The Little Blue Pill

My two assistants and I had just returned from a three-hour lunch at Riccardo's, celebrating the wrap-up of an ad campaign that we had designed and produced under a crunching schedule. The legendary Dr. D.L. Henry, our agency's biggest client, was waiting for us when we got back.

We found him in the large conference room, the one we called the cathedral. He was at the head of the table and, as we entered the room, he looked us over pretty good. I could tell he was about to drop something major on us.

We pulled out chairs and sat. I was closest to Doc Henry, on his right. Barbara settled into a chair across from Doc, where I could see her. Nice view. If she weren't such a good art director, she probably could make it big as a model. Blonde hair, long and loose. Big green eyes. High cheekbones, great lips.

Next to Barbara sat Richard. Richard looks like a youngish headmaster at a boys' school in England. He's our walking data bank, copy editor and producer.

The three of us make an unbeatable combination. I'm the idea man and group leader. Barbara's the artist. Richard checks all facts, keeps us on track and gets the stuff produced. And Doc Henry is the overbearing hero of American business who controls the largest ad budget in the country. He began to talk.

"I have here the stuff of memories."

He smiled and opened his hand. Nestled in his palm was a small blue pill with a tiny number embossed on its smooth surface. "And I mean that literally."

Doc leaned forward, his face well over the shiny black-marble conference table, making a perfect upside-down reflection. I looked at the two Doc Henrys, one smiling at me, one underneath, frowning.

He fired a strange question at me.

"Les, remember how it felt to play center in an N.B.A. championship game? To score the winning shot and walk off the court with millions of fans screaming your name? Of course not. You never played pro basketball. But what if (continued on page 118) Blue Pill (continued from page 109) you could remember how it felt to stuff that winning basket? To remember the smell of your good old locker room, the liniment and sweat? The feel of your silky uniform?"

He sat back, grinning. Then he held out that little blue pill. With his other hand, he pinched it between his thumb and a stubby forefinger, picked it up and moved it in a slow half circle toward us. Then he popped it into his mouth and swallowed.

This is high drama in the ad business, friends.

"My company's neuroendocrinology people have been developing pills for some time now that can give you the memory of a particular experience. Not an illusory experience--we're not talking about a psychedelic or narcotic here. What it simply does is give you someone else's memory--a memory you'd pay to have."

Doc burped.

"Take that basketball example. We got a top N.B.A. center to lie back and remember his biggest moment. Paid him almost as much that day as he makes all year. But it was worth it. Our lab guys wired him up real good. Even tapped into his spinal fluids. And when his memory was going strong, our computers got its formula. It's just a chemical. Hell, we can make it by the barrel. And that was just the start."

From his pocket, he tossed another little blue pill onto the table. It bounced and spun and settled there on the glossy-marble surface. Below it was a sharp, clear-blue reflection of itself. We all stared at it.

"We've got twenty-five memories in production right now. We'll have a hundred by next year. Good memories: exotic cities, mountaintops, jungles, space flights. We've got love memories and sex memories. We've got all kinds of sports memories: basketball, baseball, football, gymnastics, you name it. The product's perfect. You three are the best creative team this agency's got. Dream up a way to sell this stuff."

•

One thing every ad person knows is that in order to find the magic selling idea that's waiting to be discovered in every new product, you have to test the product yourself.

The next morning, Barbara and Richard were in my office. On my desk were 20 envelopes. Each one contained a single little blue pill. On the outside of every envelope, there was a label with a memory description numbered to match the number on the pill inside.

"Well, guys," I said, "let's pick a memory and see how this idea of Doc's really works."

Richard reached for a sex experience with the French movie star Tasha Trieste. Barbara, always full of surprises, decided to take the basketball player's memory. I selected Four-Day Vacation in Venice.

We tossed our pills back, swallowed and looked at one another. I said, "We can break now. Let's work separately for a while. Then we'll get back together and go over some ideas."

They left without a word.

Alone in my office, I didn't feel like working. I spun my big chair around so I could look out the window. I put my feet on the ledge and sat back. Nothing yet.

I began to daydream. The idea of vacations got me thinking about my last great trip. What a place that had been.

The buildings were weathered from 1000 years of sea mist and looked all the more beautiful for it. You traveled on narrow stone walkways or moody green canals.

I remembered searching through endless back alleys for Marco Polo's house. I went under stained arches and through dark courtyards and finally, as it was getting dark, I found it. Qui Furono Le Case Di Marco Polo ... the old plaque had said. Here were the houses of Marco Polo.

But my sense of accomplishment soon faded. I realized I was totally lost. I tried to find my way back to the one spot I knew, the Rialto Bridge, but those twisting alleyways were a maze. The more I walked, the more lost I got. I shivered, remembering that feeling. I shivered more when I realized I'd never been anyplace like that.

The pill, of course. I put my feet down and swung my chair around. The hair on the back of my neck was standing up. I hadn't felt this uneasy since that time I got lost in Venice.

A knock at my door snapped me back to reality. Barbara walked in, obviously in high spirits.

"Les, I can't believe it. I can remember everything. What a game. I could practically fly! My arms seemed like they were a mile long. I was beautiful!" She got a mischievous look in her green eyes.

Now, I've got to explain how I felt about Barbara. It's simple. I thought she was the most beautiful woman on earth. She was a walking butterscotch sundae.

So what if I was married to a woman whose jealousy was exceeded only by her hot temper? So what if my wife's father and her two enormous brothers hung out with blue-jawed gentlemen who occasionally took unlucky associates of theirs for one-way rides in cars known for their trunk size? So what? So plenty!

Again, I felt the hairs on my neck bristle. Better be careful--keep it strictly business between me and Barbara. But that smile was getting hard to ignore.

"Les, I remember taking a shower with the guys on the team." She looked straight at me. "It was fabulous."

"Barbara, don't you like being a girl? You're so good at it."

She turned to leave my office and, with a tilt of her head, said over her shoulder, "Hey, I don't want to be a guy. I just liked showering with them. You know?"

And she was gone. There I was, standing in my office, extremely turned on by Barbara. And my father-in-law and my brothers-in-law hate me as it is. My wife's not too wild about me, either, come to think of it. And she loves revenge more than she loves anything.

Better just concentrate on getting the ads done.

•

The meeting we had later that day began slowly. Barbara's thoughts were still on the shower, no doubt, and Richard was not entirely with me, either. He was quiet about it, but I was pretty sure his thoughts were on Tasha Trieste. Tasha, bless her, was only 19. Who could blame him for finding it hard to concentrate?

But we had to get the ads done, so I forged ahead.

I started by suggesting a possible name for the product.

"Let's not get gimmicky. The product is too good. Maybe all we need to do is just say what it is: a pill that gives you memories. Should the name have the word memories in it?"

They shrugged.

I went on. "Should it have the word pill in it?"

I knew this would bring Richard back to reality.

"No," he said. "Pill sounds like medicine."

I said, "So we wouldn't want to call it The Memory Pill, would we?"

"That sounds like you take it if you've got trouble remembering things," Barbara said. "Know what I mean?"

She was right, of course, and Richard and I agreed.

We went around on the name issue for a while. Barbara thought we should just call it Memories, a one-word name that she said would look good on the package.

She had a sketch pad on her lap, and she roughed it out for us with her marker. It was a nice design, but I felt we were missing something. Something was nagging at the back of my mind--something (continued on page 144) Blue Pill (continued from page 118) I'd seen that would help me find the perfect way to advertise this product.

When I feel like this, I like to do a thing I call underthinking. I just lean back, put my feet up and let my mind go limp. I tried it.

First thing I thought of was Barbara. Then I thought of my father-in-law. I forced myself back to the little blue pill. And when I got there, the answer was waiting. Underthinking worked again.

"Guys, here it comes." I sat up, excited.

The thing that was nagging at me was an image I'd picked up in that meeting with Dr. Henry.

I could still see that pill sitting on the shiny-marble conference table. I remembered Doc's pink face smiling at me, and below it was the perfect upside-down reflection of his face, frowning at me.

But it wasn't Doc I was thinking about. It was the pill. There it sat, all shiny and blue, and right below, its perfect reflection. It almost looked as if there were two pills, one balanced on top of the other, with the bottom one slightly darker, a little shadowy and mysterious.

Now, what does the word reflection mean? Sure, it's another word for memory. And that's how a $50,000,000 ad campaign came to me in about 50 seconds.

I borrowed Barbara's sketch pad. I drew the pill and a big circle below it, which would be its reflection on a glass surface. I said to Richard and Barbara, "Reflect back to the meeting with Dr. Henry. Remember this?" And I pointed to the mirror image I'd drawn under the pill. Then, inside that reflection, I rough-sketched some Venice scenes--canals with striped poles and little gondolas.

"Ah," said Richard. "A good reflection!" He smiled and eased back in his chair. He saw that we had it all but wrapped up.

I handed the pad back to Barbara and said, "I think the name for this product should be Good Reflections."

"Perfect," she said.

I stood up and moved around my desk. "Our commercial should go...."

I was on my feet now, gesturing, showing how the camera would move in closer and closer.

"Open on the pill and its reflection. Bring in music--something nostalgic, like Memories Are Made of This. Voice-over says, 'Now you can reflect back to the best times ever had by people who have lived life's most exciting experiences....'

"Then the camera moves in tighter on the reflection under the pill. Inside that reflection, we dissolve in scenes of the different memories--a montage of exotic landscapes, love scenes, famous ball games--as the announcer describes them.

"We fade out of the last scene, and we move up and in on the pill itself! Announcer says, 'At your store now.' And while the pill's just sitting there, a hand picks it up. We pull back quickly to see that the hand belongs to a pretty girl, who pops the pill into her mouth! In our second commercial, we'll show different scenes in the reflection and maybe end with a guy taking the pill. In others, maybe, we'll show a kid at the end, or maybe a celebrity!"

I had to catch my breath. I get excited when I really start to cook. Then, in a calm voice, I added, "To wrap up, we cut to the package and move in on it to read: Good Reflections. Music up and out."

When I was done, Barbara held up her sketch pad, and there it was, the last scene of the commercial I'd just described.

The box said, Good Reflections, in bright blue. It was beautiful. So was Barbara's smile.

•

A few hours later, I was leaning back in my chair, feet up on the window, holding a big Scotch in my hand and feeling pretty good. Outside, it was beginning to get dark. Lights were coming on all over the city. Far below, Michigan Avenue turned into a glittering flow of white headlights on one side and red taillights on the other.

Suddenly, my door opened and Barbara rushed in. She looked upset.

"I've got a problem, Les." She came all the way around to my side of the desk and stood close to me. "I'm afraid to go down in the elevator. I can't leave the floor!" Her voice was tight and her pretty face was pale with fear. Not quite panic, but I had a feeling that panic could be right around the corner, where our bank of elevators was.

I put a brotherly hand on her shoulder and said, "You've been taking the elevator all along. What are you talking about?"

"I never take elevators, Les. Never!"

"Hey," I reminded her, "this is the forty-seventh floor. How did you get here?"

She began to pace. I got that prickly feeling along the back of my neck again. It didn't make sense, of course. Barbara and I had come up in the elevator this morning. And Barbara lived in a lake-shore high-rise overlooking Lincoln Park. Her apartment was on 28.

She sat down on the white couch, looking confused and scared. I poured some Scotch into a mug and handed it to her.

She took a gulp, winced at the burning and looked at me. "Les," she said, her voice husky from the whisky, "I know exactly why I won't get in an elevator."

"Forty-seven flights of stairs is a long walk, Barbara."

"Les, when I was a kid growing up in New York, we lived in a very run-down building. Our apartment was on nineteen. I remember coming home from school one day. I was in the elevator by myself, and about halfway up, the lights went off and the car stopped suddenly."

She took a sip of her drink.

"I smelled smoke. I couldn't see a thing in the dark and I couldn't breathe. I just wanted to get out!"

She took another swallow and leaned back.

"After a while--I don't know how long--the lights came on and the elevator moved. The door opened and I walked out. There had been a small fire in the building, but it was put out and I was fine.

"I've never gone in an elevator since. I just won't! Les, I can't leave here."

Her story made no sense. Barbara had grown up in California. Suddenly, I realized what must be happening.

"That never happened to you, Barb. You know that, don't you? Sounds like it might've happened to your basketball player, though. Right?"

She sat quietly for a while, and it came to her, too.

"I guess. Hey, this is scary. I must have gotten more than the memory of his game. But, Les, I'm not kidding, I still can't get in that damn elevator."

I refilled Barbara's mug and poured another for myself.

"Just relax, honey. We'll work out something. Stay here and make yourself comfortable. I want to talk with Richard. I'll be back in a few minutes. Don't go away, Ok?"

She nodded and sat there, looking like a lost little girl.

Richard's office was at the end of the hall. When I got there, I found his desk lamp turned off and his coat gone. He'd left for the day.

He lived only a few blocks from work. Maybe he was already home. I hoped he'd gone straight there tonight instead of out for his usual after-work shooter or two.

I went around behind his desk and sat in his chair. I picked up the phone and dialed. One ring. Another.

Suddenly, I heard Richard's voice on the line.

"Bon soir," he said.

"Richard. It's Les. I've got a problem I want to talk to you about."

"Moi aussi, mon vieux, moi aussi."

"Richard, I didn't know you spoke French."

"Les, I didn't know a word of French until this afternoon. Isn't it crazy? I think I could even read and write French now. It's kind of fun but scary. Must be Doc's pill. The guy who remembered making love to Tasha probably knew French, and I got his memory of it."

"You feel Ok otherwise, Richard? Any other unusual memories or anything?"

"No, I'm fine. I can remember pulling Tasha's lace undies down over her thighs. With my teeth, mon ami."

Now, that was something to think about.

"Les, are you there? Why'd you call? Are you Ok?"

"Yeah, so far. I can remember my trip to Venice, but that's it. Everything else is normal. Barbara has the problem."

I told Richard everything that had happened since Barbara came into my office. He said he'd come back and keep her company until the pill wore off.

I told him not to bother, that I'd stay with Barbara. Then I did a double take.

"What do you mean, wears off?"

"I guess I didn't tell you. I called Doc's lab guys to check on some details for our ad copy. We should have assumed this, Les. The pill's effect is only temporary. Its synthetic formula breaks down; and in about 24 hours, the artificial memory is gone. Doc can keep selling the same pills over and over."

"Listen, Richard, when the pill wears off, can't you remember what it made you remember when it was working? For example, won't I remember being in Venice?"

"Well, you'll remember having had that memory. But you won't remember how being there actually felt. It'll be like someone told you about it, or like a movie--not like you actually did it yourself."

"Did Doc's guys say anything about these unexpected memories, like Barbara's elevator thing and you with the French?"

"They said that some rare people might have side effects. Less than one percent of the population, according to them, but that would include highly creative people. We artistic types can sometimes pick up what the guy called ghost memories that are kind of stuck onto the main memory but that most people won't ever notice. There'll be a warning on the label."

"Thanks, Richard. I'll tell Barbara that the elevator phobia won't last, that she'll be fine by tomorrow."

"Yeah, but don't force her into an elevator tonight. It could be traumatic. I'll see you guys in the morning. Bonne nuit."

•

Barbara seemed a little high when I got back. She was never much of a drinker, so I guess the Scotch had sent her close to the line.

She was standing in front of my window, looking down on the city and smiling to herself. The office was pretty dark except for my desk lamp, which gave the room a nice warm glow.

I moved around my desk and stood behind her--close. I caught her scent, a warm humidity of girl, perfume, breathing and Scotch.

We were alone, and it was all I could do to keep from wrapping my arms around her from behind. I put my hand on her shoulder and looked out the window with her.

"How are you feeling now?"

"Much better."

"Richard just talked to me on the phone in perfect French."

She laughed. "So he got more than he bargained for, too."

"But he's going to be his old self tomorrow, and so will you. The memories wear off in twenty-four hours, according to Doc's lab guys."

I told her what Richard had learned about the ghost memories and how she could just wait out the night here. I said I'd be happy to keep her company, that maybe we could use the time to get a little extra work done on the campaign, and then I wasn't talking anymore. I was kissing her. And she was kissing me back.

Ok, what did you expect?

We just stood there by the window, kissing warmly and deeply. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my big white couch sitting against the wall, patiently. I never knew a piece of furniture could look so smug.

This was like being back in high school. The bonanza of a new girl in your arms. New lips. New body. The runaway excitement. The feeling of being strangled by your own incredibly shrinking underwear. The danger.

Danger! What was I doing? This wasn't the kind of danger you feel when you're in high school. This was big-time danger.

"Barbara, stop."

I walked around my desk and poured a drink. I gulped at it and turned away, so she couldn't see the fear on my face.

"Les?"

I looked back. She was still by the window. The outline of her body and long blonde hair made a soft, curvy silhouette against the glow of the city behind her.

"What's wrong? We're alone. I know you've wanted to be alone with me." Her voice became husky and she talked slowly, deliberately. "Les, today's been so crazy. I need you to help take my mind off what's been happening."

My heart was thudding. Back there at the window, I was one step away from undoing the little buttons on Barbara's sweater. And I'd been wondering if she had lace undies like Tasha Trieste's.

Any more of this, and I'd be sunk. My wife's family is psychic about such things, I swear. And I'm the world's worst liar. I'd get home smelling of perfume and grinning like a cat with canary breath. It would be the chance they'd been waiting for. Out I'd go. And that family doesn't believe in divorce. That would be too easy. No, my father-in-law and his sidekick sons would take care of me.

"Barbara, we'll walk down."

"My God, Les, are you that afraid of me? Walk down forty-seven floors?"

She turned her back to me and looked out the window. I felt like the world's biggest jerk. Here was a woman I'd wanted to make love to since the first moment I saw her. She finally felt the same way, and I was brushing her off!

I could still smell her perfume. I could still feel her warmth. Those firm breasts, those full, moist lips. Was I crazy to run away from her?

"Barbara, let me explain." I walked back around the desk toward the window. She turned away from the glass and faced me. The light from my desk lamp reflected in her green eyes, which shined full and wet.

"Go on."

"Look, my wife is insanely jealous. If I get involved with you, even once, she'll know. Her father and brothers will do things to me. Terrible things. They live according to a very old Italian code of behavior. I guess I sound like a coward. But I know these guys, Barbara. What they've done to people. I just...." I looked down at my feet, like a school kid telling some impossible excuse to a beautiful young teacher he'd secretly had a crush on. I couldn't look at Barbara. But at least now she knew.

At first, I couldn't figure out what that noise was that she was making. She was upset with me, I knew, but not enough to cry. Then I heard a definite giggle. She was trying to stifle it, but she was actually laughing--at me.

I looked up. She held out her arms. "Come here, you idiot," she said.

She grabbed my face in her hands, pulled me forward and kissed me powerfully on the mouth.

"Haven't you figured it out, Les?"

Through the window, the city was lit up like a stage.

"Figured out what?"

"You're not married. You don't have any Italian wife or gangster brothers-in-law. Don't you see? It's just like my elevator memory. And Richard suddenly knowing French. Tasha Trieste's lover must have known French. Your memory was of Venice, Italy! Get it? The guy who went to Venice must've had a real old-fashioned Italian wife with the father and brothers who made him scared stiff!"

"So real," I said. "They all seemed so real."

"Want to know what's real?" she whispered and put my hand on her breast.

"I'm real," she said. "Feel my heart?"

Over her shoulder, I caught a glimpse of us in my window as she pulled me close to her. Now, that was a good reflection.

" 'What this pill does is give you someone else's memory--a memory you'd pay to have.' "

" 'She sat quietly for a while. 'Hey, this is scary. I must have gotten more than one memory.' "