If I have to say it myself (and I do) I’m very good at what I do, and mostly what I do is wait–wait for an inspiration, a new slant on an old idea, an exciting way to sell whatever Mr. Baron, CEO of Advertising Zingdom, offers me.
My days start uneventfully. Mr. Baron, Jr. unlocks the door to the inner sanctum, with me on his heels. Nobody has suggested I be a custodian but I have assigned the job to myself. The ceiling lights must all work. The temperature should be the perfect 76 degrees. The water cooler has to be filled by Harold, a slightly mentally handicapped senior citizen. It isn’t always done so I get Harold to do it. I set the dials for the coffee machine and my unassigned work is done.
Grace Mullins is, as usual after me, is the first office worker to arrive. I watch her every morning take a key on a gold chain from her purse, put the purse in the large drawer in the bottom of her sleek, modern desk, and lock it. The chain goes around her neck with the key deep down her bosom. She starts her computer and attacks the day’s work like a lion tearing a wapiti to bits.
As I walk towards the ‘Planning Room’, I smile, nod to each employee. A few know my name, wish me a good morning. A few seem to always be too busy to acknowledge my existence. The drawing room is empty, except for the sketches I foolishly left on my desk. I look them over carefully, see no evidence they have been handled and sit back in the comfortable leather chair that tilts, swivels and even lies flat.
Pigeons have made a nest right above the outside of my window. Feathers drift down towards the street. Bird poop is on the windows that won’t be washed for months. There is no way to chase the birds. During my blank hours, I watch the mama birds fly to the chicks and drop food in their beaks. She protects them when it rains and pushes them out of their nest when she thinks they can fly. I watched one fall
down five stories, until its weak wings began to flap. The other five must have made it too.
Not a thought, not a beginning, reaches my dry mind. Harold brings me hot coffee and a chocolate donut. Malcolm, my co-worker, walks in, says nothing and takes half of my donut. ‘Let’s get going, Mal. I’m still dry. Want your own do-nut? I’ll call Harold back.’ Mal’s mouth is full. He nods a strong ‘yes’ to me. Harold returns with a full tray of all kinds of do- nuts and tells us what he has said too many times. ‘You know these do-nuts don’t come out of boxes, don’t you? They come right straight from Dunkin’ Donuts, still warm.’ Mal takes a coconut and two walnut covered ones, starts stuffing his mouth. ‘What the hell are you doing, Man? When did you eat last?’ I ask. Mal tells me two days ago. Yesterday he had a colonoscopy and is still empty. I stare at him, amazed at his gluttony and get a tiny tingle in my brain. I lower my chair, reach a small pillow in a desk drawer that I keep for just a time like this. ‘Mal, get out of here. I’m thinking.’
Something is niggling at me. ‘No food, starving.’ Advertising Zingdom has a contract with Golden’s Golden Matzohs for a Passover promotion to out do Manischewitz this holiday season.
I set my drawing board on the easel and start drawing a streamlined, colorful Moses. Color is important. No dirty rags for my Moses. I leave his beard, long, shaggy and very white. Stylized D #40 script may work. I try the word ‘Passover’ in bold. It is okay but not great. I keep at it until I am bleary-eyed, have lost my spunk, close my eyes and nod off. Dreams of chocolate matzos dance for me. They speak. ‘ Get to it, Mister or Passover is going to pass over and you will have lost the contract.’ A broken piece of matzos hits me on my head and I wake.
I’m alive. My hands work magic. In a swirl I design ‘Don’t Let Passover Pass Over.’ I add the dancing pieces and an inset that Zingdom Advertising will donate $1.00 to Israel for every box of Golden’s Golden Matzohs purchased. If it weren’t a good product, my idea would be useless but it is good, if you like to eat cardboard. I work on my idea all day and the next two. It turns out clever, colorful. Both Mr. Barons approve. They are pleased to give the dollars to Israel. Ads go into every Jewish newspaper, magazine within one hundred miles of Zingdom. Golden’s adds two to the gift to Israel.
Although Manischewitz may have sold more Matzohs than Golden’s in America, the campaign was successful when the Israeli’s all over the world bought, and mostly enjoyed, Goldens. They figured it was cheaper than the price as $2 went right back to them.
In the morning after that job was complete, I came to work, checked the ceiling lights, the temperature to be the perfect 76 degrees. The water cooler was filled by Harold and Dunkin’ Donuts sent a variety of 3 dozen donuts to our office.
No comments:
Post a Comment