It was a letter demanding payment for services rendered, and — sparing you the details of the business relationship that Mark, let’s call him, had unfortunately committed to — the letter, in the fresh, raw form in which I first saw it, was not up to par.

It was angry and incoherent, the way most of us might be if we looked back at months of labor lost and lots of money too. And Mark realized it and knew it needed work.

Ouch! This is not the kind of nourishment we want to send to our lawyer -- or our ex-partner.

He called his writing, both at the start and finish of our project, a “shit sandwich.”

A more polite rendering might be “knuckle sandwich” — the written equivalent of a bust in the chops.

Our aim, in explaining affairs to the attorney, was of course to make clear just what had happened and who was at fault. I secured from Mark, then, a chronology of the failed relationship and, then, a summary of the chief injustices he had suffered because of it.

The final product, calm and logical, put Mark’s case in chronological and causal order. This is what occurred over the course of the relationship … and these behaviors of the partner resulted in these damages.

When we were finished, we were breathing easier. Our case was put about as fairly as it could be. And the attorney (whose fees no doubt are several times ours and whose prose, I suspect, is larded with jargon) was ready to take over and make the partner pay.

We’re not talking here about turning out a history of the company. That happens, of course, at felicitous moments, like a big anniversary (no. 50, 75, 100). And when it does the history is turned out handsomely in a voluptuous volume suggesting the blessings of long customer relations and comfortable profits.

We’re talking, rather, about an organization’s opportunities to tell its story every day in so many ways:

• In greeting customers
• In phone manners
• In web pages
• In newsletter articles

Everything a company does, in fact, and says is grist to the mill of story-telling. Of telling a story with a definite storyline that starts and stops with one point in mind.

A point in mind.

Not a mishmash of facts.

Or dusty historical artifacts.

The point of the story we’re telling, a storyline goes, whether it says so explicitly or not, is such and such. We’re not telling the story merely to entertain, though you may find this story entertaining. We’re not telling the story to educate, though you may be educated. We’re not telling it to edify.

We’re telling it, let’s be frank, so that you remember one thing about the company.

One thing.

One theme.

Whether that’s our extraordinary caring attitude. Our cutting-edge products. Our stability through the years. Or whatever.

The story is not the shortest point between A and B. It’s a roundabout way of getting at a point that can’t be delivered in cliches or jargon; in incoherent anecdotes; in plagiarized expressions.

Aside from grunting and scratching, the story is the most primitive and archaic communication medium, and this may account for its enduring power.

Who can resist the idea of then, and then, and then? Then what happens? It’s the impulse that drives our daily lives, our not knowing what next and yet stepping bravely, or foolishly, forward.

And the impulse that keeps companies going, despite or because of all the rational and scientific management plans that can be devised.

Of course, a business with no plan, no idea, of the next step may be stepping into a bog of its own devising.

Once upon a time there was a company called XYZ that had a brilliant idea and no idea what to do with it. Until the time it was four or five years old, it enjoyed a series of spectacular successes. It was coddled by the market, wooed by investors, and gave back fabulous ROI. Then along came the big bad wolf of recession, tight credit, customer fickleness, and … and … and …

A young friend and I, along about fifth grade, would compete to see who could read the assigned textbooks first.

And we devoured the Hardy Boys thrillers along with the page-turning maritime tales of Howard Pease.

I remember, in fact, malingering a few days so I could stay home, curled up in the sack, and read these things. They were immense private pleasures, the kind commemorated in the lines of Longfellow inscribed above the lintel of a community library where I once lived in St. Paul, Minnesota:

These days, it seems, fewer of us have the leisure to take a book and retreat into a niche with it. (It’s a nice occupation, we might say.) Unless we’re on vacation, that is, or stealing a few free moments at lunch or on the bus.

Having moved recently from a private house to a rented condo, however, I find myself with more time on my hands and, like my wife, I am consumed by reading. I find myself, in fact, reading greedily, a habit that my younger sister, who also has a teacher’s background, calls “greading” (something she’s done both alone and with her daughter for many years).

I find myself recovering habits of mind, and body too (that fetus-like curling, that sighing, that clock oblivion), that a busy career in teaching and writing seemed to have obliterated.

I’m not claiming that I forgot how to read, as I taught or wrote for a living. Simply that as for the majority of us reading for pleasure seemed to fade away. It was generally reading for work, either teaching or business writing, that preoccupied me.

And that confirmed in me the habits of mind that a writer needs so badly and that distinguish him from most folks:

• A love of words for words’ sake (the pleasure of their sound, their tactility)
• An equal love of logic and clarity (those critical-learning gifts that a noisy commercial culture would banish)
• An ability to organize thoughts that, without being written out, would dissipate or never cohere

What I’m finding, in my latest greading phase, in short, is a recovered ability to enjoy our cultural heritage — the gifts that our elders have handed down for generations and that we continue, in our place, to hand down to youngsters. And to enjoy the sense that logic, clarity, and pleasure in words are things that matter above the trivial distractions that crowd our days.

What have I been reading? All sorts of stuff, really, though strangely not any fiction per se (my mainstay, for pleasure reading, during my working career). How about these titles:

• The Rocket That Fell to Earth: Roger Clemens and the Rage for Baseball Immortality (2010) by Jeff Pearlman. An easy read and no great shakes, really, but fun. Boo hoo, another star, another hero has fallen, Clemens, the thesis goes, cheated, and all red-blooded American baseball fans were cheated too of what we might have expected of a Hall of Fame type.
• Mozart: A Life (2006) by Peter Gay. Learned a few things about the genius Wolfgang that I didn’t know, including stuff about his relation with father and emperor. This short bio is one of the Penguin short life series.
• Truman by David McCullough (1992). This fat biography of our 33rd president is thick with fact and lived experience. From pioneer days in Independence, Missouri through Truman’s ride to the White House, McCullough presents the life in interesting, measured chapters. We learn a lot about where Truman came from both physically and psychologically. The unsatisfying thing about the book is that McCullough presents the facts but rarely interprets or analyzes them. What are we to think, in the end, for example, of Truman’s dependency on Pendergast, the Kansas City political boss, for every career move Truman made? Or for Truman’s ambivalent relation to FDR, the man who barely talked to him and yet elevated him to the top?
• De Kooning: An American Master (2006) by Mark Stevens and Annalyn Swan. This bio is by far the best, an immensely readable saga of the life, art, and dementia of one of our foremost “abstract expressionists,” if you can call De Kooning that. Equal parts life and art, the analysis is exact and it never stoops to amateur psychologizing. It’s the kind of text, with illustrations, that makes you eager to read the next thing these fine writers might be turning their attention to.
  

  Willem De Kooning's Woman I: kinda scary, yes?

• Deer Hunting with Jesus: Dispatches from America’s Class War (2007) by Joe Bageant. I snatched this bad boy from my wife, who had ordered it from Amazon. And devoured it in pretty short order. Despite the charge of ranting that could easily be laid at Bageant’s doorstep, I found the book tremendously clarifying. It explains, in convincing detail, why America’s working class consistently votes (and thinks) against its own self-interest, identifying as Freud would say with the aggressors (the rich, the capitalists). The plain folk of Winchester, Virginia, Bageant’s townsmen and neighbors, are descendants of the Scots Irish that battled the English crown and each other — and came to America to escape taxes and government repression. As my 3 year old granddaughter is fond of singing, they too “won’t bow down to no man”!
• Feathers: The Evolution of a Natural Miracle (2011) by Thor Hanson. This work of natural history explains how bird feathers evolved, from dinosaur to bird, and details both form and function. Hanson deals with 19th through 21st century scientific controversies about this evolution and interlards the text with many easy-to-understand examples of his own field work, as when he dissects and examines the frozen carcass of a flicker in his “Raccoon Shack.”
• Anton Chekhov: A Life in Letters (2004) edited by Rosamund Barlett. These are wonderful, vivid letters by Chekhov, the Russian story teller and playwright who lived from 1860 to 1904. As one of the great modernist writers, Chekhov is both self-made and original. He didn’t accept the cant of the church or state, and had no use for lying by friend or family. Each letter, no matter how obscure the details, blows with the fresh breath of honesty and precocious wisdom.
• Building Strong Brands (1996) by David A. Aaker. This sequel to Managing Brand Equity defines, illustrates, and explains the process of, yes, building strong brands. Companies without strong brands, from bakeries to auto producers, risk forfeiting large market shares, indeed losing their entire market.

OK, OK, I have more time now than formerly. I’m not a home owner, I own a life. A life in letters, you might say, and reading.

And for a fee, a small fee all things considered, I can make it available to you. (I won’t write politics or literature for you, but what I write will be filtered through the great and the not so great things I’ve managed to read. And reading, as I intimate, in this time and place may not be so widespread as it once was. We’re too busy texting and surfing the Web. But more on these distractions later.)

The card was good for laughs. And soothed our bruised egos, no doubt. The ones that might have been battered about by ungrateful boss and clueless client.

But however outrageous, the card expressed more than a seed of truth.

You need me, just as I need you.

Writers, designers, developers, and AE’s at agencies have talents that aren’t readily duplicated in the corporation:

• The ability to write clearly, cleanly, succinctly, and on message
• The gift of designing a logo, ad, or website that knocks the graphic socks and jocks off the audience
• The genius for patiently and accurately bearing messages back and forth between client management and agency creative, in effect, two halves of the one brain

Sure, you can save money by doing it yourself. The same way a homeowner can save money by patching his own roof.

Chances are, however, you won’t do as good a job as the pro.

And could end up with a leaky roof, or bottom line, for a long, long time.

So when it comes to finding the right words, designing an impressive website, sending the correct message across the sulcae from left brain to right brain, you need us.

Just as your customers need you.

Isn’t it great to be indispensable?

Besides the accent, I mean (“dubya-dubya-dubya dot fateville dot city dot US dot guv,” for example).

Besides the wonderfully undulating hills all around the city. And the hard clay and rock that undergirds the hills.

Besides the searing and nearly unbearable heat, with a heat index of 100 to 110 per day already in June.

Besides the friendly waves of the natives as they drive by. Or the instant conversations started up by strangers.

Besides the squashed armadillos on the roads — archaic armored creatures that look grotesque, dead or alive, and seem to have sprung up out of an ancient earth.

I mean the odd and different fact, primarily (for this writing anyway) of gorillas.

No, not real gorillas in the wild. (Armadillos are scary enough.)

Fake gorillas used in retail promotions, I mean. People who are paid to stand in this sweltering sun with a silly gorilla mask on their face, or a suit, to sell pizza or hair cuts or oil changes.

Geez!

The indignity of it!

A company called Gorilla Promotions does gorilla promotions, evidently

The manager of a local furniture store tells me these kinds of promos were very common in Florida, where he worked recently, because they were cheaper and more effective than newspaper ads. Instead of spending $4500 for a full page spread in the Tampa paper, for example, hire a troop of gorillas for $1500 — and get far better results.

But I find it hard to believe that these guerrilla/gorilla promotions could bring in that much cash. One local gorilla is pushing pizzas that sell for $5.99. That’s the claim on the window of the store, anyway. How many pizzas do you have to sell to pay this hairy oaf and realize a profit? How much residual good do these stunts create?

When you hear your belly gnawing, do you say to yourself, Oh, yeah, I want one of those cheap pizzas the gorilla is selling.

When you have a headache, do you think you’re going to turn to the pharmacy with the gorilla outside scratching his armpits?

When you need an oil change, do you look for the gorilla stand?

I’ll have to do some research on this rich topic — and get back to you on it.

In the meanwhile, if you have any knowledge or reaction, pipe up!