_The remarkable thing about Atummyc Afterbath Dusting Powder
was that it gave you that lovely, radiant, atomic look--just
the way the advertisements said it would. In fact, it also
gave you a little something_ more!
* * * * *
The advertising game is not as cut and dried as many people think.
Sometimes you spend a million dollars and get no results, and then
some little low-budget campaign will catch the public's fancy and walk
away with merchandising honors of the year.
Let me sound a warning, however. When this happens, watch out! There's
always a reason for it, and it isn't always just a matter of bright
slogans and semantic genius. Sometimes the product itself does the
trick. And when this happens people in the industry lose their heads
trying to capitalize on the "freak" good fortune.
This can lead to disaster. May I cite one example?
I was on loan to Elaine Templeton, Inc., the big cosmetics firm, when
one of these "prairie fires" took off and, as product engineer from
the firm of Bailey Hazlitt & Persons, Advertising Agency, I figured I
had struck pure gold. My assay was wrong. It was fool's gold on a pool
of quicksand.
Madame "Elaine", herself, had called me in for consultation on a huge
lipstick campaign she was planning--you know, NOW AT LAST, A TRULY
KISS-PROOF LIPSTICK!--the sort of thing they pull every so often to
get the ladies to chuck their old lip-goo and invest in the current
dream of non-smearability. It's an old gimmick, and the new product is
never actually kiss-proof, but they come closer each year, and the
gals tumble for it every time.
Well, they wanted my advice on a lot of details such as optimum
shades, a new name, size, shape and design of container. And they were
ready to spend a hunk of moolah on the build-up. You see, when they
give a product a first-class advertising ride they don't figure on
necessarily showing a profit on that particular item. If they break
even they figure they are ahead of the game, because the true purpose
is to build up the brand name. You get enough women raving over the
new Elaine Templeton lipstick, and first thing you know sales start
climbing on the whole line of assorted aids to seduction.
Since E. T., Inc., was one of our better accounts, the old man told me
to take as long as was needed, so I moved in to my assigned office, in
the twelve-story E. T. building, secretary, Scotch supply, ice-bags,
ulcer pills and all, and went to work setting up my survey staff. This
product engineering is a matter of "cut and try" in some fields. You
get some ideas, knock together some samples, try them on the public
with a staff of interviewers, tabulate the results, draw your
conclusions and hand them over to Production with a prayer. If your ad
budget is large enough your prayer is usually answered, because the
American Public buys principally on the "we know what we like, and we
like what we know" principle. Make them "know it" and they'll buy it.
Maybe in love, absence makes the heart grow fonder, but in this
business, familiarity breeds nothing but sales.
Madame Elaine had a fair staff of idea boys, herself. In fact, every
other department head had some gimmick he was trying to push to get
personal recognition. The Old Hag liked this spirit of initiative and
made it plain to me I was to give everyone a thorough hearing.
This is one of the crosses you have to bear. Everyone but the janitor
was swarming into my office with suggestions, and more than half of
them had nothing to do with the lipstick campaign at all. So I
dutifully listened to each one, had my girl take impressive notes and
then lifted my left or my right eyebrow at her. My left eyebrow meant
file them in the wastebasket. This is how the Atummyc Afterbath
Dusting Powder got lost in the shuffle, and later I was credited with
launching a new item on which I didn't even have a record.
It came about this way:
* * * * *
Just before lunch one day, one of the Old Hag's promotion-minded
pixies flounced her fanny into my interview chair, crossed her knees
up to her navel and began selling me her pet project. She was a
relative of the Madame as well as a department head, so I had to
listen.
Her idea was corny--a new dusting powder with "Atummion" added, to be
called, "Atummyc Afterbath Dusting Powder"--"Atummyc", of course,
being a far-fetched play on the word "atomic". What delighted her
especially was that the intimate, meaningful word "tummy" occurred in
her coined trade name, and this was supposed to do wonders in
stimulating the imaginations of the young females of man-catching-age.
[Illustration]
As I said, the idea was corny. But the little hazel-eyed pixie was
not. She was about 24, black-haired, small-waisted and bubbling with
hormones. With her shapely knees and low-cut neckline she was a
pleasant change of scenery from the procession of self-seeking
middle-agers I had been interviewing--not that her motive was any
different.
I stalled a little to feast my eyes. "This _Atummion Added_ item," I
said, "just what is _Atummion_?"
"That's my secret," she said, squinching her eyes at me like a
fun-loving little cobra. "My brother is assistant head chemist, and
he's worked up a formula of fission products we got from the Atomic
Energy Commission for experimentation."
"Fission products!" I said. "That stuff's dangerous!"
"Not this formula," she assured me. "Bob says there's hardly any
radiation to it at all. Perfectly harmless."
"Then what's it supposed to do?" I inquired naively.
She stood up, placed one hand on her stomach and the other behind her
head, wiggled and stretched. "Atummyc Bath Powder will give milady
that wonderful, vibrant, _atomic_ feeling," she announced in a voice
dripping with innuendo.
"All right," I said, "that's what it's supposed to do. Now what does
it really do?"
"Smells good and makes her slippery-dry, like any other talcum," she
admitted quite honestly. "It's the name and the idea that will put it
across."
"And half a million dollars," I reminded her. "I'm afraid the whole
thing is a little too far off the track to consider at this time. I'm
here to make a new lipstick go. Maybe later--"
"I appreciate that, but honestly, don't you think it's a terrific
idea?"
"I think you're terrific," I told her, raising my left eyebrow at my
secretary, "and we'll get around to you one of these days."
"Oh, Mr. Sanders!" she said, exploding those big eyes at me and
shoving a half-folded sheet of paper at me. "Would you please sign my
interview voucher?"
In Madame Elaine's organization you had to have a written "excuse" for
absenting yourself from your department during working hours. I
supposed that the paper I signed was no different from the others.
Anyway, I was still blinded by the atomic blast of those hazel eyes.
After she left I got to thinking it was strange that she had me sign
the interview receipt. I couldn't remember having done that for any
other department heads.
I didn't tumble to the pixie's gimmick for a whole month, then I
picked up the phone one day and the old man spilled the news. "I
thought you were making lipstick over there. What's this call for ad
copy on a new bath powder?"
The incident flashed back in my mind, and rather than admit I had been
by-passed I lied, "You know the Madame. She always gets all she can
for her money."
The old man muttered, "I don't see taking funds from the lipstick
campaign and splitting them off into little projects like this," he
said. "Twenty-five thousand bucks would get you one nice spread in the
Post, but what kind of a one-shot campaign would that be?"
I mumbled excuses, hung up and screamed for the pixie. My secretary
said, "Who?"
"Little sexy-eyes. The Atomic Bath Powder girl."
Without her name it took an hour to dig her up, but she finally popped
in, plumped down and began giggling. "You found out."
"How," I demanded, "did you arrange it?"
"Easy. Madame Elaine's in Paris. She gave you a free hand, didn't
she?"