As is often the case in such circumstances, little Harold kept learning the same religious lessons over and over. His formation in morality was shallow but absorbed. Hopscotching from one military base to another, he had the opportunity to meet a vast mix of people his own age, but not necessarily of his religious persuasion. It was a practical if raw course in comparative religion. From conversations and discussions, he learned that many Protestants believed drinking and gambling were immoral. While Catholics were more cautious: There was nothing wrong with drinking as long as one did not become theologically drunk, which happened when one’s face hit the floor. Likewise with wagering: Nothing wrong with that as long as one did not lose the farm. All was well unless one indulged excessively. Moderation, in all things moderation.
Except with regard to sex. His Protestant buddies were not nearly as restricted in sexual matters as Harold.
Harold was taught that sexual expression had two purposes. The primary purpose was the procreation and education of children. The secondary purpose was the legitimate relief of concupiscence. He learned that at least once every year. That old devil concupiscence! He didn’t even know what concupiscence was until about his eighth or ninth year-which was when he learned about the purposes of sex.
So there the matter stood. Catholics, especially, it was believed, if they were Irish, drank like camels. They also bet on each pitch in a baseball game. Protestants couldn’t wear makeup, play cards, or have more than a rare glass of wine at dinner. But they did fool around.
None of these religious differences seemed odd to Harold because he had been taught and did believe that the one, holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church was the one, true Church of Jesus Christ. And that pretty well put all the others in their place.
Oh, yes, Harold was religious. And as far as he was concerned, his life was in sync with God’s will. He would have done more wagering-perhaps a virtue rather than a vice-but that he had little scratch with which to place a decent bet. He dated, but he never went further than necking and petting-worth from five to ten “Our Fathers” and “Hail Marys,” depending on the confessor. Basically, God had given Harold all the tools he needed to score big in the advertising world, his chosen profession. And, as if he needed any further sign in that delicate arena of the multimartini lunch, he could hold his own and then some. Could anything God did be more a sign of Divine Providence!
Harold graduated.
He selected the William J. Doran Agency, one of New York’s largest, most innovative ad firms. For years, in his imagination, usually just before sleep at night, he had been drafting a clever query letter to go along with a catchy resume. He sent them to Robert L. Begin, creative supervisor at the Doran Agency.
The tactic worked. The letter and resume won Harold an interview luncheon with Begin.
They met at “21,” one of New York’s poshier restaurants. It was a pivotal luncheon that would determine, to a large extent, Harold’s professional future. Begin was relaxed about it. And why should he not be?
He was in the driver’s seat. It was Harold’s future that was at stake. And it was Begin’s prerogative to recommend the hiring or rejection of this young man.
The pressure was on Harold. He was on the spot. But no one would ever have known it. The way he saw it, this was the moment for which he’d been born. It was, as they used to say in the Crusades, God’s will.
After introductions, the two were seated at a preferred table near the rear of the dining area. The waiter acknowledged and deferred to Begin. Harold noticed.
To Harold, Begin seemed the embodiment of the company man: attired in a light gray suit-appropriate for a warm June day-he wore rimless glasses-bifocals-and expensive cuff links and a trendy wrist-watch. His thinning graying hair lent an aristocratic appearance.
The waiter took their orders. A Manhattan for Begin; a martini, up, for Harold.
Begin began to explain the make-up of the Doran Agency. Although Harold had researched it thoroughly, the novice listened with an absorbed expression.
There were, Begin spelled out, drawing barely perceptible lines on the tablecloth with the prongs of his fork, five departments in the company.
“The account management division,” Begin said, “provides liaison to the client with regard to current as well as new business. The creative department, which, I take it, is your primary interest, Harold-”
You betcha, thought Harold.
“. . the creative department contains both the art department and the copywriters. Then there’s the production department, the people who put the ad on the printed page. The media department decides where the ad will run: paper; magazines; which papers and when; which magazines. Finally, there’s the research department, which develops strategy for the target audience and tests the advertising concept.
“The important thing, Harold, is that all this describes the team effort that advertising very much is. To paraphrase, ‘No department is an island.’”
Begin was interrupted by the waiter inquiring whether they were ready to order. They were. Begin would have the catch of the day. Harold would have the Caesar salad and another martini, up. Begin took note.
Begin took Harold through much of the ad business history, then focused on the Doran Agency and its six prime accounts. Of course Harold knew who the accounts were, but, again, he didn’t interrupt.
They were: a major pharmaceutical company; a national brewery; a brand tobacco firm; a cosmetics business; an airline; and International Motors, presently striving to become one of the Big Four auto companies.
Begin noted the flicker of desire in Harold’s eyes at the mention of International Motors.
It was a subtle reaction, but Begin had trained himself to be alert to such small signs. He wondered if Harold May had a future with Doran. Judging from his credentials alone, probably yes. Then Begin wondered if Harold had a future in the International Motors account. Likely not for a long while. The level at which Harold would enter the company was light years away from such an important account.
By the time they had all but finished their lunch, Begin had just about completed his guided tour through advertising in general and Doran in particular. The waiter returned to ask if they wanted coffee. They did. And Harold ordered his third martini. Begin took note. Then he opened the conversation to Harold.
It was the moment for which Harold had patiently waited.
While not derogating from anything Begin had said, Harold launched into a flood of knowledge acquired over the years. When he felt that Begin was sufficiently impressed, Harold played trump: Los Angeles, Hollywood, television. “There’s always going to be a place for print advertising, of course, Mr. Begin. .”
“Bob, please.”
“Thank you. Bob. It’s just that, to be effective, print has to have longevity and consistency.”
“You’re right, Harold. And that’s the way we project at Doran. The client has to be sold on the woodpecker theory.”
“Woodpecker?” Harold didn’t think he’d missed a term, but this was unfamiliar.
“The woodpecker, hitting the same spot over and over again, just the same way!”
“Of course,” Harold agreed. “But something different happens when you get to TV advertising, don’t you think? I mean television imposes itself on its audience-where print gives you the option of looking or not looking.”
“Keen observation,” Begin commented. “But you mentioned Hollywood, television. I’d be interested in your views of TV as it relates to advertising.” He tried to affect a casual tone.
Harold caught Begin’s heightened interest. He was not surprised. He’d expected it.
“From what I’ve been able to put together,” Harold said, “effective TV advertising is going to have emotion, humor, and fancy production.”