Dorothy

(Part 1) [This week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Dorothy once vomited over the side of the boat during a booze cruise. That was when she was young, single, and carefree—a recent college grad—with her whole future ahead of her. Now she was not so young, but still single and somewhat carefree. And she was making good progress professionally. Reader's Digest was lining up their first ads, which were slated to start running in 1955. Very soon! And Dorothy had landed the Timex account, which she was celebrating now at the company Christmas party. It was TIME to celebrate, was the joke she had been saying all night. The more she drank, the funnier the joke got, at least to her. She knew a whole new world was opening up for the magazine, ads for products and companies that could help shape readership, lead RD into a cooler, modern future. She envisioned full page advertisements with sporty cars, movie stars, athletes, cigarettes, alcohol—there were no limits! The only limits were the ones you put on yourself, and she was never one to do that. The Christmas party was at a swanky Manhattan restaurant, and people from Madison Avenue were popping in, trying to make some contacts so they could advertise in the world's most-read magazine. One thing she loved about RD was they never scrimped on their holiday parties. And this year's celebration attracted outsiders, people like Mr. Frederick, who sidled up to her now. He said, "I represent a product, but I'm not sure if it's too racy for the pages of Reader's Digest..."

(Part 2) Mr. Frederick knew he had piqued Dorothy's interest with an opening line like that. Even if his product was too racy, it could at least open the door to a flirtatious conversation with her. And he'd been around the block enough times to know what that could lead to. His scotch on the rocks had gone straight to his head, what with dinner not having been served yet. And he could tell Dorothy wasn't sipping Shirley Temples. That Reader's Digest was now taking ads at all was a shocker; but their readers had spoken, and they'd prefer ads to an increase in subscription price. Dorothy said, "I'm the gal to talk to about advertising. And let me determine if it's too racy for RD." Mr. Frederick--Freddie to his friends--smiled, and knew he had the fish hooked. "You know, I could use a little fresh air before dinner," he said. "Let's pop outside for a minute," Dorothy said, "the frigid air should clear our heads." Once outside, Freddie fired up a cigarette. He offered her one, but she shook her head. "So tell me about this product of yours," Dorothy said. He exhaled a perfect smoke ring. "Well, it's not my product. But I represent it. I'm an adman, you know." "Yes, I've heard all about your type." Freddie didn't know if that was good or bad. He forged ahead, "I've learned that hands-on experience is the best way to demonstrate something. Wouldn't you agree?" She sipped her Manhattan slowly, looking at him over the rim of the glass. She said, "I guess that depends on whose hands, and what they're on." Freddie thought, The fish is definitely on the hook.

(Part 3) "So, whatcha got for me?" Dorothy asked. "Well, I'm in advertising, and I'm dedicated to my clients. But I don't walk around with every product I sell in my pocket," Freddie said. "What about those Camel cigarettes?" Freddie laughed, said, "Yeah, well, those are different. And they fit in my pocket!" Dorothy said, "So, where do we have to go to get our hands dirty?" "Hands ON," Freddie said, "not dirty." Dorothy said, "Uh huh." "Well, my office is just a few blocks from here, over on Madison." Dorothy looked at her watch, considered this new development. She said, "Mr. Wallace is giving his speech at eight, before dinner. I need to be back for that." Freddie smiled--a cat that ate the canary smile--and said, "I'll get you back in time. I promise." They grabbed their coats and walked the few blocks to the offices of his advertising agency. Once inside, Freddie flicked on some lights. Dorothy said, "Wow, so modern! Not like the stuffy old-fashioned offices we have." "This way," he said, leading the way to his office. "Have a seat." He sat behind his desk and pulled out a marker comp mounted on foam core board of an upcoming ad campaign. Before he showed it to her, he said, "There's a revolution going on in France. On the beaches, to be more specific." Dorothy said, "Is that so?" "It is. And this is what I'm talking about!" Freddie turned the board around to show an illustration of a curvy young woman wearing a bikini. Dorothy gasped, then said, "A bikini! I've heard about those. Seem pretty skimpy." "Would you wear one?" "I don't know. Is that what you want to advertise in Reader's Digest?" "Well, I know that's a long shot. But let's get back to you wearing one." She laughed. "Well, this isn't France, and I don't have a bikini." Freddie opened a desk drawer and pulled out something skimpy and blue. He tossed it to Dorothy. "Now you have one. Why don't you try it on?"

(Part 4) Dorothy shimmied into the bikini, and felt a little naughty. She had gone into an empty office to change, while Freddie fixed them some fresh drinks back in his office. She was reluctant to try it on, but Freddie had convinced her by saying, "Just pretend you're in France." The five Mahnattans she had at the party helped, too. She admired herself now in a full-length mirror, admired the way the blue bikini showed off her curves, highlighted them, in fact. She felt practically nude; maybe because she was practically nude. She spun around, checking herself out from every side. Not bad. But even if you're happy with your body, it takes a lot of courage to walk around in public like this. She was still looking in the mirror when, in the reflection, she saw the door open. Freddie with the drinks. "Now there's a sight for sore eyes," he said. She turned around to face him, reflexively covering herself with her hands. It didn't help much. She was embarrassed, but not surprised; she had known it would probably come to this. The only thing she could think to say was, "So, is there a male version of the bikini?" Freddie moved a step closer. "No, French men just go naked." She dropped her arms and said, "So, aren't we supposed to be pretending to be in France?" "Oui," he said. He began to remove his clothes. "I have to be back by eight," she said. "Bon jour," he said, the only other French he knew. Dorothy interpreted that to mean they'd be back in time. "Oh, Freddie," she said, removing the bikini...

Louis Reard, genius inventor of the bikini

(Part 5) [The conclusion to this week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Dorothy and Freddie made it back to the party just as Mr. Wallace was raising a glass and toasting the subject of his speech--Dorothy. For all her great work selling ad space in the upcoming issues of Reader's Digest. "Where is she?" he said, squinting into the lights. "Dorothy, come up here!" All eyes were on her now as she approached Mr. Wallace. She felt disheveled after her romp with Freddie, mostly because she was disheveled. In fact, she still had the bikini on under her dress. Freddie, for his part, paused tucking in the back of his dress shirt to applaud Dorothy as she accepted the Pegasus statuette for all her hard work. She shook hands with Mr. Wallace as they kissed each other's cheek. Then she raised the trophy triumphantly. "Here's a toast," she said, "to the Pegasus!" People cheered and drank, and she drank too, downing the liquor in one pull. Her head was swimming from the whole night: the drinks, Freddie, the bikini, the award. The point is, she was drunk on more than just alcohol, but let's face it, the alcohol was the most effective, noticeable, and judgement-impairing. She bathed in the glory of the moment, all eyes on her, people smiling, the Wallaces looking on like proud parents. She couldn't hold her secret in any longer; if they thought the sales she had made were good now, wait till they hear of the account she just landed. She held up a hand. "Wait," she slurred. She leaned forward to place her empty glass on the table, nearly stumbled, and grabbed onto the podium. "I have even bigger news!" She ripped off her dress and stood there, swaying, wearing nothing but the blue bikini. Stunned silence. Someone dropped a glass. "The French bikini! My new account! Reader's Digest magazine is going to be SO cool and hip!" Freddie ran up to the podium then and draped his suit jacket over the drunken, excited, misguided Dorothy. He whispered to her, "Not a good reception. Tough crowd," and led her away, outside into the cold air. Back inside, DeWitt said to Lila, "This ad thing may have been a bad idea."