From the Publisher: “New college graduate Nick Adano doesn’t realize it, but he’s about to move from the frustration of unemployment into the despair of being a vital cog in a morally dubious invention-marketing company. And when Nick and his boss find themselves with a problem on their hands—a client with a good idea who’s being railroaded—will Nick have the courage to confront himself?
Set against the backdrop of the early nineties’ recession, Mousetrap, Inc. explores a world before email and social media, when people relied on newspapers as a pivotal way to get information.
To buoy the spirits of his equally despairing coworkers, Nick pens tales featuring an antihero named Chapel Fox, by day a respected divorce attorney, but by night a madman bringing his version of justice to his beloved hometown. Nick’s coworkers take pleasure—and maybe derive a hint of self-recognition—from these morally ambiguous stories.
Capturing the essence of the awkward early twenties, when we’re adults . . . but not quite, this work speaks to anyone who’s endured a less-than-ideal work situation.”
More Info About the Author: Joseph Guzzo has been a television caption editor for almost thirty years. This is his debut novel. He has a journalism and communications degree from Point Park University in Pittsburgh and resides with his wife and son in a home run by their two cats.
“Karma is catching up to Mousetrap, Inc., a sleazy company built on the delusions of would-be inventors. Joseph Guzzo presents the downfall in all its hilarious indignity. He captures the gallows humor of the rank and file, the deranged behavior of the embattled queen bee, and the plight of the frustrated copywriter. Anyone who has ever worked for an unscrupulous (and deservedly doomed) outfit will read this book nodding in recognition.” -Michael Ayoob, author of In Search of Mercy and Shadow Menagerie
Jack Gardner’s idea deserved a better hand of fate. Sam and Rachel knew it. And, in her heart, I wanted to think Andrea did, too.
I remember asking Andrea once how she got started in the business. She chuckled, placed her cigarette down, and said, “Young man, you know that expression about being able to sell ice to Eskimos? Well, I could sell ice to the same group of Eskimos every day for a month.” She took a long draw from her cigarette. “And at the end of the 31st day, they’d still be thanking me.
“But how did I get started? I have a gift for convincing people they need whatever it is I’m offering. Girl Scout cookies? That was child’s play—literally and figuratively. Three years in a row, I outsold every other girl in my group, and by a huge amount. The other girls hated me and figured I had my parents selling them at work.
“Hell, no. I sold them all—every damn box of them—door-to-door, and my success rate was close to perfect.”
She then proceeded to give me the rundown of her entire work history—from the newspaper route she had through high school, to her brief, and successful, stint selling department-store cosmetics, to the sales job that led to her current position as CEO and owner of the company that employs me.
“And that,” she said, sweeping her arms in the direction of the bank of windows that lined the far wall of her ninth-floor office and gave her a beautiful view of Downtown, “all led to this.”
“Play your cards right, young man, and you could find yourself in my shoes someday.” She winked.
I forced myself to smile. Being in Andrea Bianco’s shoes was the last thing I wanted. I stood there, realizing that the greatest sales job she ever performed was convincing herself she was a legitimate business tycoon.
There really was no justification for our existence at Mousetrap, Inc. (“Build a better mousetrap, and bring it to our door!”) There were a multitude of excuses, of course. The top rationalization was economics. We were in the middle (why do people say “in the middle” when, chances are, they probably weren’t exactly halfway through something? For all we knew, it was the beginning of the recession, or, conversely, the next day, we would wake up and bright, shiny new jobs would be there to greet us.) Anyway, we were enduring a recession, whose depth and breadth we had no way of gauging, and that was as good a reason as any to stay out of Andrea’s sight and pretend to be busy. Secondly, we knew that if the three of us left, three new stiffs would be there to take our places. Even in the depths of an economic slowdown, Mousetrap had no trouble attracting clients. (Case number 7418, “The Beeralyzer,” sat atop my in-box.) And, lastly, we had an unwritten pact that none of us could leave separately.
I was the last to arrive in Mousetrap’s graphic production department, almost two years earlier, in 1990, and as a recent college grad, I wanted to make a strong first impression. I had spent six miserable months largely unemployed (I’ll get to that in due time), and I was ready to accept any job, as long as it meant a paycheck and a reclamation of my damaged pride. (“So, Nick, what kind of work are you in?” “Well, right now I’m looking . . .” This conversation would always be followed by a concerned look and a mumbled platitude—“Well, you’re a smart guy; something will turn up soon.” How much more I would have preferred a brutal, if incorrect, assessment—“What are you, lazy or a moron?” Alas, most people tend to be polite.)
I knew about Mousetrap, Inc. through its late-night commercial. Perhaps you remember it? The spot opens with a man in a cheap gray wig and a suit to match portraying Thomas Edison at a large, wooden desk furiously scribbling into a notebook. A voiceover intones, “Where will the next great idea come from? Have you ever walked into a store, picked up a product, and said, ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’ or, even worse, ‘I had that idea years ago!’ Well, we’re here to help. At Mousetrap, Inc., we turn your dreams into reality. Call 1-800-2INVENT for a free, no-obligation brochure. Don’t let this happen to you . . . ”
And the commercial cuts to a young woman in a department store picking up a nondescript package and slapping herself in the head in the classic “Boy, am I a dumbass” maneuver. The commercial closes with Edison dancing a jig in front of his phonograph. I remember laughing at the stupidity of both the commercial and the people who got roped into such nonsensical schemes. Yet, in the spring of 1990, 13 months out of college and six months out of a job, here I was, sitting across a desk from Sam Wiatt, graphic department supervisor.
I arrived for my interview about 10 minutes early. It was a beautiful spring day—sunny, maybe 75—and Pittsburghers were enjoying the rare combination of blue skies and warmth. My appointment was for 2:00, and with neither orange construction barrels nor snow to slow it down, my bus arrived on Liberty Avenue around 1:30, which gave me the chance to stroll through Market Square and back and enabled me to remember that Pittsburgh women actually did possess legs. Strolling through the Square, I struck up a conversation with one of its regulars—a homeless man named Spice, whom I hadn’t seen since graduating months earlier. I fully expected him to be there, on his usual park bench, feeding the pigeons and scaring the humans. Spice, however, upon seeing me, acted like I had just returned from a good war.
“Niiiick,” he yelled as I turned the corner past the “O.” I waved, and as I got closer, a twinge of guilt surged through me. I saw Spice practically every day for four years and never noticed how bedraggled he looked—his salt-and-pepper beard, bare in some spots but out of control in others; his tattered winter coat, half its collar gone, one of its sleeves seemingly defying gravity. He looked ghastly, yet he was in better spirits than I was. And his two cats, Pete and Friday, looked as healthy and disinterested as ever.
“Where the hell you been, man?” he asked me. “I figured you got some fancy job elsewheres.”
“No, I’m just about ready to join you on this bench if I don’t get a job soon,” I said.
“No can do, Nick. Seat’s got a waiting list longer than the one for Steeler tickets,” Spice said.
He laughed, as always, heartily at his own jokes, which caused people walking by to stare at him—and at us. I long passed the point of caring what people thought when they saw us. That wasn’t always the case. I first met Spice my freshman year of college, when I was a scared 18-year-old and found myself living in the dorms of Sharper College, in the heart of downtown.
My family moved me into my dorm the Saturday before Labor Day, and the next morning, I woke up hungry and had to venture outside because the school’s kitchen wasn’t going to open until Tuesday. I went to McDonald’s because it was close—my goal was to avoid encounters with anyone or anything—and the only other person in the place was a gentleman in a long, gray winter coat hunched over the counter.
I stood about five feet from him, weighing my breakfast options, when a cute young woman cheerily asked the other patron what he would like. “How much for a blowjob?” the man asked before laughing out loud, clapping his hands, and departing. I was trying not to join him in his mirth, but at the same time, I felt terrified.
“What would you-you like, sir?” the young woman then asked me. The nonexistent side of me wanted to either a)play the scene like James Bond and utter something that would 1) defuse the tension, 2) make her chuckle, 3) get her phone number, all in an effort to 4) get what the homeless guy ordered; or b) mouth something crude, like, “No, really, how much do blowjobs cost, and shouldn’t they be called ‘McBlowjobs?’”
But the realistic side of me chose option “c,” which was this: I muttered “Egg McMuffin” without making eye contact, hurried out the door, and looked both ways before proceeding to make sure the crazy bum was nowhere near. I made it back to my room, ate, and read the paper, hoping such encounters wouldn’t become a regular part of my life.
A few weeks later, walking through Market Square, I heard a voice yelling, “Hey, blue shirt, get over here.” I kept on walking, and the voice kept yelling, “Blue shirt, stop.” I walked a few feet more before realizing that I was wearing a blue shirt. I looked around, and there was Mickey D’s patron of the month, sprawled out on a bench, with the requisite brown bag at his feet. I froze.
“That was rude—what I done the other day,” he said. He had genuine remorse in his eyes, but had it not been the middle of the day, with hundreds of people around, I would have run like hell. I got closer.
“Listen—you’re a young boy, and I don’t want to set a bad example for you,” he continued. “That’s no way to talk to a pretty young lady. You hear?”
“Y-yes, sir, I hear you,” I said. “Thanks.”
“The name’s Spice. You got a name?”
My first reaction was to make up a name—Steve Austin, Michael J. Fox—whatever. But then I realized there was no danger in telling a vagrant my first name, so I mumbled “Nick.”
“Nick, glad to meet you. This here is Pete and Friday.”
I was confused for a second and then assumed the worst. In the minute or two I was standing there, I stared straight ahead without moving my head an inch. Now, I figured if I looked down, Homeless Guy would be Pantsless Guy. Before seeing the two kittens playing on the bench, I pretty much assumed he had named his balls.
“Kittens,” I said, a little too excitedly. I had never been so happy to see kittens in all my life.
“You must be one of Pittsburgh’s finest, Nick.”
“No, actually, I’m—
“I’m kidding, dummy. I have moments—like in McDonald’s. That was a moment, wasn’t it?” Spice chuckled.
“I guess you could say that.” I had nothing else to say, and I really wanted to leave. I started moving slowly backwards.
“You have a good day, son,” he said. “Be on your way now.”
I feebly waved at him and his kittens and carried on.
This excerpt from Mousetrap, Inc. is published here courtesy of the author and should not be reproduced without permission.
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