was waving and wishing everybody a Happy Thanksgiving and a Merry Christmas.
3
One of the marching bands was so loud that Bob Krantz asked his secretary to close the window. He is seated in his office at Whyte B.C. busily conversing through a custard-colored pushbutton telephone with his boss, the network’s owner, James Whyte. “I’m sorry, Mr. Whyte, but I had to close the window. They’re making a big racket downstairs. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, you know. As I was saying, Mr. Whyte, you won’t have to worry about Reverend Jones and those Texans. When ‘20 Minutes,’ our newsmagazine, finishes with him, his name won’t be worth a hamper full of dirty underwear.”
“His direct-mail campaign against violence and homosexuality on television is worrying our sponsors. What do you plan to do about it?” boomed the patrician voice on the other end of the phone.
“We have some leaks from the I.R.S. As soon as they finish with the Reverend, he’ll be put away for about ten years.”
“You don’t say.” Krantz could hear Mr. Whyte’s broad smile on the other end. “You have the goods on him. Good fellow, Krantz, good fellow.”
“I knew I had to protect my tush, Mr. Whyte. I anticipated that the fundamentalists would be upset with our new lineup and so I have enough evidence, about forty pounds, to close down Jones’s empire for a long time.”
“How are the inauguration plans coming?”
“We plan to have live coverage from the time the President-elect and first lady greet the Carters on the steps of the White House until the last of the eight balls is over.”
“I’ll tell the President-elect. His friends are shelling out eight million dollars for this thing and the taxpayers are contributing four. It should be quite a show. Quite a show. There will be Marine Guards standing at attention all over the place.”
“When you see the President, will you do me a favor, sir?”
“What’s that, Krantz?”
“Would you tell him to go easy on the makeup? One night he came on the tube and he resembled one of Count Dracula’s wives, he was wearing so much paint. And tell him, if you will, sir, to avoid as many right profiles as possible. His right jaw? Shadows hang there. It looks like the entrance to a lagoon.”
“Krantz, you sound as if you don’t approve of the President. What’s eating you?”
“O, no, no. I want to make the President look good. Why, it was me who directed the cameramen to do full shots of him during the debates. That way he looked big, commanding, superhuman. It feels good to be a white man again with him in office. One hour after the election results were known, we made all the black employees get rid of the cornrow hairstyles. I’m mellowing, Mr. Whyte. I’ve come a long way from S.D.S. and Woodstock. Why, this morning I went out and bought some cowboy boots.”
“Cowboy boots, huh. Krantz, how do you think I’d look in some of those boots?”
“You’d look fine, Mr. Whyte.”
“Then why don’t you order some for me. Have them put some spurs on them.”
“I certainly will, Mr. Whyte. It’s as good as done.”
“Who do you think is going to win that game?”
“I think the Raiders might give Philadelphia a hard time. They might even win. Oakland has a good team, but if they can penetrate the Philadelphia defense, who knows? They might even win by two touchdowns.”
“You might have a point, Krantz. Send me over some more of that stuff you brought to the party.”
“What stuff, Mr. Whyte?”
“That white dustlike substance. You remember how when some was spilled on the rug everybody got down on all fours and sniffed the rug. It was so pleasant. You referred to it as snow, I believe.”
“Certainly will bring some, Mr. Whyte. Which hotel are you going to be staying in during the inaugural?”
“The Hilton.”
“I’ll contact you there, Mr. Whyte. And again, don’t worry about Reverend Jones. After our exposé he’ll be back in Texas selling chili on the porch in his bare feet.” Krantz puts down the phone. Opens a bottle and gulps down some pills. The room is full of teddy bears. Everywhere you look there are teddy bears. Teddy bears of all colors and sizes. Teddy bears from all over the world, but mostly from Formosa. Krantz unscrews the small navy-blue velvet teddy bear on his desk, and dips in a tiny golden spoon. He sniffs the spoon and immediately assumes an expression of exuberance. Momentarily, he feels like a genius. He is a genius. He presses a button which sets off an electric train. The train begins to circle his desk on its tiny tracks. He picks up the phone. “Jane, tell everybody I’ve gone down to the health club to play some racquetball.”
“He’s here. He’s been sitting in that chair for an hour now. Ever since you got on the phone with Mr. Whyte.”
“Does he seem mad?”
“He’s pretty mad, and won’t go away.”
A robust, muscular, and well-tanned looking Rex Stuart wearing dark glasses strides vigorously into Bob Krantz’s office. He has a head of silver hair and with a mustache he would look like Caesar Romero. Bob Krantz rises to extend his hand. It is doing a St. Vitus. The man angrily slams a copy of TV Guide onto Krantz’s desk.
“Look fella, don’t get nervous,” Krantz says.
“I had to read about it in the TV Guide!” He is furious.
“I don’t know what you’re driving at,” Krantz says, weakly.
“Don’t play innocent with me.”
“Hey, calm down. It wasn’t my decision, it was Mr. Whyte’s, he decided to cut your part.”
“Cut my part. Look, you little turd, I made ‘Sorrows and Trials.’ Millions of people wouldn’t even watch it if it weren’t for my part.”
“You’re wrong about that.” Bob Krantz removes some papers from a folder on his desk. “Remember when you were out for two weeks a few months ago?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“The ratings for ‘Sorrows and Trials’ went up eight percent. And O, yeah, where did you say you went during those two weeks?”
“My aunt died in Philadelphia. I had to settle the estate.”
“O, yeah, then what are these?” He shoved the Xeroxes of the man’s bills from Pleasant Grove Manor, an alcoholic rehabilitation hospital about thirty miles from L.A.
“Where did you get those?”
“I don’t have to tell you where I got nothin’, you fuck. Let’s face it, fella, you’re a has-been. You’re slipping. You’re rusty with your cue cards. I’ve seen it happen to old guys like you. They lose their reflexes. All of those takes we do of your scenes cost us money. We overlooked that, but then Mr. Whyte was driving through the gates and he passed that picket line you and your buddies set up.”
“So that’s it. You slime. You’re still mad about the settlement. Ninety-five percent of the people in this industry make less than five thousand dollars per year and you’d begrudge them a share of the royalties from cable television. Five thousand dollars; why, you spend more than that on these goddamned trains.” The man kicks a few tiny boxcars across the room.
“Hey, what the hell’s wrong with you?” Krantz says, diving for the trains. “You’ll pay for this. You’ll pay,” Krantz says, gathering up the boxcars, one of which had been broken in half.
“Like a fucking two-year-old, playing with trains and teddy bears.”
“Get out. Get out.” The man walks over to where Krantz is bent down on the floor,