Arms Going Like Windmills.
A short story about advertising by Robert Cormack
“I didn’t see it then, but getting fired from Apple was the best thing that could have ever happen to me.” SteveJobs
They’re walking past my office now, watching me at my desk. I don’t know any of these people. Most of them came in after the deal went through. They’re young, eager — everything I’m not. They think I don’t see them because my desk faces the window. I see their reflections. I guess they’re wondering what I’m still doing here. I’m wondering the same thing myself.
I should have been fired last week with Nick Hopkins, Dewey Simms, Margot Johnson. We’re the oldest people at the agency — ancient, I think is what we’re called now. Nick, Dewey and Margot got their slips the same day. I joined them downstairs at the bar later and we sat in a row, drinking and talking. I was the only one going back upstairs. I still had a bottle of whiskey in my desk. I wanted one more drink before I went home.
That’s the way the deal was structured, that’s how they planned this thing right from the start.
Nobody cares if I drink in my office anymore. Like I said, everyone knows I’m going. Not even Frank O’Conner, the great man himself, can save me. That’s the way the deal was structured, that’s how they planned this thing right from the start.
They’re all writing about Frank O’Conner in the trades. Everyone wants to know why he put everything on the table, the accounts, the building itself. He owned everything, and everything had a price. He sold to the largest advertising agency in the world.
I don’t know what he got for it all. Frank isn’t saying anything yet. He can’t say anything until the New York office gives the okay. Rumour has it he got over eight million, but that’s just speculation. We won’t know until he breaks the news himself.
Frank wasn’t around when everyone left. Nick, Dewey, Margot — they knew Frank as well as anybody. We started at the same time back in the late sixties, in fact, Nick and I were the first people in Frank’s office. I’m not saying he owes us anything, but he could have said thanks for all those years. Nick thought they should keep me around as a novelty, me being practically as old as the building itself. They won’t, though. I’m going like the rest. I’m counting the hours.
They miss their lunches and dinners. I see them at the elevators some evenings, looking like they could fall down with the slightest breeze.
There’s a copywriter in the next office, a young guy fresh out of college. We haven’t talked or introduced ourselves. I hear him typing away, day after day. They’re all like that. They miss their lunches and dinners. I see them at the elevators some evenings, looking like they could fall down with the slightest breeze.
I left the copywriter a paper cup with whiskey earlier. I knocked on his door, put the cup on the rug, then went back to my office. He came out, picked up the cup and went back to his desk again. He didn’t say anything.
They found the security guard behind the building the other night. He went out to check the exterior and got mugged. They strapped him to an old chair with duct tape and sat it next to the garbage bins.
His name is Max and today he’s back on the job. He comes by sometimes after five and sits on my couch. Max is small, wiry, in his late twenties. His uniform is too big for him—even the hat. The sweatband is stuffed with newspaper. I tell him he should take up a safer occupation. He’s been mugged before and says it must be a sign. How many people get mugged twice in one year?
I hand him a paper cup with some whiskey.
“Maybe your luck’s about to change, Max,” I say.
“I could use some luck,” he replies.
She even put up wind chimes to help keep him calm.
He’s still getting over his girlfriend sleeping with his father. This happened late last year. The family’s in turmoil. His mother ended up moving in with a man who went to pieces years before.
“My mom stopped him from killing himself,” Max says.
She even put up wind chimes to help keep him calm.
“They never go anywhere,” he tells me. “He’s scared to leave the house. He’s developed a condition.”
“Agoraphobia,” I say.
“I guess that’s it,” he says.
Before Max’s mother left his father, she dumped his record albums in the laundry tub. Those albums were his pride and joy.
“She got him where it hurts,” Max says.
He wishes he’d thought of it himself. Those albums were the reason his girlfriend ended up with his father.
“That and smoking up,” he says, “My Dad’s a real pothead. I used to find him stuff. He can get his own from now on.”
Max and his girlfriend found him dancing there one night, arms going like windmills.
Max’s dad is on some kind of compensation. Bad back or something. All he does is sit around the rec room listening to music and toking. Max and his girlfriend found him dancing there one night, arms going like windmills.
His back brace was on the rug.
Max shakes his head now. He tells me his girlfriend moved down to Spokane, Washington. She left after his mom found her in bed with Max’s dad. Max was passed out on the rec room floor at the time. All he remembers is waking up and hearing his mother in the laundry room.
“I thought she was doing a wash,” he says.
Then he saw the record sleeves on the rug.
His mom left in his father’s pickup. On her way out the door, she told Max to feed the cat. Then she went back and did it herself.
One of the things I plan to do before I leave is write Frank O’Conner a note. It’s official now. The office manager came by just after five o’clock and gave me an envelope. She’s one of the new employees. She looks pale and tired, like most of the new staff. “Thank God you’re still here,” she said. “I’ve had this on my desk all day.”
She handed me the envelope with my name on it.
I recognized Frank’s handwriting. I put it down on my desk.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” she asked. “Frank wanted me to give it to you personally. He’s still down in New York.”
“I wish I could,” she said. “That’s exactly what I need right now.”
“Would you like a drink?” I asked.
I took the bottle out of my drawer and got a paper cup.
“I wish I could,” she said. “That’s exactly what I need right now.”
She watched me pour the whiskey.
“I’ll need your pass card before you go,” she said. “Just drop it on my desk. Good luck.”
She walked down the hallway. I heard the elevator.
I’m opening the envelope when Max comes by my office again. I point to the cup I poured for the office manager. “Go ahead,” I say.
I hold up the envelope and open it.
“My dismissal,” I say.
“They firing you?” he says.
“I’ll know more in a minute.”
I read the letter while Max sits on the couch with his whiskey.
Sam,
I’ve been detained here in New York with final details. I wish I could have been there to buy you a drink. I’m off to Los Angeles tomorrow for more meetings. Tell the others I apologize, and keep your chins up. You’ve been through worse. Have a drink on me, and maybe we can get together in a few weeks. Say hello to Mary for me. She’s always been one of my favourite people. Accept my apologies, Sam. Best of luck, Frank
“What does it say?” Max asks.
“It says I’ve been through worse.”
“You want any help with your stuff? I’ve got boxes downstairs.”
I light a cigarette and take a piece of paper out of my drawer.
“I’ve got to write something here, Max.”
He stands up again and goes to the door.
“You want any help with your stuff? I’ve got boxes downstairs.”
“Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”
I pour another drink and begin the letter:
Frank,
Apologies aren’t necessary. I’ve had a good run (what is it, 35 years?). How many people can say they worked for only one agency? Quite honestly, I’m looking forward to retiring. Mary has been after me to paint the house. My daughter and her husband arrive from Seattle next month. Mary says she’s liable to divorce me if the place isn’t ready. Anyway, I’ll leave you with a little memento, Frank. Have a drink on me and remember I left here without a whimper. I’ll pass your apologies on to the others. I’m going up north fishing with Nick and Dewey once the season starts. Good luck, Sam
The office manager is still at her desk when I walk into Frank’s office. She sees me carrying the bottle of whiskey.
“Did you remember your pass?” she asks.
“I’ll bring it up later.”
“Please don’t forget. It’s a legal thing.”
I put the whiskey and the letter on Frank’s desk, then go back downstairs. Max is there with the boxes. He’s sitting on my couch again, looking at the awards on my wall, his pants riding up over his boots.
“You win all of those?” he asks.
“I’ve got more in my drawer,” I say.
“Why are they firing you if you’ve won awards?”
“Because they can, Max.”
The door opens in the next office. The copywriter comes out and stops. He looks at the boxes and shakes his head. “Sorry to hear you’re going,” he says. He stands there not knowing what else to do. I guess Max senses it as much as me. He takes off his hat, reaches in his breast pocket, and pulls out a joint.
“You guys wanna toke?” he says. “It’s my old man’s stuff.”
“Why not?” I say.
I pick up our paper cups.
“Follow me,” I say to them.
We go down to the washroom and stand by the sink.
“My mother’s boyfriend tried to kill himself again,” he says, holding in the smoke. It comes out in a rich cloud.
Max lights the joint and passes it to me.
“My mother’s boyfriend tried to kill himself again,” he says, holding in the smoke. It comes out in a rich cloud.
I take a pull and hand the joint to the copywriter.
“Your mother has a boyfriend?” the copywriter says.
“He used to be a college professor or something,” Max says.
Max takes another toke and hands me the joint.
“Did I tell you about the wind chimes?” he says to me. “She figures they drove the guy around the bend. He kept thinking the ceiling was coming down.”
“How old’s your mother?” the copywriter asks.
“About his age,” Max says, nodding at me.
“And she ran off with another guy?”
“Mr. Wind Chimes.”
The copywriter looks at Max, then me, then Max again.
“What did your old man do?”
Max and I look at each other.
“He went back to bed with my girlfriend,” Max says.
The smoke comes bursting out of my mouth. I can barely stand up.
“Wait a minute,” the copywriter says. “Your girlfriend?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you do?”
“You fed the cat while he was in bed with your girlfriend?”
“I was supposed to feed the cat.”
“You fed the cat while he was in bed with your girlfriend?”
“No, my mother fed the cat.”
“I thought she ran off with another guy?”
“She fed the cat first.”
Max and I are holding each other now. We’re trying to keep from falling over. We can’t stop laughing. Then Max says we should light another joint. He doesn’t have to check the building for another hour. He says if he’s going to get mugged, he might as well do it stoned.
“Sure, Max,” I say. “Better safe than sorry.”
“You were mugged?” the copywriter asks. “Where?”
“Out back,” Max says. “They taped me to an old chair by the garbage bins.” He holds up his wrists. There’s still glue on them from the tape.
“Who found you?” the copywriter says.
“The cleaning people.”
“Did they call the cops?”
“Yeah.”
“What did the cops say?”
“They said I wasn’t a very good security guard.”
If we dealt with a truly sane public, we’d never sell anything but medications and dogs.
I’m sliding down the wall now. Max has one of my arms. The copywriter is looking at us like we’re both crazy. He’ll think differently soon enough. Nobody stays in advertising without thinking crazy is a good thing. After a while, you realize you can’t live in this business without a certain level of craziness. If we dealt with a truly sane public, we’d never sell anything but medications and dogs.
I’m sure Max feels the same way after what he went through the other night. He says he was only fifty feet from a hot dog stand. He couldn’t scream out with the duct tape over his mouth, and nobody could see him between those garbage bins. When I asked what was going through his mind at the time, he said, “I really wanted a hot dog.”
Just thinking about that makes me laugh even harder. I’ve got tears in my eyes. The copywriter looks at me, then at Max, then he’s got his hand on the door handle. He leaves us there on the floor, still laughing, another joint going.
“This better be it, Max,” I say. “We’ve got to get my stuff down to the car.”
“Where’s your car?” he asks.
“I have no idea. I thought you’d know.”
I tell him we all get mugged eventually. It’s just a question of when and where.
Now we’re in hysterics. Max tries getting up. His elbows are on the sink, but then he’s sitting down again, me sticking the joint back in his mouth. Smoke is coming out his nose. He’s saying he needs to find a new line of work. Something where he won’t get mugged. I tell him we all get mugged eventually. It’s just a question of when and where.
“That’s pretty smart,” Max says. “No wonder you got awards.”
“Thanks, Max,” I say to him. “Not that it makes any difference, but thanks, anyway.”
“No problem.”
“And sorry about your mother.”
“She’ll be okay. She’s a tough old bird.”
“She’s younger than me, Max.”
“Should we get going?”
“In a minute. I’m enjoying myself right here.”
“Suit yourself.”
We remain on the floor, listening to the ceiling fan.
Robert Cormack is a satirist, novelist, and blogger. His first novel “You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)” is available online and at most major bookstores. You can read other stories and articles at robertcormack.net.
