He didn’t quibble. He told Farwell he could get along on it nicely, he had a room in the run-down sub-Bohemian near north side of town. He was from San Francisco, but had left home years ago—Farwell got the idea that he’d run away— and been in a lot of places. He’d held a lot of menial jobs and picked up a few credits taking night college courses here and there. After a while Farwell told him he was hired and to see the girl for his withholding tax and personnel data forms.
He buzzed his copy chief about the boy and leaned back in good humor. Angelo could1 never get to be an accounts man, of course, but he had some talent and imagination. Tame it and the kid could grow into a good producer. A rocket fan would be handy to have around if Sales stuck Ops with any more lemons like Chicago Chair.
Worple drank that night at the Mars Room like a man with a hollow leg and Farwell more or less had to go along with him. He got the Kumfyseets item planted but arrived at the office late and queasy as McGuffy, the copy chief, was bawling out Angelo for showing up in a plaid shirt, and a dirty one at that.
McGuffy came in to see him at 4:30 to ask about Angelo. “He just doesn’t seem to be a Greenhough and Brady man, J. F. Of course if you think he’s got something on the ball, that’s good enough for me. But, honestly, can you see him taking an account to lunch?”
“Is he really getting in your hair, Mac? Give him a few days.”
McGuffy was back at the end of the week, raging. “He showed me a poem, J. F. A sonnet about Mars. And he acted as if he was doing me a favor! As if he was handing me a contract with Panamerican Steel!”
Farwell laughed; it was exactly what he would expect Angelo to do. “It was his idea of a compliment, Mac. It means he thinks you’re a good critic. I know these kids. I used to—” He broke off, dead-pan.
McGuffy grumbled: “You know I’m loyal, J. F. If you think he’s got promise, all right. But he’s driving me nuts.”
After the copy chief left, Farwell shook his head nervously. What had he almost said? “I used to be one myself.” Why,
so he had—just about-25 years ago, a quarter of a century ago, when he went into radio work temporarily. Temporarily! A quarter-century ago he had been twenty years old. A quarter-century ago he had almost flunked out of college because he sat up all night trying to Write plays instead of studying.
He hazily remembered saying to somebody, a girl, something like: “I am aiming for a really creative synthesis of Pinero and Shaw.” Somehow that stuck, but he couldn’t remember what the girl looked like or whether she’d been impressed. Farwell felt his ears burning: “A really creative synthesis of Pinero and Shaw.” What a little————!
He told the intercom: “Send in Libonari.”
The boy was more presentable; his hair was cut and he wore a clean blue shirt. “I’ve had a couple of complaints,” said Farwell. “Suppose we get this clear: you are the one who is going to conform if you want to stay with us. Greenhough and Brady isn’t going to be remolded nearer to the heart’s desire of Angelo Libonari. Are you going out of your way -to be difficult?”
The boy shrugged uneasily and stammered: “No, I wouldn’t do anything like that. It’s just, it’s just that I find it hard to take all this seriously—but don’t misunderstand me. I mean I can’t help thinking that I’m going to do more important things some day, but honestly, I’m trying to do a good job here.”
“Well, honestly you’d better try harder,” Farwell said, mimicking his nervous voice. And then, more agreeably: “I’m not saying this for fun, Angelo. I just don’t want to see you wasted because you won’t put out a little effort, use a little self-discipline. You’ve got a future here if you work with us instead of against us. If you keep rubbing people the wrong way and I have to fire you, what’s it going to be? More hash-house jobs, more crummy furnished rooms, hot in the summer, cold in the winter. You’ll have something you call ‘freedom,’ but it’s not the real thing. And it’s all you’ll have. Now beat it and try not to get on Mr. McGuffy’s nerves.”