DICK WHITMAN'S LOVE CHILD: A bit of "Mad Men" Fan Fiction
Chapter One
Willa looked at the sniveling Englishman. He had dressed now and was carefully putting on his horn-rimmed glasses.
Willa really hadn't caned him that hard, but of course she'd laid it on a bit more than they probably did in those fancy British schools. A colleague of Willa's claimed that she'd used the whip on a button man who worked for Meyer Lansky, and wouldn't Willa love a client like that! But of course now was the time to ask the question, while Lane was still a bit vulnerable.
"Lane, I have a question, and I want you to answer me honestly." She tried to smile, but the man looked like a festering cockroach, or possibly Jiminy Cricket's lunatic uncle.
"Y-yes, Miss Primrose?" Lane Pryce smiled weakly.
"On Tuesday, I was in a limousine going by the Russian Tea Room, and I saw you standing with a man, about six feet tall, with a sort of widow's peak." Actually, Willa had been on the streetcar, but why not keep up the fantasy.
"Y-yes, Miss Primrose?" Lane asked, looking as if he was sweating a bit.
"The man was wearing a grey pin striped suit…what was his name?" Oh Jesus. I hope I don't have to hit him again to get this…Willa tried to look severe.
Lane salivated. "Is-is he a client of yours, Miss Primrose?" Oh those buggy eyes. Sometimes Willa envied her neighbor Clarice, who worked in a dime store.
Willa thought of Billy, and got angry. She had to get Lane to spill, and fast.
"Lane, tell me the fellow's name immediately. I wouldn't like to drop by your office to find out."
Most of Willa's "boys" did not let Willa know where they worked, but Lane Pryce was a case for Bellevue, when he got in the mood, and twice Willa and her rattan had been summoned to swipe Lane's pale pimpled narrow behind in his spacious office at Sterling Cooper Draper Price.
"Why-why do you want to know?" Lane Pryce asked.
Willa sighed, and picked up her cane. It might be a long afternoon.
Chapter Two
Dick Whitman tapped "The Magnificent Ambersons" on his arm as he waited impatiently in the deserted carriage house. He smiled, sitting on the old brass bed. Who the hell had put a bed in here in the first place?
It was amazing that the bed held up…After the Sorensens had lost their farm in '33, no one seemed to want to buy it-Uncle Mac said that you couldn't really grow anything on that land…Old Sorensen had never really understood crop rotation, and he'd starved the soil
But scores of kids—Dick and his friends included—had played in the carriage house—bouncing on the old brass bed, pretending it was a pirate ship, or a buckboard from the "Lone Ranger" program on WQXR…and then of course, as Dick had grown older, he'd brought girls here…
Well, just Willa and one other, Lenore Hoskins, the town pump, who'd informed Dick that when she'd been rolling around on this ugly old carriage house brass bed with Reverend Conway, one of the loose springs had put gangrene in his back…the carriage house roof had holes, and those springs were RUSTY.
Dick snorted, wondering how old "Self abuse will condemn you boys to eternal damnation" Conway had explained that one to his frog-faced wife. The rusty spring had been snapped off by Uriah, the blacksmith, when Lenore had brought him here, though Lenore had told Dick breezily that Uriah preferred giving it to her in the outhouse.
What was Dick going to say to Willa? She'd probably heard that he'd been sitting on Sarah's porch again. They'd had a row about that before. No, Sarah wasn't as curvy as Willa, and her mousy strands couldn't match up to Willa's thick, curly strawberry blonde locks.
"She's white trash" Uncle Mac had said on more than one occasion. "Sure, they're church goin' people, but the Primroses are worthless." Then Uncle Mac had snorted. " 'Tain't surprisin' you take to her, Dick Whitman, you whore's child"
Sarah was funny, though not all that smart—she'd gasped when Orem Knutes had told her Truman's full middle name was Syphilis—how could she be so dumb? Her father owned the sawmill AND the Mercantile!
But Sarah liked Dick, and old Thorsen grudgingly admitted that if his precious homely princess liked the next-in-line to be foreman, why shouldn't they wed? But Dick had put off telling Willa, since almost every time they met at the carriage house, or in her Pa's barn, he became distracted by undoing her blouse…Dick was weak.
But he must be strong. Last night, Dick and Sarah had asked old Thorsen's blessing, and they'd got it, and this time June first, Dick would be living in old Thorsen's house…and moving quick up from just being a foreman. But Dick had this one nasty little chore with Willa!
The door to the carriage house slammed. There she was. Dick felt a lump in his chest. He bit his lip. Oh Jesus. Those tumbling curls! Willa bounded over and hopped on Dick's lap, and plunged her tongue down his throat, and they were distracted for an hour… and then there was a nap.
"So, Dick…what did you think of the book?" Dick's eyes opened and he looked at Willa, trying to smile. What book? Oh, the Magnificent Ambersons. Of course. Willa was buttoning up, covering the rose tipped nipples with dull muslin.
"I guess it was okay. Certainly not as swell as "Penrod" though." Dick lit a home rolled Bugler, lit it and handed it to Willa, who puffed enthusiastically. She'd have to wash her mouth out before she got home. Her Pa was a Pentecostal.
Why were they on books? Dick's mind returned to his thoughts of the morning, being a Thorsen' s Mercantile owner, and denying his Uncle Mac credit at least once before Mac died.
"It was a different book, Dick. 'Penrod' is a kid's book. But 'The Magnificent Ambersons' is about wealthy folk, and how temporary being rich can be." Willa paused, drawing in the smoke, before handing the Bugler butt back to Dick. "It's the best book I've read yet, except for 'An American Tragedy', bet you've not read that, have you?"
Dick felt a bit nauseous. Was it the cigarette, or the way Willa…"Hey, you're looking at me funny. No, I haven't read it. I like dime novels, generally." He paused, and handed the cigarette back to Willa, motioning that she could keep it.
Dick looked importantly at Willa, and began the speech the way he and Orem Knutes had rehearsed it…Orem was a wordy bastard. "I need to talk to you, Willa, about my future, and uh, yours."
Willa patted her stomach, smiled and said "Dick, ya took the words right outta my mouth."
Two days later, Dick Whitman, arrested with several other hoboes on an empty freight car in Topeka, accepted the Justice of the Peace's suggestion that he join the Army, out of a possible two choices. After all, Dick Whitman was somebody. Who wants to do forty days on a government pea farm?
Chapter Three
Billy Primrose leaned over the towel counter of the Everard Spa Turkish Bathhouse and smiled at the nice Italian gent. "I sure liked that book, it really was about us, wasn' t it?" Billy shook his head. "I gave it to my Mom and she read it too. Funny name, though, 'The City and the Pillar'. First time I ever read a book about, stuff, other than Gordon Merrick novels, you know"
The Italian fellow, who insisted that Billy call him Sal, smirked. " Gordon Merrick! The pansie's romance novelist. You know, Billy, "The City and the Pillar" is still selling terribly, terribly well here in New York, and I believe the author comes here to the Everard, for a Turkish bath now and then." Sal paused. "You-you showed the book to your—mother?"
Billy grinned and reached a lanky hand over, tapping Sal's arm. "Sal, my Mom is swell. She knew when I was playin' tea party with the Iglehart sisters in apartment 4-D that I was different…though she always encouraged me to play stickball too!"
Sal laughed, a rich, Mediterranean chuckle. "My mother would say a novena for me and then die, perhaps not in that order, if she knew I read such things." He paused, pushing a rich dark lock off his forehead. "But Vidal's book still sells very well, and it came out the year you were born-1948."
Billy grinned and lit a cigarette. "I was born in 1950, Sal, don't make me older n' I am. But don't tell anyone I'm fifteen—might make me too popular."
A fat queen, shimmying down the hall, grinned at Billy. "Reach for a Luckie instead of a sweet, that was the ad when I was a kid." He snatched a towel, giving Billy the eye, before trotting off, his oversize buttocks jiggling.
Sal looked disapproving. "You a big Lucky Strike fan, Billy?"
Billy smiled. "Well, I usually roll my own, but a fella who comes here when he's in town gave me six cartons after we had an um, interlude, I guess you'd say."
Sal pouted. "The fellow's name was Lee?"
Billy rolled his eyes back. "I think he's from North Carolina, but he called himself Tex, but lotta guys from out of town do. He said he got the cartons for free, and he'd bring me more." Billy paused. "He had the initials L.G. and the Roman number for two—two I's? Etched on his money clip—real silver. I remember 'cause he gave me a real good tip, too—five dollars."
Sal rolled his eyes. "I bet he did. Stay away from him, Billy. He's trouble. Cost me a good job once."
Billy looked shocked. "A job? Tex? He's a little unusual, Sal. Sounds all tough an' Southern, but he wears ladies undergarments. And he gave Speedy McCoy a sawbuck once to put a feather up his own behind."
Sal smiled. "What a rare and choice bit of trivia, Billy. Thank you."
Suddenly Billy heard a shriek from down the hall. "Oh golly, Sal, I got to bring Truman his Black Beauties. If he don't take one every hour, he gets weird."
Sal opened his mouth in wonder. "Your duties as a towel attendant are quite varied, Billy. Harry Truman is here at the Everard?"
Billy smiled as he vaulted over the towel room counter. "N-not exactly."
Chapter Four
Roger Sterling leaned back in the booth at the Algonquin and gazed into Joan's eyes. Draining his Martini, he tried to look fetching, though he was no competition for his lunch companion.
"Joanie, Joanie." Looking meaningful just doesn't work. Roger used to tell jealous Fourth Formers back at St. Paul's that he could get laid with any looks and no money, because he had confidence.
"What bullshit, Sterling" Preece, a pock-marked fifteen year old had said bitterly. "We all use the same lines on the babes at the mixers, but you're necking with Janet Dowling in the Miss Porter's cloakroom because you look like Montgomery Clift, you're a tight end on the football team, and you're fuckin' loaded."
Tacker, Preece's pudgy roommate had added, "One day you're going to say the same old stuff to a girl, and she's going to look up and see Daddy, and it'll be over, unless you get even richer."
The losers were right! What the hell was going on? Joanie used to hop into Roger's bed at the Waldorf, cuddling his head against those marvelous bazooms, COMFORTING him when he'd talked about his ex-wife Mona being bitchy, his daughter Margaret not talking to him…or old World War II memories, not really traumatic as Roger had never been wounded…but Joanie's eyes would always well up…
And everyone else's, damn it! Hat check girls, off-Broadway actresses, four-count 'em…four of his copy-writer's wives over the years. And dozens of secretaries, from old Blankenship, . on. Shit, once Roger had pinched Audrey Hepburn's behind in front of Grauman's Chinese theater in Los Angeles, and she'd smiled at him.
Roger leaned over "Please Joanie. You're a fire-headed milkmaid. Those lips…Joanie, you just got your divorce. Your boy needs a-a man around. Things aren't working out with Jane. I think I want to marry you." There. He'd laid down his aces.
Did he really want to MARRY Joan? Probably not, even Joan might get boring over and over again…Roger had never thought darling little Jane Siegel would turn into such a baggy bitch when he'd married HER, but they all wilt. But Joanie was the finest piece of ass…and—"
Joan Holloway Harris laughed, and shook her head. "Oh, Roger. You're such a spoiled child. You can't trade in women like they're showroom Buicks, you know. One new one every eighteen months."
Roger leaned back in his chair, absently signaling the waiter for another Martini. Why the hell NOT?
Joanie chuckled, her bosom bouncing merrily in her snug green basque. "Roger, you should have stayed with Mona. Really, you should have. That's one thing your skirt-chasing father did…he had lots in common with your mother, except for that one little thing he got everywhere else."
Roger looked dispiritedly at the waiter, who was now coming much too slowly with his Martini. Roger lit a cigarette. He wanted a wife, or at least a lay, and instead here was Ann Landers.
Roger tried another tack. "You-you see, I realize now, I love red heads. I've been um, marrying brunettes, and I think they signify failure. Mona and Margaret, my darling ex- wife and daughter, they always brought me down. Margaret especially. Brunette, and making me feel like an old fuddy-duddy, when I'm a lot of fun."
Roger raised his eyebrows imperiously at Joan. Now for the sell. "And Jane—she's no better, she doesn't really love me, the real me—the generous, loving, unselfish me that no one ever sees—it's because she's a brunette, and I love REDHEADS! I read Little Orphan Annie in the 'Daily News' funnies every day."
Joan smiled. "Did you see the redhead who came in the lobby yesterday, looking for Don? She was really something. Bustier than I am, even."
Roger gritted his teeth. Goddamned Draper. He got all the women. And what a cold fish. Roger had felt very emasculated when he'd flirted heavily with Betty one night, and she'd backed away, even though Roger was her husband's BOSS!
Roger rolled his eyes. "Big deal. Don Draper is married now, not in a loveless marriage like the one I'm in, of course—"
Joan smiled. "Or the one you were in before?" She had such luscious lips, that girl. How had Roger let her get away?
"But Don's out this week—he's in D.C. meeting with the Department of Ag over D.D.T. you know, that dyke's book, Silent Shriek, or something. The redhead, whoever she is, will have to come back."
Roger thought about D.D.T. Can't spray the lawn, can't smoke a cigarette, and Jane thinks Roger drank too much, though Jane, being a Jewess almost didn't drink at all.
Jesus, nothing's fun anymore. Mark Twain said once "If I want to be healthy I have to eat what I don't want, drink what I don't like, and eat what I'd rather not." Sonuvabitch was right.
Joan sipped her Sambuca, and then opened her compact to adjust that marvelous lipstick. "But the funniest thing was, Lane Pryce seemed to know this redhead. If you can believe it, he looked at her in the lobby and began to cry."
Chapter Five
Peggy Olsen entered the 53rd Street Horn and Hardart, picking up a tuna on rye, and sitting down at one of the ugly little tables. Peggy had been unsurprised when the little lunch carts that had been so popular at Sterling Cooper did not follow the fleeing partners to Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce—after all, the firm had a tenth of the staff there.
Peggy bit into the sandwich. Actually, the mayonnaise was better here at the Automat. But Peggy had really liked Moses, the colored fellow who sold the sandwiches at the old office. Hmm…Peggy needed to focus on good things you could say about aluminum siding.
But it was her lunch break. And Heaven knew, between trying to supervise the creative team, who had the maturity of junior high boys, dodging calls from Ma, who was now trying to set Peggy up with the oldest O'Hara boy who apparently had moved to Park Slope and started a gravel business (stupid, since gravel, as far as Peggy knew was run by the mob) and dealing with Duck, who still didn't have a job…Peggy was busy. Real busy.
So maybe she should read her new novel, Jaqueline Susann's latest, and just relax. But why was it all so HARD? All Peggy wanted to do was do her job well, and supervise people efficiently, and things seemed to have gone from her being criticized as "too" nice, when she'd first started as a secretary at Sterling Cooper, to now (and Peggy had overheard this, passing by the switchboard) being referred to as "bitchy."
Bitchy. Me. Peggy Olsen. Headed for the convent until second semester 10th grade. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the second time I was with Pete Campbell was just because I felt sorry for him. And I gave the baby away…went through all that.
And all I do, Peggy thought as she wiped lettuce from her chin, is take charge, just like Don Draper taught me to! I don't act any different from anyone else who is a creative director, do I? And everyone treats me like I'm a wicked witch or something!
Peggy's friend Joyce Ramsay, who was a photo editor at "Life" magazine downstairs, had told Peggy once that a writer named Simone De Beauvior had written "When women act like human beings, they're accused of trying to be men"
And Joyce…wow, there's Joyce over there! Sitting with a group of people with the ugly little tables pushed together. Peggy was so glad Joyce had good friends. These people looked much more respectable than the people Peggy had met at Joyce's Beatnik parties.
Joyce saw Peggy and waved her over, and Peggy smiled and walked over slowly. She really didn't have a lot of time for lunch but….Oh my, there was Sal Romano! Peggy didn't know Joyce knew Sal. And look, was that Father Gill?
Joyce stood up and embraced Peggy. "Peggy, how's it going? These are my friends."
Peggy saw a fat woman slip a magazine entitled "The Mattachine Review" off the table and drop it in her purse. She smiled. "I know two of them! Sal, how are you? And Father Gill!"
Joyce pulled out a chair and Peggy sat down. Why was Sal blushing?
"Yes, Peggy and this is Tom and Louise" Joyce said, tapping a thin musician type of guy and the fat woman. "How have you been?"
"I'm doing well." Peggy said with a smile. "Father, Ma keeps telling me to come to Mass and hear your so-called progressive sermons."
Father Gill grinned. "Peggy, you can call me Johnny here. I'd actually really prefer it." For some reason the entire table exploded into subdued chuckles.
Peggy had never called a priest by his first name, and wasn't really sure she could now. Ma would get out the leather strop, really. "Sal, how have YOU been? Are you doing art anywhere I know? We really miss your work at Sterling Cooper." Peggy paused. "Though you know, we're Sterling Cooper Draper and Price, now."
Sal was so damn good looking. Those teeth! "I'm afraid, Peggy, that I've not been able to break back into advertising. Your friend Lee Garner, Jr, your client, really—he blackballed me all over town. I'm waiting tables at a Lindy's on Amsterdam Avenue."
"God, that's terrible." Peggy breathed. "You're so talented! Maybe we could—I could talk to Don Draper, maybe. Do you have a business card?" No, stupid Peggy…Waiters don't have—"I mean, a phone number, or does your wife work somewhere that has a phone."
Sal looked away. Then he smiled, biting his lip. "My wife—she is living with her mother in Flushing, and I don't have a telephone of my own." Sal looked at Father Gill—Johnny—no, no, Father Gill—appealingly, and Father Gill looked at Peggy.
"Actually, Peggy, I'm letting Sal stay at the chancery. He's an avid Catholic and a brilliant gardener, and our zinnias have never looked better. You can call the church office—your mother has the number—and I'm sure I can put you through to Sal."
Peggy smiled. It was so nice the way things worked out sometimes.
Chapter Six
Peter Campbell, Deerfield '51,Dartmouth'56 ( Pete had done a gap year in Marseilles, so he'd finished in five) walked jauntily down the hall, nodding to secretaries and office boys. "Afternoon, um, Joe?"
Peter Campbell was a small "d" democrat, really he was. Just last night he'd told Trudy "Everyone matters, from the lowest janitor, I think"And how Trudy had beamed at him!
Yes, everyone gets a smile, I have to be, as Trudy says, a beam of positivity. And today was a good day! Don Draper was consulting HIM, Pete Campbell. A partner!
Pete slowed as he saw Burt Cooper amble into Draper's office. Let me be just a little late. Can't have these fellows thinking I'm anxious for their good opinion. Pete despised the way other men—Harry Crane, Ken Cosgrove, even Pete's brother Bud—seemed so, what was that Reader's Digest word? Sycophantic. Yes.
Of course in the early days at Sterling Cooper, Pete had scurried, and even doing that, had always felt that Draper and the other partners treated him badly, looked down on him. Burt Cooper had actually said in Pete's hearing that he was surprised Pete was an actual Dyckman relation. As if that was all he was!
Pete's Nana had indeed been a Dyckman, and certainly there was some family pride there. But Peter Campbell had pulled himself up by the bootstraps. Father had ensured Pete earn every penny of his spending cash until he was THIRTEEN YEARS OLD.
And Cleveland, who Pete had bussed tables with at the Harvard club, (dead ringer, DEAD, for Rochesteron the "Jack Benny" program) was still one of Pete's best friends. Pete had left a dime for Roscoe under his plate just Sunday. They always winked back and forth, too. Negroes seem to love winking.
Pete finally approached Don's door, looking carefully at the"DON DRAPER" on the mahogany. Were the letters bigger than on Pete's door? Pete smiled confidently.
Roger Sterling, who Lane Pryce referred to as a "child" was Draper's drinking buddy, so there was probably a bit of favoritism there. But Pete could deal with it. Let the letters be billboard high. We self-made men don't care. Those Horatio Alger books of Father's had been so inspiring!
"Mark the Match Boy" Campbellknocked, and strode manfully into Don Draper's office. There they all were. Lane Pryce, looking like an old woman. Roger Sterling, puffing away. Pete had been greviously disappointed that Sterlingand the others hadn't stopped smoking Luckies when Lee Garner Jr. snatched the account.
Dr. Buchman had told Mother that smoking stunted the growth, and it irritated Pete that, despite being the only non-smoker among the partners, he was the shortest. But no matter. Pete sat down in the empty chair and grinned broadly. Why not, when you're among friends?
Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
"A homosexual. We discovered we had a degenerate in our midst, we fired him, and now Miss Olson wants him back."
Burt Cooper shook his head, wondering if he'd heard right. Cooper hated meetings. He longed to be in his old office at Sterling Cooper, the ORIGINAL firm, where Burt had had lovely Japanese prints on the walls, and could tend his plants in peace.
Here in this goddamned cubbyhole, Cooper had to sit in the reception, reading the underlined parts of "Atlas Shrugged" and awaiting stupid summonses from these idiot whelps.
Don Draper, sitting behind his desk spoke slowly and decisively, as was his wont. "Burt, Peggy may be right. We've fired two art directors in the last year, and Romano's work was very, very good. We don't have to broadcast the fact that we're hiring him back, do we?"
Burt's shaggy white eyebrows met. That was a long sentence for Draper. Burt found many things lacking with Roger Senior's boy, but one thing you could say for 'Peanut' was, you always knew what was on young Roger's mind…he spilled like a punctured cistern.
And now, of course Roger Jr. popped off, punctuating his comments with that car-salesman grin. "Burt, BURT! Don's not going to give Sal Romano the title of Art Director again, at least until he proves himself—"
"Sal proved himself, again and again." Don said quietly, and Peggy Olson nodded earnestly.
Burt gazed down at his Argyle socks. Impudent whelps, all of them. Oh my. Campbell, who resembled nothing more forcefully than a Q tip in Burberry suit, was now speaking.
"Don, my father always said people like that hanged themselves. Perhaps the reason Romano didn't knock himself off after we fired him was because he's seriously disturbed." Pete Campbell shook his head vigorously.
Burt felt an urge to pick his nose, and put his hands in his pockets. "I don't know how much we need that er, artsy of an art director, Don. I'm sure Miss Olson has the young girl's compassion for a sick man, but sympathy for a-er pederast is quite misplaced."
Peggy spoke "I don't think rejecting Lee Garner Junior's advances shows pederasty. Garner was forty if he was a day. I think it showed good sense."
Everyone laughed, somewhat surprised at Peggy's wit.
Peggy, emboldened continued. "Sal has rooms with my mother's priest, and Father Gill says he's a daily communicant—"
"Is that what they call it now?" Roger murmured, and there was another chuckle.
"I have no objection" Lane Pryce said primly, as he looked at a clipboard.
Roger whispered something that sounded suspiciously like "you wouldn't" into Pete Campbell's ear, and Campbellsniggered obediently.
Burt shrugged. W.H. Auden, one of Burt's favorite non-Oriental poets, was said to be a bit light in the loafers, and Burt was shrewdly aware that Draper and Miss Olson were probably the brightest lights in the damned firm.
After all, Don Draper was the reason Burt had left a comfortable sinecure where he made five times what he made now…wasn't it? Cooper thought wistfully of his old office. His beloved Azaleas…how Burt missed trimming them!
Reluctantly, Burt nodded, thinking of Roger Sterling pere, and how he'd actually laughed, hearing that a college chum had jumped out of a building in the fall of '29. Now there was, if a bit of an ass—a man who knew how to run an advertising firm. Draper, not Sterling minor who was the heir apparent.
"All right, Don" Burt said heavily. "Whatever you think is best. Romano bringing a staff with him?"
Cooper waited patiently while the merriment over the term "staff"subsided and looked at Don again, who looked questioningly at Peggy Olsen.
"No, Sal has just one assistant." Peggy responded, looking at her pad. "A William Primrose."
Chapter Eight
"Really, Johnny, you didn't have to do this" Salvatore Romano said as Father Gill negotiated the Rambler around the corner of Madison and East Fifty-fifth, carefully ignoring a vulgar hand gesture from a probable Protestant in a DeSoto Firedome that he'd just cut off.
"My mother almost crashed Dad's Edsel several times dropping me off at work but by God she drove me in every day, that marvelous woman." Sal said reminiscently. "God I miss living with her. We used to take turns making breakfast for each other in the mornings."
There was a youthful voice behind Sal's dark curls. "How come you don't live with her again, now you're um, single?"
Father Gill coughed. "It's not really important, Billy."
"No no, the child must learn, LEARN, John.!" Sal said theatrically. "Billy, I'm afraid after Kitty caught me with the florist, and left, she called my parents, and Daddy wants to put me in a-a hospital. And this girl is too old for shock treatments."
Father Gill looked at Sal affectionately. He wanted to grab Sal and kiss him right now, hold Sal's head and promise him that nothing like that would ever happen, but this might not be the most politic place to do that. Mother of Mary, there was a cop right in front of the building of Sal's future employment!
When Johnny had been caught in a midnight embrace with Devol Corrigan in a seminary broom closet, old Brother Pawlicz, who always stomped through the locker room preaching "custody of the eyes" had only gruffly whispered to the startled thirteen year olds that they should go back to the dorm separately when they were "finished" …Pawlicz had either been a very macho fairy, or just very, very sympathetic.
Sal looked behind him. "Billy, you put that book down, and for God's sake, leave it in Johnny's back seat. I doubt anyone at Sterling Cooper has heard of Isherwood but really…we can't take chances."
Sal reached behind him and ruffled Billy's hair, gently removing the battered paperback copy of "Goodbye To Berlin" and dropping it on the seat next to him. "Now you look divine, darling boy and thank you for wearing the tie, a big thank you, I know you're not crazy about them."
Billy grinned. "I don't know why you hired me, Sal. I can't draw worth a darn." He attempted to loosen his tie, and Father Gill smiled as he saw Sal slap the boy's hand in the rearview mirror.
Sal looked at Johnny. "Johnny, can you accompany us up to the office? To see Peggy, and reassure the old fascists that your little Sally has reformed her sweet self?"
"You sure you two don't want to duck into the stalls?" snickered Billy, and the men ignored him, looking at each other longingly.
"Sal, I wore my collar because you asked me to…but I really can't. Shit, I can't park here, anyway. It's really, really illegal."
Johnny wanted Sal to get back to work, this was his dream job, after all..but he would sincerely miss Sal puttering around in the garden… or dropping into the Pilgrim's Progress of an afternoon, (dressed in tee shirt and khaki's of course )to joke around with Sal and the other queens…Sal had been happy as a waiter, but of course he missed being creative.
Johnny would be furious if those people hurt Sal again. He loved Peggy Olson, she was a good kid…But he didn't want to go up there. But Sal, damn him, was waving the cop over.
"Officer, Father Gill here needs to accompany me and my young ward into the building, would he be able to leave the car for just a few minutes?"
And the cop of course, with a strawberry pug nose right out of County Cork danced right over to open the door for Father Gill. "Fayther, me mother'd flay me alive if I didn't do the right thing for God's representative, you know."
God, these ornate lobbies, Father Gill thought. And hadn't he seen that elevator operator getting his hose cleaned in the restroom at the Port Authority station? Sal had noticed too, but he didn't say anything, just raised his bushy eyebrows at the elevator boy, and then at Billy and Father Gill.
Father Gill had met Sal under a bush, literally, in Central Park…just a year ago, and he'd been so worried, frightened…Sal had been so nice! Both of them just emerging from the closet, and Johnny had been horrified when he'd discovered that Sal was living in a seedy room in the Empire Hotel…how great it had been to give Sal a room.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Vogel had remarked how clean Sal kept his room, but that was probably because Sal spent all his nights in Johnny's room, but of course Sal always cleaned it obsessively in the morning, so Mrs. Vogel wouldn't work too hard.
As they emerged from the elevator onto the 23rd floor, Billy was looking around him in adolescent wonderment. "You know, Mom came over here just last week, I think this building, looking for an old friend. I've never seen anything like those glass doors."
"Beveled glass, isn't it beautiful" Sal said, smiling.
God, how Sal loved everything. Sal loved beautiful things, and talked about how he and Johnny would one day tour Europe to see the Sistene Chapel, the Acropolis, the Louvre. Father Gill was so pleased Everything might be all right. There was Peggy Olson, coming out to the desk as the three Brooklyn transplants opened the pretty door Billy quickly tracing "Sterling" with a finger.
When Father John Gill had first met Peggy, he'd encouraged her to come to Confession after learning (in Peggy's sister's Confession) that Peggy had gone through being With Child without marriage.
And Father Gill, having many times counseled weeping girls at the Florence Crittenden Home for Unwed Mothers, had encouraged Peggy to come to Confession herself, get things off her chest, but she'd never come.
How Father Gill envied the ability to tell it all to someone else. It would never work for him, though.
Chapter Nine
Herman "Duck" Phillips stood in the middle of Madison Avenue watching as a priest emerged from Draper's den and got back into the rusted Rambler that, in Duck's mind, was obviously double parked, and quite illegally, though the cop didn't seem to mind.
Huh. The clergy, half of them goddam fairies, get away with everything, Duck mused. Duck had spent some time in England during the glory days, oh my…they don't suck up to the Catholics there!
Duck wondered who the priest had been visiting in Draper's building. Maybe talking to the Life magazine people about birth control…the joys of the rhythm method. Sorry Father, the country's changin'.
"Excuse me, are you Mr. Phillips?" Duck turned to look at a quite voluptuous woman in about her mid thirties…looked a bit like Sterling's whore. But this redhead was lighter, not so much of a trollop, didn't lay on the war paint with a trowel like Joan did.
'Course, Peggy could use a little more rouge, but Duck liked a woman who toned it down just a bit. Yes, this woman is a happy medium. How the hell did she know who he was?
"I saw your picture in 'Advertising Age' the lady said lightly.'I understand you were instrumental in effecting the Sterling Cooper merger with a British firm, Putnam, Powell and Lowell."
Duck grunted. "Yeah, and look how well that turned out. Didn't know what was good for them, Sterling and the other main partners, and now they have this junky little shop here."
The lady smiled, and Duck wondered if she wanted him and straightened his vest. He didn't have ladies checking up on him usually. Duck wondered if Peggy was looking out of the window.
"I guess you could say I've done my homework on Sterling Cooper, Draper and Pryce." The woman said this and smiled again.
Duck shook his head. "Bunch of traitors in there. I got 'em a good deal, introduced them to a European company with connections, and all I wanted was to be—" Why was he telling a perfect stranger this? Why did she CARE?
Duck tried not to look at his new friend's breasts. What did this head want? "Stay away from those across the street, doll." Duck advised. "I got screwed and you will, too."
Duck considered pulling out his flask, but he didn't want this lady to think he was a damn lush. He'd been waiting for Peggy to come out of the building, maybe to get a sandwich, or some air. She hadn't been returning his phone calls, but hey, the scenery had gotten a lot more charming in the last five minutes. He smiled at the redhead. Yes siree.
"Actually you see that priest that just drove off?" the woman asked, pointing a gloved finger. I followed his car in a cab. This is my son's first day of work at Sterling Cooper." She paused. "I didn't want Billy to know I was that interested when he was picked up for his first day by his friends, I've never been really over protective, but there was an interesting coincidence."
Duck thought of his own weak willed son, and how the kid and his sister had fallen under the spell of his ex-bitch's new husband, a former colleague of Duck's.
"You don't look old enough to have birthed an advertising man, Miss." Duck said gallantly.
"Billy just turned sixteen" the woman said. "He's a bright boy, but he prefers to read on his own. I hated school myself, so I let it go when he left after finishing junior high…he was shining shoes outside Radio City, and then he had work I really wasn't crazy about…but now he's here, and I'm very interested in this firm."
Duck couldn't wait, he reached into his jacket and pulled out the damn flask, and took a pull. Son of a bitch, that was good.
"Nice pewter flask there" the lady said, taking it from Duck and sipping a bit herself. "Goodness."
"Like the leather coat on it?" Duck asked, pleased. "I bought it in London in '59."
The lady wiped her lipstick off the bottle and handed it back to Duck Phillips. "I hate Don Draper. Do you want to have lunch with me? My treat."
"Delighted" Duck Phillips said. "Yes siree."
Chapter Ten
"We call them trainers back home" the English guy said, somewhat snootily. He had briefly interrupted the creative meeting to have Don sign something. "You really think, Don, that marketing tennis shoes for everyday wear would be suitable fashion statement in America? It seems that people are much too casual here as it is."
Sal, holding the mock-up, looked at Billy and smiled slightly, and Billy knew what Sal was thinking…Billy was way too casual. He'd almost choked to death the first week here, damn neckties, but now he was pretty used to it.
The English guy left with his paper, and Mr. Sterling, who kept referring to Billy as "twerp" was now putting in his two cents. "Normally I think Pryce should keep his nose out of Creative, but he's right. Don, do you really think people are going to wear Keds when they're not hitting balls? They don't provide any real comfort like a real shoe does."
"My kids wear them." Mr. Draper said mildly. "And most of their friends do, and I've seen a few adults in the blue ones at barbecues."
Mr. Draper paused and lit a Luckie. "But you're right, Roger. It's a new idea. Most children are still in Buster Browns, and in high school they tend to wear saddle shoes. This is a big risk, and Ed Temple from Keds is afraid people will laugh at the prospect."
Sal nodded to Billy, who put the poster board up on the easel. Mr. Campbell, who Billy thought was awfully cute with his pretty lips, leaned forward in his chair. Billy marveled. In a dress, Mr. Campbell would look like an airline stewardess.
"What have you drawn there, Sal, it looks like a couple stomping." Mr. Campbell said, craning his neck. "The feet appear bigger than the bodies."
Sal smiled. "Yes. It's supposed to be two kids dancing, informally, like they do in basement parties, and they're wearing Keds." After a pause, Sal said "Really, it's very much like that at many parties in the neighborhood I grew up in. Leather jackets, tennis shoes, Dixiecups with wine in them."
Mr. Campbell shook his pretty head. Billy wanted to touch his hair. It seemed like it didn't move, somehow. Was it pomade? Mr. Campbell was more magnetic than Maynard G. Krebs.
"I've been to many dancing parties, I went to dancing school, and of course deb balls. I have never seen the dancers wearing tennis shoes. What sort of parties do you attend, Sal?" Mr. Campbell cocked his head.
Billy didn't like that, it was like Mr. Campbell was saying that Sal was a fruit or something, and Sal looked a little scared.
"It's the way it is in Brooklyn and Queens, at least where I live" Billy said. "All sorts of parties where guys and their GIRLFRIENDS get together in apartment basements—"
"Tenements, the twerp means" murmured Mr. Sterling, and Billy wondered if Mr. Sterling had ever been kicked in the nuts.
"But sure, kids wear saddle shoes, too, but they are wearing a lot of tennis shoes, sometimes they're called sneakers, because they're so quiet." Billy stopped short.
Everyone was looking at him, and he really wasn't supposed to talk, he was just an office boy, Sal's assistant. But Sal was looking at him gratefully, and Billy didn't care what the big shot suit guys thought.
"Yes. That's right, Benny's right." Ted Crane, a dark haired guy with horn rimmed glasses said. "The problem is, Pete, you don't live in regular America. Most people don't go to debutante balls. They're kind of getting rare. I think Brenda Frazier's dead now."
"My mother had dinner with Brenda in Martha's Vineyard just two years ago."Mr. Campbell muttered, but no one was listening to him. "His name is Billy, this young man, Ted."
Billy was flying. Mr. Campbell knew HIS NAME! Billy felt his chest expand with air. Mr. Campbell was married, but so were half the guys Billy had tricked with in the tearoom stalls by the "A "train.
Now Mr. Sterling was piping up again. "I get it, you probably were raised around all that informality, Sal, though you couldn't tell it from the way you dress—"
Sal preened at the compliment, and Billy kicked him lightly. We're in a den of lions, Billy thought resentfully.
"But they're cloth shoes, for God's sake." Mr. Sterling sipped from a little round glass. "They get wet, and they probably aren't that durable for every day wear, are they, Don?" Mr. Sterling sipped again. "We could call in Cooper for his opinion, but Bert doesn't wear shoes at all, of course, if he can help it."
Don Draper spoke slowly. "I think there's a trend, and we can help it along, although I'm not sure about your dancing poster, Sal. I understand the rubber soles of tennis shoes—specifically Keds—make it easy to walk long distances, and they are actually quite durable, and comfortable—"
"Have you ever worn them, Don?" Mr. Campbell asked, smiling.
Smile at me, Billy thought fervently, but then tried to appear somber. He wondered where Miss Olson was. She'd been awfully nice to him. Did she wear Keds?
"No, I'm afraid not, Pete, but that doesn't mean anything."Don Draper said with a smile. He lit another Lucky Strike, and leaned back in his chair. "Perhaps, Sal, you could draw something where adults—because the kids are already wearing them—are walking around, maybe doing errands, and their feet feel great."
"Or a negative ad about leather shoes making your feet sweat after a lot of work." Ted Crane said. "Bobby, do you wear-?"
"Billy!" Pete Campbell said, annoyed.
Oh, I love you Mr. Campbell! "Um, I mostly wear them at home, Mr. Crane. I like Keds a lot, I just bought these Florsheim wing tips for work, and yeah, not just for sports, the Keds I mean, they're really great." Billy said, blushing a little at the attention.
Don Draper spoke again. "Not just for sports, you can wear them anywhere! That's a slogan, isn't it?"
As the meeting cogitated, Mr. Campbell resentfully said "Not to any event I'd attend" and Billy just wanted to stroke his Pomaded head in a comforting way!
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Sally Draper boredly poked the vending machine. She really didn't want anything, but she had to stay out of Daddy's office during the meeting. Some of the secretaries were nice, and others smiled, but not with their eyes…Ever since Sally had come to Daddy's office last year when she'd run off from camp, she'd hankered to come back on her own, and Daddy had let her come to work with him today!
Jane, Bobby and little Gene were at the Bronx Zoo, but Sally thought zoos were babyish, though she and Bobby loved the Snake House. She'd have to ask Bobby if they'd brought a cobra from Africa or wherever, yet.
A tall boy with light brown hair and a chin a little like Daddy's, came into the hallway where the vending machine was. He had a big piece of white cardboard under his arm.
"What's that picture?" Sally asked, pointing.
The boy grinned and showed the big poster to Sally, putting it in front of him. A boy and a girl with big feet in TENNIS SHOES?
"They're jumping around, right?" Sally asked curiously.
"They're s'posed to be dancing" the boy scolded good-naturedly. "Does it make you want to buy tennis shoes?"
Sally pondered. "No, I was going to buy a Hershey bar, but the machine is out."
This made the boy chuckle. "I'm Billy. I know you can't work here. I think I'm the youngest employee."
"I'm Sally. My daddy is Don Draper." Sally smiled up at the friendly boy. "Daddy let me visit here. I'm interested in his work."
"Lordy day, I bet you make partner before Sal does." The boy said meditatively. "I didn't know Mr. Draper had any kids. He works awful late sometimes."
"Yup." Sally said solemnly. "He and my Mommy don't live together anymore, she's a little sick now, but even when they did, Daddy worked late a lot."
"Your mom's sick? That's too bad." Billy said sincerely. "Did she have an accident?"
"No, but she takes a lot of medicine and sleeps all the time. She takes a pill with a Seven-One-Four number on it a lot. It calms her down."
"Quaaludes." Billy smiled. "I bet it does. Does she take little red pills, too?"
"Yes!" Sally said triumphantly. "They give her lots of energy as she's trying to keep up her figure. The red pills in the morning, and the 714 Kaloos—"
"Quaaludes." Billy corrected.
"Yeah, those at night. She's—in the day on her exercise medicine—"
"Yeah, I know. When she's taking the red devils you stay out of the house, don'tcha?" Billy asked, smiling.
"How did you know?" Sally thought this boy was awfully smart. "Red devils. That's clever."
"Yeah" Billy said hurriedly, "But don't call 'em that in front of your Mom. Not such a good idea. But hey, if you want a Hershey, and your dad doesn't want you to go out of the building, I think I have one in Sal's desk, with almonds, if that's okay."
As they walked towards Sal's office, Daddy came out of his office and smiled at the two.
"Billy's going to give me a candy bar, Daddy, is that all right?"
"Of course." Daddy said, smiling. "I'm glad you've found a friend."
Chapter Twelve
"Margaret, you're damaged goods now. No boy will ever respect you, let alone marry you." Thank God for the scholarship to the Corcoran, Midge Daniels thought, smiling ruefully. Papa's views on dating had become irrelevant, and besides, he was wrong about the latter. Midge had been married, and married AGAIN.
Harry, Midge's husband du jour, stirred on the filthy couch, and then opened his eyes. "Is that guy comin' over here?" he asked, stretching. "The money one."
"Yeah, Harry, and you really should split. You don't inspire confidence in my suitors." Midge looked out the grime creased window. She really should clean. Papa wasn't right about men, but Mama had been sure right about keeping things neat. Imagine Midge waxing a floor twice a week!
"Harry, your nose is running, you better go out and buy a cap. And don't tell me you don't have any money. I gave you five bucks this morning."
But of course…a cap was two bucks and a bag, a nickel bag was five…and Harry had graduated long ago. Look at him, all distressed. But Midge liked Harry. He needed her, and it was nice to be needed.
Midge pointed to her purse, and Harry arose and went through it, finding a lone half dollar. "Sweet Christ, this is all?" Oh, those adorable bloodshot eyes.
"I'm sorry, but if you get out of here now, I will have some money later, and probably some H too. He's coming by more often, Harry. Things are in a way, looking up."
When Midge had been in high school, she'd read "Junky" and "The Golden Spike" and lots of bullshit paperbacks about heroin. Even though the authors had not tried to romanticize it, it had fascinated the sheltered girl.
But, this year a new book, "Manchild in the Promised Land" had come out, about a young colored guy growing up in Harlem, and he'd referred to heroin addiction there as "the shit plague" and Midge had to agree. But on the other hand, there was nothing like it!
Harry shuffled out, probably to ask Seth downstairs for a loan, good luck with that, and Midge desultorily got up and combed her stringy hair in the mirror. God, the old days and her wigs. She loved them, and Don Draper often teased her about her "wig habit".
Should Midge have gone to Paris with Don? He was escaping something, but it just seemed like the hard way, and at the time, Midge was really into Roy, who was not as successful as Don, or actually successful at all, but Midge didn't feel…like Roy was looking at her funny. Like Papa used to. Don was a kinder version of Papa…
But, it had been quite fortunate that Don had had an emergency at his firm, and needed an interim artist "Though of course it's quite temporary" Of course. They'd hauled Midge in to do a few drawings for the new Flexible Flyer sled, and hauled her right out again…but she'd met Roger Sterling, and they'd fallen into a thing, kinda.
The door knocked. Speak (or think) of the devil! Midge thought about makeup, but of course that was pawned, as well as the wigs, and she ambled over to the door. As she opened it, she saw that familiar thatch of REAL white hair, man.
"Hey, Roger. Good to see you." Roger picked Midge up carefully and kissed her, giving a little tongue action. Roger wasn't cute, but he was affectionate.
"How've you been, gorgeous?" Arm in arm, the two wandered to Midge's couch. Midge remembered she had a cap under the cushion, unless of course Harry had found it. Roger would need it, after of course the sermon.
She hoped he wouldn't ask for a drink. There might be some Ripple in the kitchen, but Midge wasn't sure.
"You know, honey, I wish you'd meet me in Manhattan, at the Waldorf. Of course we'd have to enter separately. But you deserve the best." Roger gave her a sunny grin.
"Yeah, I know, Roger, but you know I don't like to travel with horse if I can help it, and you—" Midge was now going to be delicate. "It's an interest of yours."
"Midge, Midge." Roger said oracularly. Here it came. "I just read an article in the Village Voice that said if you only snort the stuff, you can't get addicted, really, it's just the mainliners who lose it, you know."
But Roger was skin popping now. Midge wondered if he knew that was just before…but she just smiled at him.
Roger, as if reading her thoughts, grinned again. "I know I tried the needle on Tuesday and Sunday, but I'm going to go back to sniffing, and you really should, too." Roger stretched. "I might not even have any today. I know you're a bit short of liquor, so I brought a half pint of Schnapps."
Midge had once heard someone in a rare Alcoholics Anonymous meeting she'd attended say that "No one but alcoholics drink half pints"
"Well, do you want to make love?" Midge attempted a yearning look.
"You know, my Uncle Ralph met Billie Holliday once." Here it came. "And he'd heard Charlie Parker play, and he told me that it was so sad that people like that—and Art Pepper, too—that they lost control of promising talents, becoming addicted to a substance instead of letting it WORK FOR THEM." Roger lifted the half-pint to his mouth, and then thought better of it.
Midge got up and brought back a couple of somewhat clean jelly jars. She actually was not much of a drinker, but companionable imbibing could lead to other things…especially with Roger Sterling.
Roger poured them each a shot. "See, that's the thing. Certain chemicals are helpful, such as Phenobarbital, and a little whiskey now and then—in strict moderation." He downed the jar and poured a bit more.
Midge leaned back and listened to Roger give her some confused statistics about addictions to heroin, cocaine, Morphine, and even Percodans. He then informed her that he did push-ups three times a week, and he and his wife Jane were thinking of purchasing a rowing machine, that you could put next to the divan.
Midge put a hand on Roger's leg and smiled. "So you don't want to—do you want a massage, or to make love?"
Roger leaned back and gave her a Groucho Marx wiggle of the fingers. "You bet…but perhaps if you have a little powder, we could just do a small amount. I haven't had any since yesterday morning."
Midge was surprised. "Yesterday? You weren't here yesterday."
"Oh, the bell captain at the Waldorf—never mind, it was a one time thing." Roger gestured. "Do you have a needle, or something? It helps the lovemaking, just a bit."
Midge nodded, but conscience pricked her. "But you said you wanted to return to snorting, because you are staying in shape."
Roger smiled gamely. "I am, and I'm actually going to take a week off of all that stuff, after tonight. Though I'll be here to talk about art. But just one little hit, I'll close my eyes, I've never liked needles."
As Midge walked to the kitchen to find spoon to burn the H in, she wondered how Don Draper was doing.
Chapter Thirteen
"Talk to me." Trudy Campbell said, looking into Pete's eyes. "Why—why don't you want to make love anymore? Is it the baby? Is it my figure?"
"N-no, you're—you're a lovely girl, Trudy." Pete muttered. "I just have been working too hard. I'm a partner now, you know." Pete said that ten times a day, to cabbies, news dealers, or whoever would listen. Trudy was probably sick of it, but she always smiled.
Pete Campbell knew Trudy was very smart—certainly not smarter than HIM, though at their engagement party, a fattish girlfriend of hers referred to Pete as a "dim bulb".
Eavesdroppers seldom hear good of themselves, Nana Dyckman told Pete once when he came weeping to her with a similar complaint about Bud's opinion of him, when they were kids, but it was always good to gather ammunition. Not ammunition. Information.
Like CIA. What an agent Pete would make! Had he not failed the Foreign Service Exam, Pete might have made serious inquiries. Really, if Bert Cooper had listened to Pete's information about Draper just a few years ago, Pete might have been a partner much sooner.
"But Pete, I miss you—physically." Trudy was so beautiful, so earnest, and many men had been smitten by her, including that idiot publisher, her first fiancée. But Pete was going through a phase he couldn't really explain.
At Kamp Wahee-Kokii, up in the Catskills, Pete had been quite close with another camper, Chris, and they'd wrestled a bit, and just a little more…just kid stuff, of course.
But Pete had kicked himself for his weakness in sneaking behind the cabins with Chris, and to help him break it off, he'd informed the Director, a good friend of Father's, that Chris, who didn't have a lot of moolah and was up for a counselor job next year was…a little "funny".
Mr. Philpott had kept the information to himself, and Chris had no idea why he'd been asked to leave in mid-summer, never to return as camper or employee of Kamp Wahee-Kokii again. He couldn't suspect Pete, of course, as Pete had been the one who had gone begging to HIM, night after night, for a bit of "wrestling."
And now…Pete had proven he wasn't a homosexual, a degenerate, a sodomite…he'd cut quite a swathe in the young ladies in after parties, et cetera, there had been a few affairs, and he'd impregnated Peggy, for God's sake…he was a man! And he hadn't ducked into the Port Authority bus station restroom for anything more than a whiz in more than a year.
Of course, stimulation was necessary. Trudy had asked him, as had his college roommate "Why do you keep so many muscle magazines around? You don't lift weights." But Pete Campbell was a private person. A man of Mystery…yes.
This thing with Billy, the art director's assistant had to stop. Twice in the john with a chair against the door, and once at the Waldorf (he seemed to see Roger Sterling there a LOT) and that was it. Kid stuff. Because of all the damn pressure.
Tomorrow he would tell Billy, no more. Pete wasn't going to be like Uncle Hollis, blackmailed by his gentleman's gentleman…and Uncle Hollis would have been a great Senator, a statesman. Hollis had given Roosevelt a lot of trouble over those alphabet agencies…called FDR "Comrade" while in Congress, and Hollis had been a close friend of Roy Cohn, Joe McCarthy's number one man.
But he'd been brought down by the nonsense with the nosy butler, and Pete wouldn't have any of that. But perhaps he should call Billy tonight. Tell him on the phone. Pete had tried that LAST night, but they'd gotten distracted, and he just couldn't hurt Billy's feelings—those big blue eyes—in person.
"Trudy, I'm going to have a cup of warm milk—you don't have to get it for me, dear" But Trudy had already turned over. She was a great girl, and by God, Pete would straighten out this nonsense, and if he held back on the self-abuse as well, he'd be ready for his darling, romance wise. Just that one call.
Billy answered on the second ring. Thank God his mother didn't answer this time. She seemed to have a funny, rather cynical voice…unhappy woman. It must be very sad to be the mother of a sodomite.
"Hello Billy. It's Mr. Campbell."
"Hey Mr. Campbell! I wanted to have coffee with you after work but—"
"That's all right. I hope you are enjoying your first month at the office."
"It's swell. The work is nifty, and Sal—Mr. Romano, has taught me how to letter, which is a great skill. I could do it for comic books even, later on, though I can't draw worth a darn."
"Stay clear of Salvatore Romano, after work, Billy. He's a man of perverse habits."
"What do you mean? Perverse?"
"It's not important, I guess. He-uh…"
"You want to play our Twenty Questions, Mr. Campbell?"
"YOU DIDN'T TELL SAL…"
"No, of course not. But I thought you'd like to play. Mom told me you called earlier."
Pete knew he would have to be firm now. Although Billy was young, he was leaning towards being a fairy. So he might take this badly, he really might. Pete hoped Billy wouldn't cry.
"Billy…I want to talk to you, and I want you to be mature."
"Sure, Mr. Campbell. I just got out of the shower, so I'm drying off."
"The-the shower?" The boy had quite an athletic figure. Normally Pete was in a kneeling position when he and Billy spent time together, and he just saw the boy's um privates…Billy kept his shirt on. But that time at the Waldorf! Troy Donahue couldn't have looked better, and Pete had seen everything…the shower.
"Mr. Campbell? If you don't want to play Twenty Questions, can you tell me quick what you want? I told my mom I would paint her toenails."
What a sad, degenerate boy. And the mother! Goodness. Pete would try to—but it was late. Perhaps this would be conversation for tomorrow.
"All right, Billy, just for fun, then I bet I can stump you in ten questions! I'm touching a part of me that's smaller than a basketball…if you can't guess, I'll just keep touching it…"
An hour later, Pete Campbell got into bed, listening to Trudy's light snore…he wondered how poor Billy had gotten so sick in the head. Must've been Sal Romano. If they weren't so desperate for a good art director, Pete would make a serious complaint to Don Draper.
Pete punched his pillow and lay his head down. Honestly, he couldn't be mean to poor Billy right now. The young man needed a-a mentor. And Pete had been an Eagle Scout!
Chapter Fourteen
"Duck, I'm a property manager. I have no idea how to run an advertising agency." It fascinated Willa how Duck Phillips seemed to sweat when he veered a bit from the truth. How the devil did he make it in advertising? And how was this going to help her in her mission, which she didn't really know much of the details, to make Dick pay for what he'd put her through?
"Willa, as I told you the other night, I am a bit of a freelancer now, but I have run accounts at a number of agencies…I thought of starting my own agency about eighteen months ago, and actually approached a copywriter, Peggy Olson, at SCDP, to work with me, but I'm afraid Miss Olson has courage issues about a lot of things." Duck was trying to not drink, it was obvious to Willa, but he looked a little ridiculous sipping at a Shirley Temple.
Let's see, what do I know now? Willa had learned of old that the best way to make a man spill was to take him between the sheets, and she'd heard him refer to a former paramour as "Peggy". And she knew, from one of her other clients, a gumshoe who liked to be flogged with a rubber car fan belt, that Duck had been fired from a number of agencies for drinking and of course, false bravado.
Willa had seen lots of THAT in every other man she'd ever met, from her father on. Insecure but domineering and loud. She had worried that Duck might learn more about HER employment, but he talked so much that it was easy to keep things to herself. And it was true, Willa was a manager (and owner) of a number of properties, from the five boroughs to Hoboken, New Jersey.
Willa had thought one day Billy could manage the properties for her, but he was so enthusiastic about his work at Dick's—no Don's agency, that Willa was now wondering if she should encourage him to go back to school.
Certainly she didn't want to bring the agency down in flames, now that Billy was working there, somehow that had been Plan Numero Uno. Or Ichiban, the number for one in Chinese. Willa loved languages. She hadn't told Duck who Dick was (alliterative) but she had let him know that she'd been seriously mistreated by him, and about Billy, who of course was a blessing, adorable child since birth, despite his proclivities, but—Dick had just RAN. He hadn't even argued with her that day in the carriage house.
He'd said he had to go home and see about the milking and he'd be back in half an hour, and she'd waited a bit, and then gone by the farm two days later, and after a string of expletives, his stepfather or uncle or whatever he was said that Dick had just disappeared.
Later she'd overheard Dick's mother telling someone at the Post Office that they'd gotten word Dick was in the Army, and had gone to Korea. But when Willa had approached for further information, the bitch had slapped her, right there in the damn Post Office.
Willa had stolen the milk and egg money, what little there was of it, and seven months later, Billy was born in Brooklyn. Shortly thereafter, Willa had discovered that there were men with far more unusual proclivities than Billy's who would pay quite a bit…for company. And Willa, never interested in hooch or H, had invested her numerous profits. In real estate.
And Duck was well aware, though she'd not admitted it, that Willa was more of an owner than a manager of various properties (Actually, she had someone else, an accountant who liked pink tutus, do almost all of it, leaving her and Billy lots of time for books and museums.)
Duck had sharp eyes, if a loose mouth, and he'd really checked out the place Willa lived, in Brooklyn, but quite nice, and it probably hadn't helped that someone down the hall had asked her to see about a leaky faucet. And of course Willa had an account at "21" and had introduced Duck to friends at Elaine's and the Algonquin…To Duck Phillips, respect indicated money, and Willa had plenty of both.
"You see, Willa, we can kill two or three birds with one stone here." Duck said, grimly sipping his Shirley Temple. "We start a small agency that takes clients from Sterling, I can find other ways to screw Draper over for you—your screwing him didn't help—" Duck snorted.
Another problem was, Duck thought he was a wit. Regrettable, Willa believed, but she kept smiling. Duck was under the impression that Willa just worshipped him, and that was a useful impression, indeed.
"And then, we can bring your boy over to Phillips-Primrose after he has some experience. Shit, I'll hire Romano too, he's a fairy, you know, shit, I don't care. I'll bring him up in the business. My pop was in advertising, and he taught it to me."
As she watched Duck puff his chest, Willa marveled at the mistakes he had made—one of which had been to give up a paying airline company—no bird in the hand for Mr. Phillips—for an unsuccessful plea to American Airlines after the big crash in '61. There had been other stupid mistakes, and Willa had chortled (inwardly) after learning that Duck's wife had run off with one of his business partners…
But it was one idea, this bullshit agency, and perhaps Duck could teach Billy something—and then if Billy liked, he could go on somewhere else, and Willa could disband the Phillips-Primrose thing…Willa wished Billy wasn't so much of an autodidact…it would be simpler to just send him to Columbia…but like mother, like son, right? Actually, like father, too…Dick hadn't finished high school either, and look at him.
"But the best part is" Duck said earnestly, "Someone is joining us here. I love it that we are at Sardi's. You'll have to cover her bill as well, but she is a brilliant consumer researcher, and if you decide to go with my investment idea, Dr. Miller—or Miss Miller, but she is a psychologist, would be a great partner for this work.
Before Willa could stop this um, snowballing of Duck's she heard a voice and looked up to see a blonde, either Italian or Jewish..sexy lips!
"Hi Duck" the blonde said in a Brooklyn accent. "And you must be Miss Primrose, or is it Mrs.? I'm Faye Miller."
Suddenly Willa felt like half the competence in New York had just arrived.
Chapter Fifteen
Betty Francis, nee Draper just knew that Sally had sneaked the shorts out under her skirt. Shorts in school! Certainly, this was 1965, you weren't sent home any more for wearing white dungarees, but really.
Not twelve until the fall, and already Sally was taking those tiptoe steps to becoming a little tramp. Betty of course had also sneaked forbidden clothes to school, but Betty was a far more sensible kid at twelve than her daughter, who had too much of Don Draper in her. The bed-hoppin' Draper gene indeed.
Betty sighed, and looked at her new prescription bottle. She'd decided to let Boniface do the cleaning, and she didn't feel like exercising, much too agitated lately. Dr. Thalberg had noticed that Seconal wasn't as effective with Betty any more, or Fiorinal either, so he'd recommended a sedative that had been popular for a while, Valium.
Francine, back in Ossining, knew a woman who liked Valium so much she'd crushed it on a table and snorted it with a straw! Betty giggled. Are housewives that jittery? Betty was reluctant to try the Valium so early in the day.
Henry had complained that Betty was too lackadaisical, was that his word? "Not as much fun" or something to that effect. On the other hand, Betty felt so relaxed on the right medication. Dr. Thalberg had explained that there were chemical imbalances in the brain, and new stuff was coming in all the time from labs in Jersey…to restore us all to mental health!
Gene was sleeping, thank goodness. If you just cut a little (very little) smidgen of powder off a 'lude and mixed it in a toddler's Ovaltine, it really made for a nice, long nap.
There was a knock at the kitchen door, Betty hopped up, dropping the Valium prescription into her apron pocket. Opening the door, she smiled at Stan Skitowska.
"Stan, I'm afraid we don't need our hedges trimmed today…" What a big, strong boy. Nice looking, short hair. It seemed like whenever Betty went into the city, it was flooded with long-hairs. Everyone wanted to look like the Beatles.
Betty had tried to interest Sally in GOOD music, Rudy Vallee, Sinatra, but the child was mesmerized by messy men. Paul and Ringo and the others had looked only moderately unbarbered on the Ed Sullivan show, but now they were positively shaggy. Soap and work are four letter words, but certainly decent ones!
Stan leaned in and kissed Betty right on the mouth. Betty closed her eyes and opened her lips for his protruding tongue. She knew she shouldn't encourage this, but Henry was, well, a drip.
Pulling Stan inside the kitchen, Betty attempted to guide him to the stairs, but of course he insisted on laying her on the kitchen table. Even clean cut men could be a bit unstable.
"It's been days since I saw you last, Mrs. Draper." Stan said huskily.
"Well, the kids will be home at three-thirty, so we have to be brief."
"My middle name!"Stan said, and cleared the table of dishes and glasses with a swipe.