Higher Mythology

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “You’ve got it,” Meier agreed. “Our time is flexible, as far as they’re concerned, because they’re paying. You’ve got to psych out their likes and dislikes, and avoid the buzzwords and shibboleths of their particular industry or product. Not easy sometimes, which is why we have a research department that I think rivals the FBI’s.” Keith and the others nodded, grinning. The creative director’s department was the second department the interns had been assigned to for orientation. Research had been the first. Keith had been impressed by the resources the ad company had at its fingertips.

  “Will we really get our names on the presentation?” Keith asked, tapping the matte. “Dorothy did the artwork and lettering.”

  “Yeah? Nice job, Dorothy,” Meier said, flashing a half grin at her. “I’ll have to check out the client’s feelings on having internship students working on his campaign—y’know, if inexperienced kids came up with this hot slogan and ad, why is he paying PDQ the big bucks for professional creative teams? I’ll get back to you. No promises, now.”

  Keith and Dorothy nodded, and exchanged a quick glance. No matter if they got credit for the idea or not, this would be like really working for an ad agency. No experience was wasted, as Meier was fond of saying, but Keith would have been upset if Dorothy’s careful pen-work had gone unrecognized. She was really good. All he had done was blab out his idea, and she put it on paper—really brought the images to life.

  A pity they couldn’t form a firm alliance. She was less concerned about him getting equal credit than he was on her behalf. The way the internship program was set up, the students were frequently pitted against one another, striving for the best assignments and the few advantages that would put them before the eyes of PDQ’s management to secure the single job offer at the end of the term PDQ promised each new crop of interns. Each of the current students were approximately equal in their qualifications. After fighting their way through four interviews and a written essay detailing why they’d be of value to PDQ’s program, there were no obvious standouts left among them. Chosen from among eight hundred applicants, half from state universities, half from private schools, each had some personal business background plus artistic or creative talent, as well as high grade point average, personality, and majors in business. They had had to self-promote themselves so fiercely it had become part of their everyday behavior. Keith was disappointed that even after each had secured one of the coveted spots they couldn’t seem to put aside the competition. Even he had to fight down suspicious feelings, and he didn’t like it.

  Keith recognized there was nothing personal in the imposed animosity, but after studying the way things worked at PDQ, he saw how small, core groups of individuals could consistently come up with good, marketable ideas if they weren’t in constant fear of being undercut by the other people in the department. Everyone’s ego was on the line all the time. It would have been a more realistic experience if they’d been treated like a creative team.

  He shifted his copy of In Search of Excellence further underneath his notebook where it couldn’t be noticed and decided to can his ideas on cooperation for the time being. The competition would never end. PDQ’s policy was to take the best student in any year and offer her or him a position in the company. That plum represented a five to ten year leap in one’s career. Instead of having to shine year after year in small companies, it would be possible to come straight to one of the majors.

  PDQ would be a terrific job to have. Keith already knew he loved dreaming up campaigns, making up slogans that tickled people but had the heart of the product represented in a few words. If he got the job, so much the better for him, but his usual cooperative soul might cheat him out of it by making him push to have PDQ hire Dorothy or one of the others instead. Sean Lopez was the most jumpy of the group. He was nearing the end of his MBA program, and was actively seeking a position to slide into after graduation in June. Brendan already acted as if the job would be his by right. Maybe attitude would be a factor in the management’s eventual choice, but it was sure a pain in the neck for the duration.

  As a supervisor, Meier was the best possible choice. He’d gotten his job from a good review during an internship just like theirs, and was actively on their side, a fact that made him different from 85% of the other people working in advertising in general. He warned them about the competitive angle, the cutthroat techniques, the downright theft of ideas and the destruction of careers. He kept bringing in phrases like “dog eat dog,” and “every man for himself.” Maybe it was the mark of a good ad campaigner to think in clichés. Keith respected the hard work he put in, maintaining his own job while shepherding and acting as father-confessor to the four interns.

  At the very beginning, Meier had read them a lecture. “I don’t care where you’re from, what kind of background you’ve got, who your daddy knows. This is another world. Nothing’s real here; we make our own reality. If it looks like someone’s ripping you off, it’s nothing personal. The only job we have is to impress the client first, then all of that client’s customers with the sheer fabulousness of that client’s product or service. If somebody has to use your ideas to do it, he probably will. Someone might actually come up with an idea that sounds exactly like yours. It’s possible; there’s only so many ideas out there. There’s plenty of ego-tripping here. Ignore it. There’s a lot of politically incorrect ‘isms.’ Ignore them, do your job, and don’t get lost in the office politics. Like I said, in the end none of it’s real. It doesn’t affect you after you go home.

  “This is the most rotten business in the world. You can’t trust anyone. No one gives you credit for your work or your ideas. Your suggestions get ignored, then you get blamed when things are screwed up because no one paid attention to your recommendations. Everything costs money. You work late hours for months on a project that’s canceled without notice. And the client is never happy with anything you do. Other than that, it’s a great job. I want you to know that.”

  Brendan was still muttering about Judge Yeast. Meier shuffled a handful of papers on the table, and cleared his throat. Martwick instantly turned a respectful and attentive face toward him. Keith resisted the urge to kick him under the table.

  “Okay,” Meier said. “I’m going to throw out some product names and concepts. Some of them are real, some aren’t. Each of you take a few. I want some creative thinking about these by tomorrow. No need to knock yourself out on the artwork yet, Dorothy,” he nodded at the young woman, “unless that’s the way you think best. We’ll brainstorm on all of them over the next few days. Not everyone will come up a winner, so I don’t want anybody shooting themselves if they don’t get the next Clio. We need all the grist we can get, and out of that we may get some goodies. Got that?”

  “Yes sir,” Sean muttered, flipping open his notebook.

  “Ready,” Keith said. Meier shot him a look full of humor. Keith grinned back. He felt that he and Meier had ‘clicked,’ getting along instantly from day one, but he understood that there could be no favoritism shown. Still, win or lose, Keith promised himself he’d look Meier up for lunch after the internship was over. They could be good friends.

  Meier showed them stat sheets and photographs of a new luxury car, details about a new breakfast cereal, a new soft drink, ground plans for a themed amusement park currently under construction, “and just for the hell of it, I’m throwing in some ordinary, everyday items: flower pots, potatoes, uh, brown paper bags, and carrots. Let’s see if you can give me some new thoughts on them, too. Pick one.”

  “Potatoes,” Keith said quickly.

  “Oh, I’ll take carrots,” Dorothy said. “They’re healthy!”

  “Brown paper bags,” Sean said.

  “That leaves flower pots,” Brendan said, with an eternally world-weary air. “I can handle it.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Meier said without expression, jotting down names next to the categories. “Okay, folks, that’s all. See you tomorrow. Don’t forget to clean up in here, okay
?”

  “Why potatoes?” Sean asked Keith on the way out after they’d taken their coffee cups back to the employee dining room. “Why’d you look so excited about that?”

  “Inspiration,” Keith said, grinning, tapping the side of his skull with a forefinger. “You know how much vitamin C there is in your average potato? You could start your day with a big helping of potatoes with C. Sunrise Spuds,” he said, painting an imaginary banner on the sky. “They’re not just for dinner anymore.”

  Sean laughed. “You’re nuts.”

  “The trouble with you,” Keith said, “is that you have to learn to let your hair down more.”

  “The trouble with you,” Brendan said disdainfully, picking up his briefcase, “is that your hair is already hanging around your knees.”

  Keith gave him a big smile as he slipped into the only space left in a crowded elevator, and watched Brendan’s annoyed expression narrow and vanish between the closing doors.

  Keith made the commuter trip home drumming on the seat between his knees, smiling at passersby who met his eyes. He drove home from the station with all the windows of his old, dark blue Mustang wide open to let the wind cool him down while inspiration cooked. If the competitiveness didn’t kill them first, there were opportunities galore for creativity and experimentation at PDQ. While Keith’s tensed muscles wound down, his brain was spinning on product ideas. Maybe some of them were way out, but that was half the fun.

  In a way, being an intern was better than working for the company, because they could play around with suggestions, without the possibility of being fired untimely if the ideas turned out to be clunkers or money pits. Keith had purposely let the others pass on some of the silly-sounding names so he could have them. He let Brendan take Rad Sportswear in exchange for Appalachi-Cola. None of the others wanted a soft drink with such a weird name, and they couldn’t understand why Keith’s eyes gleamed at the sound of it. He could picture more scope for Appalachi-Cola. It suggested wonderful images to him.

  “As refreshing as a Florida vacation,” he murmured to himself, peering out over the steering wheel at the usual afternoon backup. Sounded good to him. Chicago in September was steamy and hot without the promise of white sand beaches to relieve the gasping atmospheric inversion. On a legal pad splayed out on the passenger seat, Keith swerved through the lanes of traffic making notes. Who knew? Maybe one of his ideas would be a winner, and he’d have the joy of seeing a campaign designed around it.

  Through the kitchen curtains, he could see his mother taking something out of the refrigerator. He grinned. With an audibly gusty sigh, he threw open the door. His mother turned, wide-eyed, as he staggered in, wrenching his tie loose from his throat with a haggard hand and plopped down in a chair, limbs splayed limply.

  “Very dramatic,” his mother said ironically, applauding. “You win the Academy Award for best performance by an actor getting home from work. Please don’t leave your briefcase in the door, honey.” She hooked up the slim leather case with one finger and extended it to him.

  “Sorry, Mom,” Keith said, springing up like a Jack-in-the-box for a kiss on the cheek. His mother eyed him.

  “In spite of the Sarah Bernhardt routine, you do look tired,” Mrs. Doyle said, handing over the case. “Have a good day?”

  “Great!” Keith said enthusiastically. “No more orientation. We’re working on formulating ad campaigns for new products. This department’s a lot more interesting than Research. We can really use our imaginations. Our supervisor, Paul Meier, said this is just what a real creative team does during ‘ideation.’ I like Paul. He’s trying to treat us like regular employees while still leaving us room to make mistakes.”

  “Too bad all life experiences aren’t so forgiving,” Mrs. Doyle said, glancing down the hall opposite. It led to the family bedrooms. Keith caught the meaning of her expression, and pulled a long-suffering expression.

  “Jeff’s home, huh?”

  “Yup. Dinner in half an hour, sweetie,” Mrs. Doyle said. “You can make the salad after you change.”

  The battle of the day was fought, but the battle of the evening was just beginning. Keith felt that he got more tired out in four hours arguing with his younger brother than he did in the ten hours of commuting and working downtown.

  The younger Doyle was on the floor of their shared room with his back against the bed. After a short glance upward to make sure it wasn’t anyone important who entered, he returned his attention to the small electronic game propped on his hunched knees. Jeffrey Doyle had almost a movie star’s good looks. He had much the same shaped jaw as Keith, but it had more squared bone, a little more muscle. His hair was red, too, but deeper, with bronze in it, and his eyes had decided on an olivine green, instead of changeable hazel like Keith’s. His skin never freckled; it wouldn’t dare. He tanned smoothly in the earliest spring sun. In him, the Doyle intensity fueled his emotions. He never forgave a slight, and Keith returning home to stay in the room he had staked out as his own was a personal affront.

  “There’s a message for you,” Jeff said tersely.

  It was almost the most civil pronouncement Keith had heard in a month. “Thanks. Where is it?”

  Without looking up, Jeff gestured toward Keith’s bed.

  On the pillow was a scrap of paper torn from the corner of a junk mail flyer. In the corner under the paste-on address label was a scrawl in Jeff’s seismic handwriting. Keith scanned it. “Catra called? When? ‘Check the front page of the paper’?” he read. “What’s that mean?”

  Jeff raised resentful eyes to him. “Couldn’t tell. She had a weird way of talking. She said something valuable was stolen. Your strange friends.” He went back to his game, glowering at the miniature screen.

  “Today’s paper?” Keith asked.

  “She didn’t say,” Jeff said shortly, and ignored any further questions Keith asked. His audience was at an end. Keith would have to find out for himself.

  “Mysterious,” he said, hurrying out of the room to find the daily paper. For one of the Folk to telephone long distance meant that something was very wrong.

  It had already been consigned to the recycling bin. He pulled section one from the heap and straightened it out. At first he didn’t see anything that related to the Little Folk, until he noticed the boxed reference in the upper left hand corner under the daily weather report.

  “Archaeological display at Field Museum!” Keith breathed. He felt his invisible whiskers twitch. Surely that was what Catra meant him to read. He flipped through the pages to the main body of the article. There, as the Elf Master had predicted, was the display of Bronze Age artifacts brought to the United States by Professor Parker. The photograph that accompanied the article showed the comb Keith himself had unearthed in Scotland.

  “It must have been stolen,” Keith said to himself. So that was the problem. You just couldn’t have a magic comb bouncing around the city. He picked up the phone and dialed Hollow Tree Farm. The line was busy.

  Never mind. He’d go to the Field Museum and investigate for himself. Keith snatched the family membership card from its niche in the desk where his parents kept it, and hopped into the Mustang. The traffic outbound from the heart of the city was thick, but inbound, he had reasonably clear sailing.

  The museum’s ornamented portico had shadows across it already as the daylight dwindled. Keith shot up the flight of shallow steps to the grand entrance.

  “Good evening,” Keith said to the woman behind the marble counter just inside the doors. “I’m a friend of Professor Parker.” The woman gave him a noncommittal smile, as if uncertain of the significance of his statement. “The English archaeologist who’s visiting with the Bronze Age stuff from the Hebrides? Is he here?” The woman still looked blank. Keith glanced confidentially from side to side and leaned closer. “The short one?”

  “Oh, yes!” the woman exclaimed, her face lightening, then looking a little self-conscious.

  “I’d like to see him, if that’s p
ossible.”

  “Sorry. He’s busy this evening.”

  “How do you know that when a second ago you didn’t know who he was?” Keith asked, plastering a foolish grin on his face to soften the question.

  Flushing, the woman countered with another question. “Did you want to visit the museum this evening, sir?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Keith plunged a finger and a thumb into his shirt pocket for the membership card.

  The woman beamed to acknowledge a museum supporter. The young man might be strange, but he was a patron. “Thank you, sir. Would you like a map?”

  “Will it help me find the professor?” Keith asked, full of innocence, as he took the pamphlet.

  “I can’t help you with that, sir,” the woman explained patiently. Their voices had gotten louder, catching an echo from the polished walls. A security guard on watch near the entrance started forward, hand on radio, but she waved him back. “I can direct you to the Bronze Age exhibit. Second floor.”

  Using the map, Keith had no trouble finding Parker’s display on the upstairs gallery, sandwiched between another small visiting exhibit and the museum’s huge Oriental collection. Four or five showcases were dedicated to the finds, which combined the discoveries of two or three groups of archaeologists working in the same region of the Hebridean northwest. Keith felt a surge of pride when he found the case that contained the round clay bottle and the string of amber trading beads that he and his Scottish friend Matthew had unearthed together a little over a year ago. Moreover, their names were typed on the little identification tag pinned in front of it. Parker was generous in giving credit. Keith was delighted. He wished that someone he knew was there, so he could show them his name.