It Had to be Good! - Christmas at Famous-Barr 1929 - 3. IV. Week One – Chapter 3: The People You Meet

IV. Week One –

Chapter 3: The People You Meet

The room was mostly packed: mothers and their young ones, office girls with lackluster hair, and young men whose worn buttonholes and worry-stained collars said they were accountants from brokerage firms. The man at the front desk of his hotel had mentioned the line of banks and investment houses nearby, and how The Financial District was in a frazzle because of the markets' fall in October. That was the same moment the out-of-towner learned there was not one, but three trading floors in the city: "The Exchange," where stocks and commodities rolled through a granite edifice every bit as grand as the federal building across the street from his hotel;"The American Fur Exchange," where tens of millions of dollars worth of North American furs were bought by furriers as far afield as Russia; and "The Railroad Exchange," dealing only in transportation equity, and forming the heart of the very building he was now in.

To Lowell Fredricks' mind, the people around him were here to mingle while pausing for lunch, and nothing beats an assembly of honest-working Americans. To him, the energy of this lunchtime crowd – spilling across the eatery's field of little white hexagon tiles, accented in cheery patterns of dark green – was sure a potent force to be plopped in the middle of. It seemed especially redolent in a place like this, a gigantic restaurant for the regular-man and woman in the bargain basement of a massive department store.

The place was all done in the latest 'streamline' style too, with gleaming hits of metal, mirrors and lighting. There were any number of table and chairs, and booths lined two of the perimeter walls, but Lowell sat amongst 'the people,' on one of the green 'Spanish' imitation leather stools at the lunch counter. He knew the term 'Spanish' applied, as DuPont had engaged his firm to beef up sales of their 'Fabrikoid' – an artificial leather fabric – and the rough and wrinkled texture on his seat complied to what his associates had labeled 'Spanish' in an attempt to tap into the housewife's love of all things Latin and brooding – like the late Rudolph Valentino.

Scanning the counter, he had to follow its great serpentine length by pivoting his head, and letting his rotating seat facilitate his body following his gaze. This lunch counter was an interrupted 'S' of about 350 feet.

"What'll it be?" A uniformed waitress was suddenly standing in front of him on the other side of the counter.

"A Coke and a ham sandwich, please."

"Sure thing," she said, jotting his order down with a pencil suddenly pulled from behind her ear and the confines of her starched maid's ruffle.

The young woman moved away, and Lowell found himself thinking what a handsome and modern space this really was. The 'front counter' he was sitting at was cushioned for elbows, while a shiny piece of chrome marked the boundary of where the knee-well began. The eating surface was honed granite, polished to a mirror-like surface; the stone showed a dark taupe-gray face with flecks of crystalline cinnabar buried deep within.

The back counter was stainless steel, and equipped with sinks and sunken receptacles for scraps and dirty dishes. A fairly narrow shelf, positioned comfortably within reaching distance above, held all the 'go-to' equipment. Here rested in waiting-for-use stoicism malt mixers, toasters, glass canisters holding paper cups and waffle cones for ice cream, master sugar dispensers to refill the shakers on the counters, and fancy-shaped urns – metal towers with eagle finials for coffee and hot water, and glass ones containing the pale refreshments of bright-hued sweetened limeade, ice tea, and other spigot beverages.

Lowell glanced over just in time to see his waitress take down a Coca-Cola-branded glass – one with a bulbous section near the top – and turn the tap on the bright red Coke syrup dispenser sitting on the secondary shelf. As they only held the syrups, these containers never had to be very big, and Lowell saw there were any number of them along the entire course of the back area – bright orange ones for Crush, purple ones for Grape-Nehi, white ones with Vess written on them in cursive script, and another cola brand the adman was familiar with on a dark green background.

The waitress took his glass, now with a pool of Coke syrup settled in the bottom, and stepped to her right. Under the siphon it went, and with one jerk of the long-handled soda dispenser, his glass filled with effervescent life. No need to stir; if done right, a perfect glass of Coca-Cola would be born every time.

She walked it over and set the glass before him, extracting an impeccably spotless glass straw from under the counter. It got placed by the base of his beverage while she told him, "Your sandwich will be right out."

"Thank you."

Again, her movement away from him seemed to draw his eyes up. So, as he slid the straw into the roiling depths of his carbonated refreshment, he glanced over the wall panels making up the area above the equipment shelf. They were glassy and pale yellow with divided metal straps of chrome. The entire back counter was soffited, and hidden lights illuminated painted glass menu panels below an impressive white metal 'bumper' made of rippling curves. Lowell scanned the selections the lunchtime patrons of this store could enjoy: Lemon or Limeade 5¢ - Coffee Tea or Rich Milk 10¢ - Eggsalad on Toast 15¢ - Sliced Ham Sandwich 10¢ - Soft Drinks 5¢ - and so forth, on down the line.

He took a sip of his biggest client's ice-cold product and involuntarily shivered. No wonder Coke sales flagged this time of year. It was a tough sell.

'Yes,' Lowell Fredricks thought to himself. 'Lunch counters like these are the great equalizers. Places where admen and fiction writers can meet who-knows-who for inspiration.' And Lowell Fredricks needed inspiration, badly. A casual perusal confirmed his situation. For at that moment, a burly man in a Dungaree coat and overalls was stirring the fifth consecutive sugar cube into his mug of joe on his left, and a pretty girl was delicately bobbing her tea bag to his right.

He wondered a moment who Norman Rockwell would choose to talk to – he decided it was the man.

He felt more Ring Lardner today, and asked the girl to pass him a paper napkin.

She did with a smile, and Lowell was suddenly struck with the unbidden notion that there was something familiar about her.

She was young, perhaps twenty-one years of age, attractive with naturally rosy cheeks, pink full lips, and brunette curls that were bobbed and laid flat over her head in a very becoming manner.

She didn't 'smell' rich, for Lowell in his line of work could usually sort out the heiress from the showgirl with ease, but who ever she was, she was interesting, of that he felt sure.

"I'm sorry, miss…" He felt his eyes scrunching up in concentration. "But, have we met before?"

The young woman ceased bobbing her tea bag, cocked her head at him and screwed on a suspicious scowl. "You're not very original, are you?"

"Pardon me?" Lowell sat back a little.

"If that's a pick up line – "

The girl's speech was halted simultaneously by two things. Lowell's massive wave of embarrassed redness, and a spark of what resembled recognition.

"You…" she stammered. "You were the one looking at Alden."

"Um – " Lowell had no idea who she was talking about.

"Yesterday, on the street, in font of the post office!"

A dim recollection of the event successfully shut down the adman's immediate wave of awkwardness.

"You were with that group of unusual people – a big one, a small one – right?"

"Yes," she started brightly, and then toned it down, drawing closer to confirm. "And you had quite the 'moment' with my uncle, remember?"

The Southern charm of Lowell's blush returned. The memory also reappeared of how handsome one of the men of her party had been, and how indeed they had shared one of those ubiquitous 'in the life' confirmations.[1] This girl, however, had no tone of censure for what she witnessed, and indeed as it was esoteric knowledge to accurately decipher such a passing encounter anyway, he figured she was educated and non-judgmental. The possibility also remained that it was this 'uncle' himself who had provided her with the lesson.

"I do remember." He extended his hand. "Lowell Fredricks. How do you do?"

"Bettina Martin. I'm fine, thank you." They shook on it. "And what may I ask has brought you to Saint Louis?"

He chuckled. "You can tell I'm a visitor?"

"You have a lovely Southern accent, so I guessed."

"I'm from Georgia, so you're right on that account. And what about you? I take it you are also from out of town?"

"Yes, from Saint Paul, Minnesota – Land of the Ten-Thousand Lakes."

He chuckled again. "I think that's what they say about great cities – everyone you meet there is from someplace else."

Bettina Martin apparently liked that, for Lowell saw her open her pretty mouth and laugh for the first time. "And what led you to lunch in this famous department store today?"

"Well, yesterday – when we nearly bumped into one another – I was on my way to see Scruggs, Vandervoort and Barney. Have you been there yet?"

"Me?! Oh no, too rich for my blood."

"Yes, mine too it turned out. So the front desk clerk said I had to try this store, and here I am, in its basement, beat and hungry."

"And what do you do, Mr. Fredricks?"

"Please, call me Lowell. I'm an adman-illustrator for print and other materials, Miss Martin."

"Oh now, don’t be rude," she ribbingly chided. "I can't very well call you 'Lowell,' unless you call me 'Bettina.'"

Lowell smiled; he liked this girl.

"An adman," she continued in a reinvigorated tone of wonder. "That's fascinating. Does that have anything to do with why you're in town?"

"Why yes, it does. There's a holiday trade show next week, plus a local advertiser's association is presenting me with an award."

"An award!"

"Yes," Lowell said, feeling a bit self-conscious. "For that Listerine toothpaste campaign last year where you could write in and get a trial-sized tube."

"The Lazy Man ads!" Bettina exclaimed.[2]

Lowell smiled and nodded, pleased to have someone refer to them via the buy line. "Lambert Pharmaceuticals is a Saint Louis firm, so – "

"The magazine ads with the handsome young men lounging around in various poses…?"

Bettina's tone confirmed what Lowell already knew: sex sells. "Yes," he confirmed, his Southern accent ringing resolutely.

"Well, I'll be," Bet stammered in awe. "And you thought of giving away the toothpaste samples…? For free?!"

"Yes."

"My goodness. Lorna – my troupe aunt – will want to shake your hand."

"Why's that?"

"Because that's what she does. Every month she gets the latest issue of McCall's, pores through the ads, snipping and snipping, and writes away for all the freebies. She's collected enough of those Listerine tubes to keep our whole troupe smiling pretty for a year."

Lowell chuckled. "Well, that's good. I'm glad somebody reads my work. But tooth paste is a sideline; my real efforts are for Coca-Cola."

"You don't say?!"

"Yes, it's true. Which leads me to my current pickle." He picked up his still-bubbling, still frigid glass of Coke. "How to boost sales of this stuff in winter."

"So, you're lookin' for an idea?"

"Yes, exactly right."

"Well…" Bettina peered over her shoulder. "If you can't find stories in a great store like Famous-Barr, you probably can't find them anywhere."

"I suppose you are on to something there."

The waitress arrived with two plates; a tuna fish salad sandwich got set before the young lady, and a ham and cheese before Lowell. "Enjoy," she said as she moved on to her next task.

"Well, let's dig in," Bettina exclaimed, leaning forward to pick up the first triangle half of her wax-paper-wrapped sandwich.

Lowell followed suit with his own, but his eyes again drifted to activity from the waitress. A few stools down, and just around one of the bends of this serpentine counter, a young mother sat and hoisted up her son in his sailor suit and cap. The six-year-old pointed vigorously, and the mother ordered two beverages from that intriguing green syrup dispenser.

By the time the adman was releasing and freeing the final bite from the wax paper of his initial half of sandwich, the waitress set two straight-sided glasses before the mother and boy, and then placed something small on the granite counter in front of the child. In another instant, a small hand reached out, and clicking sounds punctured the air, as well as the boy's shrieks of giddiness.

The adman looked again, and sure enough, one of the backlit menu panels said: 'Buy Two Cleo Colas and receive a Holiday Cricket for Free.'

"What is it?" Bettina paused to dab her chin with a napkin.

"You see that? Coke's competition around here is called Cleo Cola – the one in the green syrup dispenser."

"Oh yes. Is that what the kid has?"

"Yes. Looks like they have a promo going on now. Get a tin cricket with – Waitress!"

She was passing by at the moment. "Yes?"

"May we have two Cleo Colas, please?"

Her mouth slackened ever so slightly, appraising Lowell's barely-touched Coke. "Yes, certainly. Coming right up."

"So, what's so special about this Cleo Cola?" Bet asked, picking up the second triangle of her sandwich.

"Well, from a marketing man's approach, it's a bold non-sequitur." He paused to make sure Bettina Martin followed his fancy, three-dollar word.

She raised her eyebrows, encouraging him to go on as she took her first bite.

"I mean, think of it. It takes moxie to brand a modern product with an ancient Egyptian queen. I mean, what's the association of soda water and a legendary beauty?"

Bettina shrugged shoulders; she certainly didn't know.

'Sex is what,' Lowell thought, but said, "Nothin, 'cept it works. Cleo is gaining new markets, while Coke is just holding ground. That's the kind of originality I need to bring to my main client. I have to make something – anything – stick in the consumer's mind."[3]

The waitress returned with two Cleo Cola glasses decorated with the name of the beverage on a tiled background of green and yellow. She set them before Bettina and Lowell, and then pulled up two more impeccably clean straws for them. She moved away with a strange expression on her face.[4]

"Miss!" the adman called.

And as soon as she heard his voice, her hand went flying to the side of her head like she's just remembered something. She returned, reaching into her apron pocket and setting a small thing on the counter before Lowell. "Sorry," she told him, perhaps feeling her tip was at stake.

Lowell barely heard her, but his smile was reassurance enough as she departed for a second time.

The adman picked the toy up. A smaller-sized tin clicker – or 'cricket,' as it was properly known – was boldly green with a yellow lettering: 'Cleo Cola, the Queen of Sparkling Drinks.' He clicked it once in envious disgust of another adman's bright idea, and then handed it to Bet. "Keep it if you want."[5]

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"All right. Thank you. I bet Dandiprat Dave can get some use out of it. He's our Lion Tamer, you know."

Lowell's eyes grew round and wide. "That little fellow is your Lion Tamer?"

Bettina twinkled with mirth. "Yes. But it's a mechanical lion – electrified, you know." She resumed eating her lunch.

"Well, Miss Martin – I… It seems I have been remiss in asking what brings you to Saint Louis."

She chuckled and set down her sandwich. "This store, Mr. Fredricks. Upstairs – on the 9^th floor, to be precise – they have a holiday attraction for the kiddies called Santaland. We, the Doershunk-Martin Carnival Troupe will be there throughout the season to make it all work."

"That's incredible," he said, suddenly having a vivid flash back of the collection of people that had caught his attention on the sidewalk. "So," he inquired gingerly. "A Fat Lady, a miniature Lion Tamer – "

"Twin Acrobats, a Sadsack Clown Cop on a tricycle, mechanical harlequin figures, baby elephants, a lion and bear – plus…" She drew out the 's' for drama, jut like a drum roll. "My Uncle Alden does magic tricks."

So, now this handsome, non-relative-uncle of Bet's had a name. Alden.

He lifted his second soft drink and had a 'marketing man' thought; the old one that sex sells, as the legendary beauty could still be considered a household name worthy of remembrance. Bettina's hint that his 'Lazy Man' campaign of showing handsome young men lounging about also had sex appeal, and worked because of it. So there in his mind was the overlay of the exotic and the mundane – one enlivening the other. But still if that other household name, and moniker itself of male sex appeal, Valentino had competed against Cleo to win Anthony's affections – Lowell's money would be on Rudy winning his man. After all, the movie star always did. And yes, sex sells.

"You should meet him… Alden, you know," she said slyly, re-hoisting her sandwich. "You two have a lot in common."

As he watched Bettina chew through the smile on her lips, there was no doubt in his mind that she knew he was 'in the life,' and so must be this Alden chap of hers.

˚˚˚˚˚

Their lunch-counter luncheon was over. Bettina and Lowell slowly strolled away from the doors of the busy eatery towards the grand staircase at the other end of the basement store.

"You really didn't have to pay for my lunch, Mr. Fredricks."

He chuckled. "Well, Bettina – "

"Bet. Everyone calls me Bet."

"Well, Bet – I'm about to burst. I had to finish both my Coke and Cleo Cola."

"Yes, and I finished my tea and glass of pop. We can't exactly be wasting at a time like this." Her hand lifted and casually ran fingers over a pile of folded blankets on display in the Bargain Housewares Department.

"True. Very true. They say we'll turn the corner by New Years, so let's hope that proves correct."

"Indeed. Big holidays sales at stores like Famous will bootstrap us up – at least that's what Father says."

"Well, I think he's right. It's all about confidence; we just have to remember that we've got it in spades. Nothing's changed but the devaluation of a few bits of paper. We simply have to remember that and not panic."

Suddenly Lowell's advertising woes were back to the forefront of his thoughts. He wondered if Bet would prove a good sounding board.

"Can I ask you about a couple of ideas I had?"

"For your campaign?!"

"Yes."

"Shoot!"

The basement store of Famous-Barr was busy with shoppers, however, the forty-five feet of space from floor to ceiling allowed the bustle of commercial noise to be quieted to that of a whisper in church.

Straight ahead of them, but still a hundred feet away, was the sweeping opulence of the marble 'cascade' staircase. A 30-foot wide central section swept up to a broad landing, from which two further curving sets of stairs took shoppers to the basement mezzanine level. The wall on the landing was bowed outwards to match the curves of the steps continuing up – and in front of it was planter with a life-size marble sculpture of an eagle and outstretched wings. In its talons was a laurel wreath, and in the center of the wreath was a shield. F-B, the heraldry boldly announced from amongst palm fronds, and this bold symbol of the store and it employees watched over the basement floor with obvious pride.

"Well, when I was walking through Scruggs yesterday, I thought what about snowmen."

Bettina scrunched her face in confusion. "What about snowmen?"

Lowell explained. "Oh, I mean, can you picture Mrs. and Mr. Snowman holding a bottle of Coke and saying: 'Here's a frosty one for you!'"

Bet's expression said it all.

"Well…" Lowell started again as they mounted the first of the marble steps. "How about this. A cute penguin waiter with a silver tray and a towel draped over his wing…says…"

Lowell stopped. They had gotten up to the landing with the marble sculpture, and clearly Bet knew as well as the adman that those ideas were rubbish.

"Look," she said as she leaned on one side of the onyx planter below the eagle. "You and me both know it has to be catchier, Lowell. An instant 'Ah-Ha!' visual that will make people crave a Coke. Now, as to what that can be – "

"You're right. It has to be instant." He narrowed his eyes and broadened his smile at the girl, leaning on the stone planter from the other end. "You sure you're not a secret adman?"

"Nope. I'm not a secret anything. In that regard, I bet you and me are alike, huh?"

"Probably."

"Say, I just realized, you're gonna be in Saint Louis for Thanksgiving. Don’t you have anyone back in Atlanta that's going to be missing you on Thursday?"

"No, Bettina. Not really. I usually have my turkey dinner at a hotel anyway, so it won't matter if it's in Missouri or Georgia."

"Yeah. Same with us. See, our troupe spends all summer going from carnival to carnival in Minnesota, but we do a holiday job to get us some extra income so we can spend winters in Florida. Come to think of it, I never had a proper Thanksgiving meal, and might not recognize one if it showed up one fine year."

Lowell's heart ached for Bet. She was a fine girl – intelligent, wise and giving – anyone could see that. He imagined there was more than one eligible young man who had taken notice of her as well.

"You don’t have a special someone in your life, Bettina Martin?"

"Me?! No. Haven't met him yet, as far as I know. How about you? No special fella?"

He shook his head, touched by her gentle artlessness.

Both of their eyes wandered out over the expanse of the subterranean level.

"Look at this store," Lowell said in hushed admiration. "A grand floor like this, say in any other department store in the world, would be their main floor. Here it's their bargain basement."

Bettina laughed. "Well, upstairs is plenty grand too. I guess down here is their Palace of the People."

Lowell shot an amazed look at her. "You're exactly right. It's a Palace for the People."

Bettina lowered her tone, but her peepers sparkled. "Speaking of upstairs, I think there's something you should see. It may help your inspiration."

˚˚˚˚˚

"Ninth Floor!"

The echo of the young-lady elevator operator's voice continued to ring through his head as Lowell followed Bettina.

She strode up to a pair of double doors, above which Famous-Barr workers in gunmetal-gray jumpsuits, and large FB shield patches over their hearts, were upon lean-to ladders and positioning a sign. It was covered, so Lowell's attention was drawn to muffled voices and the unmistakable sounds of construction coming from behind the closed portal.

Bettina paused a moment before going in. She rested her upper back against the wood, twinkled a smile and knowing expression towards the adman. She pointed up to the draped banner. She uncovered the hidden letters for Lowell, whispering: "Santaland Circus."

She pushed open one of the doors and stepped in. Lowell followed and got instantly surrounded by the sights, sounds and high energy level of a work zone. The immediate impression was a simple one: 'No time to waste!' And then, that was augmented by the understanding of the broader context: 'No time to waste; the day after Thanksgiving is only two days away!'

After he closed the door behind him, he saw the room was massive. At least 40-foot wide and nearly 100-foot long, it housed several pools of kinetic energy overflowing with people all at once.

Several teams of young men in FB jumpsuits were walking ten feet in the air across boards positioned on ladder rungs so they could touch the ceiling, which was what they were doing. Lowell finally realized each lad had a roll of masking tape and was using it to strike a straight line across the narrow end of the room. The adman assumed this was preliminary to stripes being painted on the canvas-colored boards of the drop ceiling.

Matching columns of painters' tape were already on every vertical plane of wall awaiting the brush as well.

Bettina led the way, threading down the length of the room, and avoiding the puddles of activity. To Lowell's left, positioned near the window for its light, the troupe's Laughing Lady – whom the adman now knew as 'Lorna' – sat at a sewing machine. As he passed, she seemed to barely notice him at first. She held up the hem from a pair of indigo satin trousers to the sunlight to see if it was straight and even. Only then did her gaze half alight on Lowell. He saw half a dozen porcelain-tipped pins cushioned tightly between her lips, while she showed mild curiosity towards the man.

As he moved on, he chuckled to himself that maybe Bet's 'aunt' was used to the girl bringing home strays.

He glanced to his right, for the sound of sawing led him to a pair of FB boys cutting one-inch thick wooden dowels into 10-foot lengths. An already impressive pile was neatly stacked nearby, and store painters in their white overalls and tee-shirts were painting them gray. Next to the lads, their fellow painters were busy with periwinkle-stained brushes applying that hue onto foot-high boards with broad and regular scallops cut from the bottom. Overall, these boards resembled some sort of curtain valance.

Carefully rounding the base of a ladder, Lowell's eyes caught up to the back of Bettina, who had stopped to chat a moment with two handsome twins. Each about five-foot-ten, these blond young men in their twenties were busy with the in-store electricians. One of the troupe boys let a plug dangle from his hand as he gestured to the wall and spoke animatedly to a portly FB cable jockey in faded coveralls. This man had hands tucked dubiously in the bib pockets of his coveralls as he let the upstart 'explain' the power requirement.

It was only then that the adman let his inspection follow the length of the cord to its source: a life-size baby elephant! He blinked, for in the same corner right next to it were two more pachyderm 'pups.' More figures of this kind were across the way, but as canvas drop cloths covered them 'head to knee,' all Lowell could make out were dark fur and padded paws.

Bettina Martin moved on, and where a tall young man and the little fellow of the troupe were lifting up a drum set, the girl asked, "Lawrie, Dandiprat, where's Alden?"

Just as Lowell joined her, the two young men exchanged a cautious look with each other, and shot a hostile glare at the adman.

The little man gestured farther back in the room, while the striking farm-boy type offered clipped verbal confirmation. "He's in Santa's dressing room."

Lowell didn't know what that meant.

Bettina's reaction was to chortle and latch onto Lawrie's arm in good humor. Whatever insider joke it was, the sudden display of tenderness in the young man's eyes for Bet was nothing to laugh at.

"Come on," she told Lowell, and they moved on.

The end of the room was arranged so the two corners were rounded off, and here too the vertical surfaces awaited striping.

Bettina turned left, and ducked though a non-descript opening. After four feet of featureless hallway with a lowered ceiling, Lowell followed the girl into an amazing space.

Here, a room that was about 30-foot square had the ceiling lift up again to where dark-stained box beams formed an # pattern. Those, plus the rich paneling in here, made Lowell guess this was the one-time boardroom of the company, perhaps from a period when the corporate offices lived on this floor.

Windows lined one wall, and the man was again drawn to notice another sewing machine, and another woman – this time a Famous-Barr seamstress – busy with the needle and a pair of pants. The trousers in her hands were dark crimson, and the bottom cuffs were trimmed in white fur.

In the other corner by the window, two FB girls stood amongst 4-foot-high stacks of unopened rolls of red and green crepe paper streamers. They seemed to be mildly debating where to start first.

The rich tones of masculine protest drew Lowell's attention to the very center of the room. Right below the bottom bow of a central lighting fixture, a tailoring platform held two people: a tall young man with arms raised above his wavy blond hair, and a petite woman with cold determination in her eyes.

As Lowell and Bet walked up to them, the Famous-Barr dresser reached out to the table by her side. On it was a wig stand bedecked not only with a full-grown white hairpiece, but an amazingly full and trim beard of just the same blue-white snowy volume. What she was reaching for, however, was a second pillow.

The first pillow was evidentially already tucked firmly in place, for the man on the platform wore only his buff-colored socks, his blue-striped boxers, and a superbly well-crafted Santa coat and belt. The same rich scarlet predominated, but this time the 8-inch wide strips of cottony trim broke up the mass of red velvet with great relief of ermine-like cuffs, hem, collar, and button-cover from neck to thighs.

As they got closer, the woman's free hand finally grasped the pillow and began to doggedly stuff it up the front skirt of the young man's coat. By the way he rounded his eyes, locked his knees, kicked his shoulders forward so his waistline could retreat a little bit, Lowell suspected the determined fists of the costumer were getting close to invading the young Santa's 'privacy.'

Bettina's voice rang out, giving the partially dressed man some respite. "Glen, I'd like you to meet Lowell Fredricks. He's an adman; I thought I'd show him our little shindig behind the scenes."

Glen lowered his arm and held out his right hand. Lowell stepped up and shook it, ignoring the indignant look on the glowering face of the woman-interrupted.

"Nice to meet you, I'm – "

Bettina sang out for him: "Glen Curtis, The Blues Singing Cowboy. And he's good too!"

They shook hands and Lowell was now close enough to admire the cowboy Santa's deep blue eyes, in addition to the deepening red of his blush for the young lady's compliment. The young man appeared to be the same height as Lowell, and he thought the performer's eyes resembled those the adman saw in the mirror every morning gazing from his own face.

"Nice to meet you too," Lowell said as he stepped out of the insistent woman's way. She returned to her stuffing, this time, reaching up to pull the pillow further along Glen's sternum.

Bettina explained. "Glen here has a nightly run on the floorboards of the Columbia Theatre, but he's agreed to be our Santy Claus during the day."

As she said this, the adman noticed there was one more article of clothing on the table he had failed to recognize at first inspection. It was a red cap with the same thick trim of white fur, and a tasteful spray of holly with red berries. This rode the fur just over Santa's left eye when he wore it. It was presumably the eye Glen would use to wink at the children visiting with him.

"Well, Lowell," the Kris-Kringle-in-training chuckled. "You ever been poked and prodded, and then stuffed like a holiday turkey?!"

"No, sir," Lowell said, noting how pretty Bet was when she laughed. "I can't say that I have."

Bettina glanced over her shoulder, and her excitement grew. She walked towards one corner, and gestured for Lowell to follow.

Up ahead, a store photographer and his teen-boy assistant were carefully raising the stem heights on electric lights. These were pointed towards a raised dais – presumably for the eventual location of Santa's throne – and with them was the suited, and handsome man Lowell remembered seeing on the sidewalk yesterday.

Bet strode right up to him. "Alden, look who I've bumped into." She paused as if she expected her uncle to greet an old friend.

Instead, the man slipped on a sly grin and held out his hand. As Lowell shook it, Alden asked with mirthful but narrowing eyes, "Have we met?"

The adman swallowed down a lump, and fortunately Bettina interrupted his own thought.

"Not yet…" she offered suggestively. "But I know you'll get along famously."

"Lowell Fredricks. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise, I'm sure."

They parted hands, and all at once they were no longer alone.

"Father!" Bet cried, a slight ring of guilt edging the bottom rim of her tone.

Lowell glanced to the side, and an older gentleman was striding up to them. His off-putting stance matched the tattletale sneers on the faces of Lawrie and Dandiprat Dave. Those two were in lockstep right behind him, while trailing up the rear were a wondering-looking Lorna and the twins.

"Bettina, who's this?" the older man said sternly.

"Father, let me introduce you. This is Mr. Lowell Fredricks. He is a big time artist and adman. He did the Listerine tooth paste adverts you like so much."

The man stood in front of Lowell with arms akimbo. He was silent.

"Mr. Fredricks," Bet continued. "This is my father, Singer Martin. Owner of the Doershunk-Martin Carnival Troupe."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. Your daughter has told me all about you – " which was a lie " – and it's an honor to get a behind the scenes peek like this." His cotton-pickin' accent shone like a golden bird, disarming all with its beauty, or so he hoped.

Singer reluctantly reached out to accept the adman's handshake. "Well," he muttered, self-consciously splitting looks between Bettina and grinning instigators supposedly backing him up. "We didn't know who you were – "

His daughter exclaimed: "Lowell is in town to receive an award, and his big client – Coca-Cola – is expecting him to get inspired while he's in here."

To Lowell's eyes, the members of the troupe looked suitably impressed. And then, as the last flicker of his gaze landed on Alden, a light bulb went off in Lowell Fredricks' head.

He spoke to Singer with the easy conviction of an illustrator or fiction writer chasing down a lead. "Now that I've seen your amazing operation, and had a chance to meet you, I might want to use your troupe in an upcoming ad campaign."

An electric current went around the room, but Singer still resisted the charge. As Bet's father cast a suspicious look around, Lowell noticed the FB lady at the sewing machine rise. She led the pair of Santa trousers to the dresser and Glen.

Finally, Singer's gaze rested on Alden, and Lowell sensed that Bet's uncle was the one person the girl's father relied on most heavily.

"Well…" Lowell elaborated on his proposal. "What I have in mind is this: I would like to spend time observing you all at work, making sketches and notes, and pulling each of you aside one by one to conduct brief interviews."

Alden appeared intrigued by the proposition, and as Lowell turned back to gauge Singer's reaction, the two women had gotten Glen into his pants. Now they were setting his wig, beard and cap.

With Alden's support of the idea, Singer's mood mellowed. Now it was time for the sly side of Lowell to drive his point home.

"Naturally, time is money. I'll give $5 an interview, and say $10 a week for access. How does that sound?"

More current passed through Santa's Dressing Room. Bettina latched onto her father's arm, and encouraging smiles and head nods greeted their leader from Lorna, the twins and Alden. The other two young men of the troupe were more dubious.

"Fifteen dollars a week, for access," Singer proposed.

Lowell shot out his hand. "Deal."

They shook on it, and Glen – now fully transformed – shouted out from his perch: "Well pardners, Merry Yippee Kaiyay!"