tufts of hair. His solarplexus burned and the back of his neck tightened.
He blew out a breath as though to expel the demon, but blood still rushed
into his head, dimming the edges of his reason and causing his ears to ring.
Imposing time, the Titan, tightened its grip around his neck and he stood,
steadying his breathing, deciding to take a walk. Motion calmed the attack
and he suddenly looked forward to the fresh scene awaiting him down on the
street.
The river of Manhattan traffic washed by Lowell as he strolled up Madison Avenue, cutting his way through the thick forest of pedestrians. What a thrill this had all been once for a Pennsylvania farm boy. Fresh out of art school, Lowell had made his way to the Big City in 1962 with dreams of becoming the next Jasper Johns.
The river of Manhattan traffic washed by Lowell as he strolled up Madison Avenue, cutting his way through the thick forest of pedestrians. What a thrill this had all been once for a Pennsylvania farm boy. Fresh out of art school, Lowell had made his way to the Big City in 1962 with dreams of becoming the next Jasper Johns.
The realities of making a living, however, steered him to advertising where
his talent paid back more than he could have ever imagined. “A little
pressure is a small price to pay for a view like this,” he had said
to his wife, Lucy, when they took their apartment on Central Park West at
68th Street.
Lately, though, Lowell had become increasingly exhausted from his work. His pace slowing, he stepped into a coffee shop on the corner of 45th Street for a rest. At the counter, he leaned on his elbows and looked out the window at the scene. Such rushing about, he thought. Everyone in a hurry to somewhere, to do something, or see someone. Where are they off to? To work, to shop, to eat, to an appointment, to a mistress, to anywhere but where they are.
Lately, though, Lowell had become increasingly exhausted from his work. His pace slowing, he stepped into a coffee shop on the corner of 45th Street for a rest. At the counter, he leaned on his elbows and looked out the window at the scene. Such rushing about, he thought. Everyone in a hurry to somewhere, to do something, or see someone. Where are they off to? To work, to shop, to eat, to an appointment, to a mistress, to anywhere but where they are.
Over
to Grand Central to roll away toward destinations unknown. Through Lincoln
Tunnel, like a mole, to New Jersey. Everyone rushing, rushing. Why? Everyone
wants to get somewhere. Or do they really just want to get away? Away from
what? From it. From the unpleasantness of the day. From the demands, the obligations,
the niceties, the compromises, the injustices, the frustrations, the limitations,
the humiliations, the abominations. When did they ever truly “get away”
from all that? he wondered. In the bath, at night, with the door shut tight,
Lowell chuckled to himself.
Suddenly, Lowell felt a rush of adrenaline and a smile warmed his face. Ah, my friend, you have arrived at last, he said to himself. Come, let us dine together.
Suddenly, Lowell felt a rush of adrenaline and a smile warmed his face. Ah, my friend, you have arrived at last, he said to himself. Come, let us dine together.
Lowell stood and walked out of the coffee shop, accompanied by the inspiration
he needed so desperately. It came, as he knew it would, when he stopped looking
for it — when it tapped him on the shoulder in a Manhattan coffee shop.
***
“Lowell, I must say, it’s brilliant.” Charles McMahon
sat at the head of the long mahogany conference table, smiling. “’Escape.’
It’s alluring. It’s seductive. Just a hint of decadence. Sell
the hell out of it Stinson.”
“The account is ours, Mr. McMahon,” Stinson responded confidently.
“There is no doubt about it. Great work, Lowell.”
“Have I ever let you down, Robert?” Lowell was slouched
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