The skinny man sat on a worn pillow in the middle of his single bedroom shotgun, smoking a cigarette and eating sunflower seeds. The ashtray before him was filled with spit, seed hulls and butts.

His front door opened, but turn around to see who it was.

“Hello, Lee,” he called out to the older man that stepped into his house.

“Don’t lock your doors?” The other man asked.

The skinny man shrugged. “Haven’t you heard? City’s crime rate is at a historic low.”

The older man laughed, “And we’ve got you to thank for everyone else hearing that.”

“Don’t remind me.” The skinny man groaned.

“Why the griping? You’re the city’s secret weapon! You masterminded the advertising campaign that raised our visibility to unprecedented levels.”

The older man looked over at the boxes piled in the corner.

“And to think you were leaving when I offered you the job.”

Most were still folded shut, gathering dust, but a few had been opened and pilfered through.

“If I ever find a way to break this spell this city’s cast over me, I will be again!”

“Well, I hope that never happens. You’d just miss us terribly.”

“I hate you, Lee.”

Memphis Note
One of Crump’s greatest successes was the relative prosperity and peace the city entered into because of his efforts. Seeing itself in the middle of a Renaissance, the city commissioned a nation wide advertising campaign to extoll our virtues – one that actually succeeded in drawing people to the city.

I’ll admit when we rolled up to the photo shoot for the album cover, I might’ve partaken a bit too much on the way over.

But, that’s just ‘cause I got excited an’ all. I’d finally made it, the labels had picked me and I was gonna be the next big thing.

“Playa’ has arrived! Where the ladies at!” I shouted as I walked into the warehouse-sized photo stage. A semi-circular green screen hung from floor to ceiling.

“Shot them earlier. Don’t need all of you here at once.” Said the photographer, fiddling with the buttons on his camera.

“But the Bentley stretch limousine, that’s here right?” I asked, my mellow suddenly fading.

“Did that, too. We’ll put it all together later in Photoshop. Stand on the X over there, please.” He pointed at a duct tape cross near the green screen.

“That seems kinda, ya know, dishonest.”

A stage hand walked over and gave me a fan of hundred dollars bills. They were fake, only printed on one side, and taped together to hold their fan.

“Welcome to the rap game!” smirked the photographer. “Now let’s get to it, got three more shoots just like this today.”

Memphis Note
I’ve got a friend that’s a local rapper, been working at it for years and years. He once told me how he hated all that stereotypical crap they put on the covers of start rap records. Girls, cars, money, jewelry, explosions, all of it faked with a computer. Catch was, people didn’t buy your record if you didn’t have that stuff on it. It was the catch-22 of underground rap.

“Sir! Could I interest you in the finest musculature diagrams, strait from the colleges of Paris?”

He drew out the last syllable as long as possible for maximum effect. The fat businessman passed without a sideways glance.

Shrugging, he turned back to the teenaged boy squatting on the steamer trunk filled to bursting with material of a most lascivious nature.

“There are three secrets to this, my young collaborator. First is to appear to the gendarme as simple merchants, hawking our wares at fair market prices. But, in the same breath you drop in key words to make sure the clientele don’t miss out on a worthwhile opportunity.

He swung his arm out. “Second, pick a place with steady foot traffic, like this idyllic park, from which to work. Makes even bad days bearable.”

Up the street, a group of men were walking toward the pair.

“Ah! Watch and learn!” He said, bounding out to meet them.

“Gentlemen! Might I interest you in select medical texts taken from a Sultan’s private harem? They are guaranteed to be both educational and inspirational!”

Not one stopped.

“Finally, never get discouraged,” he said to the boy, “Because, in the end, sex always sells.”

Memphis Note
Pornography has never not been around. But, it wasn’t always so readily available, or entirely legal. Memphis’s history is filled with stories about eager and often prosecutions of smut dealers. In days past, sexually explicit material was forced to masquerade as medical or educational in nature. The city had no problem legalizing prostitution, but a picture of a lady with exposed breasts could get you locked in a chain gang for a month or more.

The richest man I’d ever known sat on the unkempt lawn of his half-finished mansion for the last time. The sun was setting over the roof’s exposed bones, casting long shadows below.

Standing behind him, I coughed gently. “There are appointments to keep, Mister Saunders.”

He got up, brushed the grass off his trousers and made for the car.

“I turned lying in a profession, you know.”

“Sir?” He never spoke to me like this. Why now? “I’m pretty sure that was around long before you.”

“Well, I made it a proper thing then. Advertising, hmph. Marketing, hmph. More like Devil’s work.” He scoffed.

“Before I came along, clerks got your groceries for you. I changed all that. Let people do it themselves. But that meant packaging mattered, branding matter, lies about this being better than that mattered.”

He stopped abruptly and I nearly ran him over.

“I gave people choice. And then they went and took it back from them, like they took this from me.” He growled, jabbing a finger toward the aborted construction.

“I know what I made. But I didn’t understand the thing it made.” Then he turned away, forever. “And that’s what ruined me.”

Memphis Note
Clarence Saunders was the found of Piggly Wiggly grocery store chain, the first grocery store that let the consumer pick the items they wanted off a shelf without a clerk’s help. But, this new consumer empowerment created the need for what we think of as modern advertising. Packaging, branding, marketing, all of these things mattered like never before. When his business was challenged with a hostile investor takeover, Saunders used advertising to flaunt his determination to protect his company. It was this bravado and openness that would lead him to lose nearly everything when the market turned against him.

People always look at me strangely when I tell them what I do for a living.

“Isn’t it embarrassing?” They’ll ask. “God, it must be so boring.” They’ll remark.

Yes, I tell them, it is those things, but I’m fine with that. Sure, I might be giving up a bit of personal dignity, but I’m gaining something even more valuable in return.

I’m getting time to myself, time to think.

See, I like to make up stories. Stories where I am always the dashing hero, and while their might be some close shaves, a happy ending is never in doubt.

I’m a legendary double agent; the best spy, shot and shag in all of Cold War Europe.

I’m in a timeless land at the heart of a legendary battle between good and evil, shining armor and flashing swords all around.

I’m soaring high over the battle fields of the Marne, stalking the deadly Red Baron though a maze of towering clouds.

And so when you see me out there every day, spinning that sign, vaguely directing you where to sell your scrap gold, don’t feel pity for me, because odds are I’m in a better place than you could imagine.

Memphis Note
If you’ve ever driven down Poplar at rush hour, you’ve seen them. College-age kids with a yellow sign in their hands, dancing, waving, doing anything to grab your attention so you’ll read the sign. Sell your scrap gold here, it says. But, because of their gyrations, you’re never quite sure where they are are trying to direct you.