A Day at the Ad Agency

            “Yes, Mr. Holstrom.  Yes, I realize that this is unacceptable.  I’m going to rectify the situation right- Rectify.  It means to make right.  Yes, I’m sure it doesn’t mean that.  Yes, I’ll get right on it.  All right, thanks.”

            I hang up the phone, and rub my temples.  This is the third time Johnson’s fucked me over.  I open the drawer in my desk by my right knee, pull out a bottle of scotch and a glass.  I hate firing people.  I pour, drink.  Johnson’s office is down the hall, about ten yards from mine.  His office is only about eight by ten, but then again, he’s only worked here for six months.  It took me three years to get a decent sized office. 

            When I enter the room, Johnson is sitting with his feet on his desk, leaning back in his swivel chair, holding a paperback at arm’s length over his face.  I clear my throat.  Johnson looks at me without moving his head.

            “Hey,” he says, “What’s up?”

            “We need to talk,” I say, pulling from my pocket the folded up flyer Mr. Hostrom faxed to me.  “It’s serious.”

            Johnson swings his legs off the desk, and sits up straight, tossing the book behind him.  It hits the wall and some pages fall out.  I lay the flyer flat on the desk in front of him.  “Can you tell me what this is?” I say.

            Johnson looks it over, then says, “It’s the promotional flyer I designed for Mattress Mart’s sale.”

            “And do you see why Mr. Holstrom might be upset with it?”

            Johnson strokes his chin for a moment.  “No.”

            “Well, I see several.  Let’s start with the big bright red letters across the top.”

            “What about them.”

            I can’t tell if Johnson is messing with me, so I give him the benefit of the doubt.  “You don’t see it?”

            “No.”

            “Mattress-Side Sale.  In big red, inexplicably dripping letters, it says Mattress-Side Sale.”

            Johnson shrugs as if he has no idea what I mean.

            “Mattress-side.  Matricide.”

            He shrugs.  “Coincidence.”

            “Coincidence!  How could it be coincidence!  What the fuck does Mattress-side even mean.”

            “It means ‘the act of murdering one’s own mother.’”

            “I know that!”

            “Then why’d you ask?”

            I take a few deep breaths.  “I mean, why did you name the sale the Mattress-Side Sale.”

            “Because we have the best mattresses this side of the Mississippi.” He says.  “I promise, any homophones are coincidental.”

            “See, I have a hard time believing that.”  I point to the image beneath the title, “Could you explain this?”

            Johnson looks it over.  “I think the meaning is quite clear.”

            “So do I, which is precisely the problem.”

            The image is a line drawing of a large number of young men and middle aged women in a mattress store, all of them brandishing weapons of some kind.  Beneath that is the line: Everyone and their mother is going Psycho for our low, low prices.

            “Do you seriously expect me to believe that this has nothing to do with matricide?”

            “It has everything to do with mattress-side.  That’s the name of the sale.”

            The son of a bitch is grinning now.  “Enough,” I say.

            He shrugs.  “Fine,” he says.  “The pun is intentional.  I thought he’d like it.”

            “Why would he possibly like it?”

            “You’ve seen the commercials, always talking about prices so low that he’s got to be insane and all that.  What says crazy better than matricide?”

            I look him over carefully, trying to determine whether he’s still pulling my leg.  “Not that kind of crazy.  He’s quirky uncle crazy, not dress up like a clown and rip out your sternum crazy.”

            Johnson shrugs. “My mistake,” he says.  “I’ll do better next time.”

            I brace myself, take a deep breath.  “There won’t be a next time.  You’re fired.”

            He looks at me, actually serious for the first time so far.  “What!  Because I made one mistake!”

            “This is hardly the first mistake.”

            “Name one other.  I dare you!”

            “That Chef Spyro’s Gyro shop.  You remember that one?”

            Johnson crosses his arms over his chest.  “What about it?”

            “‘Chef Spyro will fill your mouth with his hot meat.’  And the picture was a close-up of Spyro winking.”

            Johnson snorts in derision. “So it happened one other time.  Big deal.”

            “And Bragler’s Pharmacy.  The ad just said, ‘Drugs.  Lots and lots of drugs.’”

            “It got people’s attention.”

            “It got the police department’s attention.”

            “Police are people.”

            “That’s not the point!”

            I take several deep breaths.  “The point is, you’re fired.  That’s it.”

            I stand up and start to leave, but Johnson runs around the desk and grabs my shoulder.  “Let me show you what I’ve got,” he says, clearly desperate.  “If you don’t like it, I’ll go.”

            “Fine,” I say. 

            An easel with a giant pad of sketch paper is leaned against the wall.  Johnson spreads its legs, and prepares to flip over the page.  “It’s for Rico’s Italian diner.”  He flips over the page.

            There’s are two meatballs next to each other, and a cannoli dangling below them.  The tagline says, “You’ll love our big meaty balls.”

            Johnson is smiling self-consciously.  I look at the ad again, then back to Johnson.  I turn around and start walking.  “You’re fired.” I call out over my shoulder. 

The Poolboy

            Times have been tough lately.  Fresh out of college, no jobs for a philosophy major in this economy.  So when my cousin Fred in Orange County offered me a job at the pool cleaning service he works for, I couldn’t say no.  I’ll be honest, I didn’t know the first thing about taking care of a pool, but if Fred can do it, it shouldn’t be too difficult.  I learned quickly enough (memorizing heater specs is nothing compared to Sartre) and was soon on my first assignment.  Fred had warned me that the customers were freaky, but I had no idea what I was in for. 

            My first job was at one o’clock, and, in typical Southern California fashion, the sun was scorching.  The house was a simple two-story family home in the middle of suburbia, green lawn, nice car, clean pool, almost the archetype of the typical suburban home.  I pulled the white pickup truck alongside the curb, grabbed the chemicals and skimmer from the bed, and went around the side of the house to the backyard.  The pool was, I roughly estimated, forty by fifteen feet, with a maximum depth of between nine and twelve feet.  It was surrounded by a gate, which is highly recommended to prevent tragic accidents.  My skimmer was already in the pool when I realized that the client (one Mrs. Benson, according to the billing information), was sunbathing on a lounge chair, on the concrete about ten feet from the pool.  She was wearing a red bikini, sunglasses and wide-brimmed hat, a bottle of suntan lotion on the ground next to the chair.  She noticed me looking at her, raised her head and smiled, waved.  I waved back. 

            She called out, “I hope you don’t mind if I watch.” 

            “Not at all,” I called back.  It’s good to see a homeowner take an active interest in their pool’s maintenance.  The surface of the water was spotted with clusters of leaves, which are best to remove before adding chemicals.  I realized soon on that watching the skimmer glide across the water was relaxing, almost hypnotic even.  I walked around the pool, the little blue net filling with soaked foliage, until I got to the filter, which I realized was directly in front of Mrs. Benson.  It was also broken, and I leant down to check it.  This got Mrs. Benson’s attention, as she propped herself up on an elbow to get a better look.  This filled me with a sense of anticipation; if I couldn’t fix the filter, with a pool-owner as astute as Mrs. Benson, I could be in for a hard time back at the office. 

            Mrs. Benson got up from the lounge chair and walked over to me, putting a hand on my shoulder.  “What seems to be the problem,” she said, kindly.

            “It looks like the filter’s broken,” I said, “It’s probably blocked at the pump, Mrs. Benson.” 

            “Please,” she said, “Call me Anne, and it hasn’t been Mrs. for months,” she smiled.

            I smiled back.  “I’ll be sure to change the billing info to ‘Miss’,” I said, looking around for the pump.  It was near the side of the house opposite from the side I entered from, so I walked over there, followed, to my surprise, by Anne.  I was sweating pretty badly by this point, and was tempted when Anne suggested I take my shirt off.  Unfortunately, I burn very easily, and the sun tan lotion by the lounge chair has a disastrously low SPF. 

            “Sooo…” Anne said as I squatted down next to the pump, “this problem with the pump.  Does it look hard?”

            “Too soon to tell,” I said, “I’m going to need to open her up and have a look inside.” 

            “Do you have a special tool for that?” she said. 

            “Sure do,” I said, reaching into one of the pockets on my khaki shorts. 

            “Can I touch it?” she asked, “Your tool I mean?”

            I stood up, and turned around.  She was rubbing her hands along the sides of her torso. “Sure,” I said, “hold out your hand.”  She placed her hand palm up about waist height, which struck me as odd as I handed her my wrench.  She looked at it, even though she was wearing sunglasses, I could tell she was squinting her eyes in confusion.  “It’s a Foreman 3/8 inch standard wrench,” I said.  She looked at me like I was an idiot, then it hit me.  “Oh!” I said, feeling like a complete fool.  I took the wrench back and started fumbling around with my shorts.  It took me a moment, but I found it and got it out. 

            The filter uses metric nuts, and there I was like an idiot with a 3/8 inch wrench.  I showed her the adjustable wrench.  “Sorry,” I said, her face still shocked by my rookie mistake, “I’m new at this.”  Fixing the pump was a piece of cake, but Anne still seemed put off by my mistake with the wrench. 

            “Sorry again,” I said.  “I’m a bit nervous, but I swear, I’m all business.”

            She seemed to respond well to my reassurances, and her face lit up with a smile. “This is your first time?” she said, stepping a little closer to me. 

            “Yeah,” I said, “There’s a big difference between practicing alone and actually doing it with someone else there.  You know, theory versus practice and all that.” 

            Anne nodded emphatically, “I know just what you mean.”  She leaned over and whispered into my ear, her breath hot and moist, “How about some practice, then?”

            I nodded.  My bucket with the chemical containers was sitting unattended and unused on the other side of the pool, and here I was chatting.  Time to put my training into practice.  Anne seemed flustered when I had finished adding in the chemicals and said my goodbyes.  In hindsight, her behavior throughout the entire ordeal had been odd.  I guess Fred was right about the customers being freaky.