There was a natural tendency to keep subordinates subordinate and to use them as stepping stones on one’s own trip to the top.
Begin had a larger vision, which was not without an altruistic element.
On the one hand-the beau geste-he liked Harold, and wanted to see him succeed. But few people do anything for one reason alone. Thus, on the other, more self-interested, hand, Begin was inclined to hitch his wagon to Harold’s star.
Both Begin and May understood the path frequently taken toward, and to, the top in the ad industry. One tended to be wed to one’s clients. If one got a stranglehold on a most important client, one tended to rise in the company; if the client was deemed irreplaceable the ascendancy could be to the presidential suite. In the Doran Agency, International Motors was such an invaluable customer.
Begin knew that even with all his talent, experience, and expertise he personally would never hold a most important client such as International Motors in the palm of his hand. Whereas Harold just might. With his fertile imagination and singular specialized experience, it was conceivable that Harold one day might be able to demand a presidential position with the ultimatum that otherwise he would walk to the agency down the street, taking his International Motors with him. And at such time he might well be able to carry out such a threat. On that glorious day when Harold advanced into the presidential suite, he, Bob Begin, wanted to be at the winner’s side.
So Bob Begin put all his eggs in Harold May’s basket. It was risky, but, as Begin saw it, the odds favored the bet.
Thus, Begin pulled all the necessary strings and set up the presentation. William J. Doran himself sat in- though not without trepidation- that day. It was a double-header! Not only was Harold’s head on the block, so was Begin’s.
Success!
The collective noses of just about everyone below the level of creative supervisor were bent. Harold, in short order and with few stops in between, rose from the bullpen to the post of associate creative director on the strength of-what else-the International Motors account.
Harold was not yet “there.” But he was getting there.
He was being sought out. No longer was he the one who wandered the halls looking for something to do, searching for a break. Deferentially, people came to him. Nor was he standoffish. He treated others generously, even those who had treated him patronizingly during his apprenticeship in the bullpen.
Lunches-with his peers, superiors, clients-became elongated. Harold found that food was becoming less and less important. It didn’t really matter whether he had a salad, a meat, or a fish dish; all that counted was the quality of the martinis. He joked that lunch time was his attitude adjustment period of the day. He never ceased to be amused when in the company of anyone being exposed to hard liquor for the first time. The pinched face, the shudder, as if the neophyte were tasting poison. Harold had never experienced a single negative reaction to booze. From his very first drink, it had been as mother’s milk to him. Some were born to drink, others not, he concluded.
Years passed. Harold’s position in the agency grew ever more secure.
Everyone was given to know that, for all intents and purposes, the International Motors account was his baby. But his sphere of influence spread well beyond that single account no matter how important it was to the agency. He had been given several bonuses and merit increases. He was being openly touted as the next creative director, a position that would put him virtually a heartbeat away from the presidency.
But something was happening to Harold and his favorite pastime-lunch. It had to do with his “attitude adjustment” period. The triple martini no longer sufficed to adjust his attitude. He was developing an ever higher tolerance. It happened by gradations. Gradually, he became aware that the pleasurable floating feeling was eluding him. He missed the sensation, but would not admit, even to himself, that he felt desperate about the loss.
He had become celebrated for his daily luncheon procession of martinis. Two before solid food, one during the meal. He did not want to adjust his routine. He did not allow himself to reflect on the fact that he needed, really needed, more.
Initially, he solved his problem by having a martini alone in his office before going out to lunch. It worked for a while. Then he found that four wasn’t doing the trick. As far as he was concerned, this indicated nothing more than that his storied ability to hold his liquor had built up. The only obvious problem was how he could add enough booze to adjust his attitude without revealing this need to others. They would never understand.
The solution was easy enough. He heavily stocked the wet bar in his ample office, and instructed his secretary to schedule no appointments after 4:30 p.m. By that time he would have had enough to drink that he wouldn’t remember any business that he’d discussed.
Sobriety of sorts would return to Harold early in the evening. It was a state he learned to try to avoid. So he drank through the evening hours until he slipped into a dreamless, nonrefreshing sleep. He continued to get to work at approximately 9:00 in the mornings, but wasn’t able to accomplish much until near noon when he had his single preliminary-to-lunch martini. This preluncheon drink was always the first of Harold’s day; he convinced himself that as long as he didn’t drink any liquor before 11:30 a.m. he remained in control.
Of course his altered behavior became obvious to just about everyone in the agency. All the subterfuges he thought hid his nipping at the bottle couldn’t possibly do the trick. He became the subject of disrespectful jokes. Among the younger employees he became known as “42” because he visited the “21” restaurant twice a day.
Somehow, perhaps because he had organized his affairs so well before he tobogganed into what everyone else knew as his problem drinking, his work did not unduly suffer. During his increasingly rare clear-headed intervals, he was still able to be creative, sometimes brilliant. And, because he was still productive, his peers and superiors could wink at his self-destructive behavior, which, left unchecked, would probably one day be the cause of his downfall.
Ironically, many years later, a smashingly successful television ad campaign would be built around a pirate- eyed dog who would drink but always “remain in control.”
All were willing to look the other way except Bob Begin, his original guardian angel. Again, Bob’s motives were mixed. On the one hand, Harold’s present course very definitely was not leading to the presidency, which track Begin had been depending on for his own future security. On the other hand, a talented person was throwing his life away. For both reasons, Begin decided to get involved. It took every last ounce of emotional and psychic strength he possessed, but eventually he prevailed upon Harold to attend a few meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous.
At first, Harold resisted all efforts to get him to realistically assess his personal condition. He was willing to admit that AA was not all bad for those who needed it. He didn’t need it. He was still steadfast in his resolve not to drink before 11:30 in the morning.
Harold was blessed that Begin continued to urge him to be faithful to the meetings and that several members of that group were tenacious in their invitations to join them. Gradually-very deliberately-Harold began to see himself in the admissions of the others.
He learned that the natural ease with which he first adapted to liquor, far from indicating immunity from addiction, suggested an alcoholic tendency. The others’ repeated confessions of loss of control brought home to him the helpless feeling he habitually denied. Alcoholic after alcoholic admitted, “When I start drinking, I have no idea, I can’t predict, what the outcome might be.”
The final nail of self-revelation came when others confessed their dependency: “I need booze just like other people need food and water.”
The recovering alcoholics listened patiently as Harold pleaded his nonaddiction-since he was able to abstain until 11:30 every morning-although they scarcely could control their laughter at his naivete.
In time he became a full-fledged member of Alcoholics Anonymous. The easiest of the famous twelve steps for Harold was admitting the existence of a power greater than himself. If Harold believed in anything, he believed in God. Indeed, it was his belief in God that sustained him through the agony of withdrawal, in and out of the William J. Doran Advertising Agency, and led him into the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance, or Trappists.
He chose the Trappists for several reasons. He felt he needed plenty of penance, and the Trappists, at least when he first joined them, were rigorous: prayer and work and little else. The renowned Thomas Merton had just made the order popular if not illustrious. And entering the Trappists was an excellent way of disappearing into a community where, save Merton, there was little if any individuality. Harold was, among other things, trying to lose his notoriety.
