Words for Higher … (another short story)

… … … … Ali scribbled –

‘Use striking landscape visual with a solitary marathon runner’ for ’Lean Cuisine’.

‘A great man admits his mistakes, a great pen erases them’ – slogan for Valor Insurance

‘Your pace or mine?’ – slogan on downtown billboard for Timex watch

‘Freedom makes the greedy jealous’ … … … … ?

FREEDOM MAKES THE GREEDY JEALOUS … … … ???? …

… … … … Her mind wandered.

She tapped the desk with her pencil. She looked out the window. The phone rang. “Yes?”

Did she have that copy ready for the 7-Up commercial?

She tapped her pencil. Yes. In an instant she said, “What goes Up, must come down.”

“Brilliant”, he said, chuckling. “Just like you to think of …”

She tapped the desk, interrupting, adding, “And with a French twist – “7-Up for the U.N. un.”

He stopped talking. “7-Up for the what ? ”

“For the U.N. un.”

“I don’t get it.”

She twirled her pencil. “No, you’re right, 7-Up – ‘what goes Up, must come down’ – with a striking visual of Generation Gappers guzzling.”

“Good,” he said, “Leave it on my desk by noon. I’ll get the photographer lined up.”

“Ok.”

“By the way, I’ve got another account coming in soon. $2.5 mill; billboards, print, and domestic t.v. Apple computers.”

Her mind instantly popped to Apple and Eve. But she didn’t say anything. It was so blatantly obvious, it was surprising that no one had thought of that yet.

“Ok, I’ll give it some thought.”

“Great, bye for now.”

She looked out her office window. Waves of pigeons were flying from one warehouse roof to the next. Her eyes flew with the birds. There was a knock at her door.

“Yes?”

Josie poked her head in. “Ali, the producer and director will be here at 10:30, Cabot Boardroom. Your father wants you to handle it.”

“Ok.” Smiles exchanged.

The door closed.

Ali-Janna Franklyn looked at the piles of stuff on her desk. Scanning the industry mags, the Idea file, Correspondence, Corporate Client, Retail. Her mind slid off work. She looked at the small art deco silver picture frame nestled underneath her tarnished Corinthian-style silver desk lamp. Inside was a photograph of the interior of a swimming-pool. No edges, just glistening turquoise water at a depth of about five feet. Her mind smiled. It was one of her favourite photos – a David Hockney knock-off.

The viewer as artist.

She picked up a file. The Heintzman Piano Account. Newspaper. The copy was coming along. It needed an edit. She flipped her pencil up so that the point was poised over the print. She began reading, again.

‘Dawn. 6 a.m.

‘You lie awake.

‘The alarm goes off suddenly, reminding you: another day, another dollar.

‘You rise, shower and shave.

‘Standing in the kitchen, you munch your toast and drink your coffee. You flip on the t.v. and listen to the morning news, Pulse 24. A young brunette with pearly white chiselled teeth says it will be sunny, warm, with low humidity. This vaguely pleases you.

‘As you pick up your car keys and drop the loose change into your pocket, you have a memory flash. Standing before you bathed in golden sunlight is that perfectly proportioned blonde. You quickly dismiss this idea and think about money.

‘You go to work. You listen to the phone, the people. You hear the pounding pulse of power and politics. The office cage rattles and heaves. Then, for a brief instant, when you drop your pen on to the copper toned carpet and bend over from your bouncing office chair to retrieve it, she explodes within your mind’s eye. Poised, beautiful. You hear a faint but distinct whisper. You cock your ear listening.

‘The phone rings.

‘You sit up and continue to work. You go to lunch. You drink. You laugh.

‘You sign the deal, slap a back and joke at the office. You take the phone. Dialing for dollars. You dictate, orchestrate, and basically, charm your way forward.

‘In the afternoon, later, you have another moment alone. Picking up your pen you stare at the blank paper. And then, yes, you see her again. She is there, smiling, beckoning, inviting you to join her.

“Come”, she says, “Come to me here where rhythm rides with rhyme.”

‘You do not understand what she means, but you know you want to.

‘You go to touch her, but her golden hair slips through your fingers like the shadows of a harp. You want to embrace her but her firm body melts within your closing arms. Only her whispering warm words remain.

“Come, come to me here where rhythm rides with rhyme.”

‘Leaning back, you close your eyes for a moment. And with a burning yearning heart you allow yourself to wander into the Wide World of Wonder.

‘The phone rings again. And you go back to work.

‘Later, much later, in the privacy of your lair, you move over to your grand piano.

‘You sit and finally smile. You know you will find her here.

‘HEINTZMAN. PIANO AU NATURAL.’

Ali struck out ‘warm’. And wrote CHOP DOWN at the top of the page. The phone rang.

“Yes?”

“Ali, do you and Keith want to go to the Explorer’s Club Lecture next Thursday?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“Well, this one’s about lost cannibals hunting in the Amazon.”

She quipped. “How can they hunt if they’re lost?”

He answered, “Prince Charles is the honorary head.”

She laughed, “That should be tasty. I thought he was a veggin.”

Her phone rang. Line Two. “Just a sec, other line…”

She picked up and listened. “Ali, they’re waiting in the Boardroom.”

“Ok, I’ll be right there.” Line One. “Pick us up at 7ish, for drinks first, ok? Gotta go.” Done.

As she walked down the hall she nodded to several open doorways, tossed a few encouraging remarks, and made three decisions. She turned the corner, walked into the Cabot Boardroom and headed for the head chair.

The meeting began.
But all she could think of was the stranger there. Him. Who was this man, this quiet attentive man sitting so near to her? His manicured fingertips rested quietly on the edge of the table. The director and producer presented their newly designed storyboards in conjunction with her copy. They pitched her carefully, watching for nuance in her actions and reactions to see what to play up, play down. Gently tugging on the power line. She let it go. Their ideas were good. “So, when will you begin shooting? What’s the time line?”

The two guys glanced briefly at each other. That was easy.

“Four weeks. Once we find the right characters. Tom here is our lead actor.”

Ali glanced quickly at Him, and smiled at the table, conscious of his tanned hands. “That sounds fine. But I do want the final say on all visuals. They have to be approved by me.”

Tom didn’t say anything. She could feel his eyes on her. Assessing her as a woman, as a boss, as the Creative Head of Franklyn, Ross, MacFarlane & Luca. She turned to the producer and the director, “It’s a wrap then?” The director said something. What? He said something again. Sorry, what? Her mind wandered to those delicate hands gently cupping a fragile bird. The director said again, “Is Derek still the comptroller? We’re going to need an advance.” “Yes,” she focused, “Talk to Derek, he’ll set it up.”

The producer was shuffling together the storyboards, the presentation. The director glanced briefly out the window. Tom sat quietly observing. She stood up, smiling, then dismissed them, “I’ll talk to you then in a few days.” As she turned to leave the room she quickly caught Tom’s eye and sent him the look that said, “See, I’m not so hard to get along with.” He gave her a luscious warm smile. A real handsome hunk. In the hall, her heart pounded, her palms were sweaty and her mind raced. It was Him. She was sure it was Him.

She returned to her office, picking up the memos and messages. Only one needed immediate attention. Her father wanted her in his office. Pronto. She sighed. Blood bondage. She picked up her phone and buzzed his secretary. Tell him I’ll be right there. Yes Ms. Franklyn. As she glided down to his office, she thought about Him. Where? Where had she seen Him before?

“Yes Dad?”

“How’d the meeting go?”

“Fine, they start shooting in four weeks.”

“Four weeks? Why so long?”

She looked at him. “Come on, four weeks is realistic, you know that.”

“Four weeks isn’t good enough. Call them back, tell them you’re being pushed by the client for an earlier air time. Tell them we shoot in three. “

Ali looked out the window. “Is that really necessary?”

He picked up his phone. “Yes.”

She listened to him on the phone for a moment, then left his office. She did what she had been told to do. She knew she was being groomed for take-over. She had to act and do as the clever bastard said. The director squealed, the producer huffed and puffed, and they both said that Tom, TOM, who was perfect for the part, would not be available, he was shooting a Tropicana ad in Florida. She hung up the phone and nodded to herself, yes, I understand Dad, business before pleasure.

Later that night, in bed, He entered the landscape of her dreams. His image, TOM’s image, filled her mind. He stood there, quiet, and smiling. Arms crossed, head high, feet planted squarely, his legs spread. Everything was swirling around him. Colours, patterns, shadows and light. Natural and unnatural elements. Trees, sand, dirt, cardboard boxes, plastic, steel. Trucks, chariots and cars. Animals scampered about him, cowered below him, flew above him. He, the vortex, he, the centre. The only item missing, people. Not a one. He was seductively solitary and statuesque. Like one of those large epic duotone Calvin Klein billboard ads.

Ali rolled over in her sleep. As she did so the sheet tugged hard across her naked torso. She felt arms wrap around her. She was his captive. Snared. Keith’s hairy arm slid up against her backside. She started, suddenly wide awake. Keith’s hand slid up and over her hips. His body form moved towards her for a deep sleep snuggle. She could hear him breathing softly. His life going to and fro, ebbing and flowing. She deliberately sighed and heaved herself away from him. His hand slid off her back.

Lying awake she thought again of Tom. This phantom champion. She felt she had somehow already known and loved Him, this compelling stranger. Somehow he had already seduced her. Possessed her. She felt tired, satisfied. Calm even. Surprisingly confident. She remembered something forgotten from her dream. They had been lying on finely powdered stone dust. Near the Acropolis. Their bodies shimmered with powder. This man had taken her. She could clearly remember the midnight heat, the moon, the stars, the wet warmth and the coolness of that night air. Liquid love.

Light edged into the room. Dawn, real dawn, was coming. She rolled over again, and lay awake. How could this be so real? This phantom lover. Something about Phoenicians, Greeks, islands, Minoan culture and Calvin Klein. Scholars, schemers, scarabs and early Model Man. Human history held her. Life beginning. She looked at the electric clock by her bed. 5:43. Another thought , vague and indistinct, surfaced. A child, an infant, a newborn babe. She had been holding it. Its great klonky head nodding on and off her shoulder. And when she had pulled away from him, yes Him, he had placed his hand beneath the bobbing baby’s head, and cupped it gently.

She got out of bed abruptly. Too much softness. Too much deliberate womanhood. She saw the book on the floor. Where she had left it. Isadora. That’s it. The biography of Isadora Duncan. A Hellenist’s Helen. That must be the connection. That is the reason for this peculiar absorption. This way-out-there fantasy. Isadora somehow knew how to evoke a world of poetry in perfect dream time. Her ethereal dance was always an invitation to join in. Join in.

She glanced over at Keith. Short dark stubble pushed out from his face. He was covered in a slight glistening sweat. His hair mop was matted to his left ear. Fourteen years of this. He continued to snore loudly as she went to the bathroom to shower and get ready for work.

Mid-morning she was at her desk again, with pencil poised. She pulled out a file, on the top of the interior sheet she wrote –

FIRST DRAFT: TTC. Newspaper – full page:

‘For Christmas this year my rich European grandfather slipped a small coin into the palm of my hand. He chuckled in his deep baritone voice – “Son”, he said, “You are now 40 years old, and I want you to have this, it is the first Canadian coin I ever earned. Now I am giving it to you.”

I looked down. It was a measly little nickel.

“Grandpa”, I said “Please. I earn a good salary.”

His face fell. “I am giving it to you, [Note: Insert Greek word for ‘child’] because I want you to understand the promise that I made 63 years ago when I first came to this great country.” He swept his arm through the air. “I kissed this free soil and vowed, ‘I will look after you, if you will look after me’. This coin is a symbol of my full history, and it now represents the promise of your full future.”

His eyes clouded over and his trembling hand fell.

“You must always remember, my son, great families, and the great countries they live in, are like ancient old trees in a vast primordial forest. Trees grow strong because they draw up deep rich life from this God-given soil. You must take great care on your journey forward, and never forget your roots.”

He looked away from me. My wide throbbing eyes suddenly filled with child tears. He, who was so old and so wise, had just told me he would soon die.

“ ‘Child’ “ [NB: in Greek] , he chuckled, as he put his great bear arm around me, “Come, enough talk, time for a drink.”

TORONTO TRUST CEMETERIES –

Holding families together for centuries.

Ali closed the file and put it back on the rack. She would give that a few days to simmer. She pulled down the Apple Computer dossier and began reading back-dated annual reports, beginning with 1980.

As she handed her father the latest cheque, she said, “You are not perfect you know, so why do you expect perfection?” Without waiting for his reply she turned to leave his office. She abruptly turned at the door, “Well?”

He looked up at her and smiled. “Don’t you expect perfection Ali?”

She looked at him, “Perfection of what? A perfect life?”

He picked up the phone. ” ‘To Love, and To Be Loved, is like having the Sun Shine All Around - There are No Shadows.’ “

She listened to her father speak his brilliant multi-million dollar ad copy.

And a tiny salt tear slowly formed in the very back of her mind’s eye.

…