A Winter Dream

Chapter


Ten


Last night I had a peculiar but hopeful dream. I was in a photo studio. Everything was white and lit so brightly it was difficult to see. Suddenly there was a man wearing an orange suit, orange sneakers and an orange shirt and bow tie. He was leaning against a black cane.

“Welcome to the first day of your new life,” he said, flipping his cane. “This is where we play hardball.”

“Do you think I’ll make it?” I asked.

He looked at me with a wry grin then said, “You can bank on it.”

Joseph Jacobson’s Diary





Chicago is home to some of the greatest advertising agencies and admen of all time—pioneers in marketing like Albert Lasker, Fairfax Cone and the great copywriter Claude C. Hopkins.

These names may mean nothing to you, but they should. These Chicago men defined advertising before the world even knew what it was. They have influenced your life far more than you know, and likely want to believe. For instance, if you drink orange juice, you’ve been affected by Lasker, because before he sold us packaged orange juice, people only ate oranges.

These legends of marketing have made household names of brands like Goodyear, Van de Kamp’s, Quaker Oats, Marlboro and Palmolive. The fact that many of the campaigns that defined these brands were designed nearly a century ago makes it even more astounding.

Leo Burnett, the founder of the agency that had hired me, was also one of the pioneers of the field, and the agency that bears his name is legendary. Burnett, who started his agency in the midst of the Great Depression, understood how to reach people through imagery. He gave us cultural icons that survive today: Tony the Tiger, the Pillsbury Doughboy, Charlie Tuna, the Jolly Green Giant and the Marlboro Man. For a young adman, I was walking hallowed halls where the giants of the industry had walked.

I was stopped near the elevator by a security guard who walked me to the first elevator and rode it with me to the twenty-first floor. “This is your stop,” she said.

The reception area was contemporary and hip: frosted green glass panels lined the wall, behind a white reception counter nearly 50 feet long seating nine or ten employees. The ceiling was open, exposing ductwork and lighting fixtures, all of which were painted black. On the far end of the counter, hanging from the ceiling, was a pair of eyeglasses 12 feet long, as iconic to Leo Burnett as the cigar was to Churchill.

At the reception desk, a young Asian woman with a telephone headset and orange hair even shorter than mine, looked up to greet me. “May I help you?”

“I’m here to see Peter Potts.”

“May I ask your name?”

“Joseph Jacobson.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jacobson.” She pressed a button on her phone. A moment later she said to me, “Someone will be right with you. Have a seat, please.”

A few minutes later a young woman walked around the corner from the far end of the reception area. She was probably a couple years older than me, with long blond hair. She smiled at me as she approached. “Mr. Jacobson?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, standing.

“I’m Kim. Mr. Potts has been delayed a few minutes. He’s asked me to show you upstairs.”

The elevator’s ceiling was paneled in colorful stained glass set in a pattern that looked like a Frank Lloyd Wright sketch. We got out on the twenty-seventh floor.

“This building is the Leo Burnett Worldwide headquarters. We have sixteen floors and more than seventeen hundred employees. Twenty-seven is one of our creative floors.”

Kim led me into a large open office space, a jungle of cubicles, each individually decorated to show its tenant’s creativity and personality—the Monopoly guy, a jungle, a collector of superhero figurines, and a Wizard of Oz fan. One cubicle was simply painted with jail bars.

“Here’s your desk,” Kim said, leading me to a plain cubicle. “I’ll call you when Mr. Potts arrives.”

“Thank you,” I said.

After she’d gone, I looked over my small, austere cubicle. I sat down and sighed. Back in Denver I had had a private office. One of many changes, I thought.

Painted in rainbow colors on the wall across from me was:

We are

eternal

students of

human

behavior

“You’re the new guy,” a thin, tinny voice said behind me. I turned around to see a man leaning against my cubicle. He was tall and blond, with a slight underbite. I pegged him at a year or two younger than me. He wore John Lennonish, wire-rimmed glasses.

“I’m Len,” he said. “Abbreviated Leonard. Senior writer. Call me Len.”

“Joseph,” I said.

“No,” he said. “It’s Len.”

“No, I’m Joseph.”

“Right,” he said. “Joe.”

I’d never really liked being called Joe, and outside of my father, no one did. “Joseph,” I repeated. “Or J.J.”

“J.J. What are you, a rapper?” He pulled a chair from an empty desk across from mine and sat down, looking me over.

“Nice suit,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“No one wears suits here. Not in this century.”

“Noted.”

“Where are you from, J.J.?”

“Denver.”

“Go Broncos. I still miss Elway. What agency?”

“A regional firm. Jacobson Advertising.”

“Never heard of it,” he said. “So this is your first time adrift in the big sea.” He leaned in closer. “Let me tell you how we sail in the Windy City. If you want to survive, put in your time, keep sharp and stay below the radar. Potts is a beast. Creative, good at his job, but a beast. Have you met him?”

“Not yet.”

“Be warned, he believes it necessary to sacrifice a writer from time to time pour l’encouragement des autres.”

I tilted my head. “. . . To encourage the others?”

“Exactemente, mon ami,” Leonard replied. “You speak French?”

“Just what I learned in high school,” I said. I looked at him as he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “What if you want to do more than just survive?”

Leonard shook his head. “Ambitious. Good for you. Get over it. The rest of the writers will hate you and they’ll offer you up to Potts as a sacrificial lamb.”

“I’ll be careful,” I said.

“Be careful or be gone,” Leonard said. He grinned. “Not a bad line. I’m going to hang on to that.” Then his eyes flashed and he abruptly stood and walked away. Actually, he fled. I turned back to see a man walking from the main hallway toward my cubicle. He was tall, 6 feet 3 or so, muscular and bald. He wore a black silk T-shirt beneath a silver jacket. His gaze was on me.

“Are you Jacobson?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come with me.”

I guessed he was Potts. “Yes, sir,” I said. I stood and followed him. He walked to a corner office at the end of a long row of cubicles. The walls of his office were decorated with framed print ads. He sat down behind a large glass desk, eyeing me grimly. “Shut the door.”

“Yes, sir.” I pulled the door shut.

“You go by Joe or Joseph?”

“Joseph or J.J., sir.”

“Sit down, Joseph.”

I sat.

“Let’s be clear on something. You’re here by my approval but not my choice. Timothy Ishmael convinced me that we had to have you. But that only got you through my door and that door swings both ways. If I don’t like what I see, you’ll see the backside of that door. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t know what lame advice Leonard was imparting, but do yourself a favor and disregard it. The man’s on vocational life support.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“What’s with all the, ‘yes, sirs’? This isn’t the military.”

“Sorry. My father’s a veteran. It’s habit.”

A barely distinguishable smile crossed his lips. “I see. Mine too. What branch?”

“Navy. He served in Vietnam as a pilot. He was in the Gulf.”

There was a single knock on the office door. Then the door opened and a woman minced into the room with obvious familiarity. Potts lit up when he saw her. “Do you have time for lunch?” she asked.

The woman was stunningly beautiful, tall, even without the 3-inch heels she wore. She had auburn hair that fell to her shoulders. She realized they weren’t alone. “Who is this?”

“New guy,” Potts said dismissively.

“Hello, new guy,” she said.

“Hi,” I said.

She looked back at Potts. “Does new guy have a name?”

“Joseph,” he said. “Or T.J.”

“J.J.,” I said. “Shall I go?”

“Get out of here,” he said. “Have Kim show you around. We’ve got a staff meeting at one. Be there.”

I stood. “Okay. Thank you. And nice to meet you,” I said to the woman.

She looked me over and smiled. “Ditto.”

I walked out of the office, stopping at Kim’s desk which was right outside Pott’s office. She was typing at her computer and glanced up at me. “May I help you?”

“Mr. Potts told me to ask you to show me around.”

“Just let me finish this email . . .” She typed a half-minute more, then stood. “Okay, let’s take the tour.”

Kim gave me a tour of the three floors most relevant to the copywriters, including the employee break room, three conference rooms and the employee cafeteria.

Near the elevators, she pointed to a large room. “This is the energy room. There’s one on each of the creative floors. It’s where you can go to chill and let your mind explore.”

Behind a glass partition was a large room with a foosball table, soda machine, refrigerator, popcorn kettle and cart, and stools and chairs. The outer walls were all glass, looking out over the tops of neighboring skyscrapers.

She concluded my tour at the supply closet, where she outfitted me with office essentials, then helped me carry everything back to my desk. We passed Leonard on the way back to my cubicle, but he didn’t even acknowledge me. Kim was pleasant and likable—almost the opposite of her boss.

“How long have you been here?” I asked.

“Five years this coming June.”

“Then you’ve been here awhile. What’s your title?”

“I’m Mr. Potts’s personal assistant.”

“What is that like?”

Her brow furrowed. “Every day’s an adventure.”

We set all the supplies on my desk. “There you are,” Kim said. “Welcome to the agency.”

“Thank you.”

As she was leaving me, I said, “Mr. Potts said there’s a staff meeting at one. Where will that be?”

“His office. Call if you need anything. Just press four-two-five.”

“Four, two, five,” I repeated. “What should I do until then?”

She cocked her head. “Look busy.”