Clifford's Spiral: Chapter 3

Continuing the serialization of this intensely thoughtful story...

Chapters are serialized here for paid subscribers.

About This Novel

In Clifford's Spiral, the stroke survivor’s past is blurry, and his memories are in pieces. He asks himself:

Who was Clifford Olmstead Klovis?

Stroke sufferer Clifford Klovis tries to piece together the colorful fragments of his memories. The narrative’s sardonic tone recalls the wry wisdom of Kurt Vonnegut, and its preoccupation with male centeredness is reminiscent of Philip Roth.

Chapter 3

Clifford Klovis had undertaken two careers, one after the other. The two vocations were strikingly different. It was as if there were two people named Clifford Olmstead Klovis, one an advertising copywriter and marketing manager, and the other a professor of ancient history.

Clifford’s career in advertising began in New York City. In yet another family migration during Clifford’s junior year of college, the Klovises had moved from Greenwich, Connecticut to Des Plaines, Illinois, a suburb of the Second City, so that Franklin could undertake a new contract with the Chicago Transit Authority renovating old train stations. Clifford had hoped he could pursue acting after graduation, so he was more than ready to call himself a New Yorker.

But I was pretty sure my father wouldn’t go along with that plan.

Indeed, Franklin Klovis informed Clifford that, upon graduation, he’d either have to find a paying job quickly or come live with the family in Chicago until he did. Choosing advertising as a career was Clifford’s great compromise, but staying in New York City was his non-negotiable price. Rather than acknowledge his acceptance of the ultimatum, Franklin just resumed his usual practice of ignoring his son until his next letter asking for money.

In New York just a week after graduation, Clifford interviewed at Doyle Dane Bernbach and J. Walter Thompson. It was a recession year in 1971, and no one was hiring newbies. The cigar-chomping ad manager at F. W. Woolworth’s headquarters had said, “Come back in two years, after you’ve forgotten everything you learned in school.”

The experience at J. Walter Thompson had been instructive, but only in retrospect. “How do you know Wilson Marquand?” came the question from the hiring manager. Clifford was gratified to be informed his interviewer was a vice president. This was before he learned that vice presidential titles were almost as common in advertising as in the banking industry — an honorific intended to impress customers but not necessarily indicative of senior-management authority.

“We went to the same school,” Clifford said. He had gotten the referral from the alumni relations office at college. He assumed it was a shoo-in to the Good Ole Boy network and that just one such invitation would suffice.

“Here’s a set of guidelines,” the guy said. “Write some sample copy and come back in two weeks.”

Clifford did as instructed. He was sure his samples were not only clever but also solidly commercial. He wrote thirty-second TV spots for automobile tires, breath spray, and yogurt. He had a print ad for beauty supplies and a radio jingle for a department-store holiday sale.

“That’s fine,” the manager said, glancing at the portfolio on Clifford’s return. “Now you have some samples, and good luck on your job search.”

The guy could have said at the outset that they didn’t have any openings. And on accepting the homework assignment, Clifford could have asked enough questions to save himself the grief. But he hadn’t. If he did what was asked, he’d assumed he would be given a chance to do what was required. And be rewarded for it.

It took perhaps a month, but he went door-to-door. At each agency, he asked a pretty receptionist to see the creative director. He was turned down nine times out of ten, but he kept going. Eventually, he found himself across the desk from Lionel Bennett, the executive vice president at what he would later learn to call a boutique agency.