HUMAN WRECKAGE
Life Sort of, Kind of, Imitates Advertising
Our neighbourhood is in the throes of
extensive utility upgrades. Holes have been dug on our street and in our
backyard. I smoke 20 to 25 cigarettes a day, so if the gas company wants to lay
new and safer lines I’m pretty much okay with the inconvenience as more often
than not I’m puttering around with something akin to Mrs. O’Leary’s cow between
my lips.
When I was growing up in the 60s cola
drinks were a no-no, they rotted your teeth and caused acne. Sophistication
then was my parents entertaining or hosting a bridge night, my father would
sometimes slip me a glass of Canada Dry cola with lots of ice and a wedge of
lime on the rim and I would take it down to the basement to sip and savour as I
watched Gunsmoke or Rat Patrol. Across the street my friend
Mark’s family always had twisty, twirling bottles of Pepsi in their fridge. The
ultimate was a cold Coca-Cola guzzled right out of a Depression glass green
bottle. Afterward I could drop a saliva rope to my kneecaps and then reel it
back in or speak an entire sentence whilst belching.
Children’s palates evolve. Eventually the
staples and treats of childhood no longer entice. Forty years on and in my
fourth advertising job I was privileged to work on various aspects of an
agency’s Coca-Cola account for some 14 years. I knew it was time to get out
when I realized I felt little other than contempt for a Fortune 500 company and
one of the world’s great brands. When a client calls a vendor a partner, all it
means is that the client’s problems must now be shared – or else. Atlanta
dictated my employer’s means of production to ensure that we would utilize
other ‘valued’ partners thereby slashing our production margins to zero,
renegotiated our agency’s long-established billing rates and then indicated
that outstanding invoices would not be addressed for as long as 120 days. Any
trickle down from that particular soda fountain was effectively shut off.
Today I can smell the wildfires burning in
northern Alberta and eastern British Columbia. Rainfall was sparse this
past spring. Summer storms threaten but never burst. It is Africa
hot. We welcomed a visitor into this type of peculiar drought last month. All
of our amber rum is gone now but we were left with a half case of mix, Coke.
Last week a gaggle of gas workers gathered on our front lawn under the shade of
our birch to munch their lunches, seeking some respite from the midday heat.
They all wore heavy blue coveralls and heavy boots, salty sweat on tanned young
faces.
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