You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)

Mary called Iris this morning and Frank answered the phone. He’s back from Los Angeles for a few days. The media’s been calling wanting to know if the deal’s official. Frank can’t say anything because of some unexpected snags. He’s probably asking for more money. Frank loves to fuck around with contracts. I remember him asking a client for a contract of civility once. The client didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. So Frank sends over a simple explanation: “I agree not to piss the agency off, and vice versa.”

The client said it wasn’t legal. Frank sent it to them again, and again, they returned it with the same comments. Frank finally went over and said he wasn’t leaving until they signed it. The president finally signed, telling Frank he’d already broken the contract ten times over. “You’ve pissed me off that many times today alone.”

Frank always gets his way, usually by exhausting people. Surprisingly, it never seemed to hurt our business. The agency grew, we took on more people, we won major awards. Advertising Age called Frank the last of the Mad Men, a term coined on Madison Avenue in the forties.

Frank remembered a gang in Belfast called The Mad Men. He said they were the worst motherfuckers on the planet. “Now they’re calling me a Mad Man,” he laughed, and sent the article over to Ireland.

I got a note from him yesterday, saying things are good with Iris. His schedule is crazy, but he sees an end in sight. A few months more and he’ll be back home to stay. He also added something of interest, which, knowing Frank, was just weird enough for his taste.

Sam,

We had a little incident at the office over the weekend. Somebody stole the wiener van. We’re talking to the security guard now. He says he lost his hat giving chase. Little fucker’s involved, I can feel it. Crazy thing, they brought it back with the tank full and a new license plate. Still wondering what to do with the wiener van, Sam. Any ideas?

Frank

Knowing Max, he’ll probably steal it again. I write back to Frank, telling him he’s a lucky man: Iris is up and about, he’s rich. That’s got to make him happy. I’m sure he’s doting on her, ordering from some exclusive restaurants. Everything’s probably delivered on silver plates. Anyway, I end the note by telling him:

Again, glad to hear Iris is doing well. We’re very excited by the news. Hope we can get together soon (your schedule allowing) and drink to her good health. In terms of the wiener van, here’s my final thought. Have it gold-plated. Everyone should know that even you, the great man himself, failed occasionally.

Sam

Muller has a catering job coming up on the fifth. This one’s a French theme, so he’s making quiche. Judy loves to watch him work. He’s a bait-and-switch kind of cook, substituting one ingredient for another. I don’t know whether it’s inspired or he simply forgets the recipe. In any event, he’s whisking away, singing codas off key. Once the quiches are cooling on the counter, he launches into a chocolate mousse. The man sweats like a pig. We’ll have to cover him with cornstarch, or put him in an absorbent body stocking.

It’s only a matter of time before his hair ends up in something. The man’s an ape. Mary bought him a hairnet, but he says it irritates his forehead. Margot gave a girl a stern lecture the other day about pubic hair. The girl was complaining about getting them caught in her throat. “If you think that’s your claim to fame, young lady, I don’t feel sorry for you. As far as I’m concerned, you deserve polyps.”