soon enough.
Frances quickly ate her breakfast and showered. She put on a long-sleeved brown dress, not bothering to check her reflection in the mirror. It was usually something of a disappointment to her anyway: her flat, wide cheeks, her goofy grin. She had been out on dates with men who called her pretty, but she knew the facts. She towered over half the boys at the office. She was all wrong for a woman in this day and age, when the gentler sex was supposed to be demure, quiet, and pocket-sized.
She rode the train downtown, clutching the slip of paper from the previous night. When she reached Washington Square, she hurried toward the Ayer building. She was dangerously close to being late.
In 1934, when the rest of the world was flat broke, N. W. Ayer and Son had enough cash to build their thirteen-story headquarters, directly across from the old statehouse. It was a magnificent structure, made of Indiana limestone, in the Art Moderne style.
She had been so proud the first time her father visited for lunch and whistled under his breath, “Wow, Mary Frances. That’s really something.” He only used her first name when he wanted to emphasize his point.
Now she opened the building’s big brass door, so heavy that in the slightest breeze you could barely get it to budge an inch. The lobby wallswere lined with marble. Classic, yet not at all fussy or ostentatious. Much like Ayer itself.
The middle-aged greeter sat behind an oak desk just inside the doors.
“Good morning, ma’am,” she said.
“Good morning.”
Frances waited for the elevator, willing it to come.
Finally, the doors opened, and there stood the blond elevator operator in her crisp uniform and white gloves.
“Tenth floor?” she asked, as she did every morning.
Frances nodded.
There was a strange sense of pride that came from a small moment like this—someone you didn’t know anything at all about knew something particular about you. It still gave her a thrill that she could tell any taxi driver in Philadelphia to take her to the Ayer building and they would know exactly where to go.
She got off the elevator and stopped at the typing pool in the middle of the floor. The wooden box that the stenographer, Alice Fairweather, and her four underlings worked in gave the impression that they were barnyard animals who needed to be penned. Frances always felt a bit silly talking to them over the low wall.
“Morning, Miss Gerety,” Alice said. “What have you got for us today?”
Frances handed over the honeymoon copy. “I’ll need it before the meeting.”
“Certainly.”
It would be returned to her in perfect shape before it moved along to the art department downstairs. The copy chief, Mr. George Cecil, was an absolute stickler for proper English. A ten-year veteran of the department had once let an ad go out with a typo. Cecil fired him the next day.
Frances was at her desk by 9:05.
The morning meeting would start at ten. Mr. Cecil would look at new lines and hand out more assignments. He was old-fashioned, buttoned up, but the execs loved him. He was considered the greatest copywriter alive, having created the lines
Down from Canada Came Tales of a Wonderful Beverage;
font-weight: normal;
all, and
for Canada Dry and
They Laughed When I Sat Down at the Piano but When I Started to Play!
—for Steinway, and about a hundred others.
Nora Allen two offices down was yapping into her phone at top volume. The cubicles had doors and high brown walls, but no ceilings. You couldn’t see anyone if you shut your door, but you could certainly hear them.
Frances tried to read over a memo on her desk. She was tired. Someday she’d have to start keeping normal hours, but she had always come awake at bedtime. She should have worked the night shift of a newspaper.
Some coffee would have hit the spot, but Harry Batten had forbidden them from drinking it in the building after an art director spilled a cup on an original finished photo that was ready to
Frances quickly ate her breakfast and showered. She put on a long-sleeved brown dress, not bothering to check her reflection in the mirror. It was usually something of a disappointment to her anyway: her flat, wide cheeks, her goofy grin. She had been out on dates with men who called her pretty, but she knew the facts. She towered over half the boys at the office. She was all wrong for a woman in this day and age, when the gentler sex was supposed to be demure, quiet, and pocket-sized.
She rode the train downtown, clutching the slip of paper from the previous night. When she reached Washington Square, she hurried toward the Ayer building. She was dangerously close to being late.
In 1934, when the rest of the world was flat broke, N. W. Ayer and Son had enough cash to build their thirteen-story headquarters, directly across from the old statehouse. It was a magnificent structure, made of Indiana limestone, in the Art Moderne style.
She had been so proud the first time her father visited for lunch and whistled under his breath, “Wow, Mary Frances. That’s really something.” He only used her first name when he wanted to emphasize his point.
Now she opened the building’s big brass door, so heavy that in the slightest breeze you could barely get it to budge an inch. The lobby wallswere lined with marble. Classic, yet not at all fussy or ostentatious. Much like Ayer itself.
The middle-aged greeter sat behind an oak desk just inside the doors.
“Good morning, ma’am,” she said.
“Good morning.”
Frances waited for the elevator, willing it to come.
Finally, the doors opened, and there stood the blond elevator operator in her crisp uniform and white gloves.
“Tenth floor?” she asked, as she did every morning.
Frances nodded.
There was a strange sense of pride that came from a small moment like this—someone you didn’t know anything at all about knew something particular about you. It still gave her a thrill that she could tell any taxi driver in Philadelphia to take her to the Ayer building and they would know exactly where to go.
She got off the elevator and stopped at the typing pool in the middle of the floor. The wooden box that the stenographer, Alice Fairweather, and her four underlings worked in gave the impression that they were barnyard animals who needed to be penned. Frances always felt a bit silly talking to them over the low wall.
“Morning, Miss Gerety,” Alice said. “What have you got for us today?”
Frances handed over the honeymoon copy. “I’ll need it before the meeting.”
“Certainly.”
It would be returned to her in perfect shape before it moved along to the art department downstairs. The copy chief, Mr. George Cecil, was an absolute stickler for proper English. A ten-year veteran of the department had once let an ad go out with a typo. Cecil fired him the next day.
Frances was at her desk by 9:05.
The morning meeting would start at ten. Mr. Cecil would look at new lines and hand out more assignments. He was old-fashioned, buttoned up, but the execs loved him. He was considered the greatest copywriter alive, having created the lines
Down from Canada Came Tales of a Wonderful Beverage;
font-weight: normal;
all, and
for Canada Dry and
They Laughed When I Sat Down at the Piano but When I Started to Play!
—for Steinway, and about a hundred others.
Nora Allen two offices down was yapping into her phone at top volume. The cubicles had doors and high brown walls, but no ceilings. You couldn’t see anyone if you shut your door, but you could certainly hear them.
Frances tried to read over a memo on her desk. She was tired. Someday she’d have to start keeping normal hours, but she had always come awake at bedtime. She should have worked the night shift of a newspaper.
Some coffee would have hit the spot, but Harry Batten had forbidden them from drinking it in the building after an art director spilled a cup on an original finished photo that was ready to
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