“What’s your name Kid?” the big guy in the flawlessly tailored suit asked.
“Who me? Are you talking to me, Mr. Mitchell?” replied the shy looking kid in the ill-fitting khakis and sport coat he received as a graduation from college a year before months before.
“Do you see anyone else, Kid?”
“No sir. It’s just . . . no sir,” the kid stammered.
“You’re new, right?” Mitchell asked him.
“It’ll be a year next December,” the kid said, trying to make it sound longer than nine months.
“I’m putting you on a special project, come with me,” Mitchel snorted as he headed off in a different direction and expected the kid to fall in line behind him.
“But I’m supposed to have this hubcap design turned in by the end of the day,” the kid said, running to catch up.
“Screw the hubcap. I just got back from peaking through the fence at Chrysler headquarters and we are in some deep dung, Kid,” Mitchell yelled back at him. “Do you know who Chrysler is, Kid?”
“Number Three of The Big Three,” the kid told him, with just a hint of attitude in his voice.
“Well they’re about to be Number Two, based on what I just saw,” Mitchell yelled. “The ’57 lineup they’re about to unveil is going to kick our butt. Everything they’ve got has got fins and angles and massive amounts of glass and chrome. Makes our 1957s look like ’55 models that got pregnant,” Mitchell admitted. “It’s too late to do anything about the ‘57s now. Not a whole lot we can do about the ‘58s. But we gotta have all new designs for the ‘59s.
The kid couldn’t believe the guy leading the style team at General Motors sounded so panicked.
Mitchell went on, “I’ve seen some of your drawings. I’m putting you in a room with two other newbies. You’re going to be working on the 1959 Buicks. I want you to think outside the box. Be creative. Think Jet Age. You’ve got the resources of the biggest corporation on the damn planet behind you. Give me the next Big Thing.
“Yes sir,” the Kid muttered, completely overwhelmed at the turn of events.
“Kid,” Mitchell said as he turned and walked away, “I want you to design like the life of this company depended on it! Because, by god, it might. You’ve got less than four months.”
The Kid and two associates, as well as a handful of chosen secretaries were cloistered in new offices far from the rest of those who they had previously worked with. They worked every night and weekend. The cleaning crew would come in each morning and empty ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts and crumpled up KOOL cartons. Empty bourbon bottles filled the trash cans. Huge sketches would be wadded up in heaps on the floor.
A hundred days later, one of the secretaries flew into the room and slammed the door. “I just heard from Joanne on the Executive Floor. Mr. Mitchell will be down here tomorrow to see what you’ve got,” she whispered, almost out of breath.
Her source was right. Mitchell and two other suits burst through the door the next morning, demanding to see what the young team had. They looked at each sketch in silence. “My god!” he said after each drawing. “My god! What are these names you’ve got drawn on each car? Le Sabre? Invicta? Electra? You know these aren’t the names of Buick models!”
“New cars deserve new names,” the Kid said, cool as a cucumber. Mitchell didn’t know whether to hug the kid or kick his ass.
Finally, he said, “Tell me kid, how’d ya do it. These are genius!”
The kid put his loafers up on the table, leaned back, crossed his fingers behind his head. “Bill,” he said, “have you ever heard of hallucinogens?”
