The Car Bomb

Chapter 1

So imagine floating high in those famed Manhattan canyons. Actually, you don’t need to imagine. Just recall in your mind’s eye all those fluid, gliding images from trite Hollywood movies, pretentious cable dramas, or ambitious TV commercials, sailing us well above the mean and grasping streets of this true American capital.

Bright sun splashes the glass of one particular building in the vicinity of 45th and Madison, a high-priced neighborhood indeed, but worth every penny.

Why the value?

Well, normally, from this vaunted viewpoint you can see the dreams, fears, hopes and desires of consuming Americans in every state of the union.

Normally.

But today is May 18, 1991, and we have it on the impeccable authority of a recent issue of Time Magazine, with its various eloquent experts, that these are not at all normal times. And that’s why we are slipping inconspicuously now through one of those gleaming top-floor windows into a large executive office at the top-drawer U.S. advertising agency of Boreman Bunning Berne.

Yes, we’re in Mad Men territory here. Only it’s a quarter century later, the windows don’t open any more, self-loathing men without hope no longer use them for leaping to oblivion, and the Joans and Peggys now run the show.

Chic, diminutive, with close-cropped silver hair, CEO Marva Boreman leans back at her desk, clasps her hands above her head and cracks her knuckles. This is usually a maneuver intended to amuse or intimidate underlings, but since she is alone at the moment, there’s just the private, impish pleasure of it. Now rising, the 62-year-old woman turns and gazes out the window, down onto Madison as it heads up toward the park. Directly below she notes a young man with orange hair running on the sidewalk and guesses which of three young women striding ahead he will tap. Yes, of course, it’s the one in the electric blue mini. Marva’s clear gray eyes never miss a trick, and her well-turned coral lips show a slight smile that says she knows it.

And now with a burst of energy, through the handsome mahogany double-door entrance to the office, comes her multi-talented research director Della Payne, that luxurious mane the same shade as the double doors. On long, shapely legs she moves briskly, trailed by a slim, blond, mincing young man who carries a stack of computer printout sheets. Marva turns and moves to them. Gorgeous Della is a full head taller.

Two other fey young men also enter carrying a large corkboard map of a pregnant U.S.A. with a swollen heartland and shrunken coasts. With a quick, decisive gesture Della shows them exactly where to place it, and Marva, taking a small American flag pin off the printout sheets, heads for the map. The little CEO looks over a number of red dots near its center, then sticks the flag into one that says Maddox, Iowa.

Chapter 2

A minor rear-end collision between a sleek Mercedes limo and a rusty Ford clunker has this narrow eastside street badly clogged. With horns blaring and a crowd gathering, a tall blond woman in a limo uniform and a little Puerto Rican man with a pencil mustache are already beyond words. She's mashing his windows with a tire iron. He’s hacked a machete into one of the limo's tires and now uses a spray can to paint Fuck U on each of the doors.

In the backseat of a cab on a nearby avenue, Tony Rice, a fellow with dark good-looks, just past 30, suave in a suit of summer tan, takes a sip of coffee from a styrofoam cup, then glances at his gold Movado. A swarthy, turbaned Sikh in short-sleeves waits behind the wheel for the light to change.

For the second time in five minutes Tony says, Sir, could you please get a move on? I'm running late.

The Sikh says firmly, Law say red not go.

Exasperated, Tony ditches polite and tries a loud bark: Yes, I know. I mean when it's green.

When the light finally turns, the cab squeals away, then hangs a speedy left into the same narrow side street hosting the accident. Within seconds, the jam traps the cab, and its halt is screeching.

Tony has been thrown forward as he struggles to hold the cup upright. As the cab whips him back against the seat, he squeezes the styrofoam just enough to pop the top and dump the coffee in his lap.

Goddammit!

Out comes a handkerchief that fails miserably to deal with the dark stain. Of course, he looks like he's wet his pants.

The Sikh turns and stares at Tony's crotch. You say go fast. Now stop fast.

Stuffing a 20 through the plexi-glass, Tony escapes the cab, throws the strap to his leather brief case over his shoulder and starts running. After a half-block he dodges past the cheering crowd as the big blond and little Hispanic continue to do each other's car. When he turns onto Madison Avenue and races up the crowded sidewalk, he can see his building ahead.

Also ahead, a portly fellow in a badly strained polo over Sansabelt slacks and a Frommer’s in hand, is gazing up at a building and backing into the middle of the sidewalk. Seeing him too late, Tony bumps him heavily but keeps on running. The guidebook goes flying, but the fat guy reaches first to a back pocket in his Sansabelts. Whereupon, he screams, Martha, stop him! He's got my wallet!

Ahead on the sidewalk, the tourist's hefty wife sticks out a thick foot and trips Tony as he passes. Sprawling on the cement, Tony scrapes his wrist and bangs his knee.

With surprising reflexes, a large black woman arranges her New Balanced foot on his neck, pinning him neatly to the sidewalk.

And up runs the tourist screaming, Help! Police! Someone call the police! This man stole my wallet! Hold him down, please. Police!

Within seconds a cop materializes out of nowhere and shoves a large black gun at Tony’s head. Naturally, a crowd gathers.

Okay, scum, says the cop, give me just one reason to blow your head off. And to the black woman: That's good, ma'am, you can let him up now.

With his neck free from the woman’s shoe, Tony lifts his head and slowly rolls on his back to get a look at his accusers.

The cop seems delighted. Well now, the weenie peed his pants.

With an air of street wisdom, the black woman explains, One of them corporate crackheads. Bladder's the first thing to go.

The tourist says, Alright, mister, where's my wallet? He slams into me and lifts it right outta this back pocket. He’s patting the empty back pocket of the Sansabelts.

His wife sounds put out: Normie, I always tell you: ‘Put it up front for safe-keeping.’

Normie pats a bulge in his front pocket, then pulls out his wallet. Well, I'll be, he says, amazed, I guess I had it here after all. Officer, I'll write the mayor about your sterling performance.

The cop is finally putting his gun away. I’d appreciate that, sir, but just another day on the job. And to Tony: You were lucky this time, pal. Get yourself into a treatment program.

Speechless, Tony struggles to his feet and limps through the crowd, thinking none of this happens if he doesn’t read that piece in People Magazine on his hero Elmore Leonard.

Chapter 3

Still with a limp, Tony steps into a gleaming chrome and glass lobby, and moments later when elevator doors open onto the headquarters of Boreman Bunning Berne, he stiff-legs off in pants still apparently pissed.

He quickly falls in step with his agency pal and protege George Stone. With lots of longish brown curls, George, like Tony, is smart, young and good-looking. He’s somewhere between proud and cocky that Tony is his mentor. As they stride together he says helpfully under his breath, You're late.

No shit, says Tony.

That Dutch deal again?

You got it.

That Dutch deal is their shorthand for Tony’s three-week experiment in rising at the ungodly hour of 5 am to write for two hours before getting ready for his work here at the agency, emulating the great Dutch Leonard, in the novelist’s early years as an ad writer in Detroit. So far, despite often trying to sneak in an extra 30 or 40 minutes and often making himself late, he’s managed all of nine pages on a story he can’t even bring himself to read.

As they near the conference room, George is staring down at Tony's crotch. So what happened down there?

Moving the briefcase to hold in front of him proves too awkward, and Tony gives up, slinging it back over his shoulder. I wet my pants.

At the conference room door Della Payne, her redoubtable curves somehow contained in a red knit that ends mid-thigh, is staring at him with a delighted smile. "Tony, look at you! Ever try that underwear? You know, Depends?"

Suck one, Della.

Well, enjoy yourselves, boys, she says sweetly. Life, as you know it, is about to end.

George goes for the bait. What are you talking about?

Just step inside, says Della. Marva's finally given me what I need to dice your little walnuts.

The BBB creative and research staffs occupy opposite sides of a large table with Marva Boreman at the head. Tony and George sit on the left, flanking a sleek blond named Sally Fine, decked out today in a diaphanous blouse through which they can easily appreciate a recent purchase at Victoria’s Secret.

Della closes the door and heads past the corkboard with the swollen map to her seat on the right, next to Marva. Placed in front of each one at the table is a copy of Time with a cover picturing a rural back porch holding a bicycle and work boots and inscribed with the words The Simple Life. The sub-head says, Rejecting the rat race, Americans get back to basics.

When Marva stands she's only slightly taller than Della seated. Moving to a whiteboard, she gestures at a message someone has neatly printed: Top Secret.

All right, what follows is for your eyes and ears only. It has top-secret priority. I mean absolutely nothing leaves this room.

Tony and George swap concerned glances.

Marva eyes them both. First, a little Advertising 101. We hit the jackpot in this game when the Added Value we attach to a brand catches a major social or demographic wave. ‘You deserve a break today.’ Struck gold for McDonald's when women with kids under ten were flooding the work force.

Tony and George look bored now.

Marva sweeps her gaze over the others. But to catch that wave we have to be out there floating in that great sea of common folks and real people. Now, all we seem to be hearing about these days is a return to old-fashioned, simple-life values.

She holds up her copy of Time.

Della, why don’t you do us the pleasure and, for those of us who may have forgotten the vital importance of research,—she stares down the creative side of the table—the invaluable service of reading the first few graphs of this insightful cover story.

On her feet, Della cocks a hip, encouraging the other side of the table to admire her shape. Tony recalls a recent moment when he heard the bitch advising a young female assistant, When in doubt, show your tits.

"Thank you, Marva. Yes, this brilliant piece, titled ‘The Simple Life,’ has a subhead that reads: ‘Goodbye to having it all. Tired of trendiness and materialism, Americans are rediscovering the joys of home life, basic values and things that last.’

"And it begins this way:

"‘These are the humble makings of a revolution in progress: Macaroni and cheese. Timex watches. Volunteer work. Insulated underwear. Savings accounts. Roseanne. Domestic beer. Local activism. Sleds. Pajamas. Sentimental movies. Primary colors. Mixed-breed dogs. Bicycles. Cloth diapers. Shopping at Wal-mart. Small-town ways. Iceberg lettuce. Family reunions. Board games. Hang-it-yourself wallpaper. Push-it-yourself lawn movers. Silly Putty.’"

Reading in a commanding voice, Della makes clear with biting diction and a clarion tone that she considers this message absolutely essential:

"‘See the pattern? After a 10-year bender of gaudy dreams and godless consumerism, Americans are starting to trade down. They want to reduce their attachments to status symbols, fast-track careers and great expectations of Having It All. Upscale is out; downscale is in. Yuppies are an ancient civilization. Flaunting money is considered gauche: if you’ve got it, please keep it to yourself—or give some away!

"In place of materialism, many Americans are embracing simpler pleasures and homier values. They’ve been thinking hard about what really matters in their lives, and they’ve decided to make some changes. What matters is having time for family and friends, rest and recreation, good deeds and spirituality. For some people that means a radical step: changing one’s career, living on less, or packing up and moving to a quieter place. For others it can mean something as subtle as choosing a cheaper brand of running shoes or leaving work a little earlier to watch the kids in a soccer game.

The pursuit of a simpler life with deeper meaning is a major shift in America’s private agenda. ‘This is a rapid and extremely powerful movement,’ says Ross Goldstein, a San Francisco psychologist and market researcher. ‘I’m impressed by how deep it goes into the fabric of this country.’ Says noted Theologian Martin Marty of the University of Chicago: ‘We are all warned against thinking in terms of trends that correspond with decades, but this one is a cinch. I think that people are going to look back at today as a hinge period in the country’s history.’ Some social observers have already dubbed the 1990s the ‘We decade.’

Marva moves a hand, Della sits, and the little CEO takes over.

Thank you, Della. I would urge all of you not only to read the rest of this seminal essay, but to memorize it. Frankly, judging by the results of that lifestyle questionnaire you all filled out not long ago, none of you are out there floating in the great Sea of Research. You're not even getting your feet wet. And you certainly don't have the slightest notion what Joe Sixpack or Harriet Homemaker is thinking or feeling.

On the right side of the table, Della’s research staff is rapt with attention, everyone taking copious notes. On the left, many of the creative types are dozing, fidgeting or doodling.

Marva sails on: Now, normally, to get in touch, we do focus groups. We pull a bunch of people out of the sea, put them in a room and ask them questions, and you sit and take notes behind a two-way mirror. But lately I've had the feeling we'd be better off if you were all just hanging out in bars, or somehow walking up and down the world beyond this isolated little island.

Tony glances at sloe-eyed Sally next to him. She winks, and he wonders if she knows something he doesn’t about what’s coming.

Marva says, So Della Payne and I came up with a major new research project. We'll be sending six of you to live in a scientifically selected small town. Right smack in the middle of this great land.

She gestures at the map, and now Tony and George are definitely worried.

Marva continues, A place that should put us back in touch with the concerns and aspirations of ordinary, everyday Americans. You will live with these people, get to know them, go to their town meetings, their church suppers, their weddings and their funerals. You will find out all you can about how they feel and think about their homes, their jobs, their children, their pets. In short, you will inspect and observe every aspect of their lives. And six weeks later you'll come back here with a wealth of data that, when sorted and formulated, should give us a much better chance to catch that wave.

Marva has everybody's attention now on both sides of the table. Now, those who will actually take part in ‘Operation Paynesville.’ Of course, Della herself will be there to supervise. And reporting to Della from her staff will be Bo Walker.

Bo, a tall, thin, plain woman, tries unsuccessfully to smile.

Meg Cross.

Short, plump and pleasant, Meg does manage a grin.

And Sig Finkelstien.

Gaunt and balding, Sig pumps his hand in the air. Yes! All right! Thank you, Marva!

Others, especially in the creative group, respond to Sig's enthusiasm with amused contempt.

Marva turns to the other side of the table. And from creative we have George Stone.

George nods, as if he knew it all along.

And Tony Rice.

Tony looks at George nodding and shakes his head in disgust.

With what for her is a huge smile, Marva says, So let's hear it for these six bold explorers of the new American psyche.

From the rest of the staffers, enormously relieved that they are not part of this six-week ordeal, come whoops, hollers and loud applause.

Chapter 4

Marva really said that? George looks incredulous.

Above the bar in this terminally hip nightspot, one of their favorite after-work hangouts, a large neon sign flashes Mother's. Below the sign Tony and George seem deeply glum despite the pounding base throbbing in this room full of fashion and flesh.

Tony stares down at his Jack on ice and says, Quote: ‘I think you've been coming up a bit dry lately. Maybe you've let yourself get just a tad jaded.’

Jaded! Christ, little Marvelous is the epitome of jaded herself. And dry? Man, what you've turned out in the past six months is fucking amazing.

I came this close... Tony holds his thumb and forefinger a half-inch apart. ...to asking how good Della is at lickety-split.

Hell, you should have.

Yeah, well, I called D & E before I saw her. The job they pitched me in March got broomed last week along with 30 others.

George shakes his head. This fucking business. I had a client, that asshole from Philly, come in today and slap two quarters on my desk. Says, ‘Mine's the one on the left. How would you prove it's better?’

Jesus, that's an old one. I've had 'em come in with a quarter and a dime and say, ‘Mine's the dime.’

Sensuous Sally slinks up in a pink silk suit with no blouse and a very short skirt. Hey, boys. My two handsome hicks!

Tony without a glance: Clever, Sally.

"Like my new suit?

Tony keeps staring at his drink. Love it. Very sexy.

Behind him, Jacqui Dean, a stunning black model, blouse opened to her navel, is dancing toward them with a glinting smile on her fine-boned face.

Sally says, So underneath I'm not wearing a thing.

Unseen by either of them Jacqui is near enough to overhear.

Tony is finally looking at Sally now. Not even a little bit of Chanel?

Well, of course, a little, in your very favorite place.

No longer smiling, Jacqui arrives, slaps Tony hard across the face and leaves.

Sally is wide-eyed, then laughs. Friend of yours?

Gingerly, Tony feels his cheek. It’s going from pained to numb. I thought so.

Turning away from the bar, George watches the model grab a buzz-cut hulk he knows plays in the NFL. On the dance floor, they’re soon moving athletically.

So she's already out there, shaking it with that Giant tight end.

Tony refuses to look. That's nice.

After watching for a few seconds, George asks, Does this mean I can hunt?

You know the rules, says Tony.

Sally raises her perfect brows. Rules?

George nods. Yes, Sal, our rules to hunt by: Always tell the truth. Whoever meets it first gets first shot. Don't make a move 'til the other guy says okay.

As Tony again only has eyes for his whiskey, Sally shakes her head. It’s so good to know there are still men of principle in this world.

George tells Sally, Damn straight. Then to Tony: So are you through?

Tony nods, finally looking at the dancers. I draw the line at physical abuse.

And then, as his gaze wanders across the crowded floor, his eye is caught by a weaving, bobbing head of long, shimmering black hair. Even though a decade has passed since he last saw it, he thinks he knows that hair. And as the woman whirls, offering a glimpse of a slim, perfect body and a lovely, dark-eyed face, even though in the years since their college days he’s always forced himself to add 50 extra pounds to that figure and lots of lines and warts to the face, without question he knows her. Even though he never thinks of her as Mimi Feldstein, and only, on those rare occasions when she’s surfaced in his memory, as the Heart Wrecker, seeing her now is a total shock to his system.

Until George gives him a nudge, he doesn’t even know he’s moved off his barstool and is standing now to stare at the woman’s partner, a tall blond character, who’s moving well for his size and whose ancestors no doubt came from somewhere on the Scandinavian Peninsula.

Tony, what’s up? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.

He looks at his pal. Yeah, maybe so. And then wanting a closer look, he asks, Hey, Sal, wanna dance?

Thought you’d never ask.

He grabs her hand and within seconds they’re moving face to face to the overloud thumps, whines and beeps that are someone’s idea of music. He’s gazing past Sal’s sexy moves, searching for lost love, but the lithe Jew and her Nordic giant have somehow disappeared.

Who you looking for? yells Sal.

The only one who ever cracked my heart.

Oh, I’ve got to see this, she says, turning to prance with her back to him.

Too late, he says. She’s gone.

Or maybe she was never there. Maybe he was just seeing things after Jacqui Dean’s stern slap in the face.

Chapter 5

In Central Park Tony and George skirt the pond on their usual Saturday morning run. Working off anger, Tony seems super-charged, running hard while his pal is puffing to keep up. Hoping to slow him down with a little conversation, George gasps, Christ, six weeks with Della, Meg and Bo!