By the time I reached the parking garage, a winter dusk had settled over the chill air. The garage was in shadows. On my way to my car I heard my name called out cheerfully. Ahead of me in the gloom, I saw Tommy Byrnes wave and walk toward me.
My stomach did unpleasant things. We hadn't really talked since our conversation in my office. I was going to have to be very nice and very apologetic and at the moment the prospect of being either wearied me.
Tommy came toward me like a shy animal. "Hi," he said.
I nodded. Decided to get it over with quickly. "Sorry about yesterday, Tommy. I'm not in the best frame of mind. You know how that goes-little things, insignificant things, irritate me. I want you to know I think you're doing a good job."
"Thanks," he said. Obviously he was half afraid to speak, afraid he'd make me angry again.
We walked to our cars in tense silence.
"I really do want to be in advertising," he said finally.
"I know you do, Tommy. I just can't figure out why."
He was surprised. "But it's a great field, Michael." He was still self-conscious about calling me by my first name but he was learning. "I mean, it's really creative."
"I don't think so," I said. "You don't? Really?"
"We're dabblers, Tommy. That's what most of us are. We can't write novels or poetry so we dabble at writing copy and make a very big thing of how 'creative' we are. Or we can't paint seriously so we go on about how inventive we are and throw a lot of awards dinners so that everybody will know that we're important. In a way, the account executives are the most honest of all of us. They're whores and most of them don't pretend to be anything else." I looked over at his young, shocked face. This wasn't anything remotely resembling what his professors would be telling him-particularly not with the venom I could hear in my voice.
"So how come you stay in it, then?"
"Very simple. There's nothing else I can do that people will pay me half as well for."
"But you're a good writer. You really are."
This time I could sense he wasn't offering idle ass-kissing. He was being sincere.
"A good copywriter, Tommy. You've got to make that distinction. It's one thing to write a clever little ad and it's another thing entirely to write something worthwhile."
"But you've won Clios. That should be worth something."
"It wouldn't be worth a hell of a lot to Hemingway." I laughed. "Tommy, this is a field where agency people who help pollute the air and feed chemicals into the food supply are given statues of appreciation." I stopped at my car and clapped him on the shoulder. "There I go again, Tommy. Sorry. I'm not in the best of moods."
"I still want to be in advertising." He had received the True Calling and his voice trembled with it now. Despite my cynicism he preferred to believe that advertising was just as important and glamorous and soul-sustaining as his advertising professor told him it was. "Well, at least I'm glad you're not still mad at me," he added.
I nodded and waved goodnight and watched him walk into the shadows at the far end of the ramp.
Then I opened the door to my own car. The overhead light came on. In the dimness I saw Cindy Traynor.
All she said was, "God, I'm freezing to death. Hurry up. Please."
Ed Gorman
Rough Cut