The Goodly Creatures
The Goodly Creatures
How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, That has such people in ‘tt
Miranda in The Tempest
FARWELL suddenly realized that his fingers had been trembling all morning, with a hair-fine vibration that he couldn’t control. He looked at them in amazement and rested them on the keys of his typewriter. The tremor stopped and Farwell told himself to ignore it; then it would go away. The copy in the typewriter said: Kumfyseets—add I in the upper left-hand corner and under it:—hailed by veteran spacemen as the greatest advance in personal comfort and safety on the spaceways since—
Since what? It was just another pneumatic couch. Why didn’t he ever get anything he could work with? This one begged for pix—a stripped-down model in a Kumfyseet, smiling under a pretended seven-G takeoff acceleration—but the Chicago Chair Company account didn’t have an art budget. No art, and they were howling for tear-sheets already.
— comfort and safety on the spaceways since—
He could take Worple to a good lunch and get a shirt-tail graf in his lousy “Stubby Says” column and that should hold Chicago Chair for another week. They wouldn’t know the difference between Worple and—
Farwell’s intercom buzzed. “Mr. Henry Schneider to see you about employment.”
“Send him in, Grace.”
Schneider was a beefy kid with a practiced smile and a heavy handshake. “I saw your ad for a junior copywriter,” he
said, sitting down confidently. He opened an expensive, new-looking briefcase and threw a folder on the desk.
Farwell leafed through it—the standard presentation. A fact sheet listing journalistic honors in high school and college, summer jobs on weeklies, “rose to sergeantcy in only ten months during U.M.T. period.” Copies of by-line pieces pasted neatly, without wrinkles, onto heavy pages. A TV scenario for the college station. A letter from the dean of men, a letter from the dean of the journalism school.
“As you see,” Schneider told him, “I’m versatile. Sports, travel, science, human-interest, spot news—anything.”
“Yes. Well, you wouldn’t be doing much actual writing to start, Schneider. When—”
“I’m glad you mentioned that, Mr. Farwell. What exactly would be the nature of my work?”
“The usual cursus honoruni—” Schneider looked blank and then laughed heartily. Farwell tried again: “The usual success story in public relations is, copy boy to junior copywriter to general copywriter to accounts man to executive. If you last that long. For about three months you can serve Greenhough and Brady best by running copy, emptying waste baskets and keeping your eyes open. After you know the routine we can try you on—”
Schneider interrupted: “What’s the policy on salaries?” He didn’t seem to like the policy on promotions.
Farwell told him the policy on salaries and Schneider tightened his mouth disapprovingly. “That’s not much for a starter,” he said. “Of course, I don’t want to haggle, but I think my presentation shows I can handle responsibility.”
Farwell got up with relief and shook his hand. “Too bad we couldn’t get together,” he said, talking the youngster to the door. “Don’t forget your briefcase. If you want, you can leave your name with the girl and we’ll get in touch with you if anything comes up. As you say, you might do better in another outfit that has a more responsible job open. It was good of you to give us a try, Schneider …” A warm clap on the shoulder got him out.
Next time, Farwell thought, feeling his 45 years, it would be better to mention the starting salary in the ad and short-stop the youngsters with inflated ideas. He was pretty sure he hadn’t acted like that beefy hotshot when he was a kid—or had he? —comfort and safety on the space-ways since—
He turned on the intercom and said: “Get me Stubby Worple at the Herald.” Worple was in.
“Jim Farwell, Stub. I was looking at the column this morning and I made myself a promise to buzz you and tell you what a damn fine job it is. The lead graf was sensational.” Modest protests.
“No, I mean it. Say, why don’t we get together? You got anything on for lunch?”