The Happy Soul Industry (novel & video)

 

The Happy Soul Industry on Amazon

Vernon stood before the picture window in his office over looking Los Angeles. The

sky outside was a bluish, purple preparing for night. His eyes glossed over the familiar

panorama. The same few long palm trees blew this way and that against the Santa Ana

winds. In silhouette, they resembled the trees Vernon drew as a boy with a magic marker:

A black line with seven or eight smaller ones exploding from the tip. He’d paint the

coconuts last, just circles under the lines.

Vernon picked up one of his numerous award statues from the cabinet beneath the

window. It wasn’t his coveted Slippy but rather a humanitarian prize the agency won

doing a campaign for the YMCA. The mayor had made a big deal of the project,

honoring CN&W at an enormous party thrown at the tony Santa Monica Airport. The

following day two favorable stories ran in the papers. The commercials would later

garner the agency a slew of industry awards for creative achievement, including the one

in his hand.

Of course, Vernon couldn’t have cared less about the YMCA of Santa Monica. They’d

done the pro-bono to appease the city (their snazzy new office required many hard-to-get

permits) and they did the work to win awards.

Mission accomplished. Twice.

Once upon a long time ago, Vernon may have wondered if the agency’s self-serving

policies were ethical. Not anymore. Hell, even Barry –a big liberal- looked at pro-bono as

merely a mine for awards. For a creative boutique like theirs, winning accolades meant

almost as much as selling a client’s product.

Vernon dropped the statue, upsetting the others, breaking some. Bric-a-brac rolled and

fell onto the floor, joining the fallen portrait of his wife, its glass already cracked.

Unfazed, Vernon left the mess.

For in his other hand Vernon held a sizable tumbler of scotch, of which he now took a

sip. Then another. He regarded the debris below: A slew of broken awards and a busted

marriage.

Three loud raps interrupted his reverie. Keys jangling, the nightly cleaning lady

entered his office. She seemed surprised to see the important executive standing in the

gloaming, alone. “I’m so sorry. Am I disturbing you? I can come back.”

“No, not at all.” Vernon replied. “Come on in. It’s kind of dirty in here.”

The cleaning lady smirked, and headed toward him. As she approached, Vernon got a

better look at her. And it was an eyeful. Her outfit was more French maid than union

local. In addition, she was very made up for the late shift. Her lipstick shined. “So, where

do you want me to start working?”

“Well,” Vernon swallowed, “I know my knob could use polishing.”

“You’re the boss, honey.” Dropping her props (a mop and bucket), the prostitute knelt

down before him. Slowly, she began loosening Vernon’s belt.

Vernon held up his drink, offering a toast to no one in particular. “Here’s to goodness

in all its forms,” he said. “Oh, yeah.”