nine, turning out ads that rarely survive,
The deadline is four and it’s already five,
You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it scuba dive.”
Washroom cubicle, O’Conner Advertising, 1978
Chapter 1
I’m looking out over the North Avenue Bridge, the same view I’ve seen for the last thirty years. The sun shines through a light gauze of clouds. I look out over the city, the river, the traffic below. In the window’s reflection, I see people walking back and forth down the hall. I don’t know any of them. They were brought in when Frank O’Conner—the great Frank O’Conner: businessman, entrepreneur, advertising genius—sold the agency. Most of these people are young copywriters and art directors, the new recruits. They’re wondering what I’m still doing here. I’m wondering the same thing myself.
I should have been fired yesterday with Nick, Dewey, and Margot. They got their pink slips at the same time. I joined them in the bar later and we sat in a row, drinking and talking. I was the only one going back upstairs. I still had a bottle of whiskey in my desk. I wanted one more drink before I went home.
Nobody cares if I drink in my office anymore. They all know I’m going. Not even Frank O’Conner, the great man himself, can save me. That’s the way the deal was structured. As soon as the ink dried, the new agency, this big multinational, would take over, put their name up outside, and all of Frank’s people would get their pink slips.
What’s left but to drink, put my feet up on the desk, and look at my reflection in the window? It’s not much of a reflection, to tell you the truth. I’m an old man by advertising standards. I still have most of my hair but I guess that’s cold comfort at this stage. I think Frank’s been dyeing his. He came back from Los Angeles a few weeks ago looking all tanned, but the hair was darker, too. “That’s just because of my tan, you git,” he said, then went off to another meeting.
Everyone’s writing about Frank O’Conner in the trades these days. They all want to know why he put everything on the table: the accounts and the building itself. He owned the works, and everything had a price. I don’t know what he’s getting for it all. Frank isn’t saying anything yet. He can’t say anything until the New York office gives the okay. He’s been there all week, attending meetings and pressing the flesh. That’s why he wasn’t around when the others got their termination notices. Nick, Dewey, Margot—they’ve known Frank as long as I have. We started at the same time back in the seventies. I’m not saying he owes us anything, but he could have said thanks in person.
I never thought Frank would sell out. He always loved advertising. God knows he spent enough time at it over the years, building his little empire: his building, his image, his thoughts in every trade publication. When we started out, none of us knew anything about being an agency. I’d done a stint in radio as a copywriter. Nick and Dewey sold space for trade publications. Margot was Frank’s accountant. He was in insurance back then, and before that he repossessed cars.
We were a strange lot starting an agency (well, Frank started it; it was his money). But Frank knew one thing: it paid seventeen percent commission. Seventeen percent on media and seventeen percent on production. It was easy money, and Frank saw the future. Agencies were starting up all over Chicago and he wanted a piece of the action. He went after every client back then. Some of them came and went; others stayed for years. Frank loved them all, especially the prestige accounts. He was crazy about prestige accounts. If it got his name in the paper, he’d go naked on Illinois and Michigan, and almost did in the late eighties when business dropped off. But Frank got billings back up again, and we went into the nineties with more accounts than any other time in our history.
We spent a lot of time together, more than most people in this industry. Frank looked after us, giving time off for babies, sending flowers or notes of congratulation depending on the occasion. He never stopped being generous. Nick, Dewey and Margot got three years’ salary and one year medical when they left. It’s not a pension, but you don’t see a lot pensions in this business. They want you off the books. That’s what I told my wife. I held off saying anything until yesterday when the others got their pinks slips. I knew what she’d say. “What are we going to do, Sam? How are we going to live?” I wish I knew the answer to that. I’m fifty-eight with no prospects.
Dewey and Nick will make out okay, they’ve got all sorts of schemes going. Margot’s a different story. Money can’t be a problem. Margot has investments all over the place, some you don’t want to know about, others just slightly warped. Her only extravagance over the years was a Mynah named Joey, a rescue bird from a Great Lakes freighter. When he died, she bought him a lemon yellow casket with a red satin interior. Frank said it reminded him of his first Maserati.
At the funeral, Margot gave the eulogy, getting a laugh when she imitated Joey saying, “Gimme some tit action.”
Joey’s in the Saint Luke Cemetery out on North Pulaski.
I don’t know what made me think of it. I feel sorry for Margot, but I’ve got my own problems. Judy, my daughter, arrives on the eighteenth with her husband, Muller. They’re coming in from Seattle and Mary’s been posting the latest to-do list on the refrigerator, which includes painting all the rooms on the main floor. Our house is all main floor since it’s a ranch-style with a low center of gravity. I don’t know how I’ll get through it all, to tell you the truth. The whiskey helps.
In the office next to me is a young guy fresh out of university. We haven’t talked or introduced ourselves. I hear him typing away each day, clicking those keys, missing lunches and sometimes dinner. That was my life for thirty years—thirty, long years: hammering away each day, the deadlines, the production schedules.
Over the years it consumed me, eating up my life and all the people around me. Dewey and Nick, they always had hobbies, things to keep them occupied. I wasn’t interested in anything other than advertising. Fishing I can take or leave. I’ll do it with Nick and Dewey; I like their company, but generally I avoid anything I find boring.
Frank’s the same way. Our lives have run a parallel course over the years, but we’re different. Frank’s a visionary, I’m a plodder. I’m like the copywriter next door. We wait for the visionaries to tell us what to do.
I left the copywriter some whiskey earlier. I knocked on his door and put the paper cup on the rug. The
n went back to my office. I ran into him later in the washroom. “Thanks for the whiskey,” he said, and walked out.
He’s clicking away now, music from his iPod deck tittering in the background. I sit at my desk and listen. There isn’t anything else to do. They took away my accounts last week: no warning, no apology. That’s the way it happens. The accounts go, then you follow. I’m sure my office is already being reassigned. They put two creatives in an office this size now. I heard a couple of art directors the other day, one of them saying, “He’s got that big office all to himself,” then the other one saying, “And he smokes.”
I keep staring out the window, watching the North Avenue Bridge. When they replaced the old pony trusses, Frank called it “spending tax money like drunken turds.” He likes the old span bridges, the way they cross the river like large straps holding the embankments in place. Chicago has a ton of them, all capable of yawning when the need arises. I’ve got a good view of the river and Goose Island. Some tourists got the shock of their lives when the Dave Matthews’ bus emptied its septic waste onto a tour boat. The bridges are a testament to a bygone industrial age. What people throw off them is wildly rural. I still regard lift bridges as steel nightmares, like braces you put on someone’s teeth, then realize they’re worse than the crooked teeth themselves.
On my walls are the usual things copywriters put on their walls. There’s a letter of commendation from The Boy Scouts of America above my couch. I did a campaign for them years ago when the delinquency rate was at an all-time high in Chicago. Next to it is a picture of me riding a mechanical bull at a mayoral convention. The bull proved to be more spastic than any of the mayoral candidates and I was thrown three tables over, landing on a senator’s after party. Frank called it “a pisser” and got me a clavicle brace.
The Boy Scouts letter can go next to my Electrolux awards hanging up in my den. The rest I’ll put down in the basement with the old appliances and folded construction paper. “Things will work out,” Frank used to say. But he’s a millionaire, and things work out for millionaires. His house is north of Lincoln Park, mine is a block away from an expressway. He’s got six bathrooms, I’ve got one.
As Bukowski said, “Sometimes you have to pee in the sink.”
Chapter 2
They found our young security guard behind the building the other night. He was strapped to a broken chair with duct tape. His name is Max, and today he’s back on the job, wandering the halls, tipping his hat, saying, “How’s it goin’?” He comes by my office around five o’clock and we talk about life, usually his life. I can’t say much about my own, other than it’s not the pisser it used to be.
He takes off his hat and adjusts the newspaper he’s stuck in the rim to make it smaller. It’s like everything he wears, too big, bagging out in the wrong places. He sits on my couch and rotates his hat, a nervous habit I’m sure mugged people get. I tell him he should take up a safer occupation. He says he’s been mugged before. From what I can gather, he’s been having a run of bad luck lately.
Last fall, he brought a girl home to his parents’ house. They found Otis, his father, dancing in the basement. Otis is on some kind of disability for his back. All he does is smoke dope and play old R&B albums. On this particular night, Otis was playing James Brown, and Max’s girlfriend dug James Brown, so she starts dancing with Otis. Next thing Max knows, he’s waking up on the rug as Ruby, his mother, is stepping over him.
“I thought she came down to do the laundry,” he said. But Ruby had an armload of Otis’s records. She put them in the washing machine, turned it on, and took off in Otis’ pickup truck. Before she left, she told Max to feed the cat. Then she did it herself.
She’s living with a guy over near Homer Park now,” Max tells me. “Engineer or something. He keeps threatening to jump out the window. Ruby put up wind chimes to calm him down.”
“Has it helped?” I ask, handing him a paper cup of whiskey.
“Hasn’t hurt.”
Every so often, Ruby still comes around Otis’s house, taking food out of the refrigerator, grabbing rolls of toilet paper. Money’s tight at the engineer’s place. He’s on disability, too. “I don’t know where Ruby finds these guys,” Max says, pushing his hair back behind his ears. “He’s been out of work for eight years.”
The other day, Max found Ruby pulling the couch out the front door. “I guess he doesn’t have one of those, either,” he says. He helped her put it in the pickup, then they went back inside, figuring they might as well take the matching loveseat, too.
Otis still hasn’t noticed the couch and loveseat gone. Most of the time, he’s down in the rec room, smoking his dope, surfing the web. He’s starting his own online R&B show, a live streaming thing where he sits there, staring into his webcam, talking about old Chess and Stax artists and then playing their music. Half the time, he forgets the webcam’s going. It’s on all day and he’s got a setup to take calls and blogs which, believe it or not, is attracting a following of sorts.
“He’ll talk to anybody,” Max says. “Can’t trust him, though. You never know what’s going to come out of his mouth.”
Max says he would leave tomorrow too if it weren’t for Ruby. He doesn’t want to desert her. “What if she needs a dresser or something?” he says. “Who’s going to help her put it on the truck?”
Ruby’s had trouble with Otis before. His last fling involved a twenty-four year old mail carrier who’d joined the U.S. Postal Service straight out of ROTC. Ruby caught them in the rec room with letters all over the rug. She chased the girl out and locked Otis downstairs for a week.
“Why didn’t she leave him then?” I ask Max.
“Otis plays The Stylistics. It makes her weak in the knees.”
Out in the hall, people walk past. They see Max there, cup in hand, cap on his knee. They must think we’re related.
“Is it okay for us to be doing this?” he says.
“They don’t care what I do anymore, Max.”
“So you just sit around drinking?”
“Pretty much.”
“I could sure use a job like that.”
“You wouldn’t like it.”
“It’s better than being mugged.”
“We all get mugged, Max. Just in different ways.”
The poor guy still has glue from the duct tape stuck to his wrists.
One thing I intend to do before I leave is write Frank a note. It’s official now. Just after Max left, Frank’s secretary showed up with my pink slip and an envelope. “Thank God you haven’t gone,” she said. “This has been on my desk all day. I’ve been so busy with Frank’s travel arrangements and stuff.”
Her name’s Kitty and she’s been with Frank over ten years. Kitty’s got that look of Masonic devotion, but she’s clearly rattled with all the stuff going on around here lately. I take the envelope and put it down.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” she said. “Frank asked me to give it to you personally. He’s still in New York.”
“Would you like a drink?”
“I wish I could. That’s exactly what I need right now.” She watched me take the bottle out of my drawer. “I’d better get back upstairs,” she said. “I’ll need your pass before you go. Just drop it on my desk on your way out. Good luck.”
I look at the envelope now with the embossed coat-of-arms up in the corner, a heraldry showing two stags and a shamrock. Everything with Frank reflects a certain Irish charm. Our offices have green walls, something I’m sure will change with this new multinational. They prefer white walls and cubicles. Frank calls it “chicken breeding.”
I see Max’s reflection again. He’s forgotten his hat. He goes quietly over to the couch where he left it.
“Want another drink?” I say. I point to one of the two paper cups. Then I look at my pink slip. “My dismissal,” I shrug. “I was just fired.”
He sits on my couch with his pant cuffs high above his boots.
“Give me a minute,” I say, “I ju
st have to read this.” I shake open the letter and read Frank’s words:
Sam,
I’ve been detained here in New York with final details. I wish I could be there to buy you dinner. I’m off to Los Angeles tomorrow for more meetings. Tell the others I apologize for not being around. And keep your chin up. You’ve been through worse. Pass along my apologies to your wife. Mary has always been one of my favorite people. Best of luck.
Frank
“What’s it say?” Max asks.
“It says I’ve been through worse.” I light a cigarette and take out a piece of paper. “I’ve got to write something here, Max.”
“You want help with your stuff? I’ve got some boxes downstairs.”
“Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”
Max leaves and I pour another drink. Then I begin writing:
Frank,
Apologies aren’t necessary. I’ve had a good run. How many people can say they only worked for one agency their whole career? Quite honestly, I’m looking forward to a change. Mary’s been after me to paint the house for months now. My daughter and her husband arrive from Seattle in two weeks. Anyway, I’ll leave you with this memento. Have a drink on me and remember, I left here with barely a whimper. I’ll pass your apologies on to the others. I’m going up north fishing with Nick and Dewey once the season starts.
Sam
Frank will like the “without a whimper” part. That’s him all over. “This business is a gamble,” he used to say to me. “You don’t pout and you don’t fucking cry over spilt milk.”
Frank hates anything that isn’t a gamble. He thinks it makes people dull and witless. When David Ogilvy criticized clients for relying on research like “drunks hanging onto lampposts,” Frank laughed his ass off. He kept telling us to read Ogilvy’s book. I read it. He only wrote it to put a new roof on his chateau.
“So what?” Frank said. “Fucking roofs cost money.”
I take the whiskey and letter up to Frank’s office. Kitty’s at her desk, separating the serious correspondence from what Frank calls “all the other crap that isn’t worth a pigeon’s curse.”
You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can't Make It Scuba Dive) Page 1