The Contract

 

I had recently moved to Denver from

Albuquerque where I had worked with

the homeless addicted. I was qualified

because I myself was recovering. I met

the requirement of having been sober

for at least 2-years.

It was a government funded non-profit

and it didn’t pay much, but what the hell,

I needed the work and at least I’d be as-

sociated with people with whom I could

relate.

Because of my previous advertising ex-

perience, I managed to make a little extra

income doing some freelance writing for

a local advertising agency.

When I left my main work with the home-

less to move to Colorado, I figured my copy

writing gig would be over as well. But just

in case, I gave my forwarding number to

the ad company director should she have

further need of my services in the future.

You can find drunks and druggies in every

corner of America, but good freelance

writers were a bit harder to come by.

Anyway, long story short, the ad lady called

me one day needing some newspaper copy

for a client, Bueno Foods (In my opinion,

the best damn commercial chili products

in the Southwest).

The agency offered to fly me back to

Albuquerque for the day to meet with

their client and go over the particulars.

Imagine me, a recovering alchy, a nobody

freelance writer getting flown in and paid

to meet with corporate higher-ups to

help put together an ad campaign. I had

come of age. At least for the moment in

time, I had it made.

I’m sure Albuquerque had plenty of

capably fine writers who could have

done the job, but instead I, the es-

teemed, big shot adman from Denver,

Colorado was contracted to fly down

to little old, backwater Albuquerque

and handle the assignment.

Looking back on it, I am now amazed

that my narcissistic ego didn’t explode

in mid air, wiping out both pilots and

the other five passengers on board

that puddle-jumper flight I had taken

that day.

I mean, it turned out to be an insig-

nificant little newspaper ad I’m talking

about here, a standard two-column by

five-inch, black and white ad about chili.

No prestigious Pulitzer Prize or Clio Ad-

vertising Award here...No sir, no ma’am,

just a few pithy, BS, hype words strung

together by a recovering alcoholic.

Hellfire, most any local, run-of-the-mill

drunk worth his or her salt was capable

of that.

                 -30-

Chris Hanch 10-15-2020