“Yeah, I guess so. I’m really sorry about the costume. And I’m sorry I was such an asshole. This role is important to my career.”
“Then lose the attitude and do the best job you can. My client is here, and we all need to be on our best behavior. Got that?”
He nodded, head down.
A few minutes later, Fred arrived on the set with Arthur in tow, and I had to stifle a laugh when I saw him. Arthur was wearing pancake makeup that made him look positively orange. He had taken off his expensive suit jacket and stood in his shirt sleeves and trousers. Fred asked Jimmy to give him the jacket to the military costume. The actor obediently took it off and handed it to the director. The whole back of the costume was ripped out, but that wouldn’t be seen on camera. Fred reverently held up the brightly colored military jacket to allow Arthur to slip into it. It was far too big for him. Fred called, “Wardrobe!” Bill, his stoic assistant, appeared with duct tape to temporarily alter the costume.
“Art, excuse me while I have a creative conference with Kim. She’s the boss on this shoot.” My client nodded happily, clearly in his element.
“What are you doing?” I asked out of earshot. “We can’t use him in the spot!”
“If we don’t, there won’t be a goddamned spot.”
“Shit! So how do we bring him in?”
“How about if he hands Thomas Jefferson his pen and paper? That kills two birds with one stone—then we don’t have to worry about Jimmy fumbling with the props.”
“You think it’ll work?”
“It has to,” he shrugged casually, accustomed to the unexpected. We walked back to the set.
“Okay, everybody—let’s get this in the can,” said the director, rubbing his hands in happy anticipation of finally finishing the shoot.
The two actors had already taken their place on the ship’s deck. Jimmy had humbly donned the long wig once more and was dressed in a white ruffled period shirt. Arthur proudly wore the military jacket that had seen better days, and the tricorne hat that had come with the costume. Since we had only one wig, it worked perfectly to cover his modern hairstyle. Standing side by side, they were quite an odd pair: Jimmy was over 6′2″, and Arthur wasn’t quite 5′9″.
“Alright! Now—Jimmy, you’re Thomas Jefferson, witnessing a terrible battle from the bow of this great ship.”
“Francis Scott Key,” I corrected him.
“Which one am I?” cried the fledgling actor in frustration. “I have to know—so I can get into character.”
“I stand corrected,” replied the director. “You’re Francis Scott Key.”
“And who am I?” Arthur asked eagerly, now full of excitement.
“You’re . . . you’re . . . Sir Thomas Wellington! The ship’s distinguished physician.”
“My mother always wanted me to become a doctor. But I went into the family business because Dad—”
“—yes!” interrupted Fred. “And if it wasn’t for that fortuitous decision, we all wouldn’t be here right now, having the privilege of shooting this important television commercial. Some things are just destiny.”
“That’s true!” Arthur replied.
“So, you, Dr. Wellington, will walk up to Mr. Key and hand him his pen and paper. And then you will take several steps away from him. This is a very important responsibility.”
“I am up to the challenge.”
“Okay! Dim the overhead lights. Bill, start the strobes. Begin rolling. ACTION!”
Frances Scott Key, newly injured in battle, stood at the ship’s rail, the lights from the cannon fire clearly illuminating his grave, but courageous, expression. Dr. Wellington approached, his face a combination of strength and determination. He gracefully presented a pen and a piece of parchment paper to Mr. Key. It was accepted with a distinguished nod, and Key placed the paper on the battered wooden rail of the ship and began to write. Dr. Wellington, the trusted physician, remained supportively by his side. Key wrote purposefully for a few moments. He then put down the pen and looked at the ship’s doctor. In unison, both men, standing steadfast at the bow of the great ship, gazed across the water toward the fort under siege, war-weary tears in their eyes.
“CUT!” shouted the director. “WE GOT IT!” He leaped from his chair and strode toward the actors. “Unbelievable! We couldn’t have planned that. Art, I’m glad you stayed put—it made the spot even stronger.”
I approached my client and shook his hand. “Good work, Arthur. I think you’re going to be pleased with what we’ve got.”
“Wait until Dad sees this!” he answered, triumph in his voice.
“Go back and tell him that you had to kick some ass to get what you wanted,” offered Fred jovially.
Arthur’s face lit up. He was having a very good time. By the seat of my pants, it appeared I was going to keep the account.
Chapter 6
Hitting Rock Bottom
The moment I reached my car after the shoot was completed, I called the client who refused to pay the $80,000 he owed the agency. I fully believed there was some terrible mistake—that Shirley had gotten the message all wrong and misunderstood what he had told her.
“Hardcover Computers,” answered their receptionist. “May I help you?”
“Hi, Barb, this is Kim O’Neill,” I said, attempting to sound upbeat and positive. “Is Chuck there?”
“Oh . . . hi, Kim. He told me that if you called he wasn’t going to speak to you.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the phone, right before hanging up.
I was incredulous. Suddenly, a little voice inside of me warned that Chuck Dugan and his wife, Dawn, who co-owned Hardcover Computers, were in the process of shutting it down. They didn’t intend to honor any of their outstanding bills. I just somehow knew it.
My heart was beating so hard that I thought it would explode in my chest. Up to this point, my partner and I had weathered all the storms: sporadically going without paychecks; working fourteen-hour days; pitching new business alongside much bigger agencies; trying to attract and keep good employees; and juggling bill paying, which included taxes. Hardcover Computers could force us into bankruptcy. We’d have to fire everybody and close the agency. All of our hard work would go down the drain. I had nowhere to turn for help. I began to cry. How had it come to this?
I thought about how everything had started. In the early 1980’s, my husband and I had grown weary of the long, frigid winters in our hometown of Chicago, so we left to move to the warmer, subtropical climate of Houston, Texas. We quickly discovered that millions of other Midwesterners had recently done the same thing. By the time we reached what the locals call “The Bayou City,” even the renowned southern hospitality had apparently reached its limit. Every day we Midwestern expatriots were greeted with a growing number of bumper stickers that ominously proclaimed Yankee Go Home! and We Don’t Care How You Did It Up North! and Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche—Real Men Eat Road Kill!
My husband had worked in marketing in Chicago, so we decided to open an advertising agency. Our long hours and hard work quickly paid off, and soon the business was growing and appeared to have very positive prospects for the future. Unfortunately, our personal