Ad Mad

by Jay Williams

Published 1988 A Carolina Literary Companion

The delirium began just a few days ago. Oh, it wasn't the bounce-off-the-wall type of delirium that set in, but a more subtle and gradual thing. At first. It began in a most unobtrusive manner. Zack was reading his latest issue of "Rolling Stone," when just a touch of whimsy struck him and he wondered what the mag would look like if all the pages that had any form of advertisement on them were taken out. He slowly began to tear the pages out of the magazine, beginning with the cover, which had a liquor ad on the inside, and working his way to the back cover, which contained a cigarette advertisement. He was left with three unbound pages, or six if you count both sides. Of course, he didn't. It was just three pages to him. Never mind. Anyway, this didn't sit too well with Zack, but he wasn't overly concerned with it either. In fact, probably the only thing that really sat on his mind, was that he wasn't too impressed with the magazine anymore-- especially since most of the pages were now littering his living room floor. Since he didn't have anything to read anymore(those three pages being pretty boring), he went on to other diversions, like cooking rice, but the seed had been planted deep in his subconscious.

That evening it surfaced again. He was doing some writing at the cluttered dining room table, listening to the stereo, when a commercial came on. Without thinking about it, he got up and put a record on. When the record had finished, he switched back to the radio. This was just in time for another commercial. He put another record on as he wondered if the station played nothing but commercials. Again, after the record was over, he switched back to the radio, and again his timing was perfect-- or imperfect depending on your state of mind. It was another commercial. This continued for most of the evening, with Zack's only thought about his actions being, "this is getting old." He finally gave up this escapade after he switched back to the radio station and discovered it had signed off for the night.

The following day, the delirium began to take on more serious manifestations. A simple choosing of a T-shirt to wear while jogging was the initial instigator. He pulled out one that he had worn for years and the Schlitz logo immediately caught his eye. He looked askance at it, wondering how a trusted friend had now become a deadly enemy, then threw it in the dirty clothes basket. He was determined not to be a running advertisement for anyone today. Halfway through the drawer of T-shirts, he remembered that all of his shirts had printing on them. He pulled the drawer out of the dresser and dumped the remaining shirts into his wastebasket. He had just about convinced himself to run without a shirt, when he remembered his old high school basketball jersey in the closet.

It was a mistake that would compound his encroaching madness.

He found the jersey easily enough, but it was hanging next to a tennis shirt he often wore to look sporty and to impress females. There was an emblem of some sort, something that looked like a withered poison ivy leaf, on the left breast and the word "Adidas" right above it. He ripped the shirt off the hanger and threw it out of the closet and out of his sight.

Unfortunately, this revealed another knit shirt that had "Nike" written on it. Within a few seconds, and after several strange grunting noises, it was lying on the floor beside the first shirt. These were followed by a dress shirt with a monogram, another knit shirt with a penguin on it, a sweater with a small fox adorning it, and an old, greasy work shirt that said "Bob's Garage" on the back.

His closet was beginning to look a little bare.

There was a prolonged moment of quiet reflection, during which he actually had a small glimmering of sanity, and he realized that he may be on the verge of going too far. The only way to save himself, he decided, was to leave the scene of the crime immediately. He bolted out of the apartment and went 'jogging sans T-shirt. This wasn't really a big deal since it was summer, but although he didn't have to face the perils of unsightly goose bumps, he did receive several rude remarks about his lack of a socially acceptable tan.

That evening, he decided he needed to do something about the tension that seemed to be plaguing him lately. Falsely assuming that avoiding cooking and dirty dishes would cure him, he concluded that an early evening dinner date with a beautiful woman at a popular restaurant was the answer. After making a date with Joanie, he jumped in his LeMans, which had all the accessories included at no charge, and drove to Ginno's Italian Restaurant, a sophisticated, but friendly dining establishment for those with discerning taste. En route downtown, he did not play his ultrasonic, quadraphonic radio that was only for those who really care about their car stereo music. He also did not test the 0-60 in 2.3 seconds speed of the LeMans he had bought a year ago at Jim's Used Cars, where they only sell quality.

Joanie was waiting for him by the door of Ginno's. She smiled as he approached, then looked questioningly at him.

"Howdy, handsome. Say, is something wrong? You look rather, oh, ragged."

"Uh, nah, nothin's wrong. I just didn't sleep too well last night."

"Well, you should try some Visine for your weary eyes. It gets the red out."

"Yeah," Zack said, feeling a strange tinge of foreboding.

The two walked arm and arm into Ginno's and were seated by a young woman who not only was wearing the latest Vogue fashions and mysteriously looked like Brooke Shields, but also complimented Zack on his Johnny Carson three-piece suit. They were given a small table by the front window, where they had a lovely view of the cabs with the 7-11 ads on their trunks passing by on the street, and an unobstructed view of Ray's Discount Drug Mart across the street, where you could get all of your pharmaceutical needs for 30% less.

Zack quickly looked away from the window and around at the small Italian restaurant. It wasn't as sophisticated as he thought the ad had implied, but pretty much resembled the average, small pasta places. Typical candles, table cloths and Mafioso-looking customers in dark booths in the back. The only difference he noticed, was the music being played over the speakers. Instead of the twangy, Italian string pieces, they had the local FM rock station playing. Zack decided it would be best to ignore the sound.

"Pasta to pizza," Joanie said.

"What?"

"That's what the menu says. Pasta to pizza. I wonder if they have hamburgers?"

"Joanie, this is an Italian restaurant."

"Oh, I feel like a hamburger though."

"Should'uv told me sooner, I would have taken you to McDon..."

He stopped himself in mid-word. What was he saying? Too close that time, he thought. Unfortunately, his mind had completed the sentence for him, and the word he had hoped to avoid had permeated his brain and was now pouring sauce over his gray matter, feeding his growing disease. He was no longer able to block out the radio.

"This sale won't happen again-- ever!" the radio lied. "Rush down now before these prices vanish!"

Zack stood up and scanned the restaurant. He was very stiff and disjointed in his movements, and Joanie thought they were similar to the cute robot she had seen advertised on TV-- and she told Zack so. He calmly walked up to the long counter that fronted the kitchen and looked behind it at the shelves used to store the imported stoneware dishes, purchased at a 10% discount when ordered in large quantities. He found the stereo receiver and twisted the tuner dial.

"The drink for a new generation," the radio stated.

He turned the dial.

"Only $19.95 at your favorite dealer," the speakers assured him.

He turned the dial.

"Come on America..." the stereo pleaded.

He turned the dial, but little did he realize that at that very instant, every radio station in America was on a commercial break. The manager came over and grabbed him by the collar and pants of his Johnny Carson suit, and quickly sped him to the door, where he robustly threw Zack out and onto the "Eat at Ginno's" red carpet on the front sidewalk.

He jumped up into a half-crouch, his hands and arms out ready to repel any invader, his head and eyes scanning from side to side to see where the attackers were coming from. He shook his head vigorously and swore that some of the little microbes that had been running up and down his brain, fell out of his ear and were drinking Pepsis and break dancing on the sidewalk in front of him. He reeled away from them and Joanie, who had joined the break dancers and was yelling at him to relax and try a few fast-acting aspirins to soothe his frayed nerve endings. He covered his eyes when she turned into a large bottle of Tylenol. Screaming in terror, he fled the sight of the break dancers and pill bottle.

He ran down the block, passing the Helpful Hardware Man store, the Real Thing vending machine and the Freedom convenience store. Sticking his arm out, he hooked the bus stop pole before it whizzed by and clung to it desperately until the bus pulled up. He jumped onto the bus, deposited a few coins in the tender, and exhaustedly flopped into one of the ripped seats of the city transit bus. The seat welcomed him like a trusted friend, and he contentedly leaned back, resting his head on the back of the seat. This position afforded him a perfect view of the small advertisements lining the ceiling of the bus. He jumped up, his eyes bulging and bouncing around(a good Daffy Duck impression witnesses would say later), grabbed an old newspaper from a nearby seat and began covering up the small ads with individual pages of the paper. The few passengers and the driver stared at him apprehensively as he put the sports page over the Black Velvet ad and the front page over the Salem ad, but they made no attempt to stop him in fear it was contagious. After covering all the ads on the bus, he desperately pulled the buzzer cord, and just as desperately, the driver stopped the bus-- in the middle of a busy intersection. To the driver's relief, Zack jumped out, and dodging a few irate Volkswagens, Chevys and Fords, scrambled down the street. One particularly angry Cadillac seemed to come out of nowhere and chased him for quite a distance, until Zack clambered over a large wooden fence into a vacant lot.

This turned out not to be the sanctuary he was hoping to find, for there was a gigantic billboard in the lot, and it seemed to stretch to the horizon. Zack was flabbergasted. He stood motionless for only a second, staring at the large advertisement, but the pause was just long enough for the break dancing microbes to crawl back into his brain and explain to him the full meaning of the sign.

Zack climbed up the short ladder to the platform at the base of the sign, and began tearing off pieces of a rugged looking outdoorsman who was smoking a Camel.

Luckily, depending on how you feel about billboards and four-leaf clovers, two passing joggers were able to subdue Zack before he got a chance to tear down the Rocky Mountains. The joggers had perfectly trimmed hair they had styled at Super Cuts, and wore designer jogging clothes with small emblems on the shirt and shorts, which Zack stared at incredulously as he was dragged out into the street and toward an imported Audi that had swivel bucket seats that contoured to the human form and had doors that shut with a precision that meant this was a quality-built car.

It wasn't until the next day that Zack came to. He was in a white, padded room, his arms securely bound to his sides by a strait jacket. He was nestled in one of the corners, just opposite a large padded door that had a small, shatterproof glass window. He felt oddly safe there in the plain room. Hunching his shoulders and generally trying to get as comfortable as he could, he relaxed contentedly into the security of the corner. Just as he thought he found the perfect position, he heard a short buzz, and the door opened. A balding, bespectacled man walked in and smiled reassuringly at Zack. Zack instantly recognized Doctor Thomas of Doctor Thomas' World Famous Mellow Recovery Sanctuary. As Zack's eyes opened wide in terror, the good doctor (depending on how you view good), who was wearing designer jeans and a Polo knit shirt with a small emblem on the chest and sported a healthy tan acquired at a nearby tanning salon, slowly approached Zack and began to explain to him how he'd get the best care in the world, and the treatment would include a private room with a RCA color TV, a Pioneer stereo, because the music matters, a genuine hospital bed with vibrator to relax those weary muscles and pure satin sheets that were fit for royalty, nurses trained at the world's most prestigious universities specializing in medical care, meals that included the freshest lobsters imported straight from Maine twice a day, prescriptions from Doctor Thomas' own World Famous Chemical...