Page 162 - Just Deserts
P. 162

Scrubbers

        somehow had tapped into the collective unconscious of the average
        American consumer. Earl received his promotion and corner office;
        Billy found a champion who pulled the necessary strings behind the
        scenes to permit the bumbling messenger to keep his minimum-wage
        job.  And  Billy’s  sieve-like  memory  left  a  tabula  rasa  where  all  his
        brilliant ideas once had been inscribed; he gave no sign of recognition
        when a product name or recycled rock and roll song with commercial
        lyrics  he  had  conceived  emerged  from  the  workshops  of
        Bodkin/Thomler under the authorship of Earl Wells.
          Now it was time to call forth the genie again. When Billy finally
        found  his  way  to  Earl’s  office,  the  latter  was  tapping  a  pencil
        impatiently, wondering how many false turns and detours his absent-
        minded oracle had made.
          “You wanted me, Mr. Wells?”
          “Yes,  Billy.  Please  close  the  door  and  tie  your  shoelaces  before
        you trip over them.”
          By the time the disheveled clerk had complied with these complex
        assignments, he gave every indication of forgetting that the executive
        had sent for him: “Uh, I don’t think there’s any mail for you, sir. Is
        that all?”
          “No, Billy.” Earl gritted  his teeth behind  smiling  lips. He  could
        feel his blood pressure rising from resisting the temptation to hurl his
        chair at Rubin. Instead, he opened a desk drawer and pulled out a
        small square of white cloth. “Here,” he said, and tossed it to Billy.
        “What do you make of this?”
          Billy swiped at it mid-air, dropped it, stooped, dropped it again,
        and managed at last with both hands to bring the object up in front
        of his face. “Gosh, I don’t know. Feels kind of funny. Soft, yes, and
        white. Hee-hee! Too bad it’s not a light bulb, Mr. Wells!”
          “Oh? Why is that?”
          “Because then you could have Soft White and the Seven Bulbs!
        Forty-watt, sixty-watt, you know, all marching behind her out of the
        supermarket. Hi-ho, hi-ho, off to work we go!”
          Earl  shook  his  head  in  amazement.  “Very  funny,  Billy.  But
        Sylvania is not one of our clients. Too bad.” He made a mental note
        to look into the account later.  “Now what you have there is a brand-
        new item. Interesting, eh? The latest thing from one of our clients, a
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