LA Weekly

Inasmuch as Aaron Silver will be remembered, it will be for the Lucky Strike campaign he spearheaded back in 1959: Lucky’s sales went flat; Parliament and Winston were hawking their scientific charcoal-recessed filters. Silver, one of the young lions of Madison Avenue, came up with the idea of marketing the unfiltered Luckys to an upscale smoker, one who was tough and took risks — a maverick.

“Lucky... uncompromising.”

It was only one word, but it shook the industry. Silver was fond of pointing out that it was the sound of the word that reversed Lucky’s fortunes, the thumping oom-pah exhaled through the lips (this was when The Music Man was on Broadway; everyone clamored to invoke the rumpus of 76 trombones).

Silver parlayed his success into a book on usage cheerily titled What’s the Good Word? It was meant to be a handbook for other ad men, but it soon found its way into high schools across the country, and, through nine reissues, kept Silver’s family comfortable even after it went out of print some time in the late ’70s. The photo on the back flap showing Silver, in his early, optimistic 40 — in a crisp white shirt, tie slightly askew, hands clasped at the back of his neatly barbered head — will no doubt accompany his obituary. Silver has filled out in the cheeks and jowls since his author photo was snapped; some freckles have evolved into fuzzy-edged sunspots. His hair, completely white but unthinned by age, flops to one side like a collapsed chef’s cloche.

He watches his daughter — the one he likes — prepare a pastrami sandwich, cut on the diagonal, as he prefers, with a dill pickle spear and a scoop of coleslaw on the side. He turns to the window. His condo overlooks a children’s park, where the wading pool has been drained and lined with interlocking rubber tiles like puzzle pieces. The sun sets. Oak trees drop leaves like stiff and brittle canoes, and the nannies collect the children for the long walk home.

His daughter places the sandwich on his plastic place mat.

“You forgot the skiff,” he says.

She breaks into laughter. “The what?”

“You know. The —” He forms a claw with his hand.

“A drink?” she says, still laughing.

Silver grimaces. “That’s been happening to me lately. I can’t seem to come up with the right card.”

The laughter stops. “It’s been happening a lot?”

He waves her away. “I’m an old man.”

“Maybe you should have Dr. Charleton check it out.”

“Doctor Charlatan. What does he know?”

“It might be something he can treat.”

Silver watches a camel-colored woman in a sturdy uniform wrap her arm around a boy’s waist and carry him sideways, like a log.

“I think my brain is trying to blurt out all the words I haven’t used,” Silver says.

The daughter he likes sits opposite him and rests her chin on her hand. “That’s an interesting theory.”

“There’s a lot of them. I was watching something on the Discovery Channel the other day. I jotted some of the vocabulary I haven’t had the chance to say. Fusillade. What kind of life have I led that I’ve never had the chance to say fusillade?”

“It’s not very common.”

“But I was in the Army,” Silver says. “Crankshaft. That’s a good word.”


The following day the daughter he doesn’t care for shows up, and Silver suspects her uncle, her brother — her sister — has asked her to check up on him.

“Come on. I’ll take you for a walk,” she says.

“What am I? A schnauzer?”

They totter around the children’s park. The leaves crunch beneath them. “Look,” she says. “They took the water out of the wading pool.”

“It’s for insurance costs,” Silver says. “Some kid drowns in Topeka and they ban wading pools in New York.”

“I guess it’s safer.”

“Kids get too soft.”

She holds his elbow as they walk.

“How’s your calliope?” he asks.

“My what?”

“You know. I forget the name.”

“Lloyd. He left me, Daddy. I told you.”

“It’s just as well. He can do better.”

The daughter he doesn’t care for laughs, a short bark like a mitten’s, a seal’s. She rubs her nose and says, “Someday soon, Daddy, you won’t be able to hurt me anymore.”

“Betcha can’t wait, can you?” His small steps slow to a halt and he points to the hard ground. “Give me that, will you?”

“What?” She stares where he stares.

He gestures impatiently. “That. The parasol, the parapet, the parakeet.”

She glances at him, her forehead buckled with worry.

“Look!” he says angrily.

She bends over and pats the ground.

“That. I want that,” he says.

“The acorn?”

“That’s it. Acorn. Right.”

She drops it in his pocket. “Why?” she asks.

“You wouldn’t understand.” How could she? The first time he saw an acorn he was nearly grown; it smelled of a life forbidden to him.

She takes his arm and they continue to walk. “Do you remember when I played in this park?”

“No,” he says. “I have no memory of you as a child.” This is true. One minute his wife, Bobbie, mentioned she was pregnant. The next he was looking in the rearview mirror at an ungainly young woman wearing an oversized Brandeis sweatshirt and sitting on a foot locker. When she started teaching in the New York City public school system he pressed upon her a copy of What’s the Good Word?

She dangled it from her fingers like a dead cod. “We don’t teach usage anymore, Daddy. Not like that. Not out of context.”