| He took it all in as he entered the room: a big office with a view of Public Square. The desk was uncluttered, a phone and Dictabelt huddled on one end and a few framed photos on the other. In the middle was a large brown blotter. The man was tapping a letter opener on the desk as Joe approached; he looked up with an expression Joe had seen somewhere else. Oh. Right. Rushmore. “Mr. Herndon? Thanks for seeing me,” Joe said. He shook the man’s hand and put his briefcase on the floor. “Of course,” said the man, and he sneezed. Either I just gave him the world’s fasting acting cold, Joe thought, or I’m going to be sick just in time for Saturday night. “I’m not sure I can be much help, though. Who did you say you were with?” “I represent Midwestern Match and Novelty. We provide quality promotional materials to companies that wish to do something new and different to assist their product lines, and –“ “Novelties? You mean, buttons? I’ll save you the time. We went with buttons one year and it was a complete waste of money. Everyone likes to get a button, but it goes right in the drawer. Maybe the kids collect them.” He sneezed again. “But the kids don’t even wear them.” “I agree completely, and in fact we’re getting out of the button business for just the reasons you cited. So I can see you understand the promotional business.” The man shrugged. “If anyone does. You never know what works. Who does?” “Well, I’ve found that a good matchbook can’t be beat for putting your message in the customer’s head. How many other ads does he carry around and look at 20 times a day?” “We have matches.” The man fished around in his desk drawer, and slid a match across his desk to Joe. “We’ve been using these for a year now.” Joe’s heart sank. God, one of Harry Berge’s. He’d never met him, but he knew his work. You could spot this crap a mile off. If you had a telescope, that is. “You want my honest opinion?” “I have three minutes.” He tapped the sharp end of the letter opener on the blotter. “Let’s start with the back. It –“ “People look at the front. It’s where they light the match.” “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Herndon. Well, it’s –“ He stopped. “He couldn’t say what was the matter with it, exactly. It had the logo, it had the product name. You read it top to bottom. Textbook work, really, but it was just wrong somehow. There wasn’t anything wrong with it except everything. “It doesn’t grab the eye,” he said, stalling. Then he got it. “It’s designed for you, not the customer.” “What do you mean?” “I mean, it’s designed to appeal to the people who placed the order in the first place. Has the stamps, the trademark, the nice little line about ‘merchandise of distinction,’ which I’m sure it is. But no one who looks at it feels like he has to go get some stamps. So he flips it over, and that’s where you lose them. Happy Hector – has he been your mascot for a long time?” Herndon shrugged. “Not really. He’s not in the catalogs, anyway.” “That’s good, because he’s, well, a bee. Bees sting.” “But I’d say he’s a rather pleasant bee, wouldn’t you?” Herndon looked at the match. “And see, he doesn’t have a stinger.” “He has something dangling there, if you’ll excuse my saying so.” Joe said. “I really don’t know what else you’d call that. But then there’s the slogan – ‘light your way to greater savings you can’t match Queen B stamps.’” “It’s clever. It’s not Bennett Cerf but it’s a matchbook, for heaven’s sake. What would you do?” He sneezed again. “I’d redesign the front. I’d dump our friend Hector for a more modern bee – a Queen, say. She’s smiling. A coy smile like she knows something. These are aimed at women, after all, and they’d prefer a fashionable bee over Hector.” “Maybe on the back we could have lots of bees lining up outside a redemption center, and another line coming out the door with items they’ve received? Golf clubs. Vacuum cleaners.” “You could.” God knows how on this small a canvas, but worry about that later. “I could whip up an example to show you.” “Cost me anything?” “No sir. We charge if you don’t have a design, but if you already have one we whip up a new one on spec. We figure you’ll like it so much you’ll order lots, and that’s where we make our money. Most of our clients started out just like you – they had a match, but it wasn’t going places. That’s where we come in.” “Why’d you choose me? Today?” Huh? “I was under the impression you’d called us – my employer put your name and address on my desk today, and told me I had a ten o’clock appointment.” “What?” Then the man relaxed. “Oh, Bill! Well, what do you know about that. You’re one of Bill’s guys. Matches, of course. I completely forgot. It’s this damn cold, my head’s full of mush. Sorry, son - he sent you over to pick something up. We’re members of the same lodge, and he asked me last night if he could have a few thousand stamps. His wife is a few books short of a Waring blender.” Joe had met his boss’s wife, and thought that an apt description. “I said sure, send someone over. And he didn’t tell you why?” “Probably because he expected me to sell you some matches.” “That sounds like Bill. Tell you what. Make me a sample, and I’ll see. In fact I’ll do better – if you can take stamps in payment for a new line of matches, we have a deal right here and now. This one I got now wants money.” “Far as I’m concerned, stamps are money,” Joe said. Seal the deal and tie the bow. “Even if you don’t count the cash value, they’re just as good as cash when you consider what they can buy.” “Well, that’s what I tell my salesmen, but they still want to be paid in the long folding green.” He stood, and sneezed again. Waved at Joe in lieu of a handshake. “Tell Bill Mission Accomplished, that crafty bastard. The stamps are outside in a box by my secretary’s desk.” Joe left with a curious mixture of elation and unease. He rode the elevator down to the lobby, feeling as though he ought to click his heels: he’d put one over on Harry Berge, but it didn’t feel like he’d won the account on his own merits. Someday. For now: lunch, and the satisfaction of knowing one thing he’d enjoy all weekend long. He’d killed Happy Hector. A man doesn’t often get the chance to knock off a bad mascot. Now to come up with a sexy bee. After lunch he stopped at the magazine stand and bought some fashion magazines. The newsie looked at the magazines, looked at the box that said QUEEN B TRADING STAMPS, looked at Joe. Shrugged. “Married life,” he said. “You ride in on a white horse and spend your days as a pack mule.” “No, these are for me,” Joe said, and the minute he said the words he had a picture of a badly drawn bee, holding his abdomen and pointing, laughing at him. Happy little bastard. |
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