Candide Keaton

BALLOONS ARE AVAILABLE by Jordan Critfenden. 180 pages. Afheneum. $4.50.

The only cumbrous thing about this novel is the title, borrowed from some lines by W. H. Auden. Otherwise, Balloons Are Available is lighter than air and easily dirigible toward its comic purpose. The hero, who progresses from repairman to executive vice president, is named Howard Ormsby. Part Candide, part Buster Keaton, he is loosed in a land where every pratfall is followed by a commercial. Author Crittenden's best effects are gained through a sort of contrapuntal dialogue. One of Howard's loves tells him the story of her life, including the part about her older brother, who was hit by an automobile. "It was terrible," she says. "The driver couldn't stop because he was competing in a Mobilgas Economy Run." "Try not to think about it," says Howard.

In Anaheim, Calif., Howard and his date are kidnaped by an ice-pick-wielding sex maniac who gets so thoroughly lost on the Ventura Freeway that he has to return home for a road map. He then mumbles to his captives, "Listen, I'm going to have to stay and have dinner. Mother's been keeping a plate warm for me in the oven."

Howard proves to be executive material, becoming expert at self-effacing chuckles and patterning his sales messages on the speeches of Richard Nixon. He moves on from Fraser-Blau to the folks at Ritter Pfaud, from the Zayre Corp. to the Udylite people, finally reaching zenith with the "management group of Mr. Grunewald's organization, a firm widely respected for its pioneering work in the development of inert ingredients."

Girls abound, and Howard becomes involved with Felicia, the secretary of a fellow executive. His subsequent neglect of his own secretary drives the poor girl to drink and dismissal. Even worse is the confrontation with the deceived colleague, the office cuckold. He knows all, the poor fellow announces, and he feels he must switch jobs, joining an outfit in Kansas City. "I can't stay here," he says tragically. "Not now."

Author Crittenden, 29, is a Phi Beta Kappa from Kansas University and has written short stories for The New Yorker and the Atlantic. His literary ancestors range from Nathanael West to Terry Southern to Nichols and May, but he has his own deadpan wit and a wildly antic eye.

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