“How’s the Nazi?” I ask, changing the subject to something neutral. “He was furious that the music house wanted forty grand. He wanted us to ‘Jew them down.’” “He didn’t say that.” “Oh yes, he did. His exact words.” I wonder how much of my soul remains after spending so many years as an advertising copywriter. Will I end up in Hell along with the Hamburger Helper Helping Hand, Joe Camel and Wendy, the Snapple Lady?
