Coffee, Tea or Me? (21 page)

Craig stood up in a gesture to end the meeting. “I think I speak for everyone in this room when I say how fortunate we are to have your kind of leadership, Stewart. We’ll give ’em hell on Sunday.” Craig wasn’t sure if it was Christian to give ’em hell on Sunday. But Looms was obviously pleased by his comment about leadership. And Craig was pleased Looms was pleased. They beamed at each other as we all left the office.

 

The flight was to depart Kennedy at noon the following Sunday. We arrived at ten, and after checking in with crew scheduling, went down to the lounge area. There was a crowd of people drinking from the makeshift bar set up in the corner. Sonny lounged against a wall, a Yashica-Mat camera around his neck.

“Gee, the press gets here early, don’t they,” Rachel said.

“What press?” he responded. “It’s all PR people. The press won’t arrive for another hour.”

We noticed a tall, gaunt man standing talking with Mr. Looms and some other men. It looked like our airline’s president, Mr. Lincoln, at least as we remembered him from his picture. Sonny confirmed that it was. Looms spotted us, broke away from his group and bounced up to us.

“Hi there,” he said. “I’m Stewart Looms, vice president of public relations. I didn’t get a chance to say hello at the meeting last week. I hope you’re pleased I selected you for this trip. I saw your pictures in the paper and decided right then and there you would be perfect.” We looked for Sonny but he had quickly walked away.

“We’re delighted,” we said.

“Good. You just stay near me and everything will be all right. And don’t let that tough talk of mine at the meeting scare you off. You’ve got to be that way with your staff. I’ve been very successful with it. Eight vice presidencies in the last seven years. That’s really going some, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Looms.”

The press arrived and headed immediately for the bar. Looms was everywhere back-slapping and chitchatting, always with an eye on Mr. Lincoln. We strained to recognize any of the press people in the lounge. There wasn’t one who even looked vaguely familiar. We asked Dan Lindgren about it.

“Why should you know any of them?” he asked in return. “You don’t really think Craig is capable of lining up any names, do you? This whole thing is a game. Craig ends up inviting guys from
Turtle Breeders’ Quarterly,
assistant editors from makeup magazines, secretaries from NBC, CBS, and ABC so they’re represented on the sign-in sheet, and maybe a guy or two from a daily paper who live off free PR food and booze. The best bet he came up with today is the managing editor of a New Jersey weekly, a personal friend. Like I said, it’s all a game. Craig fills the place with bodies and Looms, silly Looms, thinks he’s done a fantastic job.”

“That’s awful,” Rachel said.

“Sure. And Mr. Lincoln thinks Looms has done a great job because of all the people. When nothing appears in print or on TV, they all chalk it up to bad breaks. It’s all pretty silly, when you think about it.”

“How much do they spend to be silly this way?” I asked.

“Fifty, maybe sixty thousand. But don’t worry about it. Enjoy it now. Pretty soon everybody will be drunk and you’ll be fighting for your life.”

“What a sick way to make a living,” Rachel commented as the absurdity of the thing began to sink in.

“Not really,” Dan said. “It’s just this bad when you have a psycho like Looms running the show. It used to be better. Lots of great people in this department. But they’ll all pick up and leave soon.”

“You too, Dan?”

“I’ve already got lines out all over town.”

The lounge was bulging at the seams now. People were everywhere, drinks in their hands and a great deal to say to each other. Each received his periodic pat on the back from Mr. Looms, and there was never a PR man too far away with an instant drink.

All the chatter was brought to a halt when Looms leaped up on the table and held his hands up to the people. “Quiet, please. Quiet, please,” he said, looking to Mr. Lincoln for approval of his approach. The president just scowled.

“Hey, ye gonna need coats in Atlanta?” a drunk yelled from the rear of the room.

This question seemed to fluster Looms. He asked a staff member at the side of the table about the coats, and the staff member said everyone should bring coats.

“Yes, indeed,” Looms answered the drunk, “coats in Atlanta.”

“Hooray,” another drunk yelled from the bar.

Looms continued. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to get on down to the big bird.” He chuckled at his terminology—terribly inside. He looked at Mr. Lincoln who seemed pained. “Well, as I said, we can go down to the 727 now and get in our seats for the trip to Atlanta. Everybody ready?”

No one answered Looms, which upset him. He jumped down from the table and patted Mr. Lincoln on the back. “Well, Mr. Lincoln, guess we’re ready to go. Sure got a fine group of people here, didn’t we?”

Mr. Lincoln took a final sip of his drink. “Who are they all, Looms?”

Looms was quick on his feet. “Oh, you know, top-echelon folks from the nets, wires, dailies . . . that caliber. We’re right in there with the best today.” Lincoln snorted and walked away from his PR man.

Looms spotted Craig as he was walking out with the group and grabbed his arm. “John, we’ve got top people here today, haven’t we?”

Craig was fast on his feet, too. “You bet, Stewart. What we’ve done is to really dig and find the people who can produce . . . really produce for us. No sense having the managing editor of
The Times
or
Newsweek.
They can’t do anything for us. We’ve got the do-it guys. The guys with some magic and sparkle.”

“Good boy, John.” They walked out together proudly. Behind them came the last member of the magical press corps, the cartoon editor of
Welfare Weekly.

We helped the drunks into their seats, fumbled with their seat belts, gave the special PA announcement for the occasion, and sat back as the plane streaked down Runway 31-Left at Kennedy. The wheels had barely left the ground when everyone seemed to get up at once. They clustered in the aisle, first in a large group in the rear, and then moving up to the front.

Someone spotted something out the left side of the airplane and they all piled over to see, the plane taking a shuddering change in flight characteristics. It was that way the whole trip; back and forth and up and down until the pilot must have simply given up trying to maintain any sort of straight and level flight.

 

Dan Lindgren was right. The entire flight was a valiant fight to keep the booze flowing and the drunks in line. Looms kept running into the galley with nasty mixed drink orders like whiskey sours and daiquiris for one guy or another, and Craig would always come in right after him to check on whether we were following orders.

The only one who seemed to be enjoying the whole affair was Betty O’Riley. She almost missed the flight, racing in at the last minute with a story about how this fantastic male model just wouldn’t let her out of bed. Once we were airborne, she was right in the midst of all the elbows and hands with a tray of Scotch or bourbon and a big smile.

Sonny took lots of pictures, his strobe unit flashing all over the cabin. It wasn’t until we were seated at dinner in Atlanta that he confided to Rachel and me that he had forgotten to bring any film, and was doing all his picture taking for effect only. Betty was attracted to his camera like a snake to water. She managed to be in every scene photographed, including some with Mr. Lincoln. It would be a sad day when she found out there was no film.

We landed at Atlanta and taxied up to a waiting line of black limousines. The drunks were poured into cars and off we went to a downtown hotel. At dinner the press type on Rachel’s right passed out just as the main course was served. He fell headfirst into the mashed potatoes, much to the chagrin of Mr. Lincoln. Others fell by the tableside as the dinner wore on. The only saving touches were the caustic comments interjected by Sonny and Dan.

After dinner, we were all hustled to a nightclub that featured an exotic dancer, an off-key singer, and a comic who, after being encouraged by the fifty dollars Mr. Craig gave him, told some jokes about the airline and New York. More drunks fell asleep at their tables, a woman from a cosmetics magazine got sick, and Looms made a scene about bad service.

All of these misadventures didn’t prevent Rachel and me from having a good time. At dinner and at the nightclub we were treated like guests, not employees. We danced with Sonny and a couple of the press fellows who could still get around. We spent a lot of time turning down drinks. It seemed a shame to say No to all that free-flowing booze. But under the friendly but stern eye of the airline’s president we didn’t think we should take the slightest chance. Several times I could see Rachel glancing over at Mr. Lincoln.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

“I was wondering if he’d like to dance.”

“Why don’t you ask him?” I suggested.

Rachel shook her head. “I wasn’t wondering that hard.” For once she didn’t respond to my needling. “Why don’t
you
ask him?” She flung the challenge back at me.

“I think I will,” I said, pushing my chair back.

Rachel was startled. “You wouldn’t really, would you, Trudy?”

“Just watch me.” By the time I’d walked over and tapped Mr. Lincoln on the shoulder,
everyone
was watching. I hadn’t counted on such a big audience.

“Excuse me,” I began, but realized my voice was too diffident. I’d have to come on much stronger if I didn’t want to end up with egg on my face. I put on my heartiest Texas tone, “C’mon, president, baby, let’s dance.”

There was an instant of frozen silence. Then Mr. Lincoln stood up tall and serious and said, “I’d love to, Miss Baker.” Now there’s a man who’s really a sport. We had a lovely dance—luckily it was a slow number. I don’t think Mr. Lincoln would have been up to the dog or a fast twist.

Sonny patted me on the back afterward. “That was the best thing that happened this whole trip.” What truly astonished me was Mr. Lincoln knew my name. I’ve never gotten over that.

The limos drove everyone back to the airport for an eleven o’clock departure for Kennedy. Once we were inside the airplane Dan Lindgren took a head count and came up one short. Finally, after much questioning, it was learned that the eighteen-year-old daughter of a woman on board was missing. The mother, an administrative assistant at a local New York television station, was rip-roaring drunk. She really didn’t seem to care about her missing daughter.

The PR staff, those still standing, fanned out in all directions to find the missing girl. Someone vaguely remembered she was in one of the cars coming from town, so she certainly must have been at the airport. They searched under parked cars, up trees, in empty airplanes, and in the stalls of the bathrooms. Nothing.

Then, a half hour later, Sonny came down the corridor with a limp girl slung over his arm and shoulder. He had found her curled up behind the closed bar of the terminal, her head resting on a bottle of rye.

Everybody accounted for, we flew back to New York. This leg of the trip was peaceful because everyone was asleep, except Mr. Looms and a few of the PR people. Betty leaned all over Looms and he loved it. Rachel and I talked to Sonny. Dan was asleep in a seat next to the lost-and-found girl, who kept thrashing her arms around and yelling, “I hate you, Mother, you bitch.” No one else seemed to hear or care.

More black limousines were waiting at Kennedy for our triumphant return. They left carrying their precious cargo of press people to various destinations. We were walking out to try and catch a cab back to the city when Mr. Looms came running up behind us. We assumed Betty had scored with him, but she was seen leaving the terminal with the captain of the flight.

“Girls,” Looms said with a tired gleam in his little eyes, “I’ll take you home. We can have a nightcap at your place and I can tell you about the whole concept of these trips.” He was actually standing on his toes as he spoke, like an over-the-hill ballet dancer.

“No thanks,” we said. “We’re beat.”

“Don’t be silly, I’ll get John Craig and we’ll meet you someplace if you’d like. You know, I can see that you get a lot more of these special assignments. As the vice president, I can do that.” Craig came running up to us with great relief—he’d found his leader.

“Good night,” we said and turned away from them to go outside.

“I’ll see you again, girls,” Looms said with a nasty turn to his voice. We could hear him, just as the door closed behind us, say to Craig, “I told ’em I was too tired.”