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Jackson Whole By Rick McGrath I was reading a trade magazine in the offices of Frog & McDog, Advertising Messages Ltd. It was a Friday, early afternoon. I had my feet up. Outside the Vancouver sun was shining. It was July 3rd. Tomorrow was my birthday. I was reading a story about Frog & McDog. It felt strange to be reading about yourself. The article was in a Toronto magazine by a Toronto writer, exclaiming about how F&M was a good example of Vancouver’s trendy new move to “bizarre” agency names. Truth was, a lot of us guys were finding ourselves on the street, so we had little choice but to start up creative boutiques, as they were called, small shops that specialized in dreaming up variations on the outrageous or humourous, mostly to attract the gullible to mass-volume retail clients. The article contained a pix of The Frog looking creative in his office. The Big Guy was never mentioned. The phone rang. I was slightly peeved at this interruption. Friday afternoon to Vancouver is, you must remember, as the 7th day is to God. A time to get laid back and reminisce about the peaks or pratfalls of the preceding week. In other words, a time to hang out at the regular hole and lie to your drinking buddies. The phone rang twice. Cleveland, F&M’s secretary and media buyer, picked it up. She cheerfully announced “Effen-em” and then lapsed into attentive silence. She wrote something down and called out to me. I looked up. She didn't look pleased. “Line three. It’s The Frog”. I picked up the phone. Froggie sounded slightly testy. “Get over here right away, OK? The Ollie Big Guy’s got something important to tell you”. He hung up. I hung up, got up, put on my suit jacket, grabbed my cigs and headed out. I pushed through the old train station’s immense front doors and hit Water Street. I headed east, ducked down an alley in Gastown and entered Al Porto. Ingrid the hostess recognized me and pointed off to the far corner. The Frog and The Big Guy were hunched over a stack of dirty plates and two large glasses of wine. I sat down beside Frog. He and The Big Guy seemed to be involved in some kind of staring contest. Ingrid brought me a clean wine glass. Frog finally looked away. The Big Guy’s eyes were looking wild. It took him about five minutes to calm down. The sign came when he reached in his coat for a cigar. Frog turned to me and said, “Ollie McDog, this is not easy. The Big Guy has some news that, malheusement, is not going to be your favourite”. I looked across the table at The Big Guy. He was leaning forward, trademark stogie clamped between two oversized fingers. His nails had been buffed shiny. His face appeared earnest. “McDog, old boy, as the Frog has already blurted out, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. For all of us. Beane has gone over the books, and things don’t look so good." “Cut to the chase”, Frog said. The Big Guy nodded. “Frog & McDog is fucked. Kaputsky. Gone down the drain.” He fingered his wine glass. He took a quick drink and looked straight at Frog. His voice was toneless. “I got no choice. As majority shareholder and co-signer of the note, I'm declaring Frog & McDog bankrupt. Operations will cease today. McDog, you can clean out your desk this afternoon. Frogger, you and I will talk this weekend.” The blood drained from my cheeks. I was glad I hadn't eaten. This was fuckin great timing. Just six months earlier I had lost my own small shop, McDoggerel Advertising Devices (MAD), when three of my four clients had declared bankruptcy. Frog had started up his first shop over a year ago, starting off with a paramilitary campaign to advertise his new agency. The campaign theme was Frog Reported Over Enemy Target and it featured Frog’s desperate face in a World War Two bomber pilot’s outfit. His credentials were prominent in bomb explosions across the bottom of the ad. Frog and I had talked a few times at bars. When MAD folded Frog took me in and we changed the name to F&M. Now it looked like I’d have to start all over again. “Fuckin hell”, I said. “A bottle of Glen and three shot glasses,” the Big Guy called out to Ingrid. When the booze arrived, Frog filled the three glasses and carefully put one in front of each of us. He lifted his glass towards the Big Guy. “We gave it a good try, but we came up short. That's the way it goes sometimes. But before we hit the handle for the last time I’d like to say something to the Big Guy. Big Guy, I’d like to thank you personally for extending your credit as long as you did, and I also want to thank you for being a great partner and a great Ollie all together”. We drank. Then nobody said anything for about five minutes. It was a long time. The Big Guy turned to me and said real slow. “McDog, I'm going to write you one hell of a letter of recommendation”. The Frog started to tremble beside me. The Big Guy started to snicker. He leaned over the table and smacked me one on the shoulder. “Gotcha! McDog. Christ, man, we toasted you. You're whiter’n cocaine.” He laughed. Frog laughed. Ingrid laughed from behind the bar. “McDog, ha ha.” I was getting pissed off. I pouted. “Chill out,” the Big Guy said smoothly. “The agency's doin just great. We’re makin money.” He laughed again at me, looked up and snapped his fingers. “Ingrid, Heinies”, he yelled. I looked at both of them. “Assholes,” I said. “Happy birthday, McDog”, Frog said, raising his glass. “It’s good to have you with us”. “Yeah”, the Big Guy raised his glass, too. “How old are you, anyway?” “Thirty-five”, I said. We drank one more shot of scotch. Then Ingrid arrived with the beer. The Big Guy was feeling expansive. “Ingrid, my swedish delight”, he said, “bring us a phone, darlin”. Ingrid curtseyed. “You know what I want to do, Frog”, the Big Guy said. “I want to go out for dinner. A birthday dinner, for McDog”. He knocked back his shot and looked around the restaurant. It was almost empty. “And I want to hear a little country & western music, too”. He started singin a Willie Nelson song. It sounded final. The phone arrived. Frog called Cleveland and asked her if everything was set up. He nodded yes to the Big Guy and put the phone down. The Big Guy passed the phone over to me. “Here, call your old lady and tell her you're going out for dinner tonight”. He looked at Frog. “Whaddya think,” he said “Cloverdale or San Francisco?” I dialed home. She was in. I told her what was happening. She wished me well. I hung up. Two guys in tuxes had appeared beside the table. Each carried a 24-pack of stubby, green cans. Heinekins. “Let’s go”, the Big Guy said. “If we’re going country & western, we gotta dress the part.” We each grabbed a new Heinie and waltzed out the restaurant. We walked up the alley to the street, turned south two blocks, then west two blocks to The Western Shop, one of F&M’s smaller clients. The two guys in tuxedos followed. Inside we got down to it. Billyboy, the Big Guy’s self-styled bodyguard, was already there and dressed. They closed the shop’s doors and we all picked out our own versions of what I chose: new Tony Lama boots, new jeans, a “Bud” beltbuckle with a bottle opener on the reverse, a brand new hat and best of all, a red western shirt with hundreds of white pearl buttons, white piping, and a royal flush in hearts spread out over each shoulder. We checked each other out and hit the sidewalk. At the curb were two limos. The three of us got in the front limo. The tuxes left the beer in the front seat and got behind the wheels. On our way to the airport we stopped off at one of the Big Guy’s strip clubs. The chauffeur behind us ran into a door at the back of the building and came out with The Greek. We pulled away. They followed. At the Airport we turned left and headed out to the executive airpark. The Big Guy’s Lear was warmed and ready. We climbed in and took off. At about 35,000 feet over Washington the Big Guy pulled down the phone off the cabin wall. We all took turns phoning home. After that we amused ourselves with a little gambling, but as no one ever intended to pay the other, the game didn't have much of an edge. Frog soon settled in to looking out the window and doing some serious damage to our stock of beer. The Big Guy and I exchanged arm punches, a rather painful form of corporate bonding that resulted in a sore arm for me and absolutely no reaction at all from the Big Guy. Billyboy and The Greek argued about Retsina. After a couple hours the pilot leaned back and yelled to us he was starting his descent. We looked out the windows as the plane banked into a long clean glide and landed in the late twilight at some smalltown airport. We got out, stretched, and walked right into the arms of a US Customs Official. We were all pretty drunk. The Big Guy talked with the customs officer briefly, then the officer walked over to us. “All you people Canadians”, he asked. We all nodded yes. “OK, go,” he said. We said goodnight to the pilots and climbed into a big Dodge stationwagon. “This is the biggest taxi they've got”, Billyboy said to no one in particular. “Where to, sir,” the taxi driver asked. “The Millionaire Cowboy’s Bar”, the Big Guy said. “And step on it”. The gravel flew. We arrived at the bar. It was huge. It was divided into two large rooms: a regular bar at the front and in the back, cowboys and cowgirls were whoopin it up in the dancehall. We looked around. The people in the bar looked at us. We looked overly well-dressed. The Big Guy sidled up to one of the bars. We all followed. Instead of bar stools with seats, the Millionaire Cowboy Bar had stools with real saddles on top. Everyone crowded around The Big Guy. I climbed up on a saddle and ordered a drink. Billyboy was beside me. He ordered a hundred shooters. The bartender didn't even look up. I got out of the saddle and watched. Billyboy grabbed a tray covered with shooters. He made a beeline to the pool tables and started passing out free drinks. He didn't get beat up. They thought it was great. We joined in. Most of the guys started playing pool, drunk as they were. I took two shooters and wandered back into the dancehall area to check out the action. A 10-piece band, sorta country, was banging out a horn-heavy version of “Ghost Riders In The Sky” to an appreciate audience. A skinny little Yank wearing beatup boots, cheap jeans and a ripped white T-shirt came up to me and offered to trade his shirt for mine. He looked like a cowboy. Did he think I was nuts? The Greek appeared with a fresh tray of shooters. We both downed one. At the bar, The Greek was trying to arrange dinner. It was now near midnight. I was feeling a little lightheaded, so I wandered out onto the street. We were right across from the town park. I crossed the street. Over the Park entrance rose a gothic arch of meshed deer antlers. Thousands of them, locked together like a million knobby fingers. I walked through the Park until the chill air revived me, then walked back to the bar. When I arrived the Big Guy and Billyboy were involved in an animated discussion with a uniformed guy beside a white and black station wagon. In the back of the wagon a german shepherd was in a frenzy. Frog and The Greek were across the street, yelling from the station wagon. Billyboy finally pulled the Big Guy away. We crossed the street and got in the cab. The Big Guy was pissed. “Where we goin?” he asked hoarsely. “The best steak joint in town”, Frog answered. “Thick as you like”. “All right”, we all answered. It was nearly one o'clock. I was hungry. We drove down dark, woody roads and into a smallish, built-up area. The driver pulled up in front of an old-fashioned cafe. I looked in through the window. Tile floor. Red & white checked tablecloths. We were just about ready to order when the cops arrived. The local police weren't too happy about The Big Guy taunting their precious mutt, so we were being asked to leave. Actually, we were being told to leave. One of the cops went back to his car. The Big Guy followed. I looked in at the selection of home-baked pies in the counter display. About five minutes later the Big Guy came back to the booth. “The pilots are on their way back to the plane. They're opening the airport.” We all piled in the Lear, faintly hung over, hungry, and sloshing each other with the extra beer we bought at Jackson. I was hunched over in the aisle when The Frog leaned over and gave me a good smack on the shoulder. “Happy Birthday, Ollie”, he said. All the other guys leaned over and gave me a chorus of sharp punches. “Fuckoff assholes”, I slurred and dropped the beer. I wheeled and gave each a return shot. The plane took off and the wee hours burned by in an intermittent flurry of punches and drinking, diminishing as each of us finally passed out. I ended up sleeping on the floor beside the door. The faint howling of the 500 mph wind outside had a hypnotic lull. My sleep was interrupted only twice by a persistent Frog and his final arm punches. We arrived in Vancouver as pre-dawn lit the horizon. The customs man was there. He looked at us and laughed. We were still wearing our new duds, wet and smelly with beer and sweat. There were three limos. The Big Guy jumped in one and sped off. The four of us quickly split geographically, and we were off. Two miles later our chauffeur was pulled over for speeding. I arrived home at six. I stood at the end of the bed, tall in my new boots. She awoke and looked at me. Five minutes later she was still laughing. I wore the cowboy outfit to four Halloween parties before I outgrew the shirt. The toe of one boot cracked open three years later. The hat was destroyed in a street snowball fight the night before a Grey Cup game in Edmonton. I never wore the belt again. The jeans are these cutoffs I'm wearing right now. Refresh your drink? Dip in the pool? Didja hear about the Big Guy’s trip to Papua, New Guinea? © 1991 Rick McGrath