Read Online Robert B. Parker by Love, Glory - Free Book Online Page B
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an ad I saw in Life magazine, my life expectancy is 72 years. Fifty more to go. It seems long
.
I love you
Except for the daily journal entries to Jennifer my writing didn’t happen. I sat every day for a couple of hours at my kitchen table and looked at the cheap white paper in the typewriter. But I didn’t type anything. I was spending a lot of money on beer and by December I was up to 180 pounds, all of it fat, and I was almost out of money.
I went down to Robert Hall and spent forty-five dollars for a blue blazer and some gray flannel pants. I bought a tie in Times Square for a buck, then I got the
Times
and started reading help wanted ads. Some kind of writing job, advertising maybe.
It was my twenty-third interview. I’d been doing about five a day, every day. I didn’t have a job, but I was getting good at interviewing.
No sir, I didn’t finish college. I felt my military responsibility came first. Yes sir, I know that advertising’s a tough business. The war left me needing action. I couldn’t go back to school like a child. Oh
absolutely sir, I’ve given it a lot of thought. I assessed what I could do that would help me and help my employer. What did I have to market, I asked myself. Writing skills, I decided, and a desire to be where there was action
.
I had the patter down quite well now, when I got a chance to use it. Most of the time the interviewer told me about the company and himself and his philosophy of advertising and employment and things.
“Mr. Adams?”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Locke will see you now.”
I walked behind the secretary’s wiggling buttocks across the big reception area and down the corridor with head-high cubicles on both sides and men in shirt sleeves working at typewriters and into a big private office with a big window that looked out over Madison Avenue and another big window into another big office across the street. There was probably a guy over there having an exit interview. Matter and anti-matter. The secretary smiled and closed the door behind me.
Mr. Locke was sitting with his feet on the window ledge facing out the window, his head tilted back, his eyes closed. He was tall and thin and blond and probably went to Cornell with John Merchent and his ushers. His gray flannel suit jacket hung on a hanger by the door. His blue oxford button-down was open at the neck and his blue and red rep tie was loosened. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and wing-tipped cordovan shoes. The Prince of Madison Avenue. Full uniform.
I stood by his desk. He still sat with his eyes closed.Maybe I was supposed to launch into my spiel unprovoked.
No sir, I didn’t finish college. I felt my military … shit
. Locke kept staring at the insides of his eyelids. Then he sat up abruptly, swung his feet down, spun his chair around, and wrote for maybe a minute in longhand on a legal-size pad of blue-lined yellow paper. When he finished he read over what he’d written, made a spelling change, and sat back.
“Hi,” he said. “Whitney Locke. I was just writing some poetry.”
I nodded.
“You’re Boone Adams. Personnel sent you up.”
“Yes.”
He waved toward a chair. “Sit down, please.”
I did. My chair wasn’t as nice as his. But I wasn’t the copy chief. He sifted through some folders on his desk until he came up with my application and résumé.
“So you want to get into advertising?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“One of the things I’d suggest right off, and mind you, you want to work in advertising, I can get you in. But first I’d suggest you and the wife get together, maybe go down to the playroom, something like that, get a blackboard and very carefully chart your career plans. Be goal-oriented, think it through, and recognize that no one’s going to be giving you any breaks.”
“I’m not married, sir.”
“That’s too bad. It helps if you are. But whatever. Go to that blackboard and make a chart. Where do I want to be in five years? Ten? How long to be copy
.
I love you
Except for the daily journal entries to Jennifer my writing didn’t happen. I sat every day for a couple of hours at my kitchen table and looked at the cheap white paper in the typewriter. But I didn’t type anything. I was spending a lot of money on beer and by December I was up to 180 pounds, all of it fat, and I was almost out of money.
I went down to Robert Hall and spent forty-five dollars for a blue blazer and some gray flannel pants. I bought a tie in Times Square for a buck, then I got the
Times
and started reading help wanted ads. Some kind of writing job, advertising maybe.
It was my twenty-third interview. I’d been doing about five a day, every day. I didn’t have a job, but I was getting good at interviewing.
No sir, I didn’t finish college. I felt my military responsibility came first. Yes sir, I know that advertising’s a tough business. The war left me needing action. I couldn’t go back to school like a child. Oh
absolutely sir, I’ve given it a lot of thought. I assessed what I could do that would help me and help my employer. What did I have to market, I asked myself. Writing skills, I decided, and a desire to be where there was action
.
I had the patter down quite well now, when I got a chance to use it. Most of the time the interviewer told me about the company and himself and his philosophy of advertising and employment and things.
“Mr. Adams?”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Locke will see you now.”
I walked behind the secretary’s wiggling buttocks across the big reception area and down the corridor with head-high cubicles on both sides and men in shirt sleeves working at typewriters and into a big private office with a big window that looked out over Madison Avenue and another big window into another big office across the street. There was probably a guy over there having an exit interview. Matter and anti-matter. The secretary smiled and closed the door behind me.
Mr. Locke was sitting with his feet on the window ledge facing out the window, his head tilted back, his eyes closed. He was tall and thin and blond and probably went to Cornell with John Merchent and his ushers. His gray flannel suit jacket hung on a hanger by the door. His blue oxford button-down was open at the neck and his blue and red rep tie was loosened. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and wing-tipped cordovan shoes. The Prince of Madison Avenue. Full uniform.
I stood by his desk. He still sat with his eyes closed.Maybe I was supposed to launch into my spiel unprovoked.
No sir, I didn’t finish college. I felt my military … shit
. Locke kept staring at the insides of his eyelids. Then he sat up abruptly, swung his feet down, spun his chair around, and wrote for maybe a minute in longhand on a legal-size pad of blue-lined yellow paper. When he finished he read over what he’d written, made a spelling change, and sat back.
“Hi,” he said. “Whitney Locke. I was just writing some poetry.”
I nodded.
“You’re Boone Adams. Personnel sent you up.”
“Yes.”
He waved toward a chair. “Sit down, please.”
I did. My chair wasn’t as nice as his. But I wasn’t the copy chief. He sifted through some folders on his desk until he came up with my application and résumé.
“So you want to get into advertising?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“One of the things I’d suggest right off, and mind you, you want to work in advertising, I can get you in. But first I’d suggest you and the wife get together, maybe go down to the playroom, something like that, get a blackboard and very carefully chart your career plans. Be goal-oriented, think it through, and recognize that no one’s going to be giving you any breaks.”
“I’m not married, sir.”
“That’s too bad. It helps if you are. But whatever. Go to that blackboard and make a chart. Where do I want to be in five years? Ten? How long to be copy
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