She goes to Mount Saint Ursula, scholarship and all-straight-A student, field hockey, the whole thing." "Now, now, I know what you're thinking, but it's nothing like that. That could mean anything from promiscuity to drugs to being an all-around wild child. Something had to be bothering him.Ī problem with a fourteen-year-old girl. And a morning beer-even if it was late morning-wasn't like the new Timmy. In other words, a prototypical Julio's regular.īut Jack didn't remember ever seeing him here before five o'clock. No longer big-time, resigned to be forever small-time. Always a little out of step-like the Hawaiian shirt-ever functioning just outside the norm. He was still in advertising, but working far below the apogee of his heyday. The guy who'd had his finger on the pulse of America's wants-who'd even created some of those wants-could never quite localize that throb again. And soon after, so did Timmy.Īfter bottoming out a few years later, he put himself in rehab, joined NA, and cleaned up his act.īut the clean and sober Timmy was not the same man. The multimillion-dollar account went elsewhere. The officers agreed, but figured the bank's name would be associated with other words in those households-like "hell-bound" and "damned" and "sacrilegious." So against all advice and all orders, he'd pitched it to the bank officers, telling them that though he knew it would be controversial, that very controversy would make Citibank a household name. The agency brass had told him to forget it, but coke-fueled grandiosity mixed with his own hubris had convinced him that this was the only way to go. He'd once shown the Julio's gang a mockup of the ad.Ī big, neon-bright lettered cross with tiny letters below it:Įveryone here at Julio's had thought it was way cool, but the new Timmy said he had no idea where his old self had come up with such a stupid idea. His agency had been on the short list for a big Citibank account and he had this idea that he was sure would clinch it for them. Lots of money, but too much of it going up his nose. Jack wasn't ready to venture outside his self-circumscribed world of Julio's, Abe's, Gia's, and his own place, but maybe he could make a few suggestions.Īs Timmy settled his butt in the chair and his draft on the table, Jack reviewed what he knew about the man.Ī dozen years ago Timmy had been an advertising hotshot, near the peak of the copywriter heap. What was the point? Who cared? And when he got right down to it, did any-thing he did, anything he'd ever done, matter in the long run? Had he ever made a difference?īut Timmy looked so needy. He couldn't find the energy to get up and get out and get moving again. But a shrink would want to give him pills, and Jack didn't want pills. He didn't need a shrink to tell him he was depressed. No interest, no energy, and probably drinking too much these past three weeks. Truth was he was having trouble caring about much of anything outside his small, immediate circle. Didn't feel he could focus enough-or care enough-to earn his fee. He'd been on sabbatical, ignoring e-mails and voice mails from prospective customers. I know you've still got to be bummed, but I could really use some help, Jack." I mean, I know about what happened last month, and I'm really sorry for your loss. Julio always saved him a table where he could sit with his back to the wall. Julio's, an Upper West Side bar that had fought the good fight and succeeded in holding on to its working-class roots through the neighborhood's decades of legitimization, rehabilitation, restoration, and gentrification, had been Jack's hang for years. A fiftyish guy, thin, hangdog face, watery eyes, and wearing a Hawaiian shirt in January. He looked up from his coffee and saw Timmy O'Brien, one of Julio's regulars. Jack sat at his table in the rear of Julio's. Stu Schiff for the world's most amazing single malts.Īnd super extra-special thanks to Ethan Bateman for lending me his sui generis metaphors.įinally, a wink and a nod to the few readers out there who'll know the Wauwinet Inn's seasonal schedule. Sandra Escandon, M.D., and Paul Gilson, M.D., for neurological guidance. Ken Valentine and New York Joe for weaponry assistance. The folks in the Forum came up with many excellent suggestions, but Harbingers hit the bull's-eye. Special thanks to Steven Spruill for his perceptive insights and going the extra mile. Thanks to the usual crew for their efforts: my wife, Mary my editor, David Hartwell Elizabeth Monteleone and my agent, Albert Zuckerman.
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