But the head of domestic marketing had other things in mind. He wanted me to have lunch with him and another good man working in the company. The second in command at layout and design. He wanted me to hear firsthand how things would be at Waco Glass and Tile. Now, how did I guess that this fellow was a Negro? Yes, they were a progressive company. There would be two of us now. And marketing ran his own ship. They tried to give him any flak from upstairs, he’d just shame them with that proposal. I truly believe that I would be employed at Waco Glass and Tile right now if we hadn’t ordered lobster thermidor at that luncheon.
I followed him through a maze of hallways and underground passages that connected the various buildings in that complex, hundreds of typewriters thundering around me. He pointed out the offices for domestic production (run by an idiot), international marketing (run by an even bigger idiot), specialized import/export (run by the biggest idiot of them all, but a heck of a nice guy). A boom time for the foreign division, he told me. Just imagine how much glass got broken in the war! They were going around the clock over in the foundries. But he’d save the factories for later; that tour was a day by itself. I started to turn into a large cafeteria at the elbow of one of those myriad Ls on the first floor. A room of spanking white walls, stainless steel, and Formica, and crowded with office boys and secretaries. But he grabbed my arm with a large grin and a wink. No, that’s for the proletariat. We’re upstairs.
The twelfth floor was another maze of hallways, but carpeted, and with only the faint clacking of typewriters behind closed oak doors. Research and design. The think tank of the whole operation, he told me. They invent it; his division sells it; and the public, God bless ’em, breaks it to keep everybody’s mortgage paid. At the end of yet another L was the executive dining room. Muted beige walls, silver plate, tablecloths, and fresh flowers. Never dreamed you’d be eating at the top, huh, Stanley? I still wasn’t. There had been another eight buttons on that elevator.
A cloud of cigarette smoke hung over the hunched backs of all those gray flannel suits. And I knew they weren’t all the same man because of the ties and pocket handkerchiefs: some polka dotted, some striped, some spitalsfield, some tweed with lattice network. The gray flannel we would be lunching with was waiting for us at a far table, but it took a while to navigate the room because the head of domestic marketing stopped at practically every table to introduce my degrees: My new marketing analyst, a Ph.D. from Stanford. Stanley, meet … And as I shook each limp hand: Best damn proposal I ever read; I’ll send you a copy. When we finally reached our table, the second in command of layout and design rose and extended his hand first. The grip was firm. The smile sincere. Pleased to meet you, Stanley. You’re going to love it here. The head of domestic marketing beamed.
The meal was all clear sailing from there. The head of domestic marketing ordered for the three of us. He told me that I didn’t really want the steak; the lobster there was the best in town. The second in command had never bothered to open his menu. It seemed he’d lunched with domestic marketing before. It seemed he and domestic marketing were the best of friends, according to domestic marketing. And we treat you right here, don’t we? He agreed that he was treated very well. I had been told constantly on the way to the dining room that this man and I would have a lot in common. But midway through the second martini I was still trying to figure out what it might be.
He was easily ten years older than I and a native of Pittsburgh, having grown up on a crowded street not too far from my rooming house. His father was a cab driver, his mother still alive and active in the Baptist Church. He was one of several children and had gotten married five years ago, just after coming to the company. And they had been five good years at Waco Glass and Tile. Then, perhaps, he had gone to a West Coast college? No, he’d never left the state, had earned a graduate degree in art and design right there from Carnegie Tech. At the top of his class, boomed domestic marketing. Over the top, really, second-in-command whispered in reply; and I knew just what he meant. I mentioned that he’d managed to move up pretty fast in the company, and he looked at me as if I’d made some sort of a nasty dig. Well, second in command of your division is awfully impressive, I said.
The waiter brought our lobsters and a paper bib for each of us. Tie ’em tight, said domestic marketing; this stuff is good but it can get pretty messy. Second in command tied his so that the strings dug into his neck. I wondered how he was going to swallow with it so tight. But he took very small bites. Domestic marketing wasn’t wrong; the lobster thermidor was very tasty. And they served it in the middle of a whole lobster with the claws still intact. We were handed silver nutcrackers to start on those after we’d finished the rest. My bib was getting splattered and domestic marketing’s even more so because he relished dipping the crisp French bread into his sauce. But it was the paper bib of the second in command that intrigued me the most; it was remaining perfectly spotless. My eyes rarely left it as we talked about the future of glass in America, my future at Waco, rebuilding Europe, the Marshall Plan. The head of domestic marketing had very definite opinions about all of this, and so did I. The second in command had a spotless bib.
I was woozy from the rich food and alcohol and probably wouldn’t have noticed it if it hadn’t been my focal point during the meal, but after the dishes were removed and the third round of martinis arrived, the second in command folded his paper bib into a perfect square in front of him and began shredding it into tiny tiny pieces. By this time the head of domestic marketing wouldn’t have been aware of a tap-dancing pygmy in the middle of the table. He’d drunk the lion’s share of the wine and his martinis had all been doubles. A little excess was called for that day, he told me with a wink; we were celebrating. It wasn’t every day that the best damn analytical mind in the country walked into his office. Walked right in with just the ticket to save his division’s profits. For a long time he’d known something was wrong and now—thanks to me—he knew what it was. (When the shoe drops this time, I thought, it’s going to be a biggie.) He was finally going to move Waco into the twentieth century with this one. Oh yeah, he was going straight to the moon. Buy stock, boys, he told us. Buy lots of stock. And he could thank all those prejudiced bastards who had turned me away. They didn’t want to hire a nigger—good for them. It had sent me straight to his door. And he was proud to be sitting at the table with two of us, proud to be a real American. The second in command never changed that mild and interested expression. The piles of shredded paper were growing in front of his hands. Tiny tiny tiny pieces. He did it without ever looking down. He did it by rote.
The room was beginning to get too close. I removed my jacket and loosened my tie. I got noticeable glances from the other tables, but it felt so much better. My plan had been to stay with one of those companies ten years—top. Build up some assets, the contacts, and experience. Midway through my interview, I’d even figured that Waco could be done in seven. The company had a generous profit-sharing plan, and they were ripe for a new direction. Now I wondered if seven years would be cutting it too close. So could I get away in five years? Four? The head of domestic marketing was now talking into his martini, something about the damn finest people in the world, something about my being a credit to my race. The second in command frowned slightly at my shirtsleeves and shook his head ever so slightly more. Then his smile returned as he gazed into the blurred eyes of domestic marketing, who’d raised his head to ask abruptly how things were at layout and design. The second in command said things couldn’t be better. Another drink? asked domestic marketing, signaling for the waiter without waiting for a reply.
—Another round for everybody, he said.
—No, thank you, I said; I’ve had enough.
—Aw, come on, we’re celebrating. Aren’t we celebrating?
The second in command agreed that we, indeed, were. His knuckles were almost buried now in the piles of shredded paper. I forced myself to look everywhere but there; it was becoming something indecent to watch. Such
tiny tiny tiny tiny pieces. I looked down at my own hands. Still calm. Still able to rest on both sides of my martini glass. When I looked back up it was only to lock into the eyes of the second in command:
So you like working here?
Yes, I do. It’s a great opportunity.
But you’re the only person in layout and design, aren’t you?
I was wondering when you would figure that out.
So where to from here?
Do you really need to ask me that?
No, I didn’t. The waiter brought the three martinis, although I’d specifically told him that I didn’t want one. But I let him place it in front of me with his usual flourish. I raised my glass with them for yet another toast—To the best damn proposal in the world—and sipped. When the warm flush ran through my body, I took my tie off completely and put it in the jacket hanging over the back of my chair. I undid another button on my shirt with the next sip. A third button with the next. I finished the drink with my shirt wide open, but the perspiration was still making my undershirt cling to my skin. A heavy buzz rose around the room; eventually every face was turned to our table. The second in command had given me up for dead after I removed the tie. But the head of domestic marketing didn’t notice a thing until the buzz escalated into a muted roar as I removed the shirt completely. I folded it neatly over the back of the chair with my jacket.
—What in the high holy hell are you doing?
—Getting comfortable, I said.
—Are you frigging crazy?
—No, not yet.
It felt like medicine to be out in the brisk air with my shirt open and my jacket hooked over my shoulder. Walking helped to settle my queasy stomach and burn the alcohol out of my blood. I was composing a final letter to my father in my head. Papa, I will say, the language you taught me is wonderful. I have been in small towns and large cities; I have been in clothes of every description. There is no doubt—nor ever will be—that I am a man. And it doesn’t bother me that practically no one in this country understands a single word I say. America is growing and changing; we are on the brink of unimaginable possibilities. I have just finished walking through the parks and streets of a city that will shortly find a way to light itself from breaking apart an atom. Change is hope; you’ve always told me that. I’m a young man; I will see a lot of change. And that is what worries me, Papa, because today I had lunch with the future.
The pawnshop was on a narrow back street. The plate-glass window was overflowing with the broken relics of uncountable dreams. Regardless of the lighting, the insides of these places always seem dingy. I peered through the rows of guitars, saxophones, and clarinets and saw an old Jewish man sweeping the wooden floor. His head was bowed low over the broom handle, the black yarmulke frayed around the edges. His tangled and yellowing beard hung to his chest, brushing across his vest with each stroke of the broom. He swept in slow, deliberate strokes as if painting the floor. At the far end of the counter I saw the locked gun case. The revolvers were laid in neat rows on the glass shelves; above the case were shoe boxes filled with assorted shells. I stood outside the window until he had made his way across one end of the shop with the broom. That was when he looked up and our eyes met through the curve of one of the saxophones. He knew what I wanted. Slowly, very slowly, he moved to the locked door, the broom still in his hands, and flipped the sign over. It read: Out of Business. And under it was a red-and-gold arrow that pointed me farther down the narrow street.
In the middle of the block was a squat little cafe. And at the end of the counter was a woman who introduced herself as Eve. And to make a very long story short: after taking one look at me in that gray flannel suit with my open shirt, she offered me a job as a housekeeper with terms that I couldn’t refuse.
Miss Maple goes back to regular pants and a jacket in the winter. But he’s taken to wearing a wool cape instead of an overcoat. He says he likes the swirl and freedom of it, and it keeps him just as warm. No doubt about it, the man has flair—and courage. And looking at the way he can wear any piece of cloth on his own terms gets you to thinking that maybe … just maybe. But no, as hot as it can get over this grill, I can’t bring myself to do it. And besides, over the years Nadine has gotten to be a good half size larger than me anyway (throw that pan, darling, and I’m calling the cops).
Miss Maple’s brought us in a big bottle of champagne for a midnight toast. He bows at me and pulls it out from under that cape to present it like a magician. Moët. He tells me it’s one of the best brands around. I’ll have to take his word for it. When you get higher than the shelf where they keep the Jack Daniel’s, you’re out of my league. He says that if things keep going the way they are, we won’t be seeing him by the end of the new year. He’ll have saved enough to start his own company. I’m really happy for the fella; he shouldn’t have been here anyway. But I guess that can be said for about just everybody, myself included, although I don’t have his brains. And I sure don’t have his money. He’s earned every penny of it, though, and I don’t begrudge him one red cent. A lesser man would have fallen back on what his family had, and from what I gather they’re hardly poor. But the champagne he’s uncorking is gonna taste real sweet from being bought the way it was.
He’s got his job at Eve’s down to a science. Unless he and Jesse are feuding and she won’t let him into her room, he can pull all the linen, wash and blue it, and have it dried, ironed, and stacked between giving all the furniture and woodwork a good polishing. The rugs are vacuumed every other day, the windows washed once a week. Twice a month there’s the heavy scrubbing: walls, front steps, back patio. And once a month the fireplaces. It’s all finished by noon—and it’s a four-story brownstone—which leaves him free time until six in the evening, when the gentlemen callers start ringing the bell. And it’s that free time from noon to six, when he builds on the housework he’s been doing all morning, that’s making him a prosperous man.
WRITE THE WINNING JINGLE ABOUT SWIFT’S CLEANSER
Just picture it! You—queen of all you survey in your favorite department store—if you’re the lucky winner in the great Swift’s Cleanser Contest! Buy anything you like—a mink coat, beautiful furniture—outfit the whole family, redecorate your home, get all the wonderfully crazy hats you ever wanted! And charge everything—Swift & Company will pay the bill! Think of all the household appliances, furnishings, fabulous dresses, furs, jewels, silverware, and china that $5,000 will buy!
Miss Maple came out with third prize in that one. A Westinghouse electric roaster that he sold for thirty dollars—but he was on his way. Oxydol. Chiffon soap flakes. Old Dutch cleanser. Fab. Ajax. Vel. Cashmere Bouquet. The jingle that brought him in the biggest lump sum of cash was the Colgate-Palmolive-Peet’s Hundred Thousand Dollar Gold Rush Contest. He took almost five thousand dollars for second prize. But he said his biggest personal satisfaction came from the Chiffon jingle:
I like Chiffon—tender white flakes for a tender white hand.
Even tender enough for my gold wedding band.
You see, when he was in Chicago he’d applied for a job at Armour and Company. The research he’d done for their proposal showed that the new attitudes of American housewives made them ripe for a dishwashing detergent that would leave them feeling both married and sexy. The Ford V-8 he pulled in for that one proved that someone inside the company had taken his numbers very seriously.
Miss Maple has told me that these jingle contests are more than a publicity gimmick; by reading the thousands of entries that come in, a company analyst can tell exactly what their customers want a product to do for them. And they use them to plan future strategies. The winning jingles have nothing to do with their being good; they’re just the ones that can be used to spearhead the new marketing campaigns. And since he’s already jump started a lot of these places, he already knows what the bulk of those entries from housewives are going to demonstrate. And taking that knowledge, along with the working knowledge he got at Eve’s from using those ver
y products, he’s going to the bank each month. Or to the car dealers. Or to the appliance stores. Or to the jewelry shops. All of it to the tune of close to fifty thousand dollars and counting.
Eve’s cut is 10 percent. I’d gladly fork over double that, he says, because the whole thing was her idea—even my name. Instead he gives her tips on what new stocks to buy. There’s a sure killing to be made in baby bottles—but avoid Waco Glass and Tile. They’re sitting on a marketing strategy that they’ll never use because it came from a lunatic. I doubt that she needs too much advice, though; this is a savvy businesswoman from day one. Slave labor is never as productive as the work of a free man—even if he’s working for free. And Eve has allowed Miss Maple to be one of the freest men I know.
The bells outside begin to toll for midnight. 1949. He takes his full champagne glass to the rear of the cafe. As I watch from the doorway, he steps off boldly into the midst of nothing and is suspended midair by a gentle wind that starts to swirl his cape around his knees. It’s a hot, dry wind that could easily have been born in a desert, but it’s bringing, of all things, snow. Soft and silent it falls, coating his shoulders, his upturned face. Snow. He holds his glass up and turns to me as a single flake catches on the rim before melting down the side into an amber world where bubbles burst and are born, burst and are born.
—Happy New Year, Bailey.
—Happy New Year, Miss Maple.
THE WRAP
My old man used to say, Always finish what you start. It’s a sound principle, but it can’t work in this cafe. If life is truly a song, then what we’ve got here is just snatches of a few melodies. All these folks are in transition; they come midway in their stories and go on. If this was like that sappy violin music on Make-Believe Ballroom, we could wrap it all up with a lot of happy endings to leave you feeling real good that you took the time to listen. But I don’t believe that life is supposed to make you feel good, or to make you feel miserable either. Life is just supposed to make you feel.
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