in theway bad avant-garde music could sometimes be soothing, and it made Charlie think of his and Linda's last night in New York. They'd been taken out for drinks by their friends Ira and Jeannine, music-lovers who chose a little place in TriBeCa where a group called Eponymous was playing: three white guys with dreadlocks and sunglasses, one with a synthesizer, one with drums, and one with a whole battery of weapons including a hammer and a washboard. Linda was so tense that night—she kept looking at her watch, and kicking Charlie under the table every time Ira ordered another round of drinks—but Charlie had liked it, all of it, even the terrible band. Eponymous—where but in New York could you find a band like Eponymous, a band
called
Eponymous? He wondered what had become of them. He thought that as soon as he got out of here—this tube, this hospital—he would call Ira; Ira would know. He hadn't talked to Ira in almost two months, probably the longest they'd ever gone without talking since they first met. And Charlie
liked
Ira—loved him. And Jeannine, too, and their apartment with all of that overstuffed plush furniture from Ira's grandmother's place. Maybe he
wouldn't
call, he'd just show up at their door with a six of beer and some weird record he'd buy at Tower on his way down Broadway, and they wouldn't ask him any questions, they weren't like that, but they'd know, just as Charlie did, what the issue was: it was I-don't-love-you-anymore, and Charlie knew he'd known that for a long time.
Saving himself? Why talk of saving himself when he could spend himself? All in one place.
SEVERAL WOMEN IN my office are pregnant. Jennifer, my creative director, a contradiction in terms if ever there was one, is pregnant. So is Samantha, another copywriter and my one real friend here. And the receptionist, Karen, is pregnant, too. Saman-tha's is due first: March 25th. Then Jennifer's on April 2nd, then Karen's on May 6th. There has been talk of a betting pool. Which of them will deliver closest to her due date? My money will be on Karen: she is just twenty-two, too young to realize the possibilities for drama inherent in being early or late.
They are flushed and slightly awkward, these women, and I wish them all good fortune. To each of them I wish a big bouncing baby with a fine set of lungs, to each of them the kind of birth that makes the doctor and nurses beam with goodwill and self-congratulation. Now there is a profession that must give incredible pleasure. Who else gets to witness the most private joys of life?
I AM A copywriter at Fitch Brown Llewellen, an advertising agency. Ours is the Sears, Roebuck of advertising agencies. Not that we are so large; not at all. But we are definitely derivative. Remember those big shirts everyone was wearing a couple of years ago? With long, wrinkled shirttails hanging out and small awkward collars? They were worn over tight black pants or narrow mid-calf skirts. Well, look around and then go to Sears, and you'll find that that's where those shirts are now. You won't have to look hard; they'll be hanging under a huge sign that says BIGSHIRTS .
Sears, Roebuck gets its ideas about style from the greater fashion world and then appropriates not only the idea but also, as in that huge sign, the credit for the idea. So it goes with Fitch Brown Llewellen. The big one right now is our religious adherence to a type of ad first used, brilliantly I might add, for Molson beer and the American Express card, not a few years ago. Upstairs, in the executive offices of FBL, this adherence is referred to as “buying into a principle.” Down here, where the rest of us sit under buzzing fluorescent lights, we call it imitation.
I worry sometimes about those fluorescent lights. What is the effect on an unborn baby? Does an expectant mother have the right to ask such questions of 1) her doctor? 2) her boss? 3) her mother?
IT IS 9:30 in the morning, and Samantha is late for work. The apartment
called
Eponymous? He wondered what had become of them. He thought that as soon as he got out of here—this tube, this hospital—he would call Ira; Ira would know. He hadn't talked to Ira in almost two months, probably the longest they'd ever gone without talking since they first met. And Charlie
liked
Ira—loved him. And Jeannine, too, and their apartment with all of that overstuffed plush furniture from Ira's grandmother's place. Maybe he
wouldn't
call, he'd just show up at their door with a six of beer and some weird record he'd buy at Tower on his way down Broadway, and they wouldn't ask him any questions, they weren't like that, but they'd know, just as Charlie did, what the issue was: it was I-don't-love-you-anymore, and Charlie knew he'd known that for a long time.
Saving himself? Why talk of saving himself when he could spend himself? All in one place.
SEVERAL WOMEN IN my office are pregnant. Jennifer, my creative director, a contradiction in terms if ever there was one, is pregnant. So is Samantha, another copywriter and my one real friend here. And the receptionist, Karen, is pregnant, too. Saman-tha's is due first: March 25th. Then Jennifer's on April 2nd, then Karen's on May 6th. There has been talk of a betting pool. Which of them will deliver closest to her due date? My money will be on Karen: she is just twenty-two, too young to realize the possibilities for drama inherent in being early or late.
They are flushed and slightly awkward, these women, and I wish them all good fortune. To each of them I wish a big bouncing baby with a fine set of lungs, to each of them the kind of birth that makes the doctor and nurses beam with goodwill and self-congratulation. Now there is a profession that must give incredible pleasure. Who else gets to witness the most private joys of life?
I AM A copywriter at Fitch Brown Llewellen, an advertising agency. Ours is the Sears, Roebuck of advertising agencies. Not that we are so large; not at all. But we are definitely derivative. Remember those big shirts everyone was wearing a couple of years ago? With long, wrinkled shirttails hanging out and small awkward collars? They were worn over tight black pants or narrow mid-calf skirts. Well, look around and then go to Sears, and you'll find that that's where those shirts are now. You won't have to look hard; they'll be hanging under a huge sign that says BIGSHIRTS .
Sears, Roebuck gets its ideas about style from the greater fashion world and then appropriates not only the idea but also, as in that huge sign, the credit for the idea. So it goes with Fitch Brown Llewellen. The big one right now is our religious adherence to a type of ad first used, brilliantly I might add, for Molson beer and the American Express card, not a few years ago. Upstairs, in the executive offices of FBL, this adherence is referred to as “buying into a principle.” Down here, where the rest of us sit under buzzing fluorescent lights, we call it imitation.
I worry sometimes about those fluorescent lights. What is the effect on an unborn baby? Does an expectant mother have the right to ask such questions of 1) her doctor? 2) her boss? 3) her mother?
IT IS 9:30 in the morning, and Samantha is late for work. The apartment
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