Texas Gasoline. Somehow that seemed like it would give you a car a kick. Straight to your car from the derricks. It didn’t need to be refined. Refined? Why, somethin’ wrong with mah manners, suh? They were good enough for Sam Houston; I ‘spect they’ll be good enough for you.

Joe looked out the window: Cleveland as far as the eye could see. Of course, he was on the third floor, which limited the amount of Cleveland he could behold. But go up on the roof, climb a ladder, stand on your toes, and it’s still O-hi-o in all directions, locked down under a crust of January ice. No one would buy Ohio Gasoline. Where would it take you? Middle Ohio? Southern Ohio? Northeastern lower Ohio?

Texas Gasoline. Now that made a man think.

He set the matchbook on his desk, and thought: look at this book. I mean, look at it. The name of the company was old in ballyhoo days: Associated Gas and Oil. Brother. The slogan wouldn’t win any radio contests, either: “Buy Associated Gas and Oil and be Assured of Satisfaction.” The spine copy muddled it up: “Associated Products.” He could imagine that copy coming in on the order sheet, and wondering how the hell he’d work it all in.

But who ever did this? This fella was good.

Consider. He got a bum assignment – lousy name, lousy slogan, one, two, count them, eight product names. And he not only makes a thing of beauty, he leaves space for the product rep’s name, as if to say “you left me with a little space to improvise; hope you don’t mind.” What’s the word? Hutzbah? Man. And look at that: orange for the copy. You never used orange for copy. And look at this: He used white ink for the word “Blue,” and no client would ever complain because he’d never notice; all he would see is the word blue and all the blue color around it. The guy used script for the slogan and for the “presented by,” tying them together, so the slogan would seem like a personal guarantee of the rep who signed the matchbook. It was, like, psychology.

This guy was top flight. This guy was aces.

Knowing why something was good - is that the same as knowing you could do it yourself? Well, we’re not talking Michelangelo here. We’re talking matchbooks. And yeah, Joe thought, he could do this, maybe. If he worked for an outfit like Diamond or Ohio Match.

But he didn’t. Midwestern Match & Novelty was the name on the door down the hall.

He could do this, if he got to work in color.

But he didn’t. MM&N clients went for bang per buck, price per hundred.

He could do this if he had a boss who believed in wide-form matchbooks.

But he didn’t. Mr. Carter hated wide-form. “People expect a matchbook to be shaped like a matchbook, not a billboard,” he said. One of the stupidest things he’d ever said, really, and Joe had wanted to shout out No! They are billboards. That’s exactly what they are. Except instead of seeing them as you drive by, you carry them around and take them out and look at them ten times a day. But what Mr. Carter really hated was the way wide-forms let you down towards the end. He demonstrated his point once, when they were having a talk about branching out the product line. He took the wide-form Joe had brought in, ripped out all but one match – Joe winced – and tried to strike it. He was right: It was harder to hold and strike. The matchbook seemed like it lost interest in helping you out.

“You’d sell them once, Joe,” Carter said. “But you wouldn’t sell them again. And there’s another thing. What’s the customer going to think when he sees expensive matchbooks like these? He’s going to think, well, who’s paying for them? I am. He’d be right. And what’s the owner going to think when he sees a guy take five? He’ll think, that cost me a few cents more. And he’d be right.”

Enough; he had work to do. Six designs for the afternoon: three cafes, one motel, two bars. He got out the sheets of pictures and flipped through, looking for something he hadn’t used in a while. He was sick of these things. All those little guys with huge heads and Coolidge haircuts and corny slogans. “Coffee that Hits the Spot.” They loved that one.

If he did a fast job on five he could design the sixth himself. He had an idea for a café matchbook – a cute waitress, a real smartie, not those cupie-doll cartoons he used for everything else. Give her some style and some hips and a wink. When they reordered that one and asked for twice as many, he’d tell Carter it was one of his designs. Didn’t think you’d mind, had some extra time, et cetera.

And then he’d remark how much more they’d order if they did the waitress in red. Once Carter got used to red? We could think about orange. But don't get ahead of yourself, pal, he thought, and he got to work.
this is a work of fiction c. 2005 j. lileks. / joe home / lileks.com home