Cantankerously Yours

“He Didn’t Really Mean That”

By Wendell Abern

Dear Readers,

By the early ‘70s, my career as an advertising copywriter seemed to be blossoming.

I had had a string of successes with commercials for several clients, had won important awards and had been promoted several times. I was no longer “The Kid.”

The only problem:  my presence was now required at most client meetings.

While my attendance at meetings wasn’t a big deal, getting to them was. They were all out of town.

And I was afraid to fly.

No. Strike that. It wasn’t fear. It was sheer knuckle-whitening terror.

This was before the technological wizardry that revolutionized the corporate landscape. Teleconferencing didn’t yet exist. Cell phones hadn’t been invented. Computers were just beginning to peek over the horizon.

I worked for a few large Chicago advertising agencies whose clients were scattered all over the country, and I suddenly found myself flying somewhere at least once a week, and frequently twice. The mere thought of it made me shiver with fear. I could never sleep the night prior to a flight.

The only one who knew was Linda. Linda Reynolds was the account supervisor on Tide, Head & Shoulders, and a few other Procter & Gamble products. Terrific. Great brain, super with clients, and the one account exec that every writer wanted to work with, even though she was only 30 or thereabouts.

Linda traveled with me to every meeting in Cincinnati. One morning, after we’d settled in our seats and the plane was underway, she turned to me and said, “Are you afraid to fly?”

“No!” I lied. “Why?”

“Well, I became a little suspicious when we started taxiing down the runway and you grabbed my hand and started crushing it. Then I became convinced when we took off and you broke three of my fingers.”

She held up her limp hand, and I apologized profusely.

I swore her to secrecy, telling her I was getting help in therapy.

After that incident, even though I couldn’t afford it, I doubled my visits to Dr. Sherman, my shrink.

“We’ve gotta do something,” I said. “Procter & Gamble is in Cincinnati, I have to be in Detroit every Monday for Oldsmobile, and I’m now on Pepperidge Farm as well as Swanson Frozen Foods, and they’re both part of Campbell Soup Company in Philadelphia, and that’s not even taking into account all the production trips when commercials get produced, which is almost always in California, except when it’s in New York, and then …”

“You’re babbling,” Dr. Sherman said.

“I can’t help it! We have to do something!”

He gave me the name of a hypnotist, one J. Phillip Marshall.

I saw Mr. Marshall a few days later, then reported back to Dr. Sherman.

“It didn’t really go very well,” I said.

“Yes, I know. While I have sent several patients to Mr. Marshall, you are the only patient who has ever sent him back to me.”

“He came to see you after my visit?”

“Yes. You refused to be hypnotized. You refused to let go; you have to let go to go under if he’s going to help you. He was most distraught.”

“I hate to lose control.”

“Yes, I know. That may be the problem.”

Epiphany! Control! Clearly my big problem! Tentatively, Dr. Sherman agreed.

Control! The real reason I refused to drink, like everyone else; refused to smoke pot, like everyone else; refused to try new drugs, like everyone else.

Control! The reason I couldn’t fly! Control! I now knew the solution to my problem:

I signed up to take flying lessons.

I assumed if I knew how to fly an airplane, it wouldn’t threaten my bladder so intensely. I put down a $25 deposit with a small airline company in the Chicago suburb of Des Plaines and signed up for my first flying lesson the following weekend.

On Saturday morning, shivering with fear, I called and canceled. “Keep the $25 deposit,” I said.

“We’re just going to sit in the cockpit,” he said. “I’m just going to show you where the controls are.”

“No, you’re not! You’re going to lock the doors and kidnap me! Then you’re going to take off, and when we get up in the air, you’re going to let go of the steering wheel and tell me to take over, and I’m not coming out there, and you can keep your lousy $25!” And I hung up before he could say anything.

The following Tuesday, Linda and I had an afternoon flight to Philadelphia. I met her at the airport and decided to buy myself a drink instead of a box of Depends.

“I’ve never seen you have a drink,” Linda said.

“It’s been years. Hate the stuff. Maybe it’ll help.”

Much as I hated the taste, the pleasant effect settled me. After we’d boarded, the flight attendant came by and offered us small bottles of booze (free in those days). I accepted two Johnnie Walkers and chug-a-lugged one. As we took off, I started to giggle and hoisted the second one.

“To the grape!” I toasted loudly.

“Oh, Lord,” Linda whispered.

And so began two years of drinking before and during each flight. Two small bottles of anything. Scotch, gin, bourbon, vodka, it didn’t matter. I hated them all. But they all helped.

Linda loved to milk my new-found cure, constantly making up things I’d said and done to embarrass her. And every time we de-planed, she’d turn to the flight attendant, and in a stage whisper would say, “He didn’t really mean that.”

Then one clear day, flying over the beautiful Rockies, I thought … this is pretty nice. In fact, this is beautiful! After more than a half-million miles in the air, I had actually come to like flying!

That was in April of 1972. Haven’t had a drink since.

Cantankerously Yours,

Wendell Abern