The Man Behind the Curtain: Encouraging, Cajoling, Begging and Other Time Honored Management Techniques

By Ron Elgin

The Man Behind The Curtain is a humorous account of Ron Elgin's forty-year career in
intensely challenging, extraordinarily competitive, and sometimes insanely whacky
advertising agency business.

Ron's best-selling prequel, Huckster: My Life as an Ad Man, told the hilarious tale of
how he co-founded one of the region's most successful agencies and taught readers
a thing or two about advertising, PR, marketing, business and life. Readers showered
Huckster with praise and requested more.

So here are more of Ron's delightful stories. Whether it's reading about a creative
director who believes he's been transported to an alternate universe, lessons learned
from a billionaire friend masquerading as a janitor, encounters with a delusional
businessman on a cruise ship, or some of the most incredible deals in advertising
history, these stories will completely change your view of the advertising world.

Join Ron as he shares his delightfully entertaining story of his rise to success from gas station attendant
station attendant and ROTC reject to serving as an Army officer during the Viet Nam
War and co-founding an agency that grew to a quarter billion dollars in billings with
clients such as Holland America Line, JanSport, McDonald's, Microsoft, Nordstrom,
and Ste. Michelle Wine Estates.

Ron's philosophy of hiring people better than himself and allowing them the freedom
to work their magic put his agency in the national limelight. His four decades of
business successes, failures, and experiences will instruct, educate, inform and keep
you laughing for hours.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781940984834

Book preview

Author

PREFACE

As a dear friend once said to me, The very idea of you being a success at anything isn’t just funny; it’s fucking hilarious.

What he didn’t take into consideration was that I had discovered the secret to success—for me, at least. Put simply, hire people better than yourself and give them the freedom to succeed.

It’s never been my style to hide behind a curtain like the Wizard of Oz, but at the same time, I never insisted on taking center stage. The Man Behind the Curtain and its accompanying visual are metaphors for my philosophy—a philosophy that resulted in a contradiction to my friend’s comment.

For years, friends and associates said they enjoyed hearing stories about my experiences in and around the advertising business and suggested I write a book.

I resisted, thinking that anyone who wanted to know about the ad biz would rather read the thoughts and ruminations of one of the industry’s big names from one of the ad meccas like New York. But then I was reminded that while Seattle may not be the biggest market, it’s definitely one of the coolest. After all, Seattle was the birthplace of the Grunge Movement: Jimi Hendrix, Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Macklemore and Ryan Lewis; Microsoft, Starbucks, Nordstrom, and Amazon; the most educated populace in the nation; home to a half-dozen self-made billionaires; and much more. Please don’t get me wrong; I don’t fit into any of those categories, but I did co-found an agency that had the most successful thirty-year run of any in the history of this ultra-cool city. No agency in modern times had climbed to the top faster or stayed there longer. Perhaps success in Seattle had given me at least a modicum of credibility. So I wrote a book.

The book was titled Huckster: My Life as an Ad Man. I didn’t start with that title. In fact, I started with nothing but the desire to write a humorous account of my life in and around the business. No outline, no set time for completion, just the desire.

Huckster has been critically acclaimed and is still selling well. For a first-time author, selling well doesn’t usually equate to making money, but its success confirmed my belief that I really did have fun while writing it. While contemplating another book, a few incidents convinced me I should.

First, several friends and associates asked why they hadn’t been included in Huckster. For example, my dear friend and PR star Lori Jarman Langston asked, What am I—fucking chopped liver or something? Several friends and associates who had been included wanted to know why I didn’t also include their other favorite story. Greedy bastards; it wasn’t enough that I had immortalized them in the Library of Congress. Readers who were somehow related to the marketing profession wanted to know why I didn’t include more marketing-related stories. Readers not related to the profession wanted to know why I didn’t tell more stories not related to the profession.

After very little thought, even less consideration, and plenty of good wine, I concluded that Huckster was a compilation of my stories based on my memories. The Man Behind the Curtain is more of the same. If you’re not included here, or if you are but not with your favorite story, or if you would rather I’d emphasized this rather than that, to hell with you. Again, these are my stories based on my memories. If you remember things differently or want a different emphasis, I invite you to write your own fucking book.

1.

You Can Even Learn From Assholes

I seriously question whether you can be successful here at Cole & Weber.

That was my boss, the director of client services.

I understand that you were a pretty good copywriter before you left to serve in the Army, he continued, but that was almost five years ago.

I don’t understand why you’re even bringing that up, I responded. I’ve been here on the account side for more than a year. I pretty much run the bank account by myself.

That’s because we were finally able to get rid of the drunk who controlled the business, he added.

I don’t mean to be impertinent, but the reason our CEO was able to force him into retirement was because of the job I did as the number two on the business, I replied.

You are being impertinent, and I don’t appreciate it. My point is, just because you’re better than an incompetent alcoholic does not mean you’ll ever be good enough to succeed here in the long run.

I’m sorry; I just don’t understand.

That’s obvious. Let me bring this down to your level. Your performance is being compared to someone who, at the end, was incompetent. For a year, you apprenticed under that incompetent. I’ve been asked by our CEO, Jacobi, to test your mettle by having you work directly under me. If you prove to be bright enough to learn from me, you may have a chance to survive.

What an arrogant asshole. Of course, that’s what I was thinking, but what I said was, I’d love the opportunity, Lee. I couldn’t say more from fear of gagging on my own pathetic words.

As you may know, I’m responsible for us winning the Washington State Apple Commission account. At the commission’s insistence, I’ve been running the business ever since. However, because of the demands of other accounts such as Boeing and Westin, I’ve explained to the commission’s leadership that one of our low level executives would be handling the execution of my high level strategies.

So you’re giving me the opportunity to be that low level exec?

I told you I don’t appreciate your smartass attitude. I’m giving you the opportunity to work under me and learn from the very best.

What an unbelievably arrogant asshole!

I understand your point, Lee, and I appreciate the opportunity. Gag.

I recently met the commission’s new marketing manager, Ron Hughes, who told me you are friends, he said.

Ron Hughes? I asked. If it’s the same guy, yes we go way back. He was a year behind me in high school, but we had a lot of mutual friends. We were both at the University of Washington and had a few classes together. Ron’s a great guy!

For whatever reason, he seems to think the same about you.

I’m really starting to hate this asshole.

I look forward to working with Ron, I said.

You need to call him today and make arrangements for the national tour in a couple of weeks.

What do you mean? I asked.

Each year, the head of the commission and I visit distributors, influencers, and media in key markets around the country, replied Lee. Since he relegated this year’s trip to Hughes, I’m relegating it to you. You’ll be gone a total of fifteen days. You’ll have to figure out who will cover for you on the bank account.

I guess that won’t be necessary, I said, because I can’t go. We’re expecting our first child in a few weeks.

I’m confused, Ron, he said in a very insincere voice. I thought you wanted to succeed here.

How the hell do you handle something like that? I may be a few fries short of a Happy Meal, but even I was smart enough to understand what this asshole was implying. Lee was the guy who, a few months earlier, had called each account person individually into his office to present his or her annual bonus check. He used the opportunity to make each of us feel as though the money was coming from his personal bank account. Each of us did the appropriate groveling for his benevolence, then compared checks.

The last to be called in was this terrific person by the name of Ken. Ken was a highly decorated Viet Nam veteran who was honorably discharged because of some battle disabilities he had worked hard to overcome. When he joined the group a few minutes later, there was no smile on his face. In fact, he looked like shit.

What’s the matter, Ken? asked Dick. You look like your best friend just died!

Worse, he softly replied.

What could be worse than one of us dying? I kidded.

I didn’t get a bonus; I got fired.

Fired? we all repeated in unison. What the hell? Why? What was the reason?

He said that in order to fund your bonuses, he had to eliminate a position.

He put it on us? That’s bullshit, I said. Everyone agreed. Let’s grab some beers after work; we need to talk about this.

Some beers turned into several and a lot of grousing. The booze fueled the guilty implication that Ken’s firing was because of our bonuses. Alcohol-induced, we decided that the next morning we would go to Lee’s office as a group and offer to give back our bonus checks in order to save Ken’s job.

Ken broke his silence at this point and said, That won’t work. Thanks, guys, but that won’t work.

Why do you say that? we asked.

This is really embarrassing, he said. I asked why it had to be me. He said it was because I’m no good at my job. He even suggested I get out of advertising completely. He basically told me I was a worthless piece of shit. I asked how long I had. He told me to be gone by tomorrow. I reminded him that my wife was due any day. He smiled and said now I’d have time to spend with her and the new baby. I don’t know how I’m going to tell her. This promises to be our worst Christmas ever, guys.

We all went back to the office to help pack up Ken’s personal belongings so he could go home to share the holiday news with his pregnant wife.

By the next morning, we were even more incensed. As a group, we went to Lee’s office to share with him our feelings and ask whether he might reconsider.

So you don’t like the way I run this department? he asked rhetorically. I hope you all feel strongly enough about it that I can have your letters of resignation on my desk by the end of the day. I’ve wanted to upgrade the level of talent around here for some time now.

Whores that we were, we backed down and slithered out of his office. The episode, however, made an indelible imprint on my mind and spirit.

Several days later, I worked up enough nerve to talk with Lee Jacobi, the big boss, about the way Ken’s dismissal was handled. Lee was very thoughtful and said he had agreed to a staff reduction for financial reasons, but he did not agree with the way it had been handled. He said, "I hope you learned a lesson from this experience. There will be times in your career when you may have to conduct layoffs for any number of reasons. When you do, understand that you are taking away people’s livelihood. Do not take away their dignity at the same time. If at all possible, take the entire blame for their dismissal. After all, being the boss, it probably was your fault the company couldn’t afford to keep them."

2.

UNFORGIVABLE AND UNFORGETTABLE

Honey, I said hesitantly to the Beautiful Bonnie, I was told today that I have to go on a two-week business trip…but I’ll be back way before the baby is due.

Do you really have to?

Lee made it pretty clear that it was the trip or the unemployment line.

For such a nice guy, he can really be an asshole.

A week later, a full month before the baby’s due date, as I walked into the office, a frantic receptionist was repeatedly paging me. Before getting my coffee, I stopped by the front desk to ask which client was having a panic attack.

It’s Bonnie! she excitedly exclaimed. Something is seriously wrong! She wants you to come home immediately!

I ran to my car and, driving like a madman, covered the twenty-minute trip in less than ten.

I slammed open the front door of our tiny apartment and almost fainted because the first thing I saw was the kitchen wall phone painted red with blood. Next to it was a bloody handprint. Bonnie was sitting in a chair, holding a bloody towel between her legs.

Oh, my God, Bonnie! I screamed, Are you OK? What happened? What’s wrong?

I’m kind of OK, but something’s seriously wrong; we need to go to the hospital, she said very calmly. I think we should go right now.

I couldn’t talk. I was on my knees in front of her. I felt faint and must have looked it.

I better drive, she said. You don’t look good.

No, no! I’ll be fine, I insisted, finding my voice. I wasn’t fine. I was a fucking mess.

I took the bloody towel to the bathroom, threw it in the tub, got a clean one, and helped Bonnie to the car.

Ron, either get it together or I’m going to drive!

I’m fine, honey. Hang tight. We’re almost there.

No, you’re not fine. First of all, you’re driving in the wrong direction. If you don’t calm the hell down, you’re going to get us in an accident!

Fortunately, we had taken enough dry runs to the hospital so that once I got pointed in the right direction and brought the car down close to the speed limit, I made it more or less by rote—with Bonnie’s block-by-block guidance.

Several anxious minutes later, I pulled into the hospital’s emergency entrance, rushed in, and fully explained the situation by screaming, Help! A guy dressed in white grabbed a wheelchair and followed me out. We got Bonnie situated, and while she was being wheeled away, I shouted, Don’t worry, honey; I’ll see you in a minute! and left to park the car.

I have to see my wife, Bonnie. Bonnie Elgin! I shouted as I rushed up to the reception counter. Where is she? I need to be with her!

Please lower your voice, sir. I know you’re anxious to see your wife, but first things first; you need to fill out these forms.

Screw the forms; I want to see my wife right now!

Sir, your wife was taken directly to surgery. Now please lower your voice and fill out these forms. The attending physician will see you when it’s appropriate.

Surgery! Surgery? You’re wrong! Bonnie is here to have our baby. Not to have surgery!

Sir…sit.

It was the longest three hours of my life, and probably for the receptionist as well because I was in her face every few minutes of those three hours.

At ten minutes past one in the afternoon, the doctor came out and said I could relax because Bonnie was out of danger. Then he congratulated me on being the father of a brand new baby girl.

I collapsed into a chair and asked what the hell had happened. He told me the baby had become tangled in the umbilical cord and tore it away from the placenta. It’s a good thing you got here when you did. We had to do a caesarean section, but mom and daughter are going to be fine.

Thank God. Can I see them now?

Not for a while. Bonnie is still in recovery, and your daughter is quite jaundiced. We’ll let you know when you can see them.

It was another couple of miserable hours before I could see Beautiful Bonnie and our beautiful baby girl, Alison. Bonnie was pale and Alison was yellow, but to me, they couldn’t have been more beautiful.

My flight to New York City, the first stop on the business trip, was scheduled to depart before Bonnie and Alison could be released. It was left up to my sister’s husband, Leonard, to check them out of the hospital and drive them home to a house absent of husband and father. The crib hadn’t even been put together.

I look back now and realize I was a bigger asshole than my boss for allowing anything to come before my family. Some things in life can never be forgiven. Forgotten perhaps, but never forgiven.

3.

FIRST ROAD TRIP ON AN AIRPLANE

I met Ron Hughes, my old friend and new client, in a bar at the Seattle-Tacoma Airport. I was still in a shitty mood and needed a drink. Hughes was nervous about flying and needed a drink. The flight was delayed, so we had several.

Our seats were next to one another in business class on a United Airlines B-747. Fortunately, this enabled us to have champagne before takeoff and a real drink shortly thereafter. I was slowly losing my foul mood, and Ron was starting to get over his nervousness. Alcohol was proving to be a wonderfully curative medicine.

We were reminiscing about our college days when the flight attendant asked whether we wanted to have drinks and snacks at the first class lounge. Either she really liked us, or she was tired of running back and forth with our drinks. Back in the day, United had an actual bar at the front of the first class cabin in its 747s, complete with a bartender. Anyway, we were having a great time up there until the captain announced that we had to return to our seats and buckle up in anticipation of some bumpy weather. We ordered doubles to go and headed back to our seats.

I really hate flying, Ron, Ron said to me. All this bouncing scares the shit out of me. I need to shut my eyes for a few minutes.

He barely got those words out before starting to snore rather loudly. It was obviously self-preservation hibernation. I poured his drink into mine.

About a half hour later, the plane was really bouncing around and Ron was snoring even louder. Suddenly, we encountered a series of dramatic bumps that elicited several loud moans, a few mild screams, and an announcement from the captain reminding the passengers to remain buckled in their seats.

What’s happening? asked a suddenly awake and terrified Ron. What was that announcement?

I turned to my left, looked into his panicked eyes, and couldn’t stop myself from saying, He said, ‘Please assume the crash position.’

I’d never before seen a man’s eyes roll into the back of his head. It really does happen. It was undoubtedly a shitty thing to do to my friend, but then again, maybe not. His body went from full stiff to limp slouch. I positioned him into as comfortable of a position as I could, poured his new drink into mine, and opened my book.

About two hours later, Ron bolted upright and asked, Are we dead?

I laughed and said the captain had miraculously saved us.

Oh, thank God! Where’s my fucking drink?

. . . .

Two cities and a dozen meetings later, we checked into a hotel in Washington, DC. We agreed to a quick wash-up and to meet for dinner at 8 p.m. The hotel was four-star, and its ritzy dining room overlooked a beautiful ice-skating rink filled with skaters of all ages and abilities. We recapped the day’s meetings over cocktails while watching the skaters. We laughed at one young man in a suit and fedora who was on his butt more than his feet.

After our first course, Ron rubbed his neck and asked, Does this spot look swollen? pointing to an area just under his chin.

In this light, I can barely see you, let alone anything swollen, I replied. Does it hurt?

No, it just feels swollen.

Hey, look at that skater in the suit, I said. He’s been staying on his feet and actually making some tricky moves!

During the main course, Ron asked several more times whether his neck looked different to me. Finally, I picked up and pointed the table lamp at him and asked whether he’d had mumps as a kid. He answered in the affirmative and asked whether I thought he was getting the mumps again. I didn’t even know why the hell I had asked the question, let alone know the answer, so I once again concentrated on the skater in the suit and fedora.

Ron, stop playing with your damn neck and watch the skaters, I said. The guy in the suit is skating up a storm! To be honest, I had become over-the-top bored with Ron’s fixation on his damn neck.

We ordered dessert and after-dinner drinks. I busied myself with the skater who was now doing back flips on the ice while Ron busied himself with his neck.

I think that guy is a shill for the hotel, I said. I don’t think it’s possible for a beginning skater to become the featured attraction in two hours. Everyone is focused on him. Look at all the babes he’s attracting. Maybe you could hire him to make you attractive!

I don’t give a shit about becoming attractive, said Ron. I just want to stop getting uglier! This thing in my neck is getting bigger by the minute. With that, he came over to my side of the table, bent down, and asked me to feel the bump.

Jesus, that thing is huge! I said.

That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! What do you think it is?

How should I know? I’m no doctor. Maybe it’s a fast-growing cancer? It’s definitely some kind of a tumor. I can be such a dick.

Really? Shit, you’ve got to take me to the hospital! I might be dying!

I signed the dinner tab and we headed to the front desk. I told the concierge My friend just caught a fast-growing cancer in your dining room and we need to go to a hospital. Can you get us a taxi right away?

A minute later, I shouted, Quick, take us to the nearest emergency hospital! as we jumped into the cab. I don’t know whether the cabbie misunderstood me or whether he was going for the biggest fare possible, but it was a long ride. We ultimately ended up somewhere in Southeast D.C. at a battle-scarred-looking trauma center. The emergency room’s waiting area was packed with the walking dead and seated wounded. The people in best shape were just battered and bruised. The others were broken and bleeding. Even in their current conditions, all looked dangerous. We were the only ones with suits and white faces.

My friend has an unbelievably fast-growing cancer and needs to see a doctor immediately! I told the receptionist. She barely looked at us before handing me some forms to fill out.

Please, ma’am, this isn’t an insurance case. We’ll pay cash. This is a life or death thing!

She looked at us rather pathetically and said to take a seat.

Damn, Ron, I said, once we were seated, your cancer is fucking huge! You’re all lopsided. The left side of your neck is bigger than your head.

God, I must be dying!

The receptionist beckoned me to her desk and asked, You’re not from around here, are you?

No, we’re from the other Washington, I answered. Why do you ask?

It doesn’t look like our other patients appreciate your being here. I’ll see what I can do to get you in before we have an incident in the reception area.

I looked over my shoulder and saw nothing but growing hostility. Thanks, Miss. I think my buddy may have to be here for a while with surgeries, chemo, and radiation, but I sure as hell appreciate getting out of this room as quickly as possible.

Please don’t let me die alone! Ron begged.

A few minutes later, the receptionist led us into a room and said a doctor would be with us shortly. I strongly suggest that if the doctor discharges your friend, you both walk quickly through the reception area and stand very close to the armed guard outside until you can get a taxi. Our other patients are uncomfortable with you being here, and they resent you jumping ahead of them in line.

"They are uncomfortable?" I asked as a cute candy striper led us to a small examining room.

A minute later, a harried-looking doctor arrived to see us.

What seems to be your problem? he asked.

It’s not me, Doc, I answered. It’s my friend here who’s in really bad shape. Ron, get in here!

I explained the dramatic swelling that had occurred over the past few hours and our concern that it might be life-threatening. The doctor felt Ron’s neck, checked the inside of his mouth, and said he thought he knew the problem. With that, he draped a rubberized sheet over Ron from his neck down.

Is it cancer, doctor? Ron asked.

Why would you think that?

My friend said he thinks it may be a fast-growing cancer.

Your friend’s not a doctor; he’s an asshole. Open your mouth.

With that, he ordered me to step back while putting an instrument in Ron’s mouth. A few seconds later, an explosive stream of foul-smelling liquid shot out of his mouth. It was like watching a miniature fire hose. Every time the stream slowed, the doctor applied pressure to the side of Ron’s neck.

Shit, that’s really gross and it smells terrible, I said. What the hell is it?

Actually, I’ve never seen this before, but I’ve read about it in med school. A tiny particle of food got lodged in his salivary gland. Being blocked, the saliva backed up, and the more he ate, the more saliva was created and stored. His agitation added to it. I’m sure your smartass diagnosis also added to it. He’s fine now. That will be $200. Please pay the receptionist on your way out of here.

Much relieved, we thanked the receptionist by dropping two $100 bills on her desk and rushed to the side of the guard until a cab arrived.

Two more cities and a lot of meetings later, I was finally home with Beautiful Bonnie and my precious baby girl, Alison. Bonnie forgave me and I finally learned to live with my shame. Even today if I could have a do-over, I’d tell my boss to take the job and shove it.

4.

PERSUASION VERSUS MANIPULATION

Ron, you’re a manipulator, Laurie said without a smile.

Thanks, Laurie! I replied with a smile.

That wasn’t a compliment, she continued. I hope you don’t fire me because of my honesty, but I just had to get it off my chest. It makes me crazy to see you manipulating people every day into doing things they wouldn’t normally be doing of their own accord.

Would it make it better if you thought of me as a manipulator with an asterisk?

Manipulation is manipulation; there is no such thing as manipulation with an asterisk! One of the principles you espouse is the Freedom to Be. How can you preach that while manipulating people into doing things your way?

Come on, Laurie; now you’re being the asshole. You’re twisting the facts. The occasional use of manipulation can be a critical element of effective leadership. As CEO, my job is to set the vision and grow our company profitably while trying to maintain a family-friendly culture. I don’t believe that can happen in a democratic or socialist society. However, I don’t see any of that happening in a dictatorship either, even a benevolent one. As the person responsible for this company’s success or failure, I’ve chosen a management style that relies on people marching with me because they want to, not because they’ve been ordered to do so.

Couldn’t you achieve the same results through persuasion? Wouldn’t you rather be thought of as a persuasive leader rather than a manipulative one? Laurie asked.

"Of course I would. You probably know the definition of ‘persuade’ is to move by argument, entreaty, or expostulation to a belief, position, or course of action. My first course of action is always an attempt to persuade people to buy into my vision or belief. However, one of the critical elements of this job is to move the company forward. If I fail to persuade in an expeditious manner, it’s incumbent on me to take another path.

"Leaders with integrity do the honorable thing. They don’t sabotage their people. Relationships built on dishonesty become complex and ambiguous.

"When employees know they can trust their leaders, they don’t have to spend time being on guard to protect their own interests. They know they will be treated fairly, and they can spend their time being productive and creative. Those who work for leaders with this kind of integrity develop a high degree of respect for them.

"I strive every day to reach a higher level of dealing honestly and openly with everyone. Raising the level of integrity and honesty increases leadership effectiveness and the entire organization’s performance.

The two most common definitions of ‘manipulate’ are 1) to control or play upon by artful, unfair, or insidious means especially to one’s own advantage, and 2) to change by artful or unfair means so as to serve one’s purpose. I prefer to think of myself as artful rather than unfair or insidious, but it’s only the result about which I care.

But don’t you get it? Not everyone wants to do it your way! she interrupted. Don’t you think manipulating people into doing things your way is unfair?

"An important part of my management philosophy is to invite debate. You know that. In fact, you’re doing just that in this conversation. So that’s the first step. Generally, that leads to the decision of which path to follow. If that doesn’t happen, I’ll try to persuade our leadership to follow that path. If that doesn’t work either and we’re running out of time trying to be democratic, my next course of action is manipulation, or as I like to think of it, a more intense form of persuasion. That’s why I said, ‘manipulation with an asterisk.’ As a very last resort, I will command an action. I know I’m not right every time, but we’d wither and die in an environment that tolerated dithering. I’ve found that if things turn out right, people will forget or forgive being persuaded or even manipulated but almost never when forced to take an action."

If you’ll excuse me for saying it, boss, I still think that makes you a manipulating asshole with or without an asterisk.

5.

TITTY BAR

Hey, I just walked past a bar down the block that had topless ladies dancing on the stage! Denny excitedly exclaimed.

Bullshit, replied Steve. Titty bars are illegal in Seattle. Steve should know; he was a homicide detective with the Seattle Police Department.

I’m telling you, when the door opened, I had a clear shot at the stage, and there were three topless ladies dancing, proclaimed Denny. It was a brief shot, but I know what I saw!

We were five couples in the Pioneer Square section of Seattle for a little Friday night entertainment. Three of the guys, Dick, Denny, and I, were account guys, and the fourth was Darrell, an art director. It was a night out with our wives. The fifth couple was made up of Teri, the agency’s associate media director, and her husband Steve, the cop.

Steve, I think we should at least check it out, I said. If Denny is wrong, we’ll just move on. If he’s right, maybe we could take a quick peek for an hour or two!

Ron, you are such a pervert, said my wife, the Beautiful Bonnie.

We put it to a vote. It was 6 to 4. Teri voted with the guys. Love that lady.

As a group, we marched to the bar to get further lubricated and for the guys to get excited over some bare boobs. Bonnie was probably