“Listen to me.  There is no more money,” said my boss Sam, a stylish, 60-ish adman in his corner office near the Boston waterfront.

A steady parade of us (copywriters, art directors, producers, and associate producers in my case) filed in for raises as late fall faded and winter moved in like an evening cold front across the harbor’s sailboats and ferries. End-of-year bonuses: not happening. “You, at least, have something to whine about. Your salary stinks.” By early December, snowy ice crunched under my boots on the walk from the office to Faneuil Hall Marketplace. Most nights and all weekends, I moonlit as a shop girl, selling clothes and shoes and costume jewelry and wondering what it really meant when a boss says “there is no more money.”

The ship of this well-known agency’s Boston office was sinking. But the guys had taught me a thing or two. We produced jingles for local banks; we churned out earnest collateral for dog food brands; our one national account required us to occasionally drive south to coastal cranberry bogs with storyboards and chatter about TV campaigns, which we loved.  We frequented the Union Oyster House, the oldest restaurant in America. Plaques on the wall boasted that Daniel Webster was a regular and enjoyed a pint of beer with his plate of oysters and rarely had fewer that six. We were modest in comparison. Good day at work? Oysters for lunch!  Bad day at work? Oysters at nightfall.

We won awards and once they sent me up on stage to collect the giant Hatch bowl for a spot I produced with my friends. We took it to a posh hotel bar and drank champagne from it through straws. I was 25 and happy for all the good graces but couldn’t ignore the fact that this beautiful midnight, moonlit moment would soon grow dark. No raises, no new clients, no strategy meetings, no pep talks about pushing through the hard times. Boston’s mid-’80’s recession had us in its frosty grip.

How would we afford the oyster bar if not for our expense accounts? If all of us got laid off, we’d have no more awards and no more celebrations and even my shop girl job would soon enough freeze over. Along with youth and folly comes fearlessness, and I still had a dash of it, plus a few contacts in California thanks to this agency. I set out that February and found my way to a mediocre desk job by March, which eventually led right up the food chain.  The day the entire staff got laid off and the Boston office closed for good, they had a toast to me, their very own California clairvoyant.  The beauty of Boston’s marketplace that winter – shiny with lamplight, ice, farewells, and sea mist – glows in my memory under the big red letters of Union Oyster House.