by Ray Succre
As a writer, he led his horses hard, and fought every change to the script with a bitterness and creative dogging that was difficult to sway. With performers however, he was not so much the writer as he was a producer, and willing to better accommodate the on-air talent. These agreements did come back to haunt him later, when he was a writer again, but the alterations asked by actors tended to be dialogue-specific, and simple to change. Often, when Emery was being a producer, Larry Belmont would take the reigns of writer until Emery could return to that position. It was a good arrangement. The demands of a producer were unpredictable and constant, and he preferred, despite his trust in Belmont, to handle re-writes himself, especially if the script was his own.
If Lou Fanady felt “Mr. Gaunt, I understand you’ve been conducting numerous laboratory tests” to be a clunky way to say something, Emery had open ears. Minutes later, handwritten on the script would be the new line: “I’ve come to understand you run tests here, Mr. Gaunt, and that this place is some sort of laboratory.” For one actor, this might be a mouthful of unnecessary wording, but when Fanady said it, the line had a feel. The line came out sounding how a glass of dark sauvignon might taste after an excellent meal. For each actor there was a special sort of line, and Emery was not a blockade to this function of re-writing. He considered actors to be specialists with regards the wording of dialogue, and he listened to them up until that moment they had worn out their welcome, which was rare, but did happen.
The writer’s fingers moved and the page was finished, the following day’s shooting script now settled and ready for the time when he would inevitably need to change it still more. All the white space of a script was mostly present to end up being filled with his hasty scratches, notes taken while walking the set and seeing the process. Reality and the page were different beasts, and reality could not often change much, but the page could. When pressure began and something had to give, the script became a malleable antagonist, ready to be defeated. He could fill a notebook each week with the things Bob Keith needed changed, but Bob was a thankful man. The director always expressed his apologies when a large-scale change was needed. Bob was a good man with a unique, visual skill, and Emery had learned to trust that skill. Many of the changes Emery made were straight from the keen eye of Bob Keith, and while some seemed unnecessary, even annoying, most alterations had a specific and relative need behind them.
The day’s changes had been tedious. Larry had gone home and the remaining work belonged to Emery. There were not enough boots for the actors, so some scenes had to evolve differently and the camera couldn’t show the ground of the set for almost an entire scene, as some of the actors were barefoot. Also, Norman Hogue, a veteran of the war and a capable actor, had been lightly injured on-set and had now forbidden the use of real bayonets, even dulled and taped as they had been, and this caused the pivotal action scene to be re-written. The wrong system of plants had arrived, so there were not enough fake jungle plants to sell the scene. A small tent was used instead, which in turn altered the dialogue and actions of a certain private that was supposed to begin kicking and thrashing around in the jungle plants in exasperation during a moment of anxiety while all watched. Things had changed throughout the day, and Emery’s pen had caught up with it all, and now, much later, the typewriter had been fed. Clack clack. Time to go home.
“GO FUCK YOURSELF!” he heard from outside. Emery raised his head and listened for a moment. Silence. He vacated his chair and leaned his head around the partition that served as entryway to the small, makeshift writer’s room. He did not need to see the man to know the voice belonged to Warren Tult. It seemed Jamison had finally gotten around to firing him, quite late in the day. Emery heard the tone of a calmer voice then, but it was soon interrupted by Tult.
“SHUT YOUR MOUTH! JUST SHUT YOUR DAMN MOUTH!”
They had worked Tult all morning and afternoon, and were now letting him go at the very end, before he was to head home for the night. A few select individuals knew of the firing in advance, and it was not much in the way of interesting news, as most present had worked on other productions in the past, and Emery himself had seen many lose their jobs in the television industry. This was all too common, and sometimes, as in Tult’s termination, somewhat deserved.
“THAT SO?! YOU’RE A FUCKING SHEISTER! WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT THAT? NOTHIN’ TO SAY? YOU COCKSUCKER; I CAN’T STAND THE LOOK ON YOUR GODDAMN FACE!”
Live drama, itself, had been fired when Harold Archer stepped down as executive officer of the Television Production Association in New York. His replacement, Theo Carter, had done much to unravel the protections in place for production crews on the east coast. This caused what were deemed, in the kindest term, layoffs. The gust of writers and studio personnel this action sent into Hollywood was akin to the Donner Party’s adventure into the west. Some never made it, and those that did had to compete with those already entrenched in the film industry. What need were there for New York gaffers when the motion picture industry had their thousands on hand, thousands with more training and an already present sense of the pecking order and priority? For every Warren Tult, there were a hundred others waiting for a job, some from New York, from Chicago, some from Los Angeles. You had to be thankful anymore, and keep things running smooth if you were lucky enough to have the job. And a man like Warren Tult, a man who handled a microphone, had no business meddling with others, or attempting to handle a crew.
Emery stood in the doorway of his makeshift Red Room, watching. Tult was standing near the tent on the soundstage, having expanded his chest with anger. He wore the recognizable look one exuded when about to attack another. Sol Jamison was standing near him, pointing a finger.
“All right. Fine, Warren. You want to shout, you go ahead. Scream your head off. Let’s hear it.”
“You’re not in charge here. You’re just a piece of shit who gets to hold some other guy's checkbook.”
“Sure I am. You’re done here, get it? That’s all of it. I don’t want you on this team anymore, Warren. You cause more problems than you’re worth.”
“You’re not my boss, asshole. Asher’s my boss.”
“There’s another mistake. I’m his boss. Which makes me your boss,” Sol said, plain.
“No, you’re a stupid, bald asshole who thinks he runs everything, but can’t do anything. Go back to your little office and play with yourself.”
“Warren,” Emery said from the partition. Both Tult and Jamison glanced over, surprised at there being a third party still around. Jamison had likely chosen this particular time because there would be fewer people around for Tult to insult or shout over.
“Asher, help me out here,” Warren said, alleviated, “This monkey thinks he-”
“You’ve been fired, Warren. It’s time to get your things and leave,” Emery said.
“But that bum doesn’t have the power to fire me,” Tult said.
“He thinks he does,” Emery replied, “And I think he does, too. And we’re both firing you for being a loudmouth and troublemaker. Now get your things and get the hell off our set before you cause any more problems.”
“Of all the backhanded things... I do a good job here, damn it. You’re all in cahoots.”
“Hiring you was a favor to Bernie Dozier, and you know that,” Emery said, “but you’ve been shitting on that favor for months, Warren, so now you’re out. Bernie is well aware of it.”
There was a moment when Warren closed his mouth and lowered his shoulders, not with a look of defeat, but the appearance of mistreatment. This was the pose one adopted when refusing someone and expecting them to beat you for it, a child refusing to give in to a parent’s demand and simply standing there, obstinate. This posture, however, was short lived. Emery caught a glance from Jamison that carried with it a slight nod. A thank-you, of a sort. Then Jamison’s glance jerked aside as Tult fist hammered him in the mouth. At the moment this occurred, Emery began to move toward the now disgruntled and terminated microphone handler.
What he would do was still undecided, but allowing Warren Tult to beat up his executive producer would not go over well with anyone. Emery had to do little, he discovered, as a loud “HEY!” came from the side of the stage and two of the teamsters jogged into view. It seemed they, too, had been watching this termination.
The two men grabbed Tult and staggered him, one quiet while the other shouted profanities of his own. A moment later, Tult was standing between them, somewhat captured and held in place. Jamison rose up again, his hand pressed to his mouth and nose, shocked.
“You want a shot at him?” one of the teamsters asked quickly, holding Tult tightly by an arm as the other teamster did the same with the opposite side, subduing the unwanted man.
“FUCKIN’ SHYLOCKS! GO TO HELL!” Tult shouted to all present, trying to wrench himself from their grip. Jamison looked at the three men, and though his hand covered his mouth, the frown was quite visible in the brows. He backed up, thinking over the offer, upset.
“No, this isn’t right. Just let go of him,” he said, waving his hand. There was a moment of non-cooperation in this.
“Let him go,” Jamison repeated, louder. They did as asked, but were reluctant. Warren Tult lurched away from them, circled a moment, and then pointed back and forth between Jamison and Emery.
“You can’t do this to people. You’ll get yours.”
“You’re done here, Warren. You’re off my show,” Emery said.
“You’re more than that. You’re done with CBS,” Jamison muttered, but this did not sound a threat. The tone in the executive producer’s voice was almost apologetic. Warren made a series of rude gestures as he backed out of the studio. The look he gave Emery as he exited put coals in the writer’s stomach. Such anger and acid. Emery felt troubled for what had happened, but there was no ulcer coming. Tult deserved to lose his job. He was an ass, and now it seemed he was quick to become a belligerent, as well.
When all had quieted and the situation seemed to have dissolved, talk ensued.
“Guy got you pretty good. You all right?” one of the teamsters asked.
“I’m fine. That’s not the first time somebody caught me with a right cross. Thanks for coming in like that,” Sol replied, agitated.
“Sure, sure. Nobody likes a hot-head,” the teamster replied.
FADE TO:
Richardson’s Auto Wax polishes, cleans, removes debris, dirt, and scratches, and contains no abrasives. Our three-wax system is designed with you in mind. It's applied in the garage, and takes no time at all. Over time, the paint on your automobile fades, and small rocks and debris can gouge valleys in the paint. But now you don’t have to worry, because Richardson’s Auto Wax is designed and guaranteed to get back that just-like-new shine and a single coating lasts for months at a time. Give it a double coating to last well over a year. Our miracle blend is regarded by experts as the best wax on the market for coating and protecting your automobile’s paint.
You bought her and you take good care of her. Shouldn’t she look like it?
FADE TO:
The dim lights of the set. A clock against the wall above the main door. The clock knew it was time to cut power and abandon the day’s work. Tomorrow would come quickly, and all would start up again. The two teamsters had vacated the set and Jamison walked with Emery toward the door. Emery noted a bit of blood beneath the producer’s nostrils.
“You’re bleeding, Sol.”
“Yeah, well.” Then nothing was said.
Emery’s sense of urgency had abated, small as it had been, and Jamison sighed and continually licked the inside of his upper lip. It would grow in size quite soon. They went outside and Jamison locked the door. Without any talking, Emery soon found himself in the position of needing to leave an awkward moment. The two men were near one another, a situation neither had enjoyed much since first meeting, many months prior. Worse, they were alone, at the end of a day, having just experienced a heated problem, and neither of them had anything to say. Sol finished locking up and then, with Emery about to turn and leave, Sol finally spoke.
“Listen, you want to get a beer?” Emery thought about this for a moment and then shrugged. As little as he wanted to spend time with the man who incessantly pushed him from his stories, the man who shackled Emery to artistically purblind economics, Emery felt a need to compromise, as was the nature of his relationship with the man. Solomon Jamison was a human leash to the writer, but there was a part of Emery that knew when a person was troubled beyond the scope of a stressful day or small rivalry. A person could nearly detect when another person’s sweat smelled of seriousness and struggle. It was a palpable sensation.
“I could use one, sure,” Emery replied. This was less an acceptance than a yielding.
The pub was near enough the studio that the two men could walk in the warm Los Angeles night and reach it in minutes. After ordering their pints, they sat and sipped and did not talk about whatever Sol had on his mind. That the bartender was a tired man and cared little for conversation was troublesome, as it meant the two producers would have to fill the air with their own; this did not seem to want to happen. Emery began getting angry at this waste of his time.
“So, how was Seattle? You and the wife,” Emery asked.
“Cold and packed with drunks.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve never seen that many bars and bums in one place.”
“Not a place for my next vacation, I suppose?”
“Actually, it was good fun.”
“Ah.”
There was a long silence then. The two sat before their beers and Emery feigned interest in doing so. He was growing antsy. Small talk was bad enough, but an absence of even that was worse. He decided to coax what he felt was approaching.
“Tult seemed all right, at first. We wouldn’t have hired him otherwise. He was one of my hires, too. Sorry.”
“No, we brought him to you,” Sol said with a wave, “Bernie, mostly.”
“Okay sure, but I don’t see that it’s your fault, either.”
“Hell no, that ruckus was nobody’s fault but his.”
“Bernie did know Tult was being fired tonight, right?”
“Yeah, it’s all clear. He knew.”
The air stilted and talk ceased again. They each sipped their beers. Emery’s boredom was a maker of compulsion.
“Say, how about those teamsters?” he came up with, “Handy to have big guys like that around.”
“Oh, I could have handled Warren Tult. He’s a loudmouth. I’ve met a million of ‘em and they all run hot. Thinks he has brains, thinks he’s bigger than he is. It’s just an act. He’s an actor. Everybody out here is. I’m just not allowed to brawl with problems like Warren Tult, is the thing. We’re a diplomatic bunch, anymore. I could have torn that louse to pieces.”
“Been in a few fights, huh? I have, too.”
“We’re both vets. And I boxed. Either one of us could have handled that idiot.”
“Say, I boxed, too. In the service. Lightweight,” Emery said, interested.
“Then it’s settled; either one of us could have taken that fleabag’s head off.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Emery admitted, “It’s been awhile, and my last fight was done with a bayonet, not my fists.”
“Jerries?”
“Japanese.”
“Ah. I know you guys in the Pacific had a rough time of it.”
“Only toward the end.”
“Let me ask you something, Asher. What do you remember most about the war?”
“The most?”
“Sure. Over all that happened. Which thing in which month or... just whatever you remember most. Whenever I hear people go on about it, they all gotta talk about V-day. The day they knew everything was gonna settle. You know the end of it all. That’s not what I remember most, though.”
“I see. You have a haunt.”
“A haunt. Huh, I like that. I’m sure we all got some of those, but that’s not what I mean. What
I remember most isn’t anything bad, just the strangeness of Europe.”
“Strangeness?”
“Yeah. It didn’t make sense. The streets, the hills, the people, the- the damn women and the pets and the food and... I swear, even the concrete. None of it felt right. It was all... just off, in a way. You understand?”
“I think so.”
“More foreign than I would have thought. I mean, of course it was, but even the water tasted different. They’re not like us over there. War or not, it was alien and… sometimes it just didn’t feel like I could breathe her air. Like the shape of an American was wrong over there. You just didn’t really fit and the ground didn’t look right. You know what I mean by that?”
“Europe is old, has a way of doing things that our own country was built from, but we’ve changed over time to fit our own... well, proclivities. Our needs, I suppose. Different cultures, borders, the resources… some of that would be small, like the way the trains work, but some differences are quite large, like the way people talk, or the way a particular sort of government works, or even which place has had more blood spilled on it. Television, too. We’re inundated with product commercials, but not so much in England. Over there, it’s mostly commercials for other shows, is all. Things like that.”
“Well, they get into wars more often. That’s certain.”
“I don’t know; from the revolutionary war until right now, we’ve been in four big ones. That’s in what, less than two hundred years?”
“Yeah, but three of those wars were theirs.”
“That’s true, I suppose. But we come from there. Maybe it’s in our blood, just from having survived for so long with a greater number of countries crammed in next to each other. Here, we’re only attached to Mexico and Canada. Both are somewhat friendly to us, these days. Vice versa.”
“I remember fooling with a British girl, real pretty, just after the 4th got Paris back. Well, after those Africans got Paris back, mostly. But even that was different. You know, in bed.”