Read Online The Magic Christian by Terry Southern - Free Book Online
Authors: Terry Southern
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soap-flake kings—when the door would burst open and in would fly the president, scrambling across the room and under the desk, shrieking pure gibberish, and then out he’d go again, scuttling crabwise over the carpet, teeth and eyes blazing.
“What in God’s name was that?” the client would ask, looking slowly about, his face pocked with a terrible frown.
“Why, that . . . that . . . ” But the a.e. could not bring himself to tell, not after the first few times anyway. Evidently it was a matter of pride.
Later this a.e. might run into one of his friends from another agency, and the friend would greet him:
“Say, hear you’ve got a new number one over at J.R., Tommy—what’s the chap like?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, Bert . . .”
“You don’t mean the old boy’s got you on the mat already, Tommy. Ha-ha. That what you’re trying to say?”
“No, Bert, it’s . . . well I don’t know, Bert, I just don’t know.”
It was a matter of pride, of course. As against it, salaries had been given a fairly stiff boost, and titles. If these dapper execs were to go to another agency now, it would be at a considerable loss of dollars and cents. Most of the old-timers—and the younger ones too, actually—had what it took to stick it out there at J.R.
XI
“T HESE SWEET FLUFFS are good,” said Ginger Horton, daintily taking what was perhaps her ninth cream puff from a great silver tray at hand, and giving Guy Grand a most coquettish look.
“Takes one to know one,” said Guy, beaming and rolling his eyes.
Esther twittered, and Agnes looked extremely pleased.
Grand made quite a splash in the fall of ’58 when he entered the “big-car” field with his sports line of Black Devil Rockets, a gigantic convertible. There were four models of the Rocket, each with a different fanciful name, though, except for the color of the upholstery, all four cars were identical. The big convertible was scaled in the proportions of an ordinary automobile, but was tremendous in size—was, in fact, longer and wider than the largest Greyhound Bus in operation.
“THERE’S POWER TO SPARE UNDER THIS BIG BABY’S FORTY-FOOT HOOD!” was a sales claim that gained attention.
Fronting the glittering crystal dash were two “racing-cup” seats with a distance of ten feet between them, and the big “gang’s-all-here” seat in back would accommodate twelve varsity crewmen abreast in roomy comfort.
“Buy Yourself One Whale of a Car, Buddy!” read the giant ads. “From Stem to Stern She’s a Flat One Hundred Feet! Ladylike Lines on a He-Man Hunk of Car!”
Performance figures were generally side-stepped, but a number of three-color billboards and full-page ads were headed: “Performance? Ask the Fella Behind the Wheel!” and featured, in apparently authentic testimonial, one of the Indianapolis speed kings behind the wheel of the mammoth convertible. A larger than average man, he was incredibly dwarfed by the immense dimensions of the car. His tiny face, just visible at the top of the wheel, was split in a grin of insanity, like a toothpaste ad, a madman’s laugh frozen at the nightmare peak of hilarity, and it was captioned:
“Getting the feel of this big baby has been one real thrill, believe you me!”
The four identical models were shown at a display room on Fifth Avenue, and though considered beyond the price range of most, were evidently sold. At any rate, on the last day of the exposition they were driven away, out and into the streets of mid-town Manhattan during the five o’clock rush.
Despite their roominess, power, and road-holding potential, the big cars did prove impractical in the city, because their turning-arc—for the ordinary 90° change of direction—was greater than the distance between the street-angled buildings, so that by five thirty all four of the sleek Devil Rockets were wedged at angles across various intersections around Columbus Circle, each a barrier to thoroughfare in four
“What in God’s name was that?” the client would ask, looking slowly about, his face pocked with a terrible frown.
“Why, that . . . that . . . ” But the a.e. could not bring himself to tell, not after the first few times anyway. Evidently it was a matter of pride.
Later this a.e. might run into one of his friends from another agency, and the friend would greet him:
“Say, hear you’ve got a new number one over at J.R., Tommy—what’s the chap like?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, Bert . . .”
“You don’t mean the old boy’s got you on the mat already, Tommy. Ha-ha. That what you’re trying to say?”
“No, Bert, it’s . . . well I don’t know, Bert, I just don’t know.”
It was a matter of pride, of course. As against it, salaries had been given a fairly stiff boost, and titles. If these dapper execs were to go to another agency now, it would be at a considerable loss of dollars and cents. Most of the old-timers—and the younger ones too, actually—had what it took to stick it out there at J.R.
XI
“T HESE SWEET FLUFFS are good,” said Ginger Horton, daintily taking what was perhaps her ninth cream puff from a great silver tray at hand, and giving Guy Grand a most coquettish look.
“Takes one to know one,” said Guy, beaming and rolling his eyes.
Esther twittered, and Agnes looked extremely pleased.
Grand made quite a splash in the fall of ’58 when he entered the “big-car” field with his sports line of Black Devil Rockets, a gigantic convertible. There were four models of the Rocket, each with a different fanciful name, though, except for the color of the upholstery, all four cars were identical. The big convertible was scaled in the proportions of an ordinary automobile, but was tremendous in size—was, in fact, longer and wider than the largest Greyhound Bus in operation.
“THERE’S POWER TO SPARE UNDER THIS BIG BABY’S FORTY-FOOT HOOD!” was a sales claim that gained attention.
Fronting the glittering crystal dash were two “racing-cup” seats with a distance of ten feet between them, and the big “gang’s-all-here” seat in back would accommodate twelve varsity crewmen abreast in roomy comfort.
“Buy Yourself One Whale of a Car, Buddy!” read the giant ads. “From Stem to Stern She’s a Flat One Hundred Feet! Ladylike Lines on a He-Man Hunk of Car!”
Performance figures were generally side-stepped, but a number of three-color billboards and full-page ads were headed: “Performance? Ask the Fella Behind the Wheel!” and featured, in apparently authentic testimonial, one of the Indianapolis speed kings behind the wheel of the mammoth convertible. A larger than average man, he was incredibly dwarfed by the immense dimensions of the car. His tiny face, just visible at the top of the wheel, was split in a grin of insanity, like a toothpaste ad, a madman’s laugh frozen at the nightmare peak of hilarity, and it was captioned:
“Getting the feel of this big baby has been one real thrill, believe you me!”
The four identical models were shown at a display room on Fifth Avenue, and though considered beyond the price range of most, were evidently sold. At any rate, on the last day of the exposition they were driven away, out and into the streets of mid-town Manhattan during the five o’clock rush.
Despite their roominess, power, and road-holding potential, the big cars did prove impractical in the city, because their turning-arc—for the ordinary 90° change of direction—was greater than the distance between the street-angled buildings, so that by five thirty all four of the sleek Devil Rockets were wedged at angles across various intersections around Columbus Circle, each a barrier to thoroughfare in four
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