Anonymous said: uhm, do you think you can write a 50s spamano au? if not, that's ok ^^"
And so we have Mad Men.
"Ah, I'm here for the job?"
The man's eye flicked over Antonio once, twice. "You're late, fucker." He took a last drag of his cigarette before flicking it into one of the waiting ashtrays. "The meeting starts in ten, and I would have liked at least twenty minutes to prep you. But what the fuck can you do?"
Antonio wasn't quite sure how to respond. He hadn't been aware there would be meetings.
"Lovino Vargas," the man introduced, extending a hand.
Antonio shook it eagerly. He had heard Americans like firm handshakes. "Antonio Fernandez-Carriedo."
Lovino raised an eyebrow. "Quite the mouthful. Cut it down in the meeting. Investors get antsy when they hear long names. They like a quick name. Something powerful." He led them down the gleaming hallway of the foyer.
Antonio nodded like that had made sense. "Why?"
Lovino hit the button for the elevator. "Why what?"
"Why do they like quick, powerful names?"
Lovino gave him a long, confused look. "How the fuck should I know?" The elevator opened, and Lovino stepped in, hit the button for the forty-fifth floor. "So, these assholes you're meeting, yeah?"
"Yeah?"
Lovino lit another cigarette. "Something stupid. Home garden shit, like they think that sort of shit can survive after the war effort. Little thing, but they managed to scam enough money from the banks to have a ton of…" Lovino rubbed is fingers together. "So, we have to sell it."
Antonio had no idea what this had to do with the mailroom. "Right. What do you do?"
Lovino inhaled his cigarette too fast, and coughed. His eyes watered as he looked at Antonio. "I basically keep this place running. I have no idea how these assholes got where they are." He looked away.
"So, what am I doing, exactly?"
Lovino's eyes snapped back to him. "Selling our company."
Antonio nodded slowly. "What, exactly, is our company?"
"Holy fuck. You are the transfer from the Boston division, right?" Lovino stepped closer. "Please, for the love of God, tell me you're the transfer."
"I'm the transfer."
Lovino's eye grew wide. "You were for the mailroom."
Antonio looked at his feet. "I was for the mailroom," he said slowly. He looked up, shrugging. "But, how hard can this job really be? I mean, I just have to—to… What, ah, do I have to do?"
Lovino whirled and jammed the buttons of the elevator. "No, no, no, no! Fucking—" He slammed a fist against the door. "Stop, you…" He descended into Italian cursing.
The doors opened. Lovino was suddenly calm and collected, finishing his cigarette. A few people look up from their desks, and a woman stood.
"Is this him?" she asked.
Lovino grabbed Antonio's arm and led him forward. "It is. Carriedo, your assistant. Emma, Mr. Carriedo. Is the meeting all set up?"
"They're in there, waiting for you."
"Perfect."
Lovino's grip was tight on Antonio's arm, and he led him through the rows of desks. Antonio stumbled over his shoes—a size too big, the only pair at the second-hand shop—and smiled and waved at anyone who looked at the him too long.
The building was very expensive. Everything gleamed. Antonio assumed this wasn't the mailroom.
"Look, we're an advertising company," Lovino hissed, close to Antonio's ear. "We put ads into the newspaper, on the radio. We are very, very rich. Please, please, just pretend you know how to sell gardening supplies. No, that you know what will make other people buy gardening supplies."
Antonio's arm hurt, and he pulled away from Lovino's grip. "Is there a difference?"
Lovino looked like he was going to cry. "I'm going to get fired."
"No!" Antonio wrapped an arm around Lovino. He had no idea where he was going, so he just kept walking. "No worries, friend. Where am I going?"
Lovino ducked under Antonio's arm and pulled him along by the sleeve of his suit. His hand recoiled like the fabric bit him. "God, that is some of the cheapest material I've ever fucking felt," he whispered. "I should have known. I thought—it looked like a cheap reproduction. It was."
They stopped outside a glass door. Lovino ran a hand over his face. Antonio fingered his suit.
"Look." Lovino faced Antonio, held Antonio at arm's length. "Just—lie. Lie. They'll ask questions, all you have to do is lie your ass off. Can you do that?"
"Ah."
"Fuck." Lovino pushed Antonio through the door. "Gentlemen, Antonio Carriedo."
…
Lovino's office was very nice. It overlooked a park, and Antonio was sure under all the clutter, it also very nice. Maybe it had some nice wood paneling. It had at least five ashtrays, scattered throughout the mounds of paper.
Lovino was sitting at his fancy chair, knocking back another glass of Sambuca. Antonio tapped his feet. He wasn't one for hard alcohol, so he swirled the ice in his glass.
Finally, Lovino focused on Antonio.
"Tell me again what they agreed to for their contract?"
"Ah." Antonio took a sip and nearly choked. "I think it was—it was a lot."
Lovino looked over the contract. "You're a miracle."
"You think so?" Antonio smiled.
"You're a Hail Mary." Lovino laughed and shook his head. "You're an idiot who managed to compose a symphony. Do you think you can do it again?"
Antonio's smile froze on his face. "Eh?"
Lovino sat forward, steepled his fingers. "Everyone here thinks you're the transfer. So you're going to have to fucking fake it. Do you think you can do what you just did in there again?"
"Eh?!"
Lovino nodded, thinking. "It shouldn't be too hard. All you have to do is schmooze like you did in there. Talk about how you know how gardeners think. Look, I don't really care how you do it, I just need you to do it."
"Look, I'm flattered and all, but I didn't even graduate high school. I'm from Spain. I can't understand English when people talk too fast. I used the last of my savings to buy this suit. I am really not the man to be trying to make you money."
"We'll get you a new suit," Lovino said gravely.
"Really?"
"And I can teach you better English. If my brother can learn, so can you. He's even dumber than you are. Other than that, you just have to lie through your teeth."
…
"Alfred F. Jones, at your service. Transfer from Boston."
Lovino shook his hand. "Right. You'll be in the mailroom."