Tales from the Ad Biz…Part 3
FORTUNA UNLEASHED
Truth hyperbolized
(Names have been changed to
protect the incorrigible)
…Mary Ellen fantasized endlessly about bedding the C.E.O. Oh, the power rub-off! And fun besides. A night in the company suite at the Regency. Champagne chilling in a silver bucket. The C.E.O. in his cute striped boxer shorts pulled up chest-high over his round tummy (confiding in her that "Jockeys brutalized his privates"), and taking off his black socks and British-made garters, while she pretended to hyperventilate on the bed. And on and on went the scenario, while her Wang beeped, and sent ad copy to ad heaven.
Anyway, it never happened. The only time the C.E.O. spoke to Mary Ellen was when she was staying late for the nightly "big push," or "pig fuck," to be perfectly accurate, and he wanted to know where everybody was and did Mary Ellen know if they were coming back, the chicken shits. It was only two in the morning. A good start on the day for Grinder loyalists. Oh, and one time, early in her employment, he told Mary Ellen that she has beautiful hair, which was true. But she hadn't known for certain then who he was, so she just kept on Wanging and smiling. He considered this refreshing, and thereafter kept an eye on Mary Ellen. Little did he know that within his purview was Fortuna, Woman of Many Consequences.
…And even if he hadn't kept an eye on her, Mary Ellen would have made it in good order. She was a fine writer and she knew it. That was why she was in New York City instead of her rockpile of a hometown, Mt.Ozzy, following her old boyfriend, DeWitt Moore, around his cornfield, and helping him dislodge rocks.
But now that was all behind her, except for the matter of DeWitt. Things were beginning to break for Mary Ellen at the Grinder; she had an easy down-home, Leo Burnettish, style of writing, not all that surprising considering her roots, according to Byron Altman, who had separated her from her Wang, and made her a Junior Writer.
What to say about Byron Altman? What to say about kangaroo shit on the new Oriental? Byron Altman was a vice-president and copy group head and agency bad boy. Byron's idea of a fun night was to drop by all his favorite places over on Third Avenue until the last bartender nodded to a burly type who would pick Byron up by his collar, like a sack of birdseed, and, with one graceful, fluid motion, send him sailing out into the night.
Later, when Byron woke with a start--once to find that some kind soul had tucked him in under pages from The New York Times, he would return to the Grinder, where most everybody was asleep on floors, and desks, and futons they had dragged in, and sift through his writers' lastest efforts. After which, he would call a meeting of his people and tell them every last idea they had pinned up on the cork wall had been " done to death," or he had pitched it to a client eons ago, only to be rejected. Or it had come to him, in an epiphany, while praying to his God that someone in his group might, someday, surprise him with the germ of an idea.
(To be Continued)
