He could ask more questions in response to that terse little I'm working on it, but based on the way Don had said it, he had somehow found the question to be... distasteful. Insulting, maybe. And it takes Ginsberg a moment to work out why this could possibly be the case. He'd meant it to show interest, to indicate that he was aware of what was going on around him and that he still valued the work of others, even if he holed himself up in his office more often than not (like Don himself, and the similarities don't escape him.) He'd meant to indicate that, while he's mostly concentrated on his own work of late, he knows there's other work going on around him. It had been a simple, if awkward, way of showing that he cared.
It obviously hadn't come across that way.
So he doesn't keep prying. There's nothing else to ask, anyway. What's he supposed to do, demand to see the list of ideas Don's come up with for Sunkist? Whatever they are, they're very likely good ones, because he's never known Don to have a bad idea, not that he can think of. It's not so much that he thinks that Don is perfect (he isn't; no man is) or even that he thinks Don has better ideas than he himself does (he doesn't; look at the ads for Sno Ball, though that hadn't really mattered in the end, had it?) It's more that ever since he's known Don Draper -- since before he'd known him, when he'd only been an impressive name and an imposing figure -- he's been able to come up with good ideas on the fly. Why should that change? Surely eighteen months hasn't diminished Don's ability to produce something excellent.
"There's a--"
His hand trembles a little as he lifts the coffee pot to fill their cups, threatens to splash scalding liquid onto him or the floor, one or the other, but he manages to get it under control. It necessitates a break in his speaking to do so, though, something that bothers him, because he's always been able to speak and do other things before. That had been one of his most impressive talents, he'd always thought, the way he could carry on a conversation in almost any circumstance. Certainly, it had been useful over there, when much of the time was being spent bored senseless, wandering (they called it marching, but of course it wasn't) through the jungle. He could talk to any guy about anything, and be relatively content. Or just push the voices out of his head for a little while by speaking aloud. That was useful, too.
"--some account I guess you must've got while I was..."
While he was what? Does he say gone? That has a strange connotation to it, doesn't it? 'Gone' is the word that people use when they really mean dead, when they're being polite. Away sounds too much like it had been a vacation, and he and Don both know it wasn't. Hell, the whole world knows that. It's too euphemistic for what had really happened. He has to decide on a term for it. He can't just keep leaving his sentences unfinished.
He successfully pours them both a cup of coffee. "Over there," he finally comes up with, which still veers dangerously close to the euphemistic and vague for him, but so be it. For someone so good with words, normally (or at least, good with producing a multitude of words, some of them good, some of them bad) it seems hard to put all of the things he's thinking right now into a coherent narrative. When he's pitching an ad, he can bundle up his words together in a neat package, wrapped nicely if a little flashily, tied with a pretty ribbon. When he's talking about himself? It's like trying to wrap up something with too many sharp edges, using only old newspaper and string as wrapping paper. It just doesn't work.
"It's some kind of cookies, I think. I don't remember the brand." He should remember the brand. That's the whole point. What had he been working on for the however many hours since the office had closed? He somehow doesn't recall. "Anyway, they're okay cookies. I'm just having a hard time coming up with something better than 'okay' to say about them. I mean, they're cookies. What needs to be said? It's not like they'll change anyone's life."
no subject
It obviously hadn't come across that way.
So he doesn't keep prying. There's nothing else to ask, anyway. What's he supposed to do, demand to see the list of ideas Don's come up with for Sunkist? Whatever they are, they're very likely good ones, because he's never known Don to have a bad idea, not that he can think of. It's not so much that he thinks that Don is perfect (he isn't; no man is) or even that he thinks Don has better ideas than he himself does (he doesn't; look at the ads for Sno Ball, though that hadn't really mattered in the end, had it?) It's more that ever since he's known Don Draper -- since before he'd known him, when he'd only been an impressive name and an imposing figure -- he's been able to come up with good ideas on the fly. Why should that change? Surely eighteen months hasn't diminished Don's ability to produce something excellent.
"There's a--"
His hand trembles a little as he lifts the coffee pot to fill their cups, threatens to splash scalding liquid onto him or the floor, one or the other, but he manages to get it under control. It necessitates a break in his speaking to do so, though, something that bothers him, because he's always been able to speak and do other things before. That had been one of his most impressive talents, he'd always thought, the way he could carry on a conversation in almost any circumstance. Certainly, it had been useful over there, when much of the time was being spent bored senseless, wandering (they called it marching, but of course it wasn't) through the jungle. He could talk to any guy about anything, and be relatively content. Or just push the voices out of his head for a little while by speaking aloud. That was useful, too.
"--some account I guess you must've got while I was..."
While he was what? Does he say gone? That has a strange connotation to it, doesn't it? 'Gone' is the word that people use when they really mean dead, when they're being polite. Away sounds too much like it had been a vacation, and he and Don both know it wasn't. Hell, the whole world knows that. It's too euphemistic for what had really happened. He has to decide on a term for it. He can't just keep leaving his sentences unfinished.
He successfully pours them both a cup of coffee. "Over there," he finally comes up with, which still veers dangerously close to the euphemistic and vague for him, but so be it. For someone so good with words, normally (or at least, good with producing a multitude of words, some of them good, some of them bad) it seems hard to put all of the things he's thinking right now into a coherent narrative. When he's pitching an ad, he can bundle up his words together in a neat package, wrapped nicely if a little flashily, tied with a pretty ribbon. When he's talking about himself? It's like trying to wrap up something with too many sharp edges, using only old newspaper and string as wrapping paper. It just doesn't work.
"It's some kind of cookies, I think. I don't remember the brand." He should remember the brand. That's the whole point. What had he been working on for the however many hours since the office had closed? He somehow doesn't recall. "Anyway, they're okay cookies. I'm just having a hard time coming up with something better than 'okay' to say about them. I mean, they're cookies. What needs to be said? It's not like they'll change anyone's life."