The Greeting Card Pink Slip
by Paul Slaybaugh and Andrew J. Lenza
Walter Shu fidgeted in his chair. His wife was right. He loathed the act of firing people. He read once that a discharge should last fifteen minutes. In and out and stay out. Walter eyed the stack of citations on his desk. The A.D.A., the A.C.L.U., the Gay and Lesbian Alliance, the Italian-American club, Jews for Jesus all had written complaints about offensive Feel Good Greeting Cards.
The charges varied, but shared one common denominator -- the author of the egregious cards. Shu summoned B-Rad to his office. “B-Rad” was short for Brian Rada, a talented wordsmith whose once bright work had spiraled into a dark stream of angst somewhere along the line.
“Brian, please come in,” invited Walter.
“It’s B-Rad,” corrected the young man with the electric blue mohawk. He wore a knitted yarn scarf around his skinny neck. It was late April.
“Right. Bri--I mean B-Rad. Look, I’ll get straight to it. I’m rescinding your creative license,” said Walter, stiffening. “From now on all your cards go through me for approval.”
B-Rad tensed. He flexed his willowy arms within the purple and yellow Punisher tee shirt in a show of mock preparation.
“This is bullshit, Walter. I write real verse. Not the saccharine crap that those hacks churn out,” B-Rad objected, pointing a disdainful finger at the bullpen beyond the door of the ten by nine corner office. “I reflect life. I see ugly. I hear pain.”
“We’re a greeting card company, you dolt,” boomed Walter. “Your job is to make people feel good about life, not drive them to a ledge!” He removed a heavy card from a stack and read it aloud,
"There is a pot of gold waiting at the end of every rainbow. Behind the pot is a murderous Leprechaun."
Walter curled his bulbous lips, lifting his splayed palms in confusion.
“I wanted to capture the conflict between man’s unfulfilled expectations and reality,” explained B-Rad, scratching at his red beard. “Doesn’t it make you feel better about all the things you were promised and denied?”
“It’s a Saint Patrick’s Day card,” lamented Walter. “The Hiberians want my head. And this little ditty! What were you thinking when you wrote,
"It's the simple things in life that bring the most pleasure ... like a Pamela Anderson replica vacuum attachment."
B-Rad chuckled fondly at one of his personal favorites.
“Walter, I’m not sexually repressed like you are. Tommy and Pamela ... those cats share kismit,” he retorted, pulling a small tin of Altoids from the pocket of his overalls. “I’m in touch with my glands, dude. You seem all ... Puritan.”
“The insert doesn’t even make sense,” decried Walter, unhitching his tie. His blood pressure was rising precipitously. “What does Pamela Anderson have to do with a housewarming anyway?”
“Writing is like surfing,” whispered B-Rad, closing his eyes and steepling his hands in Zen prayer. “You don’t explicate the wave. You merge with it. Why don’t you read one of my cards that have inspired people to go beyond their limits?”
“Go beyond their limits,” Walter mocked by twirling his hands mystically over his head. B-Rad shuttered at the sight of two overzealous matching armpit stains.
“You mean like this one,” Walter asked with dripping sarcasm. “Did this verse motivate someone to a higher plane?” He read from a crimson card with a frilly border:
“Savor every gift. Like when the magician leaves something wet behind your ear. You only hoped for a quarter.”
“I think it’s a hip Valentine’s Day card,” argued B-Rad, “I considered using a clown, but studies show that people subconsciously associate clowns with Peeping Toms. You told me that, remember?” He waited a beat before adding, “Plus, David Copperfield gets a lot of ass.”
Walter sunk his head in his hands and moaned, “B-Rad, did it ever occur to you that you’re not normal?”
“Me? I’m very normal. I’m a whole person,” B-Rad spit, pointing at Walter. “You’re the beast. You want to kill the arts. You want conformity.”
Walter raised his eyes to the ceiling. He removed a fuscia card from the stack.
“If you were sick in the hospital,” Walter said in an even tone, “would this card make you feel better?” Shu cleared his throat,
"Life is like a box of chocolates … and cyanide is invisible to the naked eye.”
“Walter, of course that card would make me feel better,” reasoned B-Rad. “A, shit happens, and B, being sick sure beats being poisoned. Expand your mind, amigo. It’s a prime example of the “worse off” theory of inspiration.”
Shu walked over to his file cabinet. “Let’s not forget the maelstrom this one created in June. I can’t bear to read it aloud. Why don’t you do the honors?” B-Rad grabbed the brown card with the football on the front.
“You wished upon a star, but it wasn’t a star, sucka. Just some declassified minor planet or aircraft. I’m the cragged Charley now and you’re the senile coot who pees himself.”
Walter shook his head. He reached for his coffee cup and noticed it was empty. “I don’t know any father who would appreciate that card coming from a son.”
“Picture the apprentice snatching the master’s sword,” gestured B-Rad, slicing make-believe dragons in the thin air, “now the father is free to fall asleep beside a river confident his son will persevere.”
“What if the son was a daughter,” asked Walter.
“Cool! Finally! Corporate got my memo. We should totally start writing to the sex change crowd. Opens a whole new market,” B-Rad agreed breathlessly.
“What? No,” protested Walter, “what if the person who bought the card for Father’s Day was a daughter?”
B-Rad grabbed the back of his neck and drummed his fingers on Shu’s desk.
“Hmmm, see what you mean. Never thought of that,” he confessed. The admission shocked Walter.
“So you see why you’re going to submit every card to me before it goes to print,” ordered Walter, puffing his chest.
“Nah, not doing it,” denied B-Rad.
“No? Are you sure,” asked Walter.
B-Rad stood and paced across the cramped office twice.
“Yeah, I’m sure. You’re not editing my stuff,” he proclaimed.
“Then I have no choice but to terminate your employment with Feel Good Greeting Cards,” announced Walter in an authoritative tone.
“It’s all good, Wally. I was quitting next week anyway. Landed me a better gig with travel,” shared B-Rad. “Yeah, catch this, little gray corporate man, I’m gonna be speech writing for Chairman Greenspan.”
“You? You’re going to write for Greenspan,” Walter could barely form the question.
“Alan is a genius, but he sucks as a communicator. He has trouble reaching the masses,” said B-Rad.
Walter nodded, “I know what you mean, Bria--B-Rad.”
Watching the colorful form float out of the office with unrivaled flair, Walter couldn’t resist reaching for another card. He read it in silence.
In troubled seas, it’s good to have friends nearby, it began.
Maybe I jumped the gun with him, Walter thought, recalling the stellar early efforts of his then rising star. He opened the card and continued reading.
The fat ones have especially good buoyancy.
“We’re doomed.”
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