by Studs Terkel
What I did was no different from what ninety-nine percent of American women are taught to do. I took the money from under the lamp instead of in Arpege. What would I do with 150 bottles of Arpege a week?
You become your job. I became what I did. I became a hustler. I became cold, I became hard, I became turned off, I became numb. Even when I wasn’t hustling, I was a hustler. I don’t think it’s terribly different from somebody who works on the assembly line forty hours a week and comes home cut off, numb, dehumanized. People aren’t built to switch on and off like water faucets.
What was really horrifying about jail is that it really isn’t horrifying. You adjust very easily. The same thing with hustling. It became my life. It was too much of an effort to try to make contact with another human being, to force myself to care, to feel.
I didn’t care about me. It didn’t matter whether I got up or didn’t get up. I got high as soon as I awoke. The first thing I’d reach for, with my eyes half-closed, was my dope. I didn’t like my work. It was messy. That was the biggest feeling about it. Here’s all these guys slobbering over you all night long. I’m lying there, doing math or conjugations or Spanish poetry in my head. (Laughs.) And they’re slobbering. God! God! What enabled me to do it was being high—high and numb.
The overt hustling society is the microcosm of the rest of the society. The power relationships are the same and the games are the same. Only this one I was in control of. The greater one I wasn’t. In the outside society, if I tried to be me, I wasn’t in control of anything. As a bright, assertive woman, I had no power. As a cold, manipulative hustler, I had a lot. I knew I was playing a role. Most women are taught to become what they act. All I did was act out the reality of American womanhood.
DID YOU EVER HEAR THE ONE ABOUT THE FARMER’S DAUGHTER ?
BARBARA HERRICK
She is thirty; single. Her title is script supervisor/producer at a large advertising agency; working out of its Los Angeles office. She is also a vice president. Her accounts are primarily in food and cosmetics. “There’s a myth: a woman is expected to be a food writer because she is assumed to know those things and a man doesn’t. However, some of the best copy on razors and Volkswagens has been written by women.”
She has won several awards and considerable recognition for her commercials. “You have to be absolutely on target, dramatic and fast. You have to be aware of legal restrictions. The FTC gets tougher and tougher. You must understand budgetary matters: will it cost a million or can it be shot in a studio in one day?”
She came off a Kansas farm, one of four daughters. “During high school, I worked as a typist and was an extremely good one. I was compulsive about doing every tiny job very well.” She graduated from the University of Missouri. According to Department of Labor statistics, she is in the upper one percent bracket of working women.
In her Beverly Hills apartment are paintings, sculpted works, recordings (classic, folk, jazz, and rock), and many books, most of them obviously well thumbed.
Men in my office doing similar work were being promoted, given raises and titles. Since I had done the bulk of the work, I made a stand and was promoted too. I needed the title, because clients figured that I’m just a face-man.
A face-man is a person who looks good, speaks well, and presents the work. I look well, I speak well, and I’m pleasant to have around after the business is over with—if they acknowledge me in business. We go to the lounge and have drinks. I can drink with the men but remain a lady. (Laughs.)
That’s sort of my tacit business responsibility, although this has never been said to me directly. I know this is why I travel alone for the company a great deal. They don’t anticipate any problems with my behavior. I equate it with being the good nigger.
On first meeting, I’m frequently taken for the secretary, you know, traveling with the boss. I’m here to keep somebody happy. Then I’m introduced as the writer. One said to me after the meeting was over and the drinking had started, “When I first saw you, I figured you were a—you know. I never knew you were the person writing this all the time.” (Laughs.) Is it a married woman working for extra money? Is it a lesbian? Is it some higher-up’s mistress?
I’m probably one of the ten highest paid people in the agency. It would cause tremendous hard feelings if, say, I work with a man who’s paid less. If a remark is made at a bar—“You make so much money, you could buy and sell me”—I toss it off, right? He’s trying to find out. He can’t equate me as a rival. They wonder where to put me, they wonder what my salary is.
Buy and sell me—yeah, there are a lot of phrases that show the reversal of roles. What comes to mind is swearing at a meeting. New clients are often very uptight. They feel they can’t make any innuendoes that might be suggestive. They don’t know how to treat me. They don’t know whether to acknowledge me as a woman or as another neuter person who’s doing a job for them.
The first time, they don’t look at me. At the first three meetings of this one client, if I would ask a direction question, they would answer and look at my boss or another man in the room. Even around the conference table. I don’t attempt to be—the glasses, the bun, and totally asexual. That isn’t the way I am. It’s obvious that I’m a woman and enjoy being a woman. I’m not overly provocative either. It’s the thin, good nigger line that I have to toe.
I’ve developed a sixth sense about this. If a client will say, “Are you married?” I will often say yes, because that’s the easiest way to deal with him if he needs that category for me. If it’s more acceptable to him to have a young, attractive married woman in a business position comparable to his, terrific. It doesn’t bother me. It makes me safer. He’ll never be challenged. He can say, “She’d be sensational. I’d love to get her. I could show her what a real man is, but she’s married.” It’s a way out for him.
Or there’s the mistress thing: well, she’s sleeping with the boss. That’s acceptable to them. Or she’s a frustrated, compulsive castrator. That’s a category. Or lesbian. If I had short hair, wore suits, and talked in a gruff voice, that would be more acceptable than I am. It’s when I transcend their labels, they don’t quite know what to do. If someone wants a quick label and says, “I’ll bet you’re a big women’s libber, aren’t you?” I say, “Yeah, yeah.” They have to place me.
I travel a lot. That’s what gets very funny. We had a meeting in Montreal. It was one of those bride’s magazines, honeymoon-type resorts, with heart-shaped beds and the heated pool. I was there for three days with nine men. All day long we were enclosed in this conference room. The agency account man went with me. I was to talk about the new products, using slides and movies. There were about sixty men in the conference room. I had to leave in such a hurry, I still had my gaucho pants and boots on.
The presentation went on for an hour and a half. There was tittering and giggling for about forty minutes. Then you’d hear the shift in the audience. They got interested in what I was saying. Afterwards they had lunch sent up. Some of them never did talk to me. Others were interested in my life. They would say things like, “Have you read The Sensuous Woman?” (Laughs.) They didn’t really want to know. If they were even more obvious, they probably would have said, “Say, did you hear the one about the farmer’s daughter?” I’d have replied, “Of course, I’m one myself.”
The night before, there was a rehearsal. Afterwards the account man suggested we go back to the hotel, have a nightcap, and get to bed early. It was a 9:00 A.M. meeting. We were sitting at the bar and he said, “Of course, you’ll be staying in my room.” I said, “What? I have a room.” He said, “I just assumed. You’re here and I’m here and we’re both grown up.” I said, “You assumed? You never even asked me whether I wanted to.” My feelings obviously meant nothing to him. Apparently it was what you did if you’re out of town and the woman is anything but a harelip and you’re ready to go. His assumption was incredible.
We used to joke about him in the office. We’d call him Mr. Straight, beca
use he was Mr. Straight. Very short hair, never grew sideburns, never wore wide ties, never, never swore, never would pick up an innuendo, super-super-conservative. No one would know, you see?
Mr. Straight is a man who’d never invite me to have a drink after work. He would never invite me to lunch alone. Would never, never make an overture to me. It was simply the fact that we were out of town and who would know? That poor son of a bitch had no notion what he was doing to my ego. I didn’t want to destroy his. We had to work together the next day and continue to work together.
The excuse I gave is one I use many times. “Once when I was much younger and innocent, I slept with an account man. The guy turned out to be a bastard. I got a big reputation and he made my life miserable because he had a loose mouth. And even though you’re a terrifically nice guy and I’d like to sleep with you, I feel I can’t. It’s my policy. I’m older and wiser now. I don’t do it. You have to understand that.” It worked. I could never say to him, “You don’t even understand how you insulted me.”
It’s the always-having-to-please conditioning. I don’t want to make any enemies. Only of late, because I’m getting more secure and I’m valued by the agency, am I able to get mad at men and say, “Fuck off!” But still I have to keep egos unruffled, smooth things over . . . I still work with him and he never mentioned it again.
He’ll occasionally touch my arm or catch my eye: We’re really sympatico, aren’t we baby? There may be twelve men and me sitting at a meeting and they can’t call on one of the girls or the receptionist, he’d say, “Let’s have some coffee, Barbara. Make mine black.” I’m the waitress. I go do it because it’s easier than to protest. If he’d known my salary is more than his I doubt that he’d have acted that way in Denver—or here.
Part of the resentment toward me and my salary is that I don’t have a mortgage on a home in the Valley and three kids who have to go to private schools and a wife who spends at Saks, and you never know when you’re going to lose your job in this business. Say, we’re having a convivial drink among peers and we start grousing. I’m not allowed to grouse with the best of them. They say, “Oh, you? What do you need money for? You’re a single woman. You’ve got the world by the balls.” I hear that all the time.
If I’m being paid a lot of attention to, say by someone to whom I’m attracted, and we’ve done a job and we’re in New York together for a week’s stretch, we’re in the same hotel, suppose I want to sleep with him? Why not? Here’s my great double standard. You never hear it said about a man in my capacity—“He sleeps around.” It would only be to his glory. It’s expected, if he’s there with a model, starlet, or secretary. In my case, I constantly worry about that. If I want to, I must be very careful. That’s what I’m railing against.
This last shoot, it was an exasperating shot. It took hours. We were there all day. It was exhausting, frustrating. Between takes, the camera man, a darling man, would come back to where I was standing and put his arms around me. I didn’t think anything of it. We’re hardly fucking on the set. It was his way of relaxing. I heard a comment later that night from the director: “You ought to watch your behavior on the set with the camera man.” I said, “Me watch it? Fuck that! Let him watch it.” He was hired by me. I could fire him if I didn’t like him. Why me, you see? I have to watch.
Clients. I get calls in my hotel room: “I want to discuss something about production today that didn’t go right.” I know what that means. I try to fend it off. I’m on this tightrope. I don’t want to get into a drunken scene ever with a client and to literally shove him away. That’s not going to do me any good. The only smart thing I can do is avoid that sort of scene. The way I avoid it is by suggesting an early morning breakfast meeting. I always have to make excuses: “I drank too much and my stomach is really upset, so I couldn’t do it right now. We’ll do it in the morning.” Sometimes I’d like to say, “Fuck off, I know what you want.”
“I’ve had a secretary for the last three years. I hesitate to use her . . . I won’t ask her to do typing. It’s hard for me to use her as I was used. She’s bright and could be much more than a secretary. So I give her research assignments, things to look up, which might be fun for her. Rather than just say, ‘Here, type this.’
“I’m an interesting figure to her. She says, ‘When I think of Women’s Lib I don’t think of Germaine Greer or Kate Millett. I think of you.’ She sees my life as a lot more glamorous than it really is. She admires the externals. She admires the apartment, the traveling. We shot two commercials just recently, one in Mexico, one in Nassau. Then I was in New York to edit them. That’s three weeks. She takes care of all my travel details. She knows the company gave me an advance of well over a thousand dollars. I’m put up in fine hotels, travel first class. I can spend ninety dollars at a dinner for two or three. I suppose it is something—little Barbara from a Kansas farm, and Christ! look where I am. But I don’t think of it, which is a funny thing.”
It used to be the token black at a big agency was very safe because he always had to be there. Now I’m definitely the token woman. In the current economic climate, I’m one of the few writers at my salary level getting job offers. Unemployment is high right now among people who do what I do. Yet I get calls: “Will you come and write on feminine hygiene products?” Another, involving a food account: “We need you, we’ll pay you thirty grand and a contract. Be the answer for Such-an-such Foods.” I’m ideal because I’m young enough to have four or five solid years of experience behind me. I know how to handle myself or I wouldn’t be where I am.
I’m very secure right now. But when someone says to me, “You don’t have to worry,” he’s wrong. In a profession where I absolutely cannot age, I cannot be doing this at thirty-eight. For the next years, until I get too old, my future’s secure in a very insecure business. It’s like a race horse or a show horse. Although I’m holding the job on talent and responsibility, I got here partly because I’m attractive and it’s a big kick for a client to know that for three days in Montreal there’s going to be this young brunette, who’s very good, mind you. I don’t know how they talk about me, but I’d guess: “She’s very good, but to look at her you’d never know it. She’s a knockout.”
I have a fear of hanging on past my usefulness. I’ve seen desperate women out of jobs, who come around with their samples, which is the way all of us get jobs. A lot of women have been cut. Women who had soft jobs in an agency for years and are making maybe fifteen thousand. In the current slump, this person is cut and some bright young kid from a college, who’ll work for seven grand a year, comes in and works late every night.
Talk about gaps. In a room with a twenty-two-year-old, there are areas in which I’m altogether lost. But not being a status-quo-type person, I’ve always thought ahead enough to keep pace with what’s new. I certainly don’t feel my usefulness as a writer is coming to an end. I’m talking strictly in terms of physical aging. (Laughs.) It’s such a young business, not just the consumer part. It’s young in terms of appearances. The client expects agency people, especially on the creative end, to dress a certain way, to be very fashionable. I haven’t seen many women in any executive capacity age gracefully.
The bellbottoms, the beads, beards, and sideburns, that’s the easy, superficial way to feel part of the takeover culture. It’s true also in terms of writing. What kind of music do you put behind the commercial? It’s ridiculous to expect a sheltered forty-two-year-old to anticipate progressive rock. The danger of aging, beyond touch, out of reach with the younger market . . .
The part I hate—it’s funny. (Pause.) Most people in the business are delighted to present their work and get praise for it—and the credit and the laughter and everything in the commercial. I always hate that part. Deep down, I feel demeaned. Don’t question the adjectives, don’t argue, if it’s a cologne or a shampoo. I know, ‘cause I buy ’em myself. I’m the biggest sucker for buying an expensively packaged hoax thing. Face cream at eight dollars. And I sell and conv
ince.
I used Erik Satie music for a cologne thing. The clients didn’t know Satie from Roger Williams. I’m very good at what I do, dilettantism. I go into my act: we call it dog and pony time, show time, tap dance. We laugh about it. He says, “Oh, that’s beautiful, exactly right. How much will it cost us?” I say, “The music will cost you three grand. Those two commercials you want to do in Mexico and Nassau, that’s forty grand. There’s no way I can bring it in for less.” I’m this young woman, saying, “Give me forty thousand dollars of your money and I will go away to Mexico and Nassau and bring you back a commercial and you’ll love it.” It’s blind faith.
Do I ever question what I’m selling? (A soft laugh.) All the time. I know a writer who quit a job equivalent to mine. She was making a lot of money, well thought of. She was working on a consumer finance account. It’s blue collar and black. She made this big stand. I said to her, in private, “I agree with you, but why is this your test case? You’ve been selling a cosmetic for years that is nothing but mineral oil and women are paying eight dollars for it. You’ve been selling a cake mix that you know is so full of preservatives that it would kill every rat in the lab. Why all of a sudden . . . ?”
If you’re in the business, you’re in the business, the fucking business! You’re a hustler. But because you’re witty and glib . . . I’ve never pretended this is the best writing I can do. Every advertising writer has a novel in his drawer. Few of them ever do it.
I don’t think what I do is necessary or that it performs a service. If it’s a very fine product—and I’ve worked on some of those—I love it. It’s when you get into that awful area of hope, cosmetics—you’re just selling image and a hope. It’s like the arthritis cure or cancer—quackery. You’re saying to a lady, “Because this oil comes from the algae at the bottom of the sea, you’re going to have a timeless face.” It’s a crock of shit! I know it’s part of my job, I do it. If I made the big stand my friend made, I’d lose my job. Can’t do it. I’m expected to write whatever assignment I’m given. It’s whorish. I haven’t written enough to know what kind of writer I am. I suspect, rather than a writer, I’m a good reader. I think I’d make a good editor. I have read so many short stories that I bet you I could turn out a better anthology than anybody’s done yet, in certain categories. I remember, I appreciate, I have a feeling I could . . .
