I was assistant advertising manager, within one step of having a
secretary of my own. I had, already, a private office with a desk and a
rug and a typewriter and a window and a telephone that rang twenty times
an hour.
It was the fifth anniversary of my marriage. I was sad about that for
ten minutes, in a cab on my way to work; and I might be sad about it
again on my way home from work. In the interval I was very busy
answering the telephone, and hoping I would be an advertising manager
and have a secretary to answer it, soon.
It rang. The millinery buyer wanted extra space on the Friday page. I
said I would let her know definitely later.
It rang. The typographer wanted to know where the cuts for the
rotogravure page were, because the “Times” had called him to find out
when it would be ready. I told him to telephone the engraver. I told
someone in the department to telephone the engraver and rush him.
I began an ad on “We are seventy-four years young.” It was a “prestige”
ad. A “prestige” ad is a thing on which store owners spend money,
sorrowfully, because other store owners spend money on “prestige” ads,
sorrowfully.
The telephone rang. The lingerie buyer wanted extra space on the Friday
page. I was inconclusive about whether or not she would get it. The
telephone rang. A printer wanted to tell me that he could not match
paper on the folder of which we needed five hundred extra copies for
mailing by noon. I encouraged a young copy-writer who was ambitious to
be an assistant advertising manager, to run around in a few circles over
that.
The telephone rang. The shoe buyer wanted larger space on the Friday
page.
I wrote a little more copy on “We expect to be young for seventy-four
years more.” (We were going to have an anniversary sale soon.)
The telephone rang. The “Times” announced irritably that our rotogravure
copy was already three hours late, and they could not hold the space
much longer. I was wistful with them. I sent someone to quarrel with the
engraver about the missing cuts on that page. The engraver telephoned
me, that there was so much etching on those cuts he could not deliver
them to the typographer to “prove up” and send to the “Times,” for three
hours more. I was wistful-with-an-undertone-of-rage, with him.
I wrote a little more copy. The ambitious young copy-writer came in to
demand praise for having solved the printer’s difficulty. I praised her.
The telephone rang. The glove buyer wanted more space on the Friday
page. I was pessimistic with him. The telephone rang. The advertising
manager (in conference with the FIRM) told me to cut the Friday page to
six columns, and cut every department’s space proportionately. The
telephone rang. Lucia wanted to know “how about lunch?” I said I was
having a sandwich sent in.
The telephone rang. The jewelry buyer wanted more space on the Friday
page. I sympathized with him. I told the layout man to cut everyone’s
space on the Friday page. I wrote a little more copy. The “Times”
telephoned. I said, “Just this once . . . give us a little more time
. . . it will never happen again.” (I said that every other week.) The
beauty shop telephoned to say I was ten minutes late for my shampoo
appointment. I told them to cancel it.
The advertising manager telephoned to say they wanted the copy on “We
have been young seventy-four years,” upstairs in an hour. I turned it
over to the ambitious young copy-writer who was thrilled. I knew I
should have to rewrite her version, but that would be faster than doing
it myself.
The telephone rang. The millinery buyer wanted to know definitely, how
much extra space she was getting Friday. I sent the fashion copy-writer
down to persuade her to run her ad on Sunday. The typographer telephoned
to tell me he had not got the “Times” cuts yet. The printer telephoned
to tell me the paper the ambitious copy-writer had sent him from our
other printer’s was the wrong stock.
The telephone rang. The shoe buyer wanted to know about extra space on
Friday. I called in the layout man and told him to combine the spaces
planned for millinery and shoes and give it all to shoes. The
advertising manager’s secretary came in to tell me the millinery buyer
was outside in a rage, because she could not have more space on Friday.
The advertising manager telephoned that he was going out to lunch, and
would be back at four, and to settle everything myself until then. The
telephone rang. The “Times” was irate with me. The millinery buyer came
in, weeping.
The telephone rang.
“Hello, Pat?” I did not recognize the voice. Mine was cool. I did not
like men to call me at the office. The telephone rang too much anyway.
“Yes, this is she.”
“Many happy returns.”
(For what? Oh yes, it was my wedding anniversary. But who knew that?)
The millinery buyer sniffed.
“Who is it, please?”
A chuckle at the other end of the telephone.
“It’s Peter.”