by Ray Succre
“The knee. Shrapnel”
“A real shame. That’s a tender spot.”
An accent on the word ‘tender’ made the statement somewhat of a taunt. Emery dragged from his cigarette and held the smoke a moment. He felt leeway in the interview, which contained a certain terseness that overshadowed acting. Mr. Gill, through his obtuse mannerisms and feign at grumpiness, was still applicably the sort of man to which one could speak one’s mind. This was enjoyable but possibly out of place. Emery was pleased by the likelihood that this program director and station manager was minutely fond of him. Teasing a person did this, promoting interest. Teasing also opened a slight chute into which directness could flow, as if anything said was only of mild seriousness and could be taken back if needed. Banter. Chumminess that acted at the opposite. This was illusion, something for which Emery felt comfortable, and he used the irksome prod of Mr. Gill’s knee taunt to take advantage.
“Mister, if you’re done punching the bag, I’d like to get to business. Can I work for you or not?”
“How about double-shifting?”
“All right.”
“You agreed. That’s good. But remember you did that. You, not me.”
“I can work double-shifts if I have to.”
“You do have to, once I decide whether I’m keeping you or not. And I’ll make that decision quick, too, so you’d better know your onions by the end of the first day. I’m not easy on that, so do a good job; I can clutch a guy on his second day without thinkin’ twice.”
Beth at home, in the small house propped up at the end of Glendora, was Beth in spades. So pleased and everywhere all at once. Her transition from Antioch had been difficult, as moving into the city was not an act in which she could remain idle, and the packing and details of each portion of the move had met her eyes in many modes. An ordinarily timid presence in a car, she had become as a ramp during the long drive to Cincinnati, a ramp from which he launched with each pass of an intersection, her every glance at a map and statement of upcoming direction. She had been the navigator. Once the new house had been reached and finalized with the aid of money from his brother, William, she returned to her usual demeanor and quickly fell into her hobbies again. Beth was much invested in tradition, and wanted children early. Right after they married. That she had fallen pregnant in conjunction with the move, with the new life, comforted her, and no amount of another’s joy could match her own at the news of her approaching motherhood. With this and the relocation completed, she finally felt at home. Emery did not.
There was little calm in him and a slight panic had begun to infiltrate his ego’s theater. That his love for her and the notion of being a father beside her were honest and distinct feelings, they were in no way indicative of his time for her or the looming child. This would be overrun by radio, which had become obvious even as Emery researched the field he was entering. It was unlikely she knew just how much he would have to be away. This troubled him and he did not relish the near future. A double-shifter was anymore a time-honored, American way, despite its unprovoked audacity, and a man without work was considered a louse. The war had brought as much to bear on the country. Times had picked up. So, it was inferred, were men to pick up; they were to dust off their fears and focus on the New America. A Buick in the garage and a wife to suit the heart. These were tertiary devices to Emery. Coveted by his fellows, but to him merely available. To be competent was only a beginning. He wanted to be thought well of, as far as thought could travel and in as many directions as it could fester. It began with Beth. Beth who thought so well of him.
“Now listen,” the manager continued, “I know Antioch. I know the types that come out of there. And I don’t want any complaining over hard work, you understand? We work here. No cryin’ or you’ll get the bum’s rush before you can wipe the first tear.”
“You think I’d start crying over this place?”
“You sorts tend to cry.”
Another taunt. The fat face full of name-changes and gelatinous meat, huffing cheap brand cigarettes and spewing smoke over the stench of cold, machine-burgled pork from his gut. With each word. Every belch or idea. A slap against that face would be wondrous, to see the imprint of a strong hand put attitudes in their proper arrangement. Of course, Emery’s hand was a begging sort, being on the plaintiff side of an interview. Slaps were out. At least with the hands.
“It’s ‘your sort tends to cry’. I should also explain that you do not know me. You’re beating your gums.”
“Yeah well, I can do that. And don’t correct me. Only assholes do that.”
“Mr. Gill, let me ask you this: When do I start?”
“Well, that’s an assumption-and-a-half. You’re chesty, I’ll say that.”
“I’d like to start working. I’m hoping that comes through you.”
“Well, I want to hire somebody and you want to be hired, so I figure-”
“When can I start?”
“-Don’t you interrupt me. Ever. And I’m supposed to ask you that, kid.”
“All right.”
The silence of waiting and estimation. Mr. Gill’s temper wanting to surface but staying low enough to conserve in his large cheeks a sunless pallor, and keep in his face that quetched, joggling composition it had formed over the years. Mr. Gill reached over, tonguing his lip a moment as he snuffed out his cigarette in the shoddy ashtray. It met many extinguished others in the glass bowl, joining into a bouquet of soot and stinking fibers.
“Fine, so when can you start?” he asked.
“Tomorrow. Or anytime between soon and right away.”
“Look, don’t smart me; you’ve already done it too much. And I changed my mind. I don’t like uppity, after all. Don’t be arrogant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you’ll start right away, which does happen to be tomorrow. Five a.m.”
“Understood.”
“Don’t drink tonight. And owls can’t handle this job, so go to bed early. Bring your lunch. You’ll work a double-shift.”
“All right, then. You can count on me, Mr. Gill.” Though Emery had said this with a bit of flippancy, it was ostensibly true.
“Yeah, I bet.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
“No, you’ll see me right now, down in the Red Room,” Mr. Gill said, pushing away from his desk and expending much effort in getting to his feet in the cramped conditions of his office, “I want to get you introduced to Aaron, down there. He’ll be watching over you so I don’t have to.”
After passing the control room and subsequent office, down the short and noticeably damp hall through the recording rooms, the two entered a downward stairwell that reeked of chemicals. Mr. Gill waved his fleshy wrist.
“Acetate. We have to record some. Stinks, so the boys try to cover it up with aftershave. I’d say this week it’s Mennen.”
At the bottom of the stairs they passed two rooms with various broadcasting equipment and one with a lathe. At the end of this sub-level hallway in the furthest reach of the barely-heated basement was the writer room, apparently referred to as the ‘Red Room’. Emery and Mr. Gill entered and met the sole occupant of this narrow, cinder-walled place. He was a tall, thin man dutifully hunched over a small desk, pens scattered about and a red one, the one for revision, in his right hand. Perhaps the color of this pen was what lent the informal name to the room. Emery noticed a second, even smaller desk in the corner of this isolated, concrete space. The diminished desk reminded him of junior high. He wondered if he might find anything carved into it. Frank Gill led Emery to the man, who did not immediately acknowledge them. Emery could see the pages the writer was looking over. The thin man drew a sudden scratch through the words “a time of”, then scribbled a quick series of marks above another circled phrase. After this, he looked up at the two men.
“Okay, sorry. This the new guy?”
“Yeah, this is him. Antioch, say hello to my writer, Maury Aaron.”
“Hello Maur
y.”
“Sure, hi. You’re a writer, huh?”
Frank Gill made his way around the desk and glanced over Maury’s current work, talking as he scanned. This continuance on Mr. Gill’s part postponed Emery’s ability to return Maury’s comment.
“He’s a lit guy, so keep him off the Shakespeare, huh?”
“Will do, boss,” Maury said.
“He’s the fiver; gonna double-up, most days,” Frank said.
“There any other way?”
“Don’t I know it. You get Hospital Field finished?”
“Through Thursday. I’ll have all the ninth week written out by morning. Draft.”
“Swell. Rogers and Castle want to pull their endorsements on the six-to-seven spots if Hospital Field doesn’t get new material. They think re-running a show sounds bad, doesn’t feel real enough; a less popular place to stick an ad.”
“Isn’t it?” Maury asked.
“No. Hey, this should be cute,” Mr. Gill said, pointing to a line on the manuscript. Maury nodded.
“Thanks. It’s for the Rangers serial, when Eddie first meets-”
“No, I mean the word. Nix ‘whimsical’. Use ‘cute’.”
“Oh, sure thing.”
“You see this, Antioch?” Mr. Gill asked, looking at the new hire, “No Shakespeare. This is radio.”
“I understand,” Emery said, hiding his annoyance at Mr. Gill’s presumptuousness, as well as the obnoxiousness of the nickname ‘Antioch’.
“And hey, don’t screw up. That’s a big one around here. And if you do, for the love of God, don’t let the screw up hit the air.”
“I won’t,” Emery assured.
“Good, I’ll keep that in mind for when you do. They always do. I’m back upstairs to finish my appointment with lunch, Maury. Thought I’d bring him down, let you two chat a bit. He starts with you tomorrow.”
“Got it, boss. I’ll whip him around some,” Maury said.
“Good, ‘cause he’s smart. We’ll have to fix that. Oh, and by the way, kid,” Mr. Gill said, changing his focus and waving a limp arm briefly around the Red Room, “Welcome to WKCR. And Cincinnati, for that matter.”
The down-hanging roundness of Frank Gill exited the Red Room, which was neither red nor roomy. Maury scratched out a word and added another smaller one on the page at hand. After a moment of quick-eyeing the line, he looked up at Emery. To Emery, this writer seemed congenial of brow and did not show the weathering signs of ill temper. He would probably turn out to be a friendly sort, good-natured, though the brunt of his occupation must certainly have brought him to irritation at times.
“New guy. What’s your name?” Maury asked.
“Asher. Emery Asher. And it’s keen to meet you, too. I meant to say that earlier.”
“Right, right, sucks the air from a room. You know, like a Hoover. I write villains based on him all the time. Hasn’t caught on that all my arrogant characters tend to be fat.”
“He’s certainly in charge.”
“One way to put it. Easy to work for, so long as you can gas it.”
The habit his new employer, only minutes into the arrangement, had taken up, of calling Emery ‘Antioch’, was nettlesome and a sporadic bother that would hopefully cease in the days to come. Nettlesome meant cranky, of course. Mr. Gill was cranky. And disturbingly corpulent. Or rather, stout. Meaning fat. This was writing, for radio, and he was now employed, which would be of strong merit to his life with Beth, fledgling as he was in both his career and marriage. He would take her out to dinner tonight, in celebration, and perhaps they might work on a name for the new Asher on its way to the world. They might have a nice evening, and then go early to bed, that he might begin his role in radio with a discerning mind from reliable sleep.
“I don’t think I prefer him calling me ‘Antioch’. It’s petty and small,” Emery said.
“Well, stick around; it’ll pass. He only this year stopped referring to me as ‘The Rabbi’.”
“Did you study to be that?”
“No, I’m just Jewish.”
“He doesn’t seem fond of that, I’ve noticed.”
“Everybody’s gotta dislike somebody.”
“Yeah? What about you? Who do you dislike?”
“You kiddin’ me? New guys.” Emery chuckled at this.
“That’s good. Say, can a guy smoke down here?”
“Well sure, there’s a vent. And it’s still America up there, isn’t it?”
Maury was all right. From courses and study, Emery had deduced there were no greater indicators of talentlessness than vanity or a lack of humor. There were stoics, of course, and their choice talent was relevant to their interests, which could be vast, but in the public, in the world’s world, in radio, he suspected there had to be a smirk behind every poke or that poke became a stab.
“What sorts of jobs you have before this? Your experience, I mean,” Maury asked.
“College and military. A few side jobs. Nothing with entertainment except for a year doing some voice-work for the campus radio.”
“So you’re mostly new to getting paid for this. Fresh out, huh?”
“Yes, I’m new.”
“Did uh, did you fight much?”
“Some.”
“No kidding? Which were you in?”
“I was in the Pacific. A few places. Okinawa, Borneo, Leyte, Manila— “
“I meant which branch. You look like a handsome guy; sailor, right? How about it? You travel the seas with a cap and the bell-bottom swagger? Wait to make land and see all the girls?” Emery snorted at this idea.
“Friend, I was a paratrooper. I’d start off just about as far from land and water as a fellow can get.”
Chapter Six
Public-service announcements existed in an exacting length of this-will-happen-at-this-time. The advertisements were fifteen seconds. Thirty. Forty-five. One minute. At times, an entire half-hour could be given to an advertisement, by sinking a few songs to the bottom and giving it a name like The Coca Cola Singers of America Tribute Special. Emery wrote a variety of scripts. There was the occasional documentary drama, possibly thirty minutes, if he was lucky. Most of his assignments were much shorter.
The dreamless and grueling days had swollen over his breathing passage, days that now contorted his brain into easily accessible slots. The smallest words plausible in the shortest time possible. A wink to the ad-man. Open up the window to let him in. This served a purpose of money and swift reporting, and while the aspect of writing in the conveyor-belt method was a discipline-maker, and a certain route to technique, the process was also frustrating and creatively indigent. It paid what was owed, however.
The Midwest had a lot of ears and they perked at all hours for news and song, for a play at plays, an identifiable voice, and to revel in the characterization the radio gave them. Why the citizens of this great region never seemed offended at being treated like brand-donkeys with simple minds confused Emery. He found the programming of WKCR to be a little patronizing. Romanticizing the salt-of-the-Earth was fine, but calling an entire audience “simple folk” came off rude. The people tuning in did not seem annoyed, however, and tended to devour this sort of programming. Emery did not understand why the midwest seemed to enjoy the term ‘simple’, but he was paid to propel it, so he wrote what was expected, always trying to anchor a few of his own conceits into the scripts he turned out.
Emery worked double-shifts of rewrites often, adding to the strategic dilution of material for brevity and the radio race. This system of writing was useful for productivity but lapsed in repeat programming. All of it was tailored to a strange ensconcing of brands and their forced place in the difficult-to-gauge post-war moral. Not even a good moral, but a marketer’s moral. The green leaves in his skull had begun to crisp and dry, and the exhaustion from round-the-clock writing at the small desk often came home with him, behind the eyes, having contaminated his voice with light groans as he set himself in chairs or bed.
Ris
ks were made, though only when he felt safe to push a particular boundary. In an effort to bring himself to his work, to write it, and not simply be a transcriptionist of the overly hashed, he had to attempt uncommon things. Emery began learning what he could get away with, at times to reprimand, but usually, to little notice. These risks were a good gamble, and worth attempting, but they were still unaccountable. In what meager off-time he managed to keep, he penned stories, and had written several plays for television, which was becoming somewhat of a rage in American homes. These stories saw not much light, however, and the men behind the television screen, off camera and out of sight, were unsure of what the public wanted on a home screen. The medium was too young to have a known purpose, so the producers kept to sports, televised plays, and odd programs that seemed to be little more than radio with pictures.
These new networks, screen networks, unlike film companies, were too much absorbed with not being Hollywood to see that they were going to reach millions, some not even in the country. Emery was fascinated with the medium, and had many ideas about how he might use it to benefit particular stories, but getting into television was proving a maze of brick walls and always-changing wants. Television was a happening place at the bottom of the sea, and you could hear much about the people who hosted the party, but it was still submerged and secluded, and getting an invitation was proving out of Emery’s reach.
When too long a time had passed without working on some new story or free-lance script, whether these were to be purchased or not, Emery’s urge to create and tell a thing began to infest his work at the station. He began doctoring scripts for sound, lengthening details for literate appeal. The scripts were of more interest in this mode, and he had hoped to push Mr. Gill to the same conclusion, at the least in small runs. Emery’s conceit wanted him to stun an audience with good material and perhaps have his duties risen to those of a writer who mattered more than what he could do with red scratches and the barbed-wire rules that surrounded radio scripts.
The piece was still a sample, incomplete, but well on the mystical track to its totality as an hour’s radio. The call had been for fifty-two minutes of story paced to allow four two-minute commercial slots that could be offered to the sponsors. The project had been given to him as a large break, though Mr. Gill had also offered it as a means to quiet Emery for a short while, giving the dog a bone so that it might slink off and chew for awhile, leaving the master be. Regardless of Mr. Gill’s intent, these assignments did not come along often, and Emery had sought to use the project to expose himself as possessing a certain talent that might prove unique. That this was, in most matters concerning broadcast radio, wondrously unwanted, had not yet occurred to him but for those brief flits of doubt he was careful to slough off, even when weary. He was lucky that Maury had not wanted the assignment. As the senior writer, Maury had his pick of things.